Veiled Revenge (14 page)

“Haunted shawls and exploding toads, Lacey! This story was made for
The Eye.
” Harlan practically did a jig. “We should have nailed this one! Your friend Damon scooped us big time.”

Lacey looked at Mac. “Mac, referee this for me. If we’d run with ‘Titanic Sunk by Sea Serpent,’ one whole news cycle before the rest of the journalistic world ran ‘Titanic Sunk by Iceberg,’ would that be a scoop?”

Mac’s expressive eyebrows danced their way across his forehead. “Smithsonian’s right, Wiedemeyer. It’s no scoop if you get it wrong. We only want the story if it’s true and accurate. Go fight with Trujillo if you think there’s more to it,” Mac said.

“Thanks, Mac.”
Maybe something will go right today after all
, Lacey thought.

“When you’re right, you’re right. And besides, you’ve got your hands full with that wacky wedding. And
Terror at Timberline
.”

I take it all back.
“About that title, Mac . . .”

Chapter 16

“My surprise gift is a bodyguard?”

Lacey sat at the table waiting for the punch line. Instead, she spotted a large, handsome, heavily muscled man at the restaurant entryway, waiting for a sign from Vic. Lacey recognized him at once and her eyes went a little wide. “You hired Turtledove? I don’t believe this, Vic.”

“That’s right, darling.” Vic smiled. “But ‘bodyguard’ is so old school. These days we call them personal protection agents.”

“Personal protection? Sounds like something you’d buy at the drugstore. And really, Vic, you shouldn’t have. My new watch is quite enough of a birthday present. Not to mention the Saint Christopher medal. You can return the bodyguard for a refund.”

“You’re very cute for a smart-ass.”

Lacey shut up and sipped her iced tea. She would rather enjoy lunch at Vidalia, the below-sidewalk-level restaurant on M Street, with its soothing cream and gold décor, than fight. She wondered if Vic had chosen it because it would be a nearly impossible setting for a drive-by shooting. She unfolded her napkin and picked up her menu to hide her disgust.
I don’t want to live my life as if I were a target. Or actually
being
a target.

“A bodyguard could seriously cramp my style, you know,” she said, browsing the lunch specials.

“So can runaway limos.”

The large man in the doorway smiled and waited for his cue. His real name was Forrest Thunderbird, but Turtledove was the nickname he let his friends use. He had an exotic, multiethnic look that the ladies loved, not to mention the allure of his well-disciplined and well-muscled physique. Turtledove was a bodyguard who occasionally freelanced for Vic and was also a jack-of-many-trades. One of them was playing a mean blues trumpet at little clubs in D.C. and Virginia.

“Forrest is going to be helping me watch over you for a few days,” Vic said. “I don’t know who’s out there stalking you, or why, or exactly what the threat is—”

“Marie fainted,” she filled in. Lacey might not have complete faith in all of Marie’s predictions, but her fainting once again had proven a bellwether for disaster. “That’s the threat.”

“What I know is that Leonardo is dead and somebody tried to run you down in the street,” Vic said.

“Actually on the sidewalk. Listen, I appreciate the gesture.” Lacey tried to find the right words. “But—”

“No buts, Lacey. Not when your life is at stake.”

She leaned back and stretched. Every muscle ached, no doubt from her tumble into the boxwood hedge yesterday, but also from sheer tension and anxiety. The scab on her knee itched and she just hoped the bruises would be gone by Saturday. “That car might not have been after me specifically. Could have been after Nigel. He has more enemies than I do.”

“I can’t tell you what a relief it is to know you might only have been collateral damage.” Vic was cute when he was being droll, she decided.

“I love that you care.” Lacey put her hand on his. Vic smiled and nearly won her over. “But I’m a reporter. It’s part of the job. There are risks.”

Vic gestured to the man who stood nearby to join them. “Nobody has risks like you do. D.C. is not a war zone.”

“Not technically, no. And reporters do not get to have bodyguards. It’s in the Newspaper Guild contract.”

Besides, once the other female scribes see Turtledove, they’ll all want one.

The hunky Turtledove took the chair next to Lacey. “Still in one piece, I see.”

“Yes, thank you, Turtledove. Nothing personal, you know that. It just sets a bad precedent and—”

“Don’t worry, Vic,” Turtledove said, ignoring her protests. “I’ll keep her out of traffic.”

“Even on the sidewalk?” Lacey asked.

“Especially on the sidewalk.” Turtledove appeared to be physically perfect. Bulging biceps stretched the short sleeves of his yellow polo shirt, the color vivid against his deep olive skin. He always seemed to be in a good mood too. Yet he had a few little flaws. One of them was that he was also a friend, and fan, of Damon Newhouse’s whacked-out Conspiracy Clearinghouse. Turtledove was apt to believe Damon’s shawl theory. “So are we dealing with a Killer Shawl or some other threat?”

