Veiled Revenge (2 page)

“I could never put a price on it.”

“My grandmother had such a shawl. Not nearly so grand as this one. Such intricate needlework.” Tilda touched one pink rose, then another. “But her shawl is most beautiful in my memory.”

“Why, of course it is. You’re not from around here, are you? Are you Russian?”

“A little, on my grandmother’s side. A lovely memory, her shawl. But now—” Tilda patted the garment gently and then straightened up. “Work to do. Thank you for letting me touch it. So beautiful.” She picked up empty glasses and set them on her tray. Marie winked at Lacey.

“My shawl has another admirer.”

Lacey regarded the efficient Tilda, who was heading back to the kitchen. “Not everyone is superstitious, Marie.”

“No, but she was respectful. That’s important when it comes to matters of the spirit.” Marie yawned, one tattooed hand fluttering gracefully over her mouth.

“Don’t wear yourself out, Marie,” Stella cooed, back with another Stellarific Rose. “Fortune-telling is hard work, doll.”

“No worries, sugar. I have a new girl opening the shop in the morning.” The Little Shop of Horus was Marie’s occult bookstore, psychic reading studio, and candle shop in Old Town Alexandria. “She’s got good vibes and all that. And compatible tattoos.”

“Compatible tattoos?”

“All butterflies and roses. No death’s heads or ugliness to invite evil,” Marie said. “So Gregor’s picking me up tonight, and I plan to sleep
late
, sugar.”

“I totally can’t wait to tell Nigel you said we’re going to have a blue-eyed baby. Someday. But maybe I shouldn’t scare him before the wedding? Guys don’t like their brides suddenly babbling away about babies, you know.”

“Oh, Marie! Read me! Please.” Rosalie, one of the bridesmaids, stuck out her hand. Marie smiled and took her open hand in her larger ones. She closed her eyes and concentrated.

Stella gave Lacey a hug. “I so owe you, Lace. The Stellarrific pink champagne cocktails? Awesome. Totally awesome. And I love the tiara you got me!” She touched the faux jewels on the top of her head. “Pink stones! I am totally wearing this with my veil. It’s so
not
cheap-looking.”

It wasn’t cheap either: pink Swarovski crystals. “You’re welcome. And thank you for not making us shake our booty from here to Georgetown or Rehoboth.”

“I’m not sure I’m up for partying all night anymore either,” Stella stage-whispered. “Maybe I’m getting old. But don’t tell anyone or I’ll wreak havoc on your hair.”

“It’s called maturity, Stella.” Brooke broke into the conversation.

“Ma-
churr
-ity? Criminy, that makes me sound ancient!” Stella was in her mid-thirties, but she had stopped telling anyone her age. “And I gotta watch the dark circles under my eyes, not to mention these awful lines starting. Need to be beautiful for my beau.” Stella tottered to the nearest table and eased herself into a chair. “Walking on these babies is killing me.” She showed off sky-high red patent leather stilettos that would have felled a lesser woman.

It was a major feat for Stella to wear heels at all after suffering a broken leg a few months before. These days her waifish high-heeled gait had a slight tilt to it.

“Those things ought to come with a surgeon general’s warning,” Lacey said.

“You’re telling me. But there is no way I’m going to knuckle under to doctor’s orders on this. I’m going to wear cute footwear for my wedding, if it kills me. And they’re not even as high as I’d like. Nosebleed high, that’s what I wanted.”

“What did you decide on for the wedding?”

“Either these red stilettos, or those super-adorable Victorian lace-up boots we found. The heel is a little lower and they support the ankle. They came in white leather, but I could have them dyed pink.”

“Pink. I vote for the pink boots,” Lacey said.

“
Not
the red stilettos?” Brooke teased. “I don’t know, Stella. Sounds to me like low-heeled boots are just a couple of steps away from Birkenstocks.”

“Bite your tongue, Brookie,” Stella said and struggled to her feet. “Now, I gotta get some more of those ham-thingy appetizers. They are majorly delish.”

“Sit, Cinderella. I’ll get you a plate.” Brooke moved off in search of the ham thingies. They were definitely the more-you-drink-the-better-they-taste type of appetizer.

Stella sipped her pink champagne. “Can you believe it, Lacey? I’m getting married. To
Nigel
.”

“Last I heard. You sound unsure. Shopping for a different groom to match the shoes? Something pinker?”

