Grave Apparel (34 page)

Of course,
Lacey
was
happy
and
relieved
that she
was
still
alive.
But she had better things to do than listen to the
woman
rant. Cassandra had been unconscious for
two
days, so there must be a backlog of rants for her to catch up on.
Lacey would
get them all. It
was
a scary thought.

“It’s
a medical miracle. Go see
her.”

Lacey
didn’t
have
time for that. She needed more informa tion about the theft of the
Nativity
robes at Shiloh Mount Zion Church. Pastor
Wilbur
still hadn’t returned her calls. And
if
Lacey
called
Cassandra’s
number
again,
perhaps
the
kid
would
answer.

“You
listening to me, Smithsonian?”
Mac’s
voice
jarred her from her mental todo list.

“Of course,
Mac.”
She could see him
puffing
up, ready to
speechify.
“I
always
listen to
you.”
Except
sometimes
when
I
don’t.

“
The
Eye
will not rest until Cassandra
Wentworth’s
attacker
is caught, prosecuted, and jailed.
Here.”
He handed her a
flyer.
“What’s
this?” She
looked
at it. It
offered
twentyfive
thou sand dollars for information leading to the arrest and
conviction
of the assailant who
cracked
his candy cane
over
the skull of their editorial
writer.
“Only
twentyfive
thousand?”

“She’s
not
dead,”
Mac said without apparent
irony.
“I’d
also
like
to point out that the
reward
is for the public. Not for
Eye
Street
employees,
family
members, et cetera. If you happen to
solve
this, Smithsonian,
it’s
for the good of the
paper.
And the
story.”

“That
figures.”
Lacey
handed
the
paper
back
to
him.
“Why
does she
want
to see me?” It
was
rhetorical. Of course Cassan dra
would
want
to see
her,
just to bark at
her.

“Maybe she
wants
to
give
you a big hug and a thankyou. Or not. Get your
butt
over
there. This is your story
now.”
He re turned to reading the
newspaper.

My
story?
I
already
have
a
story!
“What about Johnson? Last I heard, he
was
going to
bust
this story wide open,
expose
the mad
attacker,
scoop up a Pulitzer
Prize.”

Mac
sat
back
in
his
chair
and
leveled
his
steely
gaze
at
her.
“Never
joke
about the
Pulitzer,
Smithsonian.”

Everyone
at
The
Eye
Street
Observer
joked
about
the
Pulitzer,
that
hallowed
prize for
excellence
in journalism.
The
Eye
was
widely considered
Pulitzerproof.

“Can I
joke
about Johnson then?” “Can I stop you?”

“No.”

“You
may not
like
Johnson,
but
you
have
to respect
him.”
“Okay,
Mac,
now
you’ve
stumped me.
Why?”

“Johnson is a Capitol Hill
reporter.
He
knows
his beat.
He’s
no genius,
but
he’s
not that bad.
He’s
dogged, he
keeps
nipping at the heels of Congressmen and
staffers.”
Lacey
could feel her
eyes
rolling.
“And
he usually gets the job done.
Eventually.
Of
course,
he
doesn’t
have
your
particular
talent
for
attracting
killers.
You’re
our
secret
weapon,
Smithsonian.
I
want
you
working
this
one.”

“Uh, thanks. I think. But this Santa Dude guy is not techni
cally
a killer,”
she
said.
Mac’s
eyebrows
knit
tighter
in
re
sponse.
“Okay, let’s
call
it
attempted
murder.
You
like
that
better? Maybe I could psychically transfer my killermagnet talent to Johnson?”
Happily,
any
time,
she thought.
Come
and
get
it.
“Give
me a break, Mac. I
have
real
work
to do, not this mystical
peerintothemindofthekiller
mumbo
jumbo.”

