Veiled Revenge (11 page)

Chapter 14

Giggling.

There was the sound of high-pitched giggling in the newsroom. It wasn’t the raucous roar of cynical reporters, laughing at grim news or bad jokes or a politician’s foot stuck in his mouth. It was younger, more delicate, more joyous. It was definitely giggling. An alien sound at
The Eye Street Observer.

Children?
Lacey was trying to locate the unusual sound when two small faces with fetching brown almond-shaped eyes peeked around her cubicle wall. They were a harmonious blend of their deceased Chinese-American mother and a long-missing African-American father: Mac’s soon-to-be adopted daughters.

“Aha. I thought I heard something funny in the office today!” Lacey beamed at them. “Hi, girls! Is this Take Your Kids to Work Day?”

“Nope,” Jasmine said. She was the older sister—twelve going on twenty-nine—and the more mature sister, who had taken care of ten-year-old Lily Rose in those sad last days when they lost their mother. Before they met Mac and his wife, Kim. “That’s later this month. We’re on spring break. This is Take Your Dad to Work Day.”

“Mom is taking us shopping for dresses! For Miss Stella’s wedding,” Lily Rose said, as she jumped into the extra chair in Lacey’s cubicle. Jasmine leaned on the arm of Lacey’s chair.

It was surprising to her how readily the girls had taken to the idea that Mac and Kim would be their parents. But perhaps not such a surprise: With the girls’ mixed heritage, they seemed a perfect match for Mac, a mixture of black and white, and his Asian-American wife, Kim. The little girls had turned Mac from a grizzly bear into a lamb at home. It had little effect on his newsroom behavior.

Lacey and Mac both had played a part in rescuing the girls from a hellish life. Lacey had teared up the first time the girls called Mac and Kim “Mom and Dad.”

“Really?” Lacey said, tousling both heads at once. “Do you know what kind of dresses you want?”

“Something dressy enough for a wedding,” Jasmine said. “Weddings are special days. We have to look perfect, you know!”

“They’re going to be pink! ’Cause it’s my favorite color and not Jasmine’s,” Lily Rose declared. “We’re special honorary assistant junior bridesmaids.”

“We’re wearing pink because it’s Stella’s favorite color, not because it’s
yours
.” Jasmine gave her little sister a big-sister Look. “She was supposed to be just a flower girl,” she stage-whispered to Lacey, “but I got her promoted.”

“I’m too old to be a flower girl,” Lily Rose protested.

“If you sit too long in that chair, you’ll have to be a reporter,” Lacey said.

“I’m ready,” Lily Rose declared. “I wanna be a reporter! Like Miss Lacey!”

“Good, I could use some help. What do you want to write about?”

Lily Rose’s eyes grew larger. “You mean I have to
write
things? Like in school?”

“That’s the deal. That’s what reporters do.”

“I’d rather be a junior bridesmaid.” She jumped out of the seat.

“Dad says you’re writing a book with him and Tony Trujillo,” Jasmine said with interest. “True crime. Good guys and bad guys way out West and the good guys win.”

The book again
. Mac and their publisher Claudia’s harebrained scheme was that
The Eye Street Observer
could make quick money on a true-crime book, cobbled together out of their own reporting of the Sagebrush adventure they’d all been a part of, the pursuit and takedown of a killer and his accomplices in Colorado. Mac and Claudia had the idea that they (meaning Mac, Tony, and Lacey) could crank out a book in no time, slap a lurid cover on it, and sell the same reportage a second time. It was a dreadful idea, Lacey thought, which also involved a lot of extra work.

“We’re
allegedly
writing a book together,” Lacey said.

“He says you’re going to just
crank it out
.” Jasmine mimed cranking a meat grinder.

“I love it when people think writing is like cranking out sausage.”

“He writes every night,” Jasmine said. “He is
seriously
cranking it out.”

“Won’t that be cool?” Lily Rose chimed in. “A book with our dad’s name on it! And yours too, Miss Lacey! Cool, huh?”

“Cool.” Lacey put her forehead down on her desk.

“Do you have a headache, Miss Lacey?”

“Yes, his name is Mac. But he’s a great dad, so I forgive him.”
Almost
.

Her editor had been bugging her for more copy for the book, the erroneously titled
Terror at Timberline.
The events did involve a certain amount of terror, but they did
not
happen anywhere near timberline, even though Sagebrush, Colorado, always felt to Lacey like the very ends of the earth. Mac was editing and merging the stories she had written in Sagebrush, but he was constantly asking for more description, more dialogue, more context, and her
feelings
. That was especially weird to Lacey. Editors, in her experience, generally didn’t give a hoot in Hell about reporters’ feelings. Apparently that was the difference between newspaper journalism and a quick-and-dirty true-crime book.

