Grave Apparel (72 page)

“I’ll
tell them, if I can
find
them. If she
ever
calls me back. But Jasmine is pretty stubborn.
We
could still try the schools,
couldn’t
we?”

“If the schools get
involved,
they’ll
be at the
mercy
of social
workers,
the foster system, the courts.
They’ll
be split up. Their mom will end up in jail.
We’re
trying to
save
this
family,
not de
stroy
it.”
He pursed his lips.
“You
have
a gift,
Lacey.
Find them.
Convince
them.
Gently.”

“And
where is this magical foster home?
They
might
want
some details before
they
take
this leap of
faith.
I
want
some de tails
too.”

“Our home.
Kim’s
and mine.
We’ll
take
care of them.
We’re
trying to
expedite
things.
We
want
to be the foster parents for these girls.
I’ve
got the
paper’s
lawyers
working
on
it.”

“You,
Mac?”
Stunned,
Lacey
tried
to
keep
a
straight
face.
She
didn’t
know
if
she
would
laugh
or
cry.
“You’ve
gotta
be—”
“Don’t
look at me
like
that, Smithsonian! I am as gentle as a lamb! A lamb!
You
got that?” He
glowered
at
her.
He
didn’t
look
like
a gentle little
lamb.
“Now,
you call me the minute you get ahold of these kids!
We’ll
come running. I want to
save
them
before
they
get
thrown
to
the
lions.”
He
stood
up
and
stretched. “There are lions out there. Lions and tigers and bears.
Never
forget
that.”

“Mac, I
have
no idea where to start looking for Jasmine and her sister!
Vic
even
has his people
working
on it,
but
nothing’s
happening.
Any
suggestions?”

“Yeah,
I
suggest
you
get
off
your
butt
and
go
find
those
kids.”

“Jasmine
said
she’d
call
and
it’s
getting
pretty
cold
out
there.”
Lacey
showed
him the bag of
puffy
coats. “She really
wanted
these coats. So maybe—”

He
picked
one up and admired it. “Good
job.
She’ll
call,
Lacey.”

“Maybe if I light a candle to Saint
Jude.”

“Whatever
works.
Don’t
fail
me,
Lacey.
My wife is planning Christmas with those little girls. So am
I.”

Great.
One
more
Christmas I
can ruin.

The
Willard
Hotel
was
decked
in its best Christmas
finery.
The
impressive
columns outside the front doors of one of the Dis trict of
Columbia’s
most storied hotels were wrapped in white lights and
evergreens,
punctuated with big red
velvet bows.

Inside, a
lavish
Christmas tree
awash
with ornaments took center stage among a throng of welldressed patrons. There
was
a
hubbub
of
a
Christmas
party
in
the
lower level below
the
lobby,
but
the
Bentley
event
filled
the ornate Crystal Room on the lobby
level.
One of
Lacey’s
private
goals for the
evening
was
to
have
a mint julep, the
Willard’s
special signature mint julep, with
Vic
upstairs at the Round Robin, the
hotel’s
premier bar and a legendary
Washington
establishment. If
Vic
could
meet
her
there.
And
unless
her
phone
rang.
Then
all
bets
were
off.
It
was
Wednesday,
a
work
night, so most of the partygoers
were
in
dressy
business/cocktail
attire.
In
Washington
that
meant black and gray suits and little black cocktail
dresses.
Lacey’s
offcenter
fashion
sense
was
vindicated. Her antique lace blouse and black skirt and highheeled boots
didn’t
look a thing
like
the
Washington
standard little black cocktail dress, so correct and so boring.

Some attendees were less boring than others, she noticed. There were theatre people present, apparently planning on
ex
tracting
money
from
the
Bentley
Foundation
dramatically.
They
were wearing their
own
version
of
creative
cocktail attire.

