Veiled Revenge (20 page)

Lacey was happily shocked. Steven Smithsonian had given her at least five yards of beautiful patterned red silk that he’d purchased on a recent business trip in Thailand.

She had mentioned silk to her father, and he actually listened.
Amazing.
The material was an unusual red, with notes of rose and coral, which shifted depending on the light. She stroked the lovely fabric and wondered if there was a dress pattern in Mimi’s trunk that would be perfect for it.

Gazing dreamily at Vic, she wondered whether she might even find a pattern that would work for a wedding gown. Aunt Mimi had never been married. Lacey wondered if she’d ever seriously considered it.

Mimi had a long string of boyfriends, many of them serious suitors, and she’d had many chances to get married. But she also loved her work in Washington and would not easily have given up her independence and freedom. A formal hand-tinted photograph of Mimi, taken during the 1940s, showed an attractive young woman who looked directly into the camera with determination and good humor. She had blue eyes and dark auburn hair and she wore a navy suit that meant business. But marriage? Maybe Mimi could simply never decide.

Lacey had decided. She’d decided on Vic. However, after witnessing all the cumbersome logistics and supercharged emotions involved in putting together a wedding, she was hesitating, even more than before. The details were daunting and intimidating. She unbuckled Mimi’s trunk and opened the lid.

“You’re not going through that thing now, are you, sweetheart?” Vic asked. He understood that Lacey and the old trunk had a special relationship. But it was late.

“No, I just want to put this beautiful silk away, where I’ll know where to find it.”

“And how about that snazzy glow-in-the-dark bike-racing jacket your sister gave you? Where does that go?” He put his arm around her and she slumped against him.

“The poor box. Along with the pajamas.” Lacey started to laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“Wondering what to get Cherise for
her
birthday. Payback is a bitch.”

Lacey Smithsonian’s

FASHION BITES

The Wedding Guest’s Nuptial
Non-Compete Clause,
Or: Remember, the Bride Always Rules!

What to wear to a wedding? If you’re a guest, resist the temptation to use your outfit to make a political statement, show your disdain for tradition, or rebel against your parents.

Remember: That’s the bride’s job.

You’ve responded to the wedding invitation, you’ve bought a nice present, and you want to look your best. Yay for you! But here’s a word of warning: This is the bride’s day. She rules this day. Do not try to compete with her or overshadow her. First of all, any such attempt is doomed. She’s wearing a big old wedding dress, and you’re not. Second, don’t even try. The laws of karma will find you and punish you. And third, if karma doesn’t, the bride will. Above all, you will suffer the pangs of the stylistically and socially inappropriate.

Yes, there are all kinds of wacky weddings and all kinds of weird wedding attire that might be acceptable, depending on the location, theme, and type of service.

Brides have parachuted, skied, and scuba dived their way to their vows. They have wed on sandy beaches, in grassy meadows, and on snowy mountaintops, in valleys and on riverbanks, in airplanes and submarines, in subways, hotels, synagogues, mosques, temples, cathedrals, and humble drive-in wedding chapels.

Brides and grooms have dressed as everything from clowns to zombies, from medieval lords and ladies to pirates and their wenches (and parrots). Sadly, many of us will never have the fun of witnessing such a celebration, or debacle. We may never enjoy a courtly jousting tournament or a sumo wrestling match at a wedding. Most of us have to settle for variations on the classic theme of white gown and black tuxedo. But classics become classics for a reason.And every bride believes that her dress and veil are unique in all the universe.

But you’re not the bride. What is
your
appropriate attire then, O worried wedding guest? It depends on the type of wedding, whether casual or formal or somewhere in between. Dressing in all white is considered an unpardonable affront to the bride, whether the bride is wearing white or not. Wearing white on her wedding day is her special privilege. If she makes another color choice that’s her privilege too, but that doesn’t leave that choice open to the rest of us. She’s in psychedelic purple and you’re wearing white? Someone will mistake you for the bride, and the bride will make you pay for that mistake, now or later. As she should.

Traditionally, wearing black to a wedding was considered equally inappropriate, as if the guests had mistaken the happy occasion for a funeral and arrived in mourning garb, ready to grieve. Nobody wants mourners at their wedding. But then came the vogue for elegant black-and-white weddings. In general, refrain from wearing black unless it’s a very formal evening wedding, where black-tie dress would be acceptable. The invitation should give you a clue. If it doesn’t, ask someone who should have a clue, like the maid of honor. The maid of honor is expected to know
everything
.

In any case, do arrive looking clean, bright, and well groomed. The groom might be hungover and look like something the cat dragged in; that’s his affair (and the bride’s, and the best man’s, if he’s up to his job), not yours.

It is most appropriate for women to wear a dress; however, if you feel compelled to wear pants, they should be well tailored and dressy, and up to the level of formality set by the bride. Even if you and all the other guests plan to ride your bicycles to the nuptials in an earth-friendly and ecologically correct manner, bike messenger outfits and their ilk are ill-advised wedding attire. Weddings are a ceremonial occasion! Simply being there makes you part of a life-changing moment. Rise to the occasion.

But don’t rise above the bride. Beach weddings where the bride wears flip-flops and the groom wears a Hawaiian shirt allow for some informality. Sundresses and sandals for women and light resort shirts and pants for the men might be perfectly acceptable, even flip-flops—if and only if the wedding party wears them. (Your best flip-flops, please.)

