Veiled Revenge (17 page)

“It’s off the rack. She fought for it at a dress sale, mano a mano.”

“That’s the problem. Too off-the-rack for your crazy bride. Well—” Alma took the dress from Turtledove, shook it out, and peered in the mirror. Lacey knew Alma loved a challenge, and she was counting on this to be just enough of a challenge to be intriguing. “Let me see that corset too. Over the dress? Are you serious? It would look better if I cut the dress apart and set it in. And I’m not sure about under the bust. How about using the whole corset? I recognize this work. It would be a shame to cut Magda Rousseau’s beautiful work. Well, I’ll see what I can to do make this dress look a little less off the rack. You know what she’s going to look like in all this, don’t you?”

Lacey nodded.
Little Bo Freakin’ Peep. With major cleavage
. “I know.”

“So, maid of honor, you gonna give her a shepherd’s crook to go with this crazy I-lost-my-sheep-and-all-my-marbles-too wedding dress? You going to carry the little lost lamb down the aisle for her?”

If that’s what it takes to make this wedding happen
.

Chapter 20

The Little Shop of Horus sold nearly everything the state-of-the-art New Age hipster might be interested in: books on the occult, tarot cards, aromatic oils, candles, crystals, pyramids, star charts, astrology software. Anything labeled as self-help sold briskly. However, Marie Largesse had her limits. She refused to sell Ouija boards, which she said could too easily be used for evil—and were too dangerous in inexperienced hands.

For those who begged for a tantalizing hint into their future, Marie’s consulting room was in the back, set off by purple curtains. In troubled times, troubled people sought reassurance from Marie and business was good. At present, though, the store was quiet.

The store walls were painted in soothing tones of blue and lavender, and atmospheric music played softly on the hidden speakers. As Lacey entered, Enya was singing “Exile.”

Even before the door chimes announced Lacey and Turtledove’s entrance, Marie lifted her head in anticipation. She was wrapped in swirls of gold and white gauze fabric, dramatic against her olive coloring.

“Lacey, you’ll be wanting to see Gregor now,” she said, then addressed Turtledove. “Hi, Forrest, nice to see you again!” He smiled and nodded in greeting.

“Did Olga tell you I was coming?” Lacey asked.

“No, cher. I just knew.”

It was a last-minute decision on her part to stop there before Turtledove’s jazz gig. Lacey wanted to get hold of Kepelov, and she didn’t have to search very far: He was right there, chatting with his beloved zaftig psychic at the counter, in a gaudy black and red Texas-style cowboy shirt, faded jeans, and cowboy boots. He looked weird, as usual, but happy. Kepelov seemed like a different person now from the dark and dangerous ex-KGB agent she had first met in Paris.

“We’ve been expecting you, Lacey Smithsonian,” Kepelov said.

“Really?” Lacey said. “You both must be psychic, Marie.”

“Why don’t y’all use my consulting room?” She retreated while Gregor led the way. Turtledove examined the astrology books and cast a watchful eye toward the street.

Marie’s fortune-telling lair was so snug it might have been a storage closet at one time, but she had made it comfortable. A painted night sky tableau of golden comets and silver shooting stars decorated the dark blue walls and ceiling. The Eye of Horus anchored the wall behind where the resident psychic would sit. Lacey sat down in a black-and-gold wing chair and Kepelov took the one opposite.

“You want to see me?” he said. “Welcome change, Smithsonian.”

“Olga says you’re next. She thinks someone will try to kill you,” Lacey said, without preamble. Kepelov simply stared at her.
He should be a poker player
.

“You must understand. That is Olga. Always the protective big sister. I am touched you would come to warn me. Admit it, Smithsonian, you are beginning to consider me a friend.”

“You’re a better friend than an enemy,” she said, without quite admitting what her feelings were. Lacey leaned forward with her hands on the round table between them, a reporter’s classic don’t-even-think-you’re-going-to-evade-my-question-this-time stance. “What is it with your sister, Gregor?”

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t expect to see Olga again. But she follows me, she appears out of the blue in the ladies’ room at the restaurant where I’m having lunch, she has wild tales to tell me. Frankly, she’s a little spooky.”
More like a smoldering volcano
.

“Olga would be flattered by your description.”

“Spooky? So she’s a spook? You’re telling me she’s a spy?”

“Not at the moment. She will tell you she is simple suburban housewife.”

“She’s not married. Are you sure she’s not spying for someone?”

He shrugged. “Not her forte. Olga is too obvious to be good spy. Even you see right through her.”

“I don’t see anything! What does she do for a living, where does she live, what’s she after?”

