Veiled Revenge

Praise for the Crime of Fashion Mysteries—
the Series That Inspired Two Lifetime Movies

“Lacey Smithsonian skewers Washington with style.”

—national bestselling author Elaine Viets

“Devilishly funny. . . . Lacey is intelligent, insightful and spunky . . . thoroughly likable.”

—
The Sun
(Bremerton, WA)

“Laced with wicked wit.”

—SouthCoastToday.com

“Byerrum spins a mystery out of (very luxurious) whole cloth with the best of them.”

—Chick Lit Books

“Fun and witty . . . with a great female sleuth.”

—Fresh Fiction

Death on Heels

“Terrific . . . a fabulous Crime of Fashion Mystery.”

—Genre Go Round Reviews

“Such a fun story. . . . I loved the touch that Lacey was a reporter trying to track down a murderer, but could always be counted on for her fashion-forward thinking as well. . . . If you haven’t yet picked up a Lacey Smithsonian novel, I suggest you do!”

—Chick Lit+

“[A] fast-paced, fun story. . . . Lacey is a character that I instantly fell in love with.”

—Turning the Pages

Shot Through Velvet

“First-rate . . . a serious look at the decline of the U.S. textile and newspaper industries provides much food for thought.”

—
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

“Great fun, with lots of interesting tidbits about the history of the U.S. fashion industry.” —
Suspense Magazine

“A thoughtful mystery with an energetic, very likable heroine that will attract new readers to this established series.”

—The Mystery Reader (four stars)

Armed and Glamorous

“Whether readers are fashion divas or hopelessly fashion challenged, there’s a lot to like about being
Armed and Glamorous
.”

—BookPleasures.com

“Fans will relish
Armed and Glamorous
, a cozy starring a fashionable trench coat, essential killer heels, and designer whipping pearls.”

—
Midwest Book Review

Grave Apparel

“A truly intriguing mystery.”

—Armchair Reader

“A fine whodunit . . . a humorous cozy.”

—The Best Reviews

“Fun and enjoyable. . . . Lacey’s a likeable, sassy, and savvy heroine, and the Washington, D.C., setting is a plus.”

—The Romance Readers Connection

“Wonderful.”

—Gumshoe

Raiders of the Lost Corset

“A hilarious crime caper. . . . Readers will find themselves laughing out loud. . . . Ellen Byerrum has a hit series on her hands with her latest tale.”

—The Best Reviews

“I love this series. Lacey is such a wonderful character. . . . The plot has many twists and turns to keep you turning the pages to discover the truth. I highly recommend this book and series.” —Spinetingler Magazine

“Wow. A simplistic word but one that describes this book perfectly. I loved it! I could not put it down! . . . Lacey is a scream and she’s not nearly as wild and funny as some of her friends. . . . I loved everything about the book from the characters to the plot to the fast-paced and witty writing.”

—Roundtable Reviews

Hostile Makeover

Also a Lifetime Movie

“Byerrum pulls another superlative Crime of Fashion out of her vintage cloche.”

—Chick Lit Books

“The read is as smooth as fine-grade cashmere.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“Totally delightful . . . a fun and witty read.”

—Fresh Fiction

Designer Knockoff

“Byerrum intersperses the book with witty excerpts from Lacey’s ‘Fashion Bites’ columns, such as ‘When Bad Clothes Happen to Good People’ and ‘Thank Heavens It’s Not Code Taupe.’ . . . quirky . . . interesting plot twists.”

—
The Sun
(Bremerton, WA)

“Clever wordplay, snappy patter, and intriguing clues make this politics-meets-high-fashion whodunit a cut above the ordinary.”

—
Romantic Times

“A very talented writer with an offbeat sense of humor.”

—The Best Reviews

Killer Hair

Also a Lifetime Movie

“[A] rippling debut. Peppered with girlfriends you’d love to have, smoldering romance you can’t resist, and Beltway insider insights you’ve got to read,
Killer Hair
adds a crazy twist to the concept of ‘capital murder.’”

