Grave Apparel (60 page)

Jasmine,
where
are
you?
She
gave
up
and
headed
back
to
Rhode Island
Avenue
to hail a cab back to the
office.

“That bastard. That flaming
bastard,”
were the
first
words
she heard as she stepped
off
the
elevator
at
The
Eye
after
her
visit to
Shaw.

Her
eyes
followed
the sound of Harlan
Wiedemeyer
sputter ing in
anger.
The chubby little
Wiedemeyer
was
a small thun
dercloud
of
righteous
indignation
storming
down
the
hall
toward
Lacey
and
Felicity’s
corner of the
newsroom.
Felicity sprang up and
offered
him a piece of her
famous
chocolate pud ding
cake.

“Harlan, honeybunch, are you all right? What
happened?

Have
some
cake!”

“Me! Harlan
Wiedemeyer,
questioned by the Metropolitan police!” he managed to get out before flopping
down
in
the
Death
Chair.
Wiedemeyer’s
face
was
flushed, his coat flapped open, and his tie
was
askew.
His thinning hair stood straight up, apparently from rubbing his head in frustration. “That twisted
bastard.”

“Harlan,
what’s
wrong?”
Lacey’s
plans
for
polishing
her
next
“Crimes of
Fashion”
column went straight out of her head.
How
can a reporter pass up a good “twisted bastard” story?

“Johnson! That peabrained bastard Peter Johnson dropped a dime on
me,”
he said.
“As
if
any
phone call cost a dime these days! But you
know
what I mean. He turned me in to the police
like
I
was
a common criminal. As a suspect, a suspect, in the
Wentworth
assault. As if it
weren’t
ridiculous enough to suspect
Felicity.”

Felicity’s
blue
eyes
never
left
Wiedemeyer’s
face.
They
were
wide with horror and full of tears. She wrung her hands and helped herself to a piece of her
own
pudding
cake.

“Questioned like a common
criminal,”
Wiedemeyer
com
plained
bitterly.
“That
bastard
Johnson
told
that
Detective
What’sHisName
that I might
have
had something to do with the attack. Something about the antlers I
was
wearing. Antlers! I
always
wear antlers at Christmas!
How
does that
make
me a suspect?”

“Oh, Harlan, no!”
Felicity’s
plate of
cake
went back on her desk. “Johnson turned you in because he thinks I did it and you
covered
it up? Or he thinks you
smacked
her in the head for me?
How
could he think that?”

“As
if
I’d
waste
my time on Cassandra
Wentworth,”
Wiede
meyer
continued.
“As
if
I’d
waste
a perfectly good tenpound candy cane on her! Stupid bastard. It
was
a setup.
Can’t
he see
that?”

Typical
of Johnson,
Lacey
thought.
He’d
always
struck her as a
vindictive
guy and a lazy
reporter.
Always
going after the small
story,
the easy quote. And
now
he
was
after the easy sus pects in
Cassandra’s
attack. Maybe Johnson
would
catch a bad case of the
Wiedemeyer
Jinx. No one
deserved
it more.

Wiedemeyer
straightened his rumpled
brown
jacket
and pat ted
down
his
hair.
He
picked
up the plate of pudding
cake
that Felicity had
offered
him.
“As
if I
would
attack Cassandra in the
alley.
As if I
would
attack
anyone,
except
in
print.”
He took a bite of dessert and moaned
softly.
“It’s
perfectly clear
she’s
got enough enemies without
me.”

“Was
it
awful,
Harlan?” Felicity
asked.

He patted her
shoulder.
“It
wasn’t
pretty.
Cops are
worse
than reporters, you
know.
At least reporters try to get the story straight. What I
want
to
know
is”—
Wiedemeyer
took a big bite
of
cake—“is
this:
Why
keep
asking
me
the
same
stupid
ques
tions?
‘Were
you
in
the
alley?’
No,
why
would
I
be
in
the
alley?
‘Did you wear a Santa hat in the
alley?’
No, I
wasn’t
in the
alley!
I told you I
was
in the party wearing antlers, and there are
pictures
to
prove
it.
‘Where
did
you
get
the
Santa
hat
when
you
went to the
alley?’
I
give
up!”