Crank it out like sausage and crank up the emotion.
The very thought made her cranky.

“I have an important question! Can we wear our boots to the wedding?” Jasmine asked. “I am rocking these cowboy boots.” She put out one foot and admired it. “You wrote in the paper that boots and dresses are totally completely fashionable together right now.”

“You read my stories?”

“I read them too!” Lily Rose piped up.

“Can we wear them? To Miss Stella’s wedding?” Jasmine pressed. The boots were precious to her, Lacey suspected, not only because she’d never had anything so cool, but because Mac had bought them for the girls far away, way out west in Colorado. In fact he had gone to some trouble to purchase those new boots, dragging Lacey along for shopping advice, and personally packing them all the way back to Washington. Today the girls were clad in jean skirts, cotton tops, and those brand-new cowboy boots. Pink boots and blue boots.

Lacey hesitated. Stella’s wedding might not happen; then again, with Stella,
anything
might happen. “I’m pretty sure Stella wouldn’t have a problem with your boots. I think she’d really dig it if you wore them.”

Lily Rose jumped up and down. She had energy to spare. “Chill out, Lily Rose,” Jasmine warned.

“Hey, you guys,” a new voice said. They all peered around Lacey’s cubicle to see Kim Jones striding through the newsroom. Mac was with her. “I wondered where you were.”

Lacey was always amazed that Mac, the grouchy slob, had managed to find such a well-dressed and attractive wife. The petite Kim Jones was wearing immaculately tailored navy slacks with a crisp white shirt, and a cleverly tied navy, pink, and white scarf. It might have been dull on someone else, but she made it look fresh.

“We found Miss Lacey,” Lily Rose said. The girls both smiled at their new mom. The adoption would be a formality, Lacey knew. They’d already become a family.

“We had important fashion details to discuss,” Lacey remarked. “For the wedding.”

“Not cowboy boots?” Kim was mock-dismayed.

“Lacey said Stella would be cool with it,” Jasmine said.

“That means we get to wear them,” Lily Rose added, threatening to jump up and down again. “Please?”

Kim lifted her shoulders and shared a look with Mac. He just shook his head. “Don’t ask me, I’m not the expert.” Mac scooted over to Felicity’s desk to hunt for today’s food item. But she hadn’t come in yet and there were no treats. “Those boots cost a lot of money. It doesn’t hurt for people to see them.”

“See who else is wearing cowboy boots.” Jasmine pointed at Mac’s feet. He was wearing his new pair of black boots. Kim grinned.

“What? They’re comfortable,” Mac said. “Let’s let ’em wear the boots.”

“If you’re sure, Lacey,” Kim said. “They seem stuck on wearing those boots.”

“I’ll wear mine to that wedding too,” Mac said.

“No, you won’t,” Kim murmured. “Just the girls.”

“All you have to do now is find pink dresses,” Lacey said. The girls giggled happily as they hugged their good-byes. A pang of guilt washed over her. She didn’t want Kim to spend a lot of money on pink dresses that might not be used, if the wedding didn’t happen. Then she slapped herself mentally.

They’re little girls—pink dresses will never go to waste.

Kim smiled as she gathered her girls. Jasmine was almost as tall now as her mom.

“Ladies, we have a big day ahead of us,” Kim said.

Mac ushered them out of the newsroom toward the elevators. Lacey watched them leave and reached for her cell phone.

“Stella, it’s Lacey. How are you doing?”

“I’m alive, Lace, but my heart is broken.” Lacey caught her in mid-sniffle. “More than that would have been broken if that car had hit us, I know. Nigel is my hero, Lacey, but he can’t be my husband. Not ever!”

Lacey was glad Stella couldn’t see the face she was making at her friend’s dramatics. “Aside from that, how’s the wedding planning going?”

Stella choked on a sob. “There is no wedding.”

I’m ignoring all of this. She will change her mind.
“Jasmine and Lily Rose were just here. They wanted to know if they can wear their pink and blue cowboy boots with their pink dresses. I told them they could.”

There was a pause. “Oh! Cowboy boots, yeah, I saw them, they’re totally cute. I don’t want to disappoint the girls, but— oh, my God, Lace!”

“It’s still off, then?”