—Sarah Strohmeyer, Agatha Award–winning author of
Kindred Spirits
and the Bubbles Yablonsky novels

“Ellen Byerrum tailors her debut mystery with a sharp murder plot, entertaining fashion commentary, and gutsy characters.”

—Nancy J. Cohen, author of the Bad Hair Day mysteries

“A load of stylish fun.”

—Scripps Howard News Service

“Lacey slays and sashays thru Washington politics, scandal, and Fourth Estate slime, while uncovering whodunit and dunit and dunit again.”

—Chloe Green, author of the Dallas O’Connor Fashion mysteries

“
Killer Hair
is a shear delight.”

—national bestselling author Elaine Viets

Other Crime of Fashion Mysteries
by Ellen Byerrum

Killer Hair

Designer Knockoff

Hostile Makeover

Raiders of the Lost Corset

Grave Apparel

Armed and Glamorous

Shot Through Velvet

Death on Heels

Veiled
Revenge

A CRIME OF FASHION MYSTERY

Ellen Byerrum

OBSIDIAN

Published by the Penguin Group

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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

Copyright © Ellen Byerrum, 2013

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

The process of writing a book, from the first words to the bookstore shelf, involves so much more than just the author. Every book is a journey, and with every book I’ve written, I’ve encountered people who have been generous with their time, knowledge, and expertise. I am forever grateful for the moments they have shared that have spun my imagination into scenes, characters, plotlines, and stories.

While I was researching
Veiled Revenge
, I was blessed with a fabulous behind-the-scenes peek into the “nation’s attic,” the costume collections at the Smithsonian National Museum of American History, as well as personal stories behind some of the amazing clothes worn by Americans since this country’s birth. It was a little piece of Heaven for me. I am indebted to Museum Specialist Carol Kregloh, Associate Curator Katherine Dirks, and Curator Nancy Davis, Division of Home & Community Life, Smithsonian Institution National Museum of American History. I am in awe of the work they perform to save, collect, and exhibit precious clothes that give us a view of what people were wearing and how they lived at various times in our history. If there are sartorial or other errors in this book, you know who to blame: Me.

As usual there are the friends who cheer me on and soothe my doubts. They are my sounding board and I would be lost without them. Many thanks go to Lloyd Rose, Jay Farrell, and Rosemary Stevens.

Not to forget, there are always others who share the writer’s adventures in publishing. I am grateful to my encouraging agent, Paige Wheeler, and I would also like to thank my editor at New American Library, Sandy Harding.

Finally, when you’re writing a book, you need someone who has your back, and rubs it too. That person is my husband, Bob Williams, who keeps my spirits up, critiques and edits my work, and offers me unfailing support. He has my thanks and gratitude and love. I’ve got his back too.

Chapter 1

“Mock the shawl and flirt with disaster,” the fortune-teller said, her hand raised in warning. “Some say it has unearthly powers. Some even say it’s haunted. You who scoff at this ancient garment, mind you don’t lose your way, your money, or even your life!”

The members of Stella Lake’s bachelorette party laughed. But beneath the laughter, fashion reporter Lacey Smithsonian detected a hint of wonder.
Could Marie possibly be serious?

With her cascading black ringlets and her Rubenesque figure swathed in swirls of gold skirts and flounced-out sleeves, Marie Largesse looked the part of the Gypsy soothsayer. The bachelorette party kept her busy foretelling happy love lives for the bridesmaids and guests, but her haunted Russian shawl stole the show.

Marie held the embroidered garment just out of touching distance, stroking it gently with her bejeweled fingers and tracing the flowers with her purple-painted nails. The rose tattoos on her hands almost looked like a living extension of the shawl.

“But it’s so gorgeous! It totally begs to be touched.” Bride-to-be Stella reached longingly for the shawl, then she pulled back her hand. “Wait, if it’s spook-infested, I’m not so sure, Marie. I’m afraid of haunted things.”

