Veiled Revenge (12 page)

“Coincidence?” She toyed with her empty F
ASHION
BITES
coffee mug.

“As soon as the words
cursed shawl
were out of the Gypsy woman’s mouth, Detective Hopkins, lead detective on the case, thought of me. With a smirk on his face, I might add. Crimes of fashion, even when they are fatal, are beneath him. He finally requested my assistance to sort out the various loonies on this one.”

“Like me?”

“Who else? Rest assured, I am working on payback.” He grabbed the mug from her hand. “Hey, where are your manners, Smithsonian?”

“Excuse me? My manners?”

“You going to offer me some wretched newsroom coffee, or what?”

“Didn’t want to cause another suspicious death so early in the day.”

“Do I look like a little sludge could hurt me?”

Broadway Lamont looked to Lacey like a runaway black limo wouldn’t even crease his hair. Lacey grabbed her cup. “This way to the sludge shop.” He followed her to the newsroom pantry and sniffed the noxious brew with relish.

“How about I make a fresh pot?” she said.

“Going all gourmet on me? Sounds like a guilty conscience, Smithsonian.”

“I just don’t want to go and kill a homicide detective by mistake,” she muttered.

“Knowing you, it wouldn’t be a mistake,” he said with a chuckle.

The new batch almost smelled good. “You said Leonardo’s death was officially suspicious?”

“Homicide, or suicide, or death by misadventure, all suspicious to me. All I know, Smithsonian, is Mr. Karpinski is dead, and in a manner we refer to technically as
freaky
. Poison. Not something you see much on the mean streets of D.C.”

“What kind of poison?”

“Not sure yet. Lab test results won’t be in for a couple of weeks. But the medical examiner says it could be nicotine, and not from smoking.”

“Nicotine? How?”

“Homemade. It’s easy—gardeners use it for a pesticide. Apparently he was vomiting, had difficulty breathing, sweating, all the symptoms. According to the bartender at the dive where he went after your little soiree.”

“Where was he poisoned?”

“If we knew where, we’d be closer to knowing who, wouldn’t we? We’re retracing his path for his last twenty-four hours. In those hours, he attended a bachelorette party. And your name came up. His path crossed yours. Nice job, Smithsonian. How do you do it?”

“Just lucky, I guess. It doesn’t mean he was poisoned there.”

He laughed. “Two words:
Killer Shawl
.”

Lacey narrowed her eyes at the mention of the shawl. “Leonardo didn’t receive an invitation.”

“Gate-crasher?”

“That’s right.” She poured the coffee “I forgot, how do you like it?”

“Black like me.” He smacked his lips over the freshly brewed java. “So tell me—this psychic voodoo woman, Marie Largesse. Is she a few bricks shy of a load?”

“Marie is not stupid or crazy. She’s a good person. She does, however, see things differently from you and me. You could say she’s fanciful.”

Lacey led Lamont back to her cubicle with their coffee cups. He filled up a chair, she perched on her desk.

“Fanciful,” he snorted, propping his feet on her trash basket. “If that means all big eyes and purple fingernails and talk of hauntings and curses, then yeah, I guess she’s fanciful. Cute, though. Delightfully full-figured.”

“You questioned Marie yourself? I hope you were gentle with her.”

“Hopkins brought her down to the station last night. I sat in on it. All very cool and professional, he’s a kid-gloves kind of detective. Unlike yours truly.”

“You don’t suspect Marie?” Lacey said. “She wouldn’t hurt a fly. Even a nasty fly like Leonardo.”

“You know me, Smithsonian.” He peered at her over his cup. “I suspect everyone. Including you.”

“I’m flattered. Listen, Leonardo wasn’t invited to the party. No one knew he was coming, except maybe him, so no one could have planned to kill him there. He was an unpleasant surprise.”

“Maybe someone got tipped off, knew he’d show up, planned a surprise of their own.”

“Like who?”

“His spurned ex-lover Miguel Flores? Another friend of yours?”

“Miguel? He was the spurner, not the spurned.”

“Cuts both ways. I figure eventually we’ll find whoever tapped Leonard K with a lethal dose of something, maybe nicotine. But just out of curiosity, who do
you
think decided they were never getting another bad haircut from Leonardo?” Lamont drank the brew. “Not bad coffee, by the way.”

Could be worse.
“I don’t know who’d want to kill Leo, other than his clients. He could be a real jerk.”

“You telling me you haven’t been cogitating over this, coming up with your own list of bad guys? And a dozen ways to get yourself into trouble?”