Lacey
stood
transfixed
at the vision of a pale thin
woman
in a tight gold lame miniskirt,
tiny
black glasses, black turtleneck, black tights, and shocking pink hightop
sneakers.
She
was
sip ping champagne with a man wearing some sort of anklelength ceremonial military greatcoat in blazing scarlet,
resplendent

with gleaming medals and
buttons
and swinging gold epaulets, and thightop boots right out of a pirate
movie.
He
looked
like
something from some nineteenthcentury parallel
universe,
or perhaps from the
wardrobe
room of a Gilbert and
Sullivan
op eretta.
They
appeared to be
having
a
wonderful
time.

The
festive
mood
was
marred by
Alex
Markham and
Wendy
Townsend
arguing
loudly near the Christmas tree. Their little group home, or the
“crowded
commune,”
as Henderson
Wilcox
had called it, seemed to be an
unhappy
home without Cassan dra.
Who would
have thought
that gloomy
Cassandra
could
be
someone’s
Little
Miss
Sunshine?

Markham
was
wearing an
olive
green
corduroy
jacket
over
a khaki shirt with an
olive
green tie and khaki slacks and hik ing boots.
“Dressy
business
attire”
means
different
things
to
different
people,
Lacey
reflected.
It
might
mean
just
wearing
your
clean
Wellies
as
opposed
to
your
muddy
Wellies.

Wendy
Townsend
looked
like
the
woman
most
likely
to
fail
a
Glamour
fashion
quiz.
She
was
wearing
all
black:
lumpy
sweatshirt dress, quilted
microfiber
vest,
tights, lugsoled Doc Martens. She
looked
like
an aging Goth
teenager,
still
moody,
dark, and depressed, and proud of it. Clasped tightly in her arms
was
a thick manila
envelope.
The
two
of them were shouting at each other nose to nose,
faces
flushed red with
anger.
When
they
saw
Lacey
they
fell silent and stared at their shoes. She
was
about to say something noncommittal,
like
“Hello,”
when a
more
elegant
distraction
arrived.

“Lacey,
there you are!”
Jeffrey
Bentley
Holmes appeared at
her
side
and
saved
her
from
having
to
engage
with
the
argumen
tative
Gaia
gang.
She
was
relieved
to
see
him.
He
took
her
arm
and ushered her into the
party.
Cameras flashed as
they
walked
through the room. “Let me look at you. I’m no
designer,
you
know,
but
I detect a rare and
lovely
vintage blouse. I’m glad Uncle Hugh
isn’t
here to steal
it.”

“Brave
words,
Jeffrey.”

“Where is that
Vic
Donovan
of yours?”

“He’s
meeting me here
later.
If he can get
away.”

Jeffrey
was
accosted by a Congressman and his wife, and he smiled at
Lacey
and shook his head
apologetically.
He
extri
cated himself a moment
later.

“I
don’t
want
to
keep
leaving
you in the lurch tonight,
but
there are some
very aggressive
hustlers here. My head is being

stuffed
full of worthy
nonprofit
projects. If
I
get dragged
away,
I’ll
catch up with you as soon as I can—” Another hustler ap peared at
Jeffrey’s
elbow,
trying to angle him
away
for a
private
word.

Lacey
smiled and
waved
Jeffrey
back to his
job.
She
filled
a small plate of hot canapés from a
buffet
table and declined an
offered
glass of champagne. She needed a clear head tonight. She settled for a sparkling
water
at the
bar.

“Smithsonian.”
Lacey
didn’t
have
to turn around to recog nize
Detective
Broadway
Lamont’s
dulcet tones. Lamont
was
bearing
down
on her right. He cut in
next
to her and demanded coffee from the barman, black. Then he took her
elbow,
not
nearly as smoothly as
Jeffrey
had.
“Let’s
talk.”

“Don’t
be
shy,
Broadway.
What
are
you
doing here?”

He led her to a back table,
far
away
from the hungry multi tude
crowding
around
Jeffrey
Bentley
Holmes.
Lacey
felt a lit tle uneasy at his presence,
but
she
wasn’t
about to let Lamont see that.