“It’s wise to be careful, because the shawl is very powerful. However, I’m pretty sure you can hold it safely, Stella. If you’re really in love.” Marie smiled and draped the shawl over Stella’s shoulders with a gentle pat. “Legend says the shawl has few powers of wickedness over true lovers. Why, this capricious piece of cloth may even choose to bring you good luck.”

The lavishly decorated shawl nearly enveloped Stella’s fire-engine-red bandage dress, but it couldn’t hide her cantilevered cleavage and fresh hairdo. Her romantic streak was reflected in her Cupid curls brushing against her collarbone, newly highlighted in light pink—not shocking scarlet, as she had threatened. Topping Stella’s look was a new pink rhinestone tiara, chosen by Lacey for the party.

Marie’s shawl was glorious indeed, black as a bayou night, with roses of many hues, red and pink, purple and blue, tucked into a profusion of leaves stitched in the colors of every season, from spring green to verdant summer, to the golds and reds of fall and the browns and grays of winter. The bachelorettes clapped, and Stella sighed with relief at Marie’s reassurances.

“Are you sure, Marie? Absolutely, positively? ’Cause the path to true love has been pretty rocky for me and Nigel. I already broke my leg for love. I can’t take any chances on irritating a haunted Russian shawl. And when you say ‘few powers of wickedness,’ like, exactly
what
powers? And
how
few?”

Marie fluttered her fingers. “You’ll be fine. Try not to worry, Stella. Worry brings its own kind of negative vibrations.”

“Not worry? Worrying is in my DNA.”

Everyone laughed. Stella enjoyed being the center of attention. After all, it was her wedding shower. Still, she shrugged off the elaborate wrap and carefully handed it back to Marie. She stepped away from the shawl and drew a deep breath.

When she wasn’t fretting over her wedding, Stella was the manager of Stylettos Salon in Washington, D.C.’s trendy Dupont Circle neighborhood, and Lacey’s least predictable best friend. With her wedding only a week away, Stella was becoming more and more superstitious. And more of a trial to her maid of honor, Lacey Smithsonian.

“If it’s really okay for me to borrow the shawl, Marie, that takes care of something old and something borrowed. My gown is new, so now I’m just looking for something blue. I’m thinking maybe a blue margarita. I could use one right now.”

“Something blue will come your way—have no doubt,” Marie said. “Blue that matches the eyes of your children, when they come.”

“Blue-eyed babies?
Moi?
Wow.” Stella’s own sparkling eyes were light brown, almost hazel. “Blue eyes would be something! Just like Nigel’s mom. Wow, thanks, Marie!” Her worries over for the moment, Stella shimmied away to the party’s sound track, which was playing Cyndi Lauper’s eternally popular “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.”

“Marie makes a good Gypsy fortune-teller, doesn’t she?” Lacey said to her other best friend, attorney Brooke Barton.
“This fortune-teller thing was my idea, wasn’t it? Wow, am I good. Sometimes.”

Ms. Smithsonian was congratulating herself on putting together a bachelorette party for Stella that did
not
involve a drunken walk of shame through Georgetown with all the bridesmaids and friends wearing ridiculous sashes and tiaras, or being mooned by hunky male strippers, or indulging in lewd food items while someone sold honeymoon sex toys in neon colors.
Stella can save all that for the honeymoon.

“It was genius to have Marie here telling fortunes,” Brooke agreed. “Everyone’s positively transfixed by her. Great idea, Lacey. Stella owes you for this.”

Michelle, Stylettos’ striking African-American assistant manager, giggled at her fortune as Marie peered into her palm. “You telling me I’m going to hook up with a white boy? Another one? No way! Couldn’t he be sort of, you know, sweet and milk chocolate?”

“I still have my doubts about how psychic she really is,” Brooke said, “but Marie puts on a good show.”

Lacey looked quizzically at her friend, Brooke Barton, Esquire, lawyer by day and wacky conspiracy theorist by night. Tonight Brooke was looking less than usual like a well-starched Washington attorney. Her long pale blond hair caressed her bare shoulders, and her smoky eye shadow and mascara kicked up her comely lawyer-next-door looks a notch or two.