“You already read DeadFed, I see,” she commented.

“
The Eye
only had three paragraphs on the late Leonardo. Very dry reading. I checked all my usual sources. I keep an open mind.” He grinned.

Lacey hid behind her menu. “Open mind, huh? You might try finding one of those for Damon.”

He chuckled. “Don’t want to taint the man’s take on things. He has a unique viewpoint. Now, what’s on the agenda for you and me this afternoon?”

Lacey sighed in surrender. “Back to the office, and then I have a full afternoon of errands. All sorts of girly things. You’ll be bored.”

“I doubt it.” Nothing fazed Turtledove. “I’m going to enjoy this assignment, Lacey, especially if there are all sorts of girlies around.”

“It’s settled then,” Vic said.

“No. No. No. I appreciate this, Vic. And you too, Turtledove. But I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Bodyguard, Lacey,” Turtledove said. “Or personal protection agent, or hired gun, or ladies’ home companion, whichever you like.” He flashed his dazzling grin. “Vic and I both think you need safekeeping right now. He thinks you’re worth keeping safe, and so do I.”

“When I can’t be there to make sure you’re safe,” Vic said, “I want you to be safe with the biggest, baddest, best bodyguard I know.”

“That would be me.” Turtledove turned on the high-wattage grin again.

Lacey shook her head. She certainly wasn’t going to tell these guys she was giving in. The waitress arrived in the nick of time. Lacey ordered the crab cakes and the baked Vidalia onion. Vic asked for the Southern fried chicken, while Turtledove ordered the shrimp and grits.
Comfort food all around,
she thought,
what does that tell you?

She whispered in Vic’s ear. “Aren’t you just a little bit afraid to leave me alone with such a good-looking bodyguard?”

He leaned over and put his arm around Lacey’s shoulders, drawing her close to him. She could feel the heat of Vic’s body and soul. “I would be, if I wasn’t completely convinced of your utter devotion to me. And mine to you.”

Her breath shortened, her heart raced. He still had that effect on her. “I guess you’re safe then,” she said. “For the moment.”

“That’s a relief.” Vic kissed her on the forehead before letting her go. They were, after all, in a restaurant in Washington, D.C., and they didn’t indulge in PDA the way Stella and Nigel did. And Turtledove was sitting there chuckling at them.

“Whew. Getting warm in here, or is it just me?” Turtledove said, fanning himself with the wine list while Vic laughed. “Listen, I only have one prior commitment. I’m sitting in with the band tonight at Velvet’s Blues in Old Town. Lacey, you can be my date, or I can call someone else to take over.”

“Are you kidding? Hearing you wail on that trumpet will be a treat,” Lacey said.

“I’ll meet you there later, sweetheart. After I finish with my client,” Vic said.

“Any bad guys show up at the club, I jump off the stage and beat them down with my horn,” Turtledove said with a smile. “No, not my trumpet—I hate to dent a good instrument. I got other weapons.”

Lunch arrived and soon Vic and Turtledove fell into a deep analysis of the current state of the security business, what was wrong with the Redskins, and who might be after Lacey
this
time. Lacey finished her crab cakes and excused herself to visit the ladies’ room. Turtledove leapt to his feet to escort her to the door. Vic had the nerve to chuckle as they left the table.

Lacey was finally alone in the ladies’ room, refreshing her war paint—an essential weapon in her self-defense arsenal—when the sobering specter of Olga Kepelova appeared in the mirror behind her. Lacey dropped her blush in the sink and spun on her heel. It wasn’t a specter; it was Olga herself. She looked half dead, a walking near-corpse with flat brown hair, wearing a gray sweater that drained all the color from her face. Only her somber brown eyes seemed alive.

“You startled me.”

“It is a good place to meet, no? Quiet. No men to overhear.” Olga moved closer.

Overhear
what
?
Lacey’s pulse was still racing. She picked up the pieces of her compact from the sink, keeping one eye on Olga and trying to control her breathing. Why did they need to have a private chat, without witnesses?

“What do you want, Olga?”

“Excellent. We get right to the point. I feel I must tell you, I fear Gregor’s life is in danger. He could be next target of killer.”

Olga was nothing if not direct. Lacey stared at the woman, wondering whether she could have been driving that black limo. But what motive could she have had?

“That’s funny.
I
was nearly killed yesterday, along with my friend Stella and her fiancé. If your brother is the target, why was someone after us?”

“Unknown. First there was Mr. Leonardo, and then you three from the wedding party. Danger is gathering. Often comes in threes.”