“Nice
try,”
Mac said. “This is a
story,
a big
story.
The
Eye
does not
allow
its
employees
to be
attacked.
An attack on one of us is an attack on journalism.
You
know
that.”
He paused, stared at his
coffee
and took another sip. He seemed to be miss ing something, something sweet, something that Felicity had
not baked
today.
And
might
never
bake
again.

“But
there’s
no
fashion
angle.”

“Ha.
You
got a singing and dancing sweater on a victim who had just
attacked
the
very
idea of singing and dancing sweaters! And you tell me
there’s
no
fashion
angle? Not only do we
have
the most ridiculous sweater I
have
ever
heard of, apparently
it’s
Felicity
Pickles’s
own
special Christmas
sweater.
Smells
like
a setup to
me.”

“What
about
Tony?
It’s
a
police
matter,
that’s
his
beat.
That’s
what you
keep
telling me. Or
Kavanaugh.
She’s
the one
who
screwed
up
the
story
in
the
first
place,
why
can’t
she
un
screw
it?”

“Forget
Trujillo.
He’s
on standby on this. And
Kavanaugh
is
off
this
story.
This calls for a
fashion
reporter of your
very
par ticular
expertise.”

“But M
a
c.
.
.”
Lacey
realized she
was
always
trying to talk her
way
on to hard
news
stories.
Why
am
I
trying
to
talk
my
way
off
this one?
Oh yeah.
It’s
Cassandra.

“She’s
at
George
Washington
University
Hospital. Go see the victim. Get the
story.
Give
me a
break.”

“I guess
it’s
a nice day for a
walk.”
Lacey
sighed for
effect.
The hospital
was
not that
far
from the
office
for someone fond of
walking.
Lacey
could stretch it out, look at Christmas deco rations, do a little shopping
...
.

“Take
a
cab,”
Mac
barked.
End of discussion. She
walked.

The smell of starch and medicine hit
Lacey
in the
face.
She
didn’t
like
the pungent aroma, and she
didn’t
like
hospitals as a general rule.
They
caused her a
lowlevel
anxiety that felt a lit tle
like
death tickling her spine. But she took a deep breath and
marched
through
the
door,
showed
her
identification
to
the
guard at the entrance, bought a cup of mocha, and headed to
ward
Cassandra
Wentworth’s
room.

A middleaged nurse with short curly
brown
hair and a no nonsense manner met
Lacey
in the
doorway
and cautioned her not to
fatigue
the patient. The nurse
wore
scrubs that
looked
just like pajamas. The bottoms were green and the patterned
top
featured Disneyfied farm animals jumping
over
rainbows. A stethoscope dangled from her neck. White clogs completed her look.

Once upon a time,
Lacey
reflected, nurses
wore
white uni
forms,
white
hose,
sensible
white
shoes,
and
navy
capes.
A
clever
little cap topped their
coiffure.
Lacey
loved
that
oldfash
ioned look, especially the
navy
capes. It
was
crisp and distinc
tive
and professional. That
was
centuries ago.
Today’s
Florence
Nightingales
apparently
thought
the
traditional
costume
made
them look antiquated. Nurses today
wanted
to look
like
nursery school attendants.

Gazing at the
nurse’s
pseudojammies,
Lacey
warned
her self
never
to wear elastic
waistbands.
Give
up on your
waist
and
it’s
the
beginning
of the end for your
figure,
she thought.
For
half a second, she pondered this topic as a “Crimes of
Fashion”
column.
But
no,
this
would
be
one
of
those
inflammatory
columns
that
would
enrage
her
elasticwaisted
Washington
reading public,
like
pointing out the aesthetic horrors of wear ing athletic shoes with suits and dresses. It might get a colum nist hit in the head in the
alley
behind her
office.
Lacey
sighed.
Is
Sweatergate
and
its
aftermath
making
me
lose
my
edge,
my
eagerness
to
engage
and
enrage?

“Head
injury.
Got
that?
Her
blood
pressure
spikes,
I’m
hold
ing
you
personally
responsible,”
the
nurse
told
Lacey.
“Got
that?”