“Oh, no. I’m sure. Nigel’s the one. We are getting married. Pretty sure. Unless somebody drops dead between now and Saturday.”

“No dead bodies! Don’t even think it.”

“I’m kidding,” Stella said. “Like I said, I’m waltzing down the aisle. In the pink. Things actually seem to be working out for me, for once. But it’s always something, isn’t it? Like
her
. I can’t believe she had the nerve to show up.”

“Who?” Lacey scanned the room.

“Rosalie—the buttinsky having her palm read. My cousin.”

Stella indicated the frizzy-haired bridesmaid huddling with Marie. Rosalie’s hair was a creature with a mind of its own. Medusa-like, it had started the evening curly and then exploded into a ball of baling wire, courtesy of the D.C. humidity. Despite her hair, Rosalie appeared to be having a great time.

“You invited her, didn’t you?”

“Well, kinda, sorta. My mother forced her on me. I mean, I have plenty of bridesmaids without her. Bridesmaids I actually
like
. But she’s
family
.”

Lacey took a closer look at Stella’s cousin. Underneath Rosalie’s wild curly hair were brown eyes, blotchy skin, and flat cheekbones. It was a plain face that might have been improved with a bit of subtle makeup. She wore a sleeveless green sheath that made her skin look a little olive. It was a little too tight, and a little too long, and her black shoes were too heavy for a light spring dress. Obviously Stella hadn’t had a chance to make over her cousin—yet.

The stylist grimaced as she explained, “Rosalie’s a bookkeeper for an auto supply store near Princeton—not the good side of Princeton either—but she’s not exactly a typical Jersey girl. Look at her! Dull, dull, dull.”

Lacey thought a rosy-hued bridesmaid dress, no matter how dreadful it might be, would perk up the woman’s looks and make Rosalie a little rosier. “She’ll probably clean up nicely.”

“Optimist,” Stella said.

Marie finished telling her fortune and Rosalie gazed at Stella with a mix of admiration and envy. And possibly fear.

“So, Rosalie, what’s the outlook, fortune-wise?” Stella asked.

“I’m going to meet a great guy,” Rosalie said. “Where and when and who, that’s all a little fuzzy. But she said it’ll be raining.”

“If Marie says rain, bring your umbrella.” Lacey smiled and put her hand out to shake. “Hi, I’m Lacey.”

Rosalie squeezed her hand, starstruck. “I know! I read the papers. Lacey Smithsonian. You and Stella have such exciting lives.”

“Busy, at any rate,” Lacey said. “Have you picked out your dress yet?”

Rosalie’s hair bobbed as she nodded enthusiastically. “It’s really pink. I hope you like it. I’m so excited! I’ve never been a bridesmaid before.”

Stella grabbed a hank of Rosalie’s hair. “And you never will be again if we don’t do something with that hair! I made an appointment for you tomorrow at Stylettos, before you head back to Jersey. And you can get a blowout Saturday morning before the wedding. Okay?”

“Wait a minute, Stel.” Rosalie looked wary. “Remember the last time?”

Fellow bridesmaid Michelle picked up her cue. “Stella says you’d like something new and sleek. I’ll take good care of you.” The assistant manager of Stylettos, Michelle was charming and soft-spoken, where Stella was opinionated and loud.

Rosalie squinted at her. Michelle was a striking woman with milk chocolate skin and an amazing updo, a French twist that swirled into a crown of curls. Though Lacey hadn’t seen Michelle’s dress, she knew that any shade of pink she chose would complement her skin tone.

“I don’t remember saying anything like that, but if Stella—” Rosalie grabbed her hair into a ponytail with a look of terror. “You’re not going to cut, are you? It took me two years to grow it out from last time.” She shot an accusatory glare Stella’s way. “I was practically bald.”

Stella shrugged and waved her drink. “So we learned something. Really short hair doesn’t work for you. And you got even, didn’t you, Rosalie? You wouldn’t believe it, Lacey. She attacked my car. Disabled it completely.”

“Oh, please,” Rosalie said. “It was just the plug wires. Easy-peasy. It’s not like I put a potato in the exhaust pipe or anything.”

Weddings always bring out the best in people
. Lacey didn’t know quite what to say, but Michelle stepped in again. She eyed Rosalie’s hair with interest. “It just needs a trim, just an inch or two. And if we straighten it a little, you won’t even know it was cut.”

“Straighten it?” Rosalie’s eyes were wide.

“Trust me, I am the expert straightener. And it will last.”