“Oh, Lacey, it has to be. I don’t want it to be over. On the other hand, I don’t want to die. And not just me. Nigel too! And you! I almost forgot about you. We were all in the crosshairs of that black limo. And the shawl.”

“That crazy Russian shawl has got nothing to do with anything,” Lacey said firmly.

“Yeah, Smithsonian.” A deep voice boomed behind her. “Tell me all about this crazy Russian shawl. And what
exactly
has it got
nothing
to do with?”

Lacey was so focused on Stella, she hadn’t noticed the huge shadow looming over her desk, blotting out the sun. That shadow could only mean trouble. “Stella, I have to go now. Don’t do anything rash. I mean it. Call me!” She clicked off.

An impatient cough rumbled. Lacey spun around in her desk chair. “Detective Lamont. What a nice surprise.”

“I’ll just bet.” Broadway Lamont was a very large and imposing African-American homicide detective. Lacey had made his acquaintance in the course of several murder investigations, and although they had become sort of friends, he still scared the breath out of her.

Lamont never spontaneously visited
The Eye Street Observer
. When he showed up, there was always some sticky situation to be handled. Or one of Felicity’s sticky buns to be munched. Lamont had a peculiar affection for Felicity. But she and her buns were nowhere to be seen, so Lacey had Lamont all to herself today.
Lucky me.

She peered up at Lamont as he glowered down at her. He was not quite as big as a bull moose, but certainly more intimidating. Despite his musical name, he was not an entertainer. He once told Lacey, “My name may be Broadway, but I don’t sing and I don’t dance. I just want answers, and I want them fast.”

“What’s on your mind, Broadway?” she asked.

He grabbed a random chair, twirled it around, and sat down. He pulled her chair in, close to his face. “I am hurt, Smithsonian. Deeply hurt. Wounded, in fact.”

“Um, sorry?”

“Wounded,” he repeated. “You didn’t think to call me? A friend of Lacey Smithsonian’s drops dead and she doesn’t think to call me, her best friend in the D.C. police department?”

That wasn’t saying much.
“If you’re talking about Leonardo, he wasn’t exactly my friend.”

“Don’t quibble. You knew the late Leonard Karpinski. Hairstylist. Plied his trade under the name of Leonardo. ‘Leonardo,’ what would you call that, Smithsonian? A
nom de hair
?” He chuckled at his own wit. “Yeah,
that
Leonardo.”

“Oh.
That
Leonardo. I take it the Metropolitan police department is calling this a homicide?”

“No ruling yet. Let’s just call it suspicious,” he said. “Mighty suspicious.”

Lacey craned her neck around the big detective, hoping Felicity Pickles had appeared, even though she suspected the food editor’s secret plan was to fatten them all up and lead them to her gingerbread house in the woods.

Although Lacey had a rocky history with Ms. Pickles, they had settled into a sort of friendship. Not that they actually
liked
each other, but detente made life easier in the newsroom. And there was the little detail of Lacey connecting Felicity with her fiancé, Harlan Wiedemeyer. Lacey wondered if it would have been wiser to set her up with Detective Lamont. The big detective was clearly sweet on Felicity and her tarts. He had a notorious sweet tooth and a preference for the full-figured lasses of the world, especially lasses like Felicity, who were happy to feed his sweet tooth.

Lamont followed Lacey’s gaze. Nothing. No Felicity.

Come on, Felicity! Where are those tarts of yours when I really need one?

“What can I tell you, Broadway? I didn’t find the body. I didn’t know he died until this morning.”

His wicked grin lit up his face. “I’m told you witnessed the deceased making a damn fool of himself Sunday night before his untimely demise. Why don’t you start with that crazy haunted shawl?”

It was too early in the morning to be needled. She stared at her empty coffee cup. “There is no such thing as a haunted Russian shawl.”

“Really? Did I say it was
Russian
? Seems you do have some personal knowledge of this thing. Well, we’ve got one screwy Marie Largesse, who’s swearing that a shawl killed Leonard Karpinski.”

“So you’re working this case?”

“I am not the lead investigator, thank the homicide gods, but I have been shanghaied into assisting in this investigation.”

“Why you?”

“Homicide moves in mysterious ways,” Lamont boomed. “Because that pretty-but-screwy fortune-teller of yours started flapping her jaw about haunted Russian shawls, cursed shawls, indeed, killer shawls. Maybe because I got a history with a certain screwy fashion reporter named Smithsonian. And just maybe because the screwy victim was a suspect in another hairstylist murder last year, also involving said screwy fashion reporter.”