All the pretty bridesmaids were looking their best tonight.
Most of us, anyway.
Lacey had erased the faint shadows of overwork beneath her blue-green eyes with concealer and a dusting of blush on her high cheekbones. She caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror, over the console table covered with champagne bottles and crystal flutes. She pushed her hair away from her face. It would be weeks before she needed to have the blond highlights in her honey brown hair refreshed. By Stella, of course. After the honeymoon. She turned back to Brooke with a lifted eyebrow.

“Seriously, Brooke? You believe in little green men, things that go bump in the night, and the Loch Ness monster, but you don’t believe Marie is psychic?”

Brooke snorted. “Call me skeptical.”

“I have called you many things, Counselor, most of them good, but skeptical is not one of them. Besides, Marie is exceedingly psychic with things like, um, the weather,” Lacey replied. Marie’s bones did seem to have a direct hotline to storms, rain, and wind. She was as good as or better than any meteorologist in town. “And I do worry when she faints.”

“Certainly she faints more than anyone I’ve ever known.” Brooke furrowed her brow in concentration. “In fact, I’ve never known anyone who faints. Have you? So nineteenth century.”

Marie Largesse fell into a stupor when her psychic circuits were “overloaded,” purportedly with visions of horror, death, and doom. Or so she said. No one was quite sure what Marie experienced when she fainted, not even Marie. But death and dismay generally followed those spells.

“I wonder what Marie sees when she drops into the astral netherworld.” Brooke pondered, one hand on her chin.

“Doesn’t matter. She can never remember.” Lacey was just as curious about the netherworld of Brooke’s complicated mind. “But it can’t be good.”

“So if Edgar Cayce was the Sleeping Prophet, then Marie Largesse is the Fainting Psychic? I’ve heard of fainting goats, but a fainting psychic is just weird.” Brooke reached for a mushroom puff pastry on a silver tray passed by a server in a white blouse, black slacks, and pink cummerbund, matching the party’s color scheme.

“Your words, not mine. Anyway, Marie predicted beautiful spring weather for today and tomorrow,” Lacey pointed out, “and just look!”

“I’ll take it,” Brooke agreed. “I’m so ready for spring.”

“And I’m crossing my fingers that tonight is all about harmless bachelorette party fun. No disasters. No fainting allowed.”

“Yes, it’s harmless all right.” Brooke sniffed. “Reading palms and cards? ‘You will meet a tall, dark stranger’? The kind of thing any charlatan fortune-teller could pull off.”

“If you’re so dubious, test Marie. Go ahead. Mock the shawl.”

“No need to be hasty, Lacey. I’m wide open to the possibilities. Of the shawl, that is. Especially if Gregor Kepelov, that emissary from the dark side of Mother Russia, gave it to her. Besides, it’s Marie’s powers I doubt, not the shawl.” Brooke drained her champagne flute. “Maybe there is something to the shawl bringing good luck. After all, Stella got lucky, landing Nigel, surviving that fall off the rocks, getting perfect wedding weather, and ordering us all to wear
pink
for the wedding.” She sighed. “I saw some lovely gray bridesmaid dresses when I was shopping. I love that smoky color! Why couldn’t she go with gray?”

“Freeze right there, Brooke. It’s not like I’m the biggest fan of all things pink and rosy. But gray? Definitely not gray. It’s a spring wedding. It should have spring colors! Why dress like a tropical depression anyway? Is it in the wardrobe handbook for young attorneys?”

“Yes, it is. Gray is lucky for lawyers. Pink is lucky for—
defendants
. And talk about luck! How did Stella and Nigel manage to snag a Park Service permit for a wedding on the Mall amidst those pink cherry blossoms she’s so fond of?”

“And on such short notice too.”

Brooke scanned the tables for more appetizers. “Her future father-in-law, the British ambassador, probably had something to do with it.”

“Former ambassador,” Lacey corrected her. “Possibly, but Stella told me some other wedding party had a permit for two years and suddenly canceled. Probably a sad tale there.”