Rosalie took a gulp of her drink. “If you’re sure. And you have to promise you won’t scalp me.”

“I promise. You can trust me, even if you can’t trust Stella.” Michelle smiled.

“That was a joke, Rosalie,” Stella said. “Hey, would I steer you wrong?”

“Yes, you would and you have,” Rosalie replied, backing away from her cousin.

“Michelle is a terrific stylist and she really understands naturally curly hair,” Lacey said.

Rosalie shook her head. “Hair and makeup, hair and makeup! It’s always come so easily for Stella. But when she does
my
hair and
my
makeup, she makes me look weird. Like a clown.”

Stella sighed. “You’re just not used to looking different.”

“Maybe I don’t like looking
crazy
. Hey, speaking of crazy, I need a drink.” Rosalie headed to the bar. Stella covered her face with her hands.

“Honestly, I don’t how I’m going to make it through this wedding. And to top things off, Lady Gwendolyn made me invite . . . my
mother
to all the festivities.”

“You can’t not invite your mother, Stella. My advice, play nice.”

“Ha, easy for you to say. You have a great mom. Mine, not so much.”

Lacey rolled her eyes. She had yet to meet the notorious Retta Lake, but she was looking forward to it. She’d already met Lady Gwendolyn Griffin, Stella’s soon-to-be mother-in-law, who’d submitted like a lamb to a radical hair and makeup makeover under Stella’s supervision.

“My mother doesn’t even really believe I’m getting married,” Stella said. “Retta’s all negativity. Who’d want her around? Anyway, Lady G guilted me into it. She may look all House of Windsor and
Downton Abbey
, but she can badger with the best of them. And my mother’s coming a week early. Her idea, believe me. And Rosalie’s only here to be gossip central for the relatives back home. This party will be all over her Facebook before midnight.” Stella tossed a sour look toward her younger cousin. “And I’m going to have to do something about
that
!”

“That?” Lacey squinted at Rosalie.

“That mop of hair. And did you hear her? It’s not like she’s ever
grateful
or anything. Plus, the salon’s going to be short-staffed on account of the wedding anyway. I’m totally doing her a favor.”

“Sometimes it’s hard to take charity, Stella. Even from your cousin. At any rate, Michelle will have it under control. More pink champagne?” Lacey inquired. “No one wants to see a glum bride. You aren’t having, um, cold feet, are you?”

“In these hot shoes?” Stella lunged for another pink cocktail. “No, no doubts about Nigel, or the cherry blossoms, or anything like that. But there is something. Something that could wreck everything. Besides my mother and my cousin showing up to ruin my big day.”

Alarms were going off in Lacey’s brain. “I’m your maid of honor. You can tell me anything.”
I really don’t want to hear this, do I?

“I meant to tell you. But it’s too awful, Lace. I’m too ashamed to tell
you
.”

Chapter 2

“Spill,” Lacey insisted. “I don’t want any surprises.”

Stella was constitutionally unable to keep a secret. “I think I might hate my dress,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper. “Totally hate it. In fact, I don’t love it at all.”

“But you look great,” Lacey protested. After all, the stylist was decked out in classic Haute Stella.

“Not
this
dress!” She pointed to her bandage-tight red dress. “This dress rocks. It’s gonna rock Nigel later tonight, if you know what I mean. No, no, no, I’m talking about my wedding gown.”

Not the giant white puffball!
Lacey knew if a woman didn’t feel right in what she wore on one of the most important days of her life, it could poison the entire event.

“You don’t like your wedding dress? But it’s . . . pretty.” Lacey pictured the layers of white organza and the lightly beaded bodice, highlighted with a sprinkling of faux pearls and sparkling rhinestones. She’d been astounded that Stella had been able to find a dress on such short notice. The wedding was rushed, with barely three months to plan the whole thing.

The hunt for the Great White Whale of Dresses had come down to the giant ball gown style or the mermaid silhouette. To Lacey’s surprise, the ball gown had won, and it was a sale gown that needed only minimal alterations. It was white, it was poufy, and the strapless bodice pushed up Stella’s Girls to a seductive-but-not-trashy level.

“Yeah, it’s
okay
. But it’s like the dress that everyone’s wearing this year, and last year and next year. It’s like the expected dress. The typical dress. The just-say-yes-to-the-dress dress. And I’m so not the typical say-yes-to-the-dress bride.”