“Cogitating? Not me. Haven’t given it a thought.”

“Since when?”

“Since someone tried to run me over yesterday. And the bride and groom too.”

“Wait a minute!” Lamont put down his coffee cup. “Someone tried to mow the three of you down? What, like pins in a bowling alley? Just hours after this Leonardo dies? And you didn’t think this was of interest either?” His face clouded. “You holding out on me, Smithsonian!”

She shrugged. “I assumed you knew. We made a report. The cops weren’t interested. Didn’t think you’d be interested either. After all, nobody’s dead. I’m sure you can find the traffic report. It was a big black limousine, on Eye Street.”

“Black limousine, in the District? Oh, yeah,
that’ll
narrow it down.” Lamont lifted his mug meaningfully. “You know what I think?”

“What, Broadway?”

“I need another hit of this coffee.” He drained his cup and handed it to her.

Lacey took off for the newsroom pantry again, leaving him sitting at her desk. He wouldn’t learn much there, even if he went through her papers and her hard drive. Not unless he was deeply interested in what to wear to a wedding.

When she returned with his refill, Detective Lamont was on his cell phone, scowling. He uttered a few guttural noises and hung up.

“In front of the Arts Club, huh?” he asked her. “Limo took out an awning at the hotel next door. They got nothing from the car. Stolen yesterday, no forensics, no decent description of the driver, no trace of him. By the way, Smithsonian, what the hell were you doing there?”

“It was a walk-through for Stella’s wedding reception. You remember Stella. It’s going to be held there, this Saturday. Maybe.”

“Maybe? Someone getting cold feet?”

Lacey sighed. “The bride.” She sat down and told him about the black limo attack and the aftermath. “That’s all I got, Broadway.”

“Tell me this. Is your pal Stella Lake also convinced there’s a damn haunted shawl at the root of all this?”

“Everybody is. I’m the only voice of reason.”

“Damn! I hate all this hoodoo voodoo mumbo jumbo.”

“I guess it’s easier for her to believe the Curse of the Shawl is after us than to think someone is deliberately trying to kill her, or the groom, or the entire wedding party. Does any of this help?”

“Not a damn bit,” he said with a laugh. “On the plus side, it’ll make a heck of a story back at the station.”

“You’re a riot, Detective.”

He leveled his gaze at her. “So what do you think, Smithsonian? Your limo attack connected to this Leonardo character being poisoned?” He rubbed his chin with his coffee cup.

“How could it be? Aren’t poison and speeding cars two very different signatures?” Lacey asked. “What kind of criminal profile would that make?”

“Profiling.” He snorted. “You been watching too much TV. Lots of folks who do violence to other folks use whatever comes to hand. Damn few killers fit that profile-and-signature stuff, like those criminal geniuses in the movies. But you profile me up a killer Russian shawl on the loose, roaming the city? All bets are off.” He couldn’t keep from smirking.

There was a rustling movement in the newsroom behind them. Lacey caught sight of Harlan Wiedemeyer lurking around Felicity’s empty cubicle, no doubt trying to cadge some news bites for his death-and-dismemberment beat. Wiedemeyer hadn’t had anything very interesting to dig into since his story on the mysterious exploding hog barns in Minnesota. He had tried, but failed, to tie it in with the mysterious phenomenon of the exploding toads in Germany. Broadway Lamont leapt out of his chair and towered over the shorter reporter.

“Winklemeyer, right?” Lamont bellowed. “What are you doing here?”

“Wiedemeyer. Harlan Wiedemeyer. And I work here.” He pulled himself up to his full height, which wasn’t very tall, especially in comparison to Lamont. “What are
you
doing here? Interrogating our Smithsonian? What’s she done now?”

“What interrogation? We’re having a private conversation and you are a fly in the ointment.” He looked like a bull about to charge. Wiedemeyer took a step back into the cubicle across the aisle, bumped into the desk chair, and sat down.

Just then the aroma of something delectable perfumed the air. Lacey felt enormous relief, as if the bomb squad had arrived just as the bomb was about to go off like an exploding amphibian. Food editor Felicity Pickles appeared, food offering in hand, clad in a dreary slate blue frock that stretched tight across her chubby tummy. She’d paired it with a blazing pink sweater covered in red tulips. Even Felicity was ready for spring. She reminded Lacey of a kindergarten teacher. Nevertheless, Felicity’s thick auburn locks were glossy and her china-doll face glowed with love for Harlan Wiedemeyer.

