Grave Apparel (68 page)

“What
was
today’s
letter about?”

“It
was
stupid, I guess. I wrote this stupid letter complaining about all the stupid typos and
mistakes
and
factual
errors your paper
makes.
I wrote your
ombudsman,
not
Wentworth.
News
papers should
have
higher standards, you
know.”

“Did you complain about her Christmas sweater editorial?” “Christmas sweaters!” He rolled his
eyes.
“Gimme a break.

Who freakin’ cares?”

“It
didn’t
make
you
so
angry
that
you
stole
a
Christmas
sweater from our
office,
waited
in the
alley
for Cassandra
Went
worth
to
retrieve
her
bike
from
the
garage
to
ride
home,
knocked
her
over
the head with a giant candy cane, and then put the sweater on her to
warn
her
never
to mess with the sacred tra
dition of the holiday sweater
ever
again?”

“What are you, nuts?”

“No,
but
that’s
what some people at my paper
think.”
“They’re
nuts.
What
do
I
care
what
some
shiksa
thinks
about
Christmas?
I’m
Jewish,
for
God’s
sakes!
I
care
about
her
lies
about
American
business,
about
capitalism
and
democracy,
about
small
business
owners!
The
small
business
owner
is
the
guy
who
made
America
great!”
He
stared
at
Lacey.
Then
his
shoulders
slumped.
“Never
mind.
You
don’t
think
I
did
it.
Thank
God.
At
least
you
get
it.
I
can
see
you
get
it.”

“No, I
don’t
think you
attacked
Cassandra in the
alley,
Gray

bill. But I could be wrong. I do think you threatened
her,
stalked
her,
scared
her.
I think
you’re
a loose
cannon.”

“Ha!” He
waved
his hands
like
a conductor looking for an orchestra. “I wrote some crazy letters! I been goin’ through a tough time!
Okay,
I’m an idiot, all right? I’m
sorry.
As for stalk ing, I
saw
her
leaving
work
a couple of times. I
wanted
to talk to
her,
but
I
never
even
got
close.”
He leaned in
conspiratorially.
“I’ll
tell you one thing.
She’s
a
royal
bitch.”

“And
tell me, what am I?”
Lacey
realized she
would
listen to
anyone,
even
this nut.

“You’re
okay.
You
got an open mind.
You
can see I’m not a bad
guy.
Look, I
don’t
even
believe
in violence. I
was
a consci entious objector once. I’m a good
guy.”

“The
jury’s
still out on that
one.”

He raised his hand as if swearing an oath in court.
“You
don’t
like
me? No problem, I
don’t
blame you. Lots of people
don’t
like
me. But
you’re
listening to me.
You’re
okay in my
book.”

Lacey
stood up. “I
have
to get back to
work.”

“You’re
going to
find
out who clobbered the little
witch,
right?” He
gave
her a pleading, desperate look. “Right? And when you do
you’re
going to
prove
it
wasn’t
me. Get me
off
the hook. ’Cause this Cassandra
Wentworth
thing, with the cops and
lawyers
and all,
it’s
really ruining my holidays, you
know
what I mean?”

He should form a club, she thought, along with
Trujillo
and Pickles and Wiedemeyer and Mac. The Laceywillfindthe
answerandsavetheholidays
club.

“I’ve
got
a
job,
Graybill.
Keep
your
lawyer
on
retainer,
you’ll
need
him.”
She tossed her empty cup in the trash.

“Thanks.
I’ll
be
seeing
you,”
he
said.
She
hoped
he
was
wrong.

If
Lacey
had thought she
was
going to slip back into the of
fice
quietly and start sorting out press releases and writing a column, she
was
wrong.
Wiedemeyer
was
sitting on the edge of
Felicity’s
desk and she
was
standing beside him, giggling and
leafing
through the pages of a
new
cookbook. This
was
a pretty good sign that Felicity
was
ready to start feeding her
fans
in the
newsroom
again.
The
pudding
cake
the
day
before
was
just
the

tip
of
the
sugarcoated
iceberg.
They
stopped
chattering
when
they
saw
Lacey.