Lacey found it hard to argue. “I know you wanted something like a pink leather bustier or a miniskirt with a graduated train, that mullet skirt look—something.” She had to shut off the vision. “But it would have to be custom made and there isn’t time.”

“It’s not that. I’m not even sure I wanted it to look so Las Vegas showgirly and all. It’s just that
my
dress, my wedding dress for that, hopefully, once-in-a-lifetime occasion—well, it’s just not
special
.” Stella looked heartbroken. “I know I’m someone people think would probably get married in, you know, a Dragon Lady red leather mini with, like, lightning bolts up the side or something, Lace, but I’ve been thinking about my wedding day since I was a little girl, wearing a bride’s costume on Halloween. Little fake pearls and tiara and veil and everything.”

“You really had a bride costume? Not a little Goth princess outfit?”
Where did that Stella go?

Stella downed her champagne cocktail. “Oh, I had one of those too. But the point is, I’ve always dreamed of this day and I want it to be out of the ordinary. Fabulous, stupendous. Extra-special, s
pecial
.”

“But, Stella, you’ll
make
it special.” Lacey groped for something positive to say. “You have, um, pink-highlighted hair. Besides, you get to wear Marie’s haunted shawl. Something borrowed, something old? And that is definitely one of a kind.”

Stella lowered her voice. “And that’s another thing. You know I adore Marie, but what if that spooky Russian thing really is dangerous?”

Lacey gave herself a mental head slap. “But Stel, you heard Marie. The shawl can’t hurt people in love. Like you and—”

“I know, I know, and I am totally in love with Nigel Percival Griffin.”

“Wait a minute. Percival?”

“But what if the shawl doesn’t believe me? I mean, Nigel and me, we’ve had bad luck. Seems like ever since we met.”

“You’ve had your share. But I believe it simply has to be over and done with.”

“Do you, Lace? Really and truly?”

“Law of averages, Stella. You’re due for good luck. And besides, Marie hasn’t fainted, has she?”

They turned in unison toward the voluptuous psychic, busily spinning dreams out of thin air. “Not yet, anyway.”

 * * * 

“That’s her?” a man with a British accent was saying. “Not really? In the red stilettos? With the pink hair? You’re having me on, mate.”

“She’s the one, Bryan. As of Saturday, I’m off the market.” Another British accent. This one belonged to Nigel Griffin, Stella Lake’s fiancé.

Lacey was exiting the ladies’ blushing-pink lavatory at Rosebud’s when she heard voices coming from the end of the bar, near the hallway to the restrooms. She stopped to listen because it sounded interesting—a reporter’s habit. She could see a slice of the speakers in a strategically placed mirror at the end of the hall, but they couldn’t see her. The two were leaning on the bar, drinking beer like old buddies.

Nigel Griffin was tall and thin, good-looking in an unathletic English way. His large teeth were straight, having had the advantage of braces during his teen years at an American prep school in D.C. He was slightly rumpled, as usual, in khakis and a blue oxford-cloth button-down shirt. Lacey had only a partial view of the other man, who wore gray slacks and a navy jacket.

“What I mean is, how can you look at
that
when my sister Adele is still carrying a torch for you?” the stranger called Bryan was saying.

“Adele is lovely, she just doesn’t do it for me.” Nigel lifted his beer.

“But Adele—”

“Mate, Adele is
driven
. Sure, she’s pretty on the outside, but on the inside your sister is Margaret Freaking Thatcher. She’d invade the Falklands on a dare.”

“True enough. That’s Adele. I simply can’t believe that pint-sized hairdresser turns your crank. And who was that immense, weird, black-haired Gypsy woman? Nearly smothered me with a black shawl.”

“Don’t exaggerate, Bryan. It’s just Marie. Psychic. Great friend of Stella’s.”

“She passed me in the hall and practically bowled me over. The thing got tangled in my tie clip. Took a minute to get free.” He gave a short laugh. “So the massive psychic is chums with the tiny impish pink-haired bride? Certainly fits.”

Lacey could feel steam coming out of her ears.
What the hell is Nigel Griffin doing here anyway, and who’s this sexist slob he’s boozing with?

“As the Bard says: ‘Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind,’” Nigel said.

“And the ‘course of true love never did run smooth,’” Bryan Whoever-he-was replied.

At least he’s semiliterate, even if he is a creep
, Lacey thought.

“God knows it hasn’t run smooth so far,” Nigel said. “So I guess we’ve got the true love part in the bag.”