Lacey was enjoying
this
story.
“Go on,
Harlan.”

“Then
the
cop
asks
me,
‘Did
you
have a
grudge
against
Wentworth?’
”
Wiedemeyer
sighed and shook his round head.
“Well,
you
know,
that’s
a little hard to
answer,
considering that
she’s
such a pinchfaced bitch and everybody hates her
and

she’s
tormented and hurt my dear
Felicity.
But a grudge? No, not a grudge
exactly.”

“Oh,
Harlan,”
Felicity sighed,
lovestruck.

“So I said,
‘Well,
no more than
anyone
else
who’s
ever
met
her.’
”

“What happened then?”
Lacey
asked.

“ ‘Does
Wentworth
have
any
enemies,’
this big cop asks me. I
say,
‘Have
you read the editorial page?
She’s
got nothing
but
enemies!
They’ve
got social clubs! Open a phone book, there
they
are. Of course
she’s
got
enemies.’
”

“Did he actually read her editorials?”
Lacey asked.

“No, of course not.
He’s
a cop. I said, ‘Cassandra
Wentworth
has antagonized half the population of
Washington,
D.C.’
Now
I’m
not
sure
that’s
really
true.
Our
own
readership
surveys
show
that only
two
percent of our readers
ever
get to the edito rial page. But I’m sure
she’s
infuriated at least half of
them.
” He took another big bite of pudding
cake
for the strength to con tinue. “The
detective
seemed to be getting a headache. Finally he told me to not
leave
town.”
Wiedemeyer
finished
the
cake
and
smacked
his lips. He dropped the paper plate in the trash can.
“You
gotta do something,
Lacey.
This whole Cassandra mess is just ruining Christmas.
You
gotta get to the bottom of this. I mean,
isn’t
this sort of thing right up your
alley?”

From
the
street
outside
came
the
sound
of
screeching
brakes
and
the
impact
of
metal
on
metal.
Lacey
ran
to
the
window,
Wiedemeyer
and
Felicity
hard
on
her
heels.
More
reporters
crowded
to
every
window overlooking
Eye
Street
and
Farragut
Square.
Below
them
on
the
sidewalk,
Peter
Johnson
stood
frozen,
his
car
keys
dangling
from
one
hand.
He
looked
stunned,
but
unharmed.
A
Washington
Metro
bus
had
crashed
into
his
car,
which he had
apparently just stepped
out of
only a
moment
before,
after
parking
it
at
the
curb.
In
the
Metro
bus
loading
zone,
which
was
clearly
marked
NO
PARKING
.
It
was
to
taled.
A wheel
was
spinning lazily in the middle of Eye Street.

Lacey
had only one thought.
Jinx,
one. Johnson, nothing.

Lacey
cradled the phone between her ear and
shoulder.

“How
was
your day?”
Vic’s
deep
voice
was
as comforting as a
warm
blanket.
“Are
you kneedeep in
Mimi’s
trunk yet?”

“Ha.
You
think you
know
so
much.”
Lacey held up a
coat
anddress pattern she had just selected from the extensive
col
lection
of
vintage
patterns
preserved
and
protected
in
Aunt
Mimi’s
trunk. She sat on the
floor,
the better to poke lovingly
through
the
treasures
in
her
treasure
chest,
Mimi’s
vintage
fabrics,
patterns,
photos,
letters,
and
magazines
from
days
gone
by.
“I am not kneedeep in
Mimi’s
trunk. I’m in it up
to
my
neck.”

The
broad
shoulders
of
the
woman
in
the
cover
illustration
were
no
doubt
helped
by
pads
sewn
into
her
nononsense
trench
coat.
The pattern
was
from the early
World
War
II
era:
Strong
capable
women
were
all
the
rage.
This
woman
looked
like
she
could
knock
down a
Nazi
or
two
with
a
wellplaced
punch,
or
perhaps
pull
a
pistol
from
a
cleverly
tailored
inte
rior
pocket
and
stop
the
Nazi
war
machine.
That
woman,
Lacey
thought,
would
have
no
problem
finding
two
lost
little
girls.