“Is it true?
They
got the man who
attacked
Cassandra?” Fe
licity’s
face
was
full of hope, and her
new
yellow
sweater
was
full of dancing gingerbread
boys
and girls. “Did
they
figure
out
how
he got ahold of my sweater?”

“I can’t believe that flaming bastard Johnson was
instru
mental in the
capture,”
Wiedemeyer complained.
“It’s
prepos
terous, in fact, I bet
he’s
just taking credit for it. But did
you
hear about his car?
He’d
let his insurance lapse just before
the
bus
hit
it!
He
is
so
screwed.
Poor
bastard.
Ha!
Serves
him
right
.
”

“Capture?”
Lacey
noticed a
few
other reporters had edged in
to
listen.
She
hung
up
her
jacket
and
sat
down
at
her
desk.
“Well,
I’m glad
everybody’s
so
relieved.”
At
least
until
they
find
out
he
wasn’t
arrested.
She
wasn’t
going to spoil the moment.
Why
ruin
their
Christmas?

“Did you
have
any
idea about this guy?” Felicity
asked.
“Um, not
specifically.”
Lacey
looked
away.
“But Mac men tioned there
was
a crazy letter
writer.”

Wiedemeyer
invaded
her cubicle, cornering
her,
with Felic ity close on his heels, cookbook still in hand. “I
can’t
believe
you
didn’t
figure
it out with your
radar,
your mojo, your killer
magnet,”
he lamented.

“My mojo?” Let Johnson
take
the credit, maybe he could
develop
a magnetic attraction for the weirdos. Perhaps it came with the
Wiedemeyer
Effect.
“You
should ask Johnson
what’s
up,”
Lacey
said.

“Johnson! But
Lacey,
he told the police I did it!” Felicity
crowded
into the cubicle too. “Just because I went home from
work
to
find
another
sweater,
and I
was
alone. No alibi. Then he told the police that Harlan did it.
He’s
a
bastard.”

“He set me
up,”
Wiedemeyer
complained. “Then the little bastard told the police we
obviously
did the attack
together,
be
cause
we’re
just
that
diabolical.
Like
we’ve
got
the
time.
Why,
I
can’t
believe
that bastard
Johnson’s
got
two
working
brain
cells!”

Lacey
straightened
her
back.
“But
everyone
is
relieved
now?”
She adjusted the blinds on her
window
to
keep
the glare
off
her computer screen.

“Joy
and
jubilation!”
Wiedemeyer
beamed.
“Of
course

we’re
relieved
this
stalker’s
been arrested. I’m sorry you
didn’t
collar him,
Lacey,
but
this
solves
the whole
thing.”

She
couldn’t
help putting up a cautioning
finger.
“I
wouldn’t
jump to that conclusion just
yet.”

“What?
Why
not?
What
do
you
know,
Lacey?”
Wiedemeyer
plopped
down
on the edge of her desk.
“Felicity,
she
knows
something we
don’t!
You
don’t
think he did it, do you,
Lacey?”
“He
wasn’t
arrested,”
Lacey
said. “The cops questioned him.

They
let him
go.”

“You
mean
he’s
still out there?!” Felicity squealed, biting her lip. “The guy who tried to murder Cassandra in the
alley?
Oh my
God.”

“Don’t
just
sit
there
like
a
sphinx,
Smithsonian,” Wiede
meyer
demanded. “What do you think? Did this whack job do it or not? He must
have,
it must
have
been him, right?”

“Yes,
Lacey,
tell us! Please tell us!”

“Smithsonian.”
Mac’s
voice boomed from
down
the
hall.
“My
office.
Now.”

Lacey
grabbed
her
notebook.
“Oh
gee.
Gotta
go,
guys.
Sorry.”
Mac
probably
wanted
to
know
what
her
Friday
column
would
be.
She
had
no
idea.
She
hoped
he
wasn’t
going
to
spring
the
dreaded
and
inevitable
yearend,
what’s
in,
what’s
out,
what’s
hot,
what’s
not,
New
Year’s
story
assignment
on
her
yet.
Or
the
top
ten
fads
of
the
last
year,
or
the
top
ten
fashion
predictions
for
the
coming
year.
She
hated
these
cliché
stories.
Mac
made
her
write
them
anyway,
year
after
year.