“Maybe it isn’t supposed to work out,” Bryan said. “All for the best, what?”

“Are you my best man, or not?”

Really scraping the bottom of the best-man barrel there, Nigel
. Lacey was due back at the party, but this sounded too important to miss.

“Nigel, she works in a hair salon. Common as clay,” Bryan continued. “My sister at least has some class. Even with the Thatcher DNA. And money too.”

Lacey had two issues with this buddy-buddy scene. First, Nigel Griffin wasn’t supposed to be spying on his bride-to-be and her bachelorettes. Grooms were
never
welcome at bachelorette parties. And second, if this “Bryan” had such a snotty attitude toward Nigel’s choice of bride, what was he doing being Nigel’s best man? The best man’s job was to support the groom. And Lacey’s job was to support the bride. She emerged from the hallway, shoulders back, eyes blazing.

“Nigel Griffin! What are you doing here?”

Griffin’s eyes went wide. “Shhh, Smithsonian.” He put his finger to his lips. “No need to make a fuss. And don’t tell Stella! Just wanted to see one of those famous American bridal rituals I’ve heard so much about.”

She stood with her hands on her hips. “You’re spying.”

Bryan turned his pale gray gaze on Lacey. He was tall and thin and so blond he seemed to be bloodless. “This one’s more promising. Who are you?”

“No, no, no, mate.” Nigel shook his head and his finger. “You do not want to mess with Smithsonian. She can be very hard on a person. Especially low-class persons like yourself.”

“Let me be the judge of that, old man.”

“Bryan, trust me. You do not want Smithsonian to show you her famous scissors trick. Or whack you with a sword cane. Possibly rope you like a calf.”

“Better and better.” Bryan had an unsavory grin. “I like a nice bit of rope work myself.”

“Very well, let her go all American cowgirl on you and shoot you like the dog you are.” Nigel pantomimed shooting a gun. “What else, Smithsonian? I forget. Such a long list of lethal attributes.”

“Too many to keep track of, Nigel. Hard to choose just one.” Lacey eyed their pitcher of beer on the bar. She’d never actually thrown a drink on anyone. It was tempting. She’d always wanted to.
But who gets the first pitcher?

“Come on, old chap. Introduce me properly,” Bryan said.

“Remember, you insisted.” Nigel raised his hands in defeat. “Allow me to introduce Lacey Smithsonian, lethal fashion reporter for a local rag,
The Eye Street Observer
.”

Bryan put out his hand. Lacey just stared at it.

“Not quite lethal, but close enough,” she said. “I am the maid of honor. Stella is my friend, and I don’t appreciate your comments.”

“And Smithsonian doesn’t think I’m half good enough for Stella,” Nigel added.

“Not on your best day, Nigel,” she agreed.

“Sorry. Culpeper’s the name. Bryan Culpeper.” He smoothly scooped up his glass of beer off the bar with his unshaken right hand. “Sometimes my mouth outruns my brain. I apologize if I offended you.”

“‘If’?” Lacey wasn’t an expert on the class distinctions of English accents, but Bryan’s sounded to her on the posher end of the scale.

“This miserable wreck is my best man,” Nigel said warily. He edged an inch or two farther away from Lacey.

“Your best? Are you sure?” Lacey asked. “You could do better. For Heaven’s sake, Nigel, even Kepelov would be a better best man. At least he likes Stella.”

“Kepelov? Ha. Chap can be a little scary.” Nigel squirmed. “Bryan and I are mates. I used to date his sister.”

“We’re practically in-laws,” Bryan clarified. “Now, what about you? I could get to like a sweet thing like you.”

Lacey shoved Bryan’s beer-holding hand right up into his chin, spilling Sam Adams all over his face and his starched white shirt and tie. He leapt backward against the bar, dripping and cursing. The blasé bartender threw him a towel as he sputtered unintelligible British curses.

“My goodness,” Lacey said, delighted with herself. “What a mess you’ve made! For your information, I’m not a sweet thing, I’m in charge of the bachelorettes, and you’re not welcome at our party.”

She turned on the cowering Nigel Griffin. “I recommend that you leave. Now. Before I rat you out to the bride. And take your
worst
man here with you.”

She exited, head held high.
That was for Stella
.
Lacey couldn’t help smirking to herself.
Not bad
,
she thought.
Not bad at all
.

“I warned you, mate,” she heard Nigel say to the still-dripping Bryan as she strode away. “You got off easy.”