“It’s not gathering, it’s already here. What’s the connection? Gregor didn’t know Leonardo.”

“Human error, perhaps. Mistakes can be made.”

“You think Leonardo was a mistake?”

“As you say, he was unwelcome guest. Bad luck.”

“And the rest of us?” Did she know something more than she was telling? Lacey’s thoughts threatened to explode into a full-blown migraine.

“Perhaps it was only a warning. You were not harmed.”

Tell that to my throbbing knee.
“Shaken but not stirred.” Olga did not smile. “That was a little joke.”

Olga still didn’t smile. “When a guest dies after a bridal party, or what you call, bachelorette party, is no joke. Is very bad omen.”

“As we’ve established, Leonardo wasn’t exactly a guest.”

“Still an ominous sign.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Olga was silent for a moment and pressed her fingers together. “Gregor does not listen to me. He is such a—what do you say—alpha dog. And Marie is too delicate. Too sensitive. I do not wish to upset fragile psychic equilibrium. Gregor’s woman has a rare gift. Sadly untrained.” Lacey had never thought of Marie as delicate, but she saw Olga’s point. “Marie is very sweet girl. She is good for Gregor. Still time to give him babies. Never before has Gregor found a woman to love, to marry, to carry on the name Kepelov. Maybe they have beautiful psychic children. Think of the possibilities.” Olga nodded to herself. “I approve of this match.”

“I’m sure that’s a relief to all of us.”

Olga didn’t detect the tinge of sarcasm in that comment. “Naturally. But to be most honest, Marie makes terrible coffee.”

“The chicory. It’s a New Orleans thing. Some people like it, some don’t.”

“Ah, the Louisiana connection. Thank you for explanation. I will bring my own coffee hereafter. Or tea. I prefer black tea, very strong.”

Coffee. Tea. Psychics. Murder
, Lacey mused.
Just another ladies’ room conversation in Spy City
.

“You think Gregor will listen to me?” She reached for her makeup bag.

“More than you know, Lacey Smithsonian. He studies you.”

That gave her a sudden chill. Lacey changed the subject. “Have you found the shawl?”

Olga turned the cold water on and washed her hands. “It is still missing. You know it is supposed to be haunted? Cursed?”

“Gregor was telling me something about that.”

“Gregor. What does Gregor know of our family history?” Olga sniffed, a big sister’s skeptical sniff
.
She leaned against the mirror, creating two Olga Kepelovas. Lacey was grateful that it wasn’t a three-way mirror—there would be an infinity of Olgas surrounding her with their piercing stares. “He was never interested in the history. Until he had Marie to tell it to.”

“Tell me what you know about the shawl. Please.” Lacey dabbed some cover-up beneath her eyes, and on the fading scratch from the limo encounter on Eye Street. A good night’s sleep was definitely in order.

Olga stalked the length of the ladies’ room, checking the stalls for eavesdroppers.

“Very well. Early in the eighteen hundreds, the first Irina Katya Kepelova was very proud of her shawl. So different from factory-made. No one else ever stitched the way she did. The way she could embroider, they say her fingers were kissed by angels. Her needles made of gold.”

“Fingers kissed by angels. I like that,” Lacey said.
And needles made of gold? There’s a story in this yet
.

“She has many offers to buy the shawl,” Olga continued. “She refuses. It is meant for her daughter’s wedding day. And her daughter’s daughter. One day, emissary from court of the Tsar hears of the shawl, comes looking for crafts from the people, for the royal family. For some museum, not to wear. A tsarina would never wear the shawl of a peasant, but she might use it to exclaim, ‘Look how talented are my devoted people!’ The emissary does not even offer to pay Irina Katya. He says he will take the shawl for the glory of Mother Russia.”

Lacey was taking copious mental notes. “What happened?”

“Fury! Irina Katya Kepelova was so angry! The Tsar wants to steal her daughter’s wedding shawl? Oh, yes, such a great honor to be robbed this way. She poured her soul out into this shawl, but what can she do against the Tsar’s man? Her husband holds her back from spitting and throwing rocks at the Tsar’s emissary. To do that would mean prison or death.”

Olga took a deep breath, relishing her tale. “But in the street before the whole village she curses him, this man who takes the shawl in the name of the Tsar. On the road back to Saint Petersburg, the carriage goes over a cliff, the emissary is killed, his soldiers are killed, all the treasures he has stolen are lost. All except one. One is saved. Those details I do not know, but the stolen shawl of the Kepelova soon returns to Irina Katya. And that is how the legend starts.”

More chills. Maybe I’m catching the flu?
Or is it just the Kepelovs?
The fashion reporter in the ladies’ room imagined that this was just the beginning of a very long family legend. “Gregor said there was a jealous niece?”