“So many questions! Anyone would think you are a reporter.” He leaned back in his chair, chuckling.

“I adore your sense of humor, Gregor.”

“Florida, mostly. She has houses there. More than one. Olga likes the heat. Not fond of long cold winters.” He rubbed his face. “Her job is weapons specialist. She strikes terror in my heart. Teaches police how to shoot and kill things. Well, mostly police.”

“Where did she learn how to shoot?” In the front of the shop, Marie and Turtledove were laughing at something. Lacey cocked an ear to listen, then turned back to Kepelov.

“Here and there.”

“Moscow? KGB?”

“Why do you need to ask, Smithsonian, when you are such good guesser?”

“Family business? Big sister spy, little brother spy?”

“Something like that.” Kepelov reached for a coffee cup, but he had left his on the counter. He went to retrieve it, talking over his shoulder. “Perhaps that is good description. Certain talents can be inherited, from father to daughter and son.”

“You’re saying your father was a spy?” This conversation felt unreal to Lacey.
Is he having a joke at my expense?

“In our family we say he was—diplomat.” He returned with his steaming mug. “Until he was sent to the Gulag.”

“Imprisoned by the Soviets?”

“Not just imprisoned. Disappeared. Dissolved, shall we say. A human life can be erased so easily. Makes you wonder. What would become of someone who is not nearly so good as he or so loyal? You begin to look for—a way out.”

“You?” She waited, but Gregor said nothing. “Have you found the shawl?”

“No. It is gone. For the moment.” He leaned forward, ignoring his fresh coffee. “Marie did not lose it. I can tell you that.”

“It was stolen?” He pressed his fingers together and shrugged, just like Olga. “Why do you have to be so cagey, Kepelov? Do you really want me to just leap to my own conclusions?”

“You do it so well, Lacey Smithsonian.”

“Only when I have no help. Is there a connection between Leo’s death and the attempt on Stella and Nigel and me?”

“Very unfortunate. Troubling.”

“Connected?”

“Perhaps.”

Whose side is Kepelov on?
“And Olga believes you’re next.”

He blinked. “Pay no attention. Since I was little boy, Olga always thinks I am in danger. Big-sister thing.”

“There’s a lot you’re not telling me.” Lacey hated having to drag every word out of a source. On the other hand, she’d learned something about his sister and his father. If he was telling the truth.

“Force of habit.”

“Olga says you don’t know the real story about the shawl’s curse.”

“The curse! Ha!” Kepelov slapped his head with both hands. For the first time Lacey had gotten a genuine reaction out of him. “Olga! That woman must have the last word if it kills her! I think maybe she makes up half the legend herself. All the old people in the family are dead or in Russia, no one here to say different. Maybe she made it
all
up.”

Lacey laughed and Kepelov joined in. “It’s still a good story,” she said. “And if it’s all family folklore, as you told me, there might be a dozen different versions, depending on who you talk to.”

Still chuckling, he put his hands up—perhaps in surrender, perhaps not. “Someday, my intrepid Smithsonian—we must talk.”

“We’re talking
now,
Kepelov! Only you’re not telling me anything important.” He shrugged, still smiling. “So where will we have this big talk? On your ranch?” She knew owning a ranch was his fantasy of the American success story.

“That is right, on my big American cattle ranch. In Texas. We will ride the range, on my ranch. Perhaps we will write a book together.”

“Sorry, I’ve got my hands full writing a book.
Terror at Timberlin
e.”

“And I cannot wait to read it.”

Lacey pushed herself away from the little table and stood up. She seemed to see something in the distance, but not in the store, and not in the street beyond. She experienced the strangest vision, not just a picture floating in her mind, it was as clear as day. Gregor Kepelov and Marie Largesse, at home in a sprawling adobe-style ranch house set among cottonwoods and cactus under a big blue sky, with four children running around, two little cowgirls and two little cowboys.

“Lacey, cher,” Marie said, stepping into the tiny consulting room. “What’s going on? You just saw something, didn’t you?”

Lacey blinked and shook herself. “Do you want children, Marie?”

“Why, of course I do. I’m hoping for a little boy or girl with my Gregor’s blue eyes.”

“You may get more than you bargained for.”

 * * * 

“I have to change clothes, Turtledove. It’s a moral imperative,” Lacey said, as she unlocked her apartment door and ushered him in.

“Okay, but you look fine to me.” He set about methodically inspecting the apartment for signs of a break-in or a security lapse.

“Fine is not good enough.”