“Dame Fortune has smiled on Stella. And I have to say this venue for the bachelorette bash is working out. Nice job.”

“Thanks. I was afraid it could end up seriously—” Lacey hunted for a word.

“Tacky?” Brooke selected from a passing tray another pink champagne cocktail, named by the bartenders the “Stellarrific Rose” for the evening, in Stella’s honor. She lifted her glass in a salute to Lacey.

“Not
tacky
exactly.” Lacey saluted her in turn. “But it
is
a bachelorette party, so mortification is always a danger. I caved in and bought her the tiara. It was the one thing she really wanted for tonight. I’m surprised our feisty stylist agreed to stay in town for her bachelorette party and not indulge in the stupider rites of waning singlehood, like a drunken road trip to the beach or something.”

“I’d have filed a restraining order,” Brooke said.

There was a squeal of laughter from one of the bridesmaids. Lacey looked up. Everything was going well.

The party was gathered on a Sunday evening in April in a side room of a brand-new restaurant named Rosebud’s, on U Street, in a very happening and rapidly gentrifying Washington, D.C., neighborhood. It was once a rough part of town, but only occasionally dangerous these days, and generally not until after two in the morning. Lacey and Brooke were cohosting the event, but Lacey had made all the key decisions. Rosebud’s was already a hit, but having just opened, its private party rooms were still affordable. This Sunday was the only night they could reserve this close to Stella’s wedding; next Saturday would be the big day.

“It even has pink rosebud drapes,” Lacey noted. “This place is as tasteful as we could manage, keeping in mind the bride’s extravagant preferences.”

“If only she’d change her mind about the pink bridesmaid dresses.”

“A woman who’s been planning a cherry blossom wedding since the third grade is unlikely to be swayed from pink bridesmaid dresses.” Lacey laughed. “Just be thankful she’s letting us choose our own dresses, and not the Bustiers of Doom she would have cinched us in.”

“You’re the big fashion maven—couldn’t you suggest something else?”

“When has Stella ever listened to me?”

“Always! She reads everything you write! Every third word out of her mouth is a quote from your Crimes of Fashion, and your Fashion Bites.”

“Fashion certainly
does
bite. But Brooke, my words somersault around her head. Stella’s interpretation of my advice stands my hair on end.”

“Good thing she’s such a great stylist. She can fix that.” Brooke tugged on a lock of Lacey’s hair for emphasis.

Life is funny
,
Lacey reflected. There was a time when Brooke and Stella couldn’t stand each other. They had eventually bonded over gunpowder, tequila, and danger, and now Brooke was a bridesmaid in reluctant pink in Stella’s wedding. Lacey was the reluctant, but determined, maid of honor.

“Do you suppose she’d mind if I show up in a nice
taupe
dress?” There was a hint of a whine in Brooke’s voice. “Maybe with a pale pink belt?”

“Mind? She’d only kill you. She’s already fretting over every single pink petal that buds, blossoms, and falls.”

“Stella would file suit against Mother Nature to stop the cherry blossoms from fading.” Brooke shook her head. “I guess there had better be pink buds for her wedding. And pink bridesmaids in pink dresses.”

“Brooke, we have to suck it up on the pink dress question.”

“I’m a lawyer. I’m not good at sucking it up. Sucking
up
, yes. A completely different thing.”

“You have bought your dress, haven’t you?”

Brooke contemplated her champagne glass. “Umm, I’ve been really busy.”

“You have one week, Brooke. One week.” Lacey sipped her own champagne. “Go pink. Or die.”

Around them, the crowd seemed to be in high spirits. Even the stringy-haired cocktail waitress looked enthusiastic. She was sallow-skinned with a prominent and crooked nose, but the effect was softened by a lyrical voice and a vaguely foreign accent. The name on her badge was T
ILDA
. She leaned down to collect glasses at the table where Marie sat, and she reached out to stroke the shawl.

“Do be careful, hon,” Marie said, putting her hand on Tilda’s. “It’s very old. And it has a spirit of its own.”

“How fascinating. It must be very valuable to you.” The waitress smiled.