The reporters following in Felicity’s aromatic wake weren’t focused on her, but on what she was holding: a tray of artfully arranged biscotti—lemon, cranberry, and vanilla, all dipped in chocolate. For Felicity, presentation (in her cooking, not her clothes) was everything. Always aware of admiring and drooling male attention, Felicity stopped, posed with her tray, and smiled.

“Why, Miss Pickles, what do we have here?” Lamont inquired.

“Hello, Detective Broadway, just a little something I whipped up. A small assortment of chocolate-covered biscotti to go with your mid-morning coffee.” Felicity glowed with pleasure. The big detective looked doubtful
.

Biscotti? Can his sweet tooth really be assuaged by a mere biscotti, and not a gooey giant cinnamon roll dripping with icing?

“You could dunk it in your coffee,” Felicity suggested. “Yummy with coffee. Even Lacey’s coffee.”

“I love biscotti, my sweet pickles,” Wiedemeyer announced. “Your biscotti are the biscottiest.”

Lamont followed suit, experimentally. He dunked and chewed. “Hmmm. Not bad.” He finished one in three bites, then another in two. He reached for a third.

Police reporter Tony Trujillo, one of Felicity’s biggest fans, arrived on the scene, drawn by the seductive scent.

“Ah,
dulce
Felicidad!” He reached for a vanilla biscotti and a chocolate without asking, and stayed to listen in without being invited. Felicity gazed at her audience of hungry, adoring men.

“What brings you here, detective? Not my little old biscotti.”

“The usual. Death and Smithsonian. But your biscuits have surely brightened my day, Miss Pickles.”

“Murder, my sweet,” Harlan explained unnecessarily. “Some poor bastard bit the dust, and of course our favorite fashion reporter was there.”

“I was not!” Lacey protested.

“A guest at a bachelorette party hosted by the most notorious fashion reporter in town dropped dead after the soiree.” Broadway Lamont loved playing with Smithsonian. His pearly smile gleamed.
Like a wolf.
Everyone stared at Lacey.

“Hey, he didn’t drop dead till much later. Nowhere near me, and not at my party. And he wasn’t a guest, he was a party crasher. And I don’t know if he dropped, or if he slowly sank.”

“Oh, no. Did he eat something Lacey made for the party?” Felicity gasped. “Not from one of my recipes, I hope? It couldn’t be! I test every recipe right here at
The Eye
. You’re all my witnesses.” She took great stock in not poisoning people with her food. Poisoning them with her attitude was quite another thing.

Everybody thinks everything is all about them
, Lacey thought.

“Sweet Pickles, let us go make some decent coffee to go with your excellent biscotti,” Wiedemeyer said. “We can discuss the poor deceased bastard in private.”

“Language, Harlan,” Felicity cautioned him. She had her own stash of superior coffee beans in her filing cabinet. All her files smelled like dark Colombian roast. Wiedemeyer grabbed the coffee stash, lifted one more biscotti from her tray, and steered Felicity toward the newsroom pantry. Trujillo followed the trail of the biscotti and the
good
coffee. Lamont watched them go. It seemed to sour his mood all over again.

“You come up with anything, Smithsonian, I want it,” Lamont commanded. “Anything on Leonard Karpinski or Marie Largesse or Miguel Flores, or even that screwy shawl, you call me. Doesn’t look good that the thing is missing, haunted or not. It turns up, I want to see it. Do not hesitate, call! You get me?”

“I get you perfectly, Broadway. If a Killer Shawl comes after me in a black limousine, I’ll let you know.” He grunted. “But I have a question.
How
was Leonardo poisoned? Food? Drink?”

He stood up to go. “One of the techs said it looked like he got it in the neck.”

“The neck?” Lacey felt the blood drain from her face. She rubbed the back of her neck, the way Leonardo had. Lamont bore down on her. She understood how a real suspect must feel under interrogation by Broadway “the Bull” Lamont.

“What do you know?” It was a demand, not an inquiry.

“Nothing.” She hesitated. She didn’t want to tell him. And she rationalized that she really didn’t
know
anything. “Except—”

“Except what?” The detective’s eyes narrowed.

“At the party, Leonardo grabbed the shawl out of Marie’s hands. He was being a jerk, pretending to dance with it. Sort of a tango. Then he complained that the shawl ‘bit’ him. On the neck. Right before he left the party. Actually, Miguel threw him out.”

“It bit his neck? Like a vampire?” Lamont slapped his forehead again. “I know you’re not messing with me here, ’cause you know better than that. Ain’t that right, Smithsonian?”