Lacey insisted on a short break before her evening’s entertainment of watching Turtledove wail on his trumpet at Velvet’s Blues in Old Town (and waiting for Vic to join them). Changing her clothes meant more than just a different outfit; it meant transitioning out of a stressful day into a fresh mind-set for the evening.

If she were alone, Lacey would have taken half an hour to let her hands, and mind, wander through Aunt Mimi’s trunk. It was as relaxing for her as a martini and just as addictive. As it was, she only let her fingers dance over the lid of the trunk. She resisted the urge to unbuckle the lid and thumb through, say, a
LIFE Magazine
from the 1940s, which with any luck might give her a new perspective on the day’s events.

“Your magic trunk, huh?” Turtledove said. “Where you get your secret powers.”

“That’s the one.”

Turtledove knew about the trunk. He had even helped relocate it a couple of times. Once, when Lacey was afraid a designer might come looking for lost patterns from an old rival. And another time, when Lacey was staying with Vic for safety and she wanted the trunk with her, as a sort of security blanket. For other people, it was just an old trunk. For Lacey, it was her most precious possession.

“You want something to eat?” she asked him. She was hoping the answer was no because she didn’t think he would enjoy a bowl of popcorn, which was pretty much all she had on hand.

“No, thanks. I’ll get something later at the club, after the set. I like to play on an empty stomach. Makes the blues sound a little hungrier.”

“Well, if you want to stay hungry, you came to the right place. All I’ve got is popcorn, condiments, and eggs. Maybe some olives.”

“That’s an omelet that’ll give you the blues. Anything to drink?”

“Beer, juice, or water. Or I could make you some coffee. Wait, there’s a bottle of champagne.”

“I’ll take the juice, thanks.” She poured a large glass of cranberry for him. “Lacey, you don’t need to change clothes, you know. Anything goes at Velvet’s. And you always look great.”

“That’s why you’re changing into a shirt and tie?”

He was carrying a black shirt, white tie, and white jacket. “I’m in the spotlight. Clothes are part of the gig. I usually change at Velvet’s, but I’m not leaving your side tonight. Not till Vic arrives.”

“My clothes are part of my gig too. And I feel like dressing up.” After all, it was her birthday, even though she had kept it very quiet. She was heading out for the evening, with not one but
two
gorgeous men. And with any luck, there might be a wedding this weekend after all, thanks to Lacey and Alma Lopez. She felt like celebrating.

“I’m down with that. Take your time. I’ll be right out here,” he said.

Turtledove took out his iPad, on which he would no doubt read the latest scandal on DeadFed dot com. Lacey retreated to the bathroom to wash her face, repaint her mouth and eyes, and figure out what to do with her hair. She heated up her curling iron and smoothed her highlighted honey brown locks into what she hoped was something reminiscent of film star Veronica Lake’s glossy blond pageboy. Lacey wasn’t quite as deft with her hair as Stella would be, but she’d picked up a few tricks along the way.

In her bedroom, she confronted her closet, with which she had a serious love-hate relationship. She needed something sleek, sophisticated, and after-dark, like the bluesy jazz Turtledove would be playing at the little club in Old Town. But not
too
sexy. After all, she’d be starting the evening on the arm of one handsome man and ending it in the arms of another, and a woman needed all her wits about her to pull that off.

She chose a larkspur blue knit dress with three-quarter-length sleeves, a vintage-clothing-store prize from the late 1940s. It had an air of cocktails and witty banter in old movies. A draped V-neck was gathered into the bodice, which was attached to a smooth, wide waistband just under the bust. It was snugly fitted from the waist to the hips, where an accordion-pleated skirt fanned out to below the knees. The stiff stitched-in belt was bejeweled with sapphire-colored beads and white rhinestones. Lacey had to hold her breath for a second while closing the side zipper, but the effort was worth it. The dress fit like a glove. It would also keep her from eating too much.
From eating anything at all.

She gazed at her reflection in the full-length mirror. It was turning out to be a blue day—color-wise, at any rate. This dress would be perfect for a visit to Velvet’s Blues. Something a chanteuse might wear to belt out the blues in the night.

When she emerged ready for the evening, Turtledove looked sharp and handsome in his crisp black shirt and white tie. He slung his white jacket over one shoulder and slipped on the shades he liked to wear onstage.

“Well, aren’t you are too cool for school,” she commented.

“Yeah, that’s what I was going for.” Turtledove took a long look at her and whistled. “Why, Lacey S, you look like a femme fatale in an old Bogart flick.”

“What I was going for too.” Compliments came few and far between for reporters, and she’d take that one any day. She grinned back. “My work here is done.”