A midday wedding in the big city, on the other hand, calls for nice dresses and heels, high-heeled sandals, or attractive flats for the women. Maybe even a big gaudy hat, depending on the local culture and the season. Men should wear suits or reasonably professional office attire, slacks, dress shirts, jackets and ties, dress shoes, and socks. Go easy on the black. (Do not wear flip-flops.)

A formal evening wedding demands the most of the wedding guest, and there is less room for error or improvisation. Cocktail dresses are generally acceptable for the women, and dark suits or tuxedos for the men. It will be stated on the invitation, unless the bride and groom are clueless. If they are clueless, ask the maid of honor. A note about flip-flops should not be necessary.

General Reminders for
Proper Wedding Guest Deportment

• Compliment the bride and the families, and thank the waitstaff. Smile. If you cannot in good conscience say the wedding was
  lovely
  or
  wonderful
  or
  moving
  or that it touched you
  deeply
  or what a
  perfect
  day it was for a wedding, practice saying phrases that can (and will) be interpreted as approval. Such as: Breathtaking! Amazing! It’s
  unique!
  It’s so
  you!
  I’ve never seen anything like it! That was really
  you
  up there! I couldn’t take my eyes off the two of you! If all other words fail you: WOW!
  
• Watch where you stand, walk, and sit, and do not drink too much. Try not to stumble over the photographer and her assistant, who are focused on the bride and groom, not on you. Avoid contact with burning candles, and do not step on flower girls, trailing tablecloths, or long skirts. Above all: Do not step on the bride!
  
• A wedding is not the place to wear your tightest, sexiest, skimpiest attire, unless you are a bridesmaid at a wedding at a strip club and
  stripper wear
  is how the stripper bride has decided to humiliate her non-stripper bridesmaids. You are not there to snag one of the hot groomsmen and drag him under the wedding cake table. If that happens, it’s a bonus.
  
• The reception is not the place to pass judgment on the bride’s alien lizard-queen gown and Star Trekkie headpiece, the bridesmaids’ lime green Southern belle dresses, the flower girl’s inability to scatter the rose petals, the ring bearer’s violent meltdown, the best man’s drunken revelations about the groom, or the frothy pastel concoctions the mothers of the bride and groom have decided to wear. Wait until you get home to dish (or post the video online for the world to enjoy). Taking mental notes (and photographs) is perfectly acceptable. And if you end up with really juicy wedding gossip or fashion blunders to share,
  call me.
  

Finally, enjoy yourself! If you’re lucky, this might be a perfect day for a beautiful wedding. If you’re really lucky, it just might be that legendary debacle of a wedding that will provide endless cocktail chatter for every wedding guest for years to come.

But remember:
Someday it might be you up there.

Chapter 23

“They think I killed Leonardo. Me!” Miguel was in the highest of high dudgeons as he handed Lacey a cup of coffee from a white paper bag. They were in Farragut Square, across from Lacey’s newsroom. The spring morning air was delicious.

“Are you sure they aren’t just trying to rattle you?”

“Sweetie, that’s just a bonus for these guys. I don’t know why he didn’t just read me my rights.”

“Because you’re not under arrest. And
who
didn’t read you your rights?”

“That big Broadway Lamont character who has a crush on you. As if I would
bother
killing Leonardo,” he continued without taking a breath. “Honestly, Leo’s so not worth it. And as if I’d kill anybody at a party, I mean
really
. Give me some credit. And certainly not at Stella’s party! I’d wait till after the wedding.” He sipped some espresso. Miguel didn’t need any more caffeine—he was already at an adrenaline-induced fever pitch of wakefulness. He simply needed to talk.

“Speaking of the wedding, Miguel, have you heard from Stella?”

“This morning. She still hasn’t washed her face or changed her clothes. Obviously, she’s in some kind of ritualistic mourning, or fugue state, or psychotic breakdown, or something.”

“You saw her this morning?” Lacey squinted. Her head hurt. It wasn’t the champagne, but the lack of sleep.

“I dropped by on my way to chat with the police. It set the tone, I’ll tell you.”

Wednesday morning was too pretty to stay inside. Lacey and Miguel were lounging on the giant stone steps at the base of the statue of Admiral David Farragut, which stood guard over Farragut Square. It was just before the noontime crowds would start streaming into the streets for lunch, and office workers would gather at the statue, sunning themselves like cats. Even though rain was predicted for the rest of the day, the girls in their summer dresses were out in full force. It would have been perfect—except for the semi-hysterical state Miguel was in.

“I am never leaving Manhattan again! Shut the door, lock the gate, roll up the bridges.”

“Don’t roll up the bridges. I wouldn’t be able to visit you,” Lacey said.

“Bad things happen to me here,” Miguel went on. “Armed robbery. Heartbreak. Leonardo. Weddings.” He paused in mid-rant, noticing what Lacey was wearing, and perked up. “Fabulous dress, by the way.”

“Thanks. Fabulous is my middle name.” She smoothed her skirt, admiring its cream-colored linen and lace appliqués. The lace reminded her that she had to call Alma Lopez and inquire as to how Stella’s dress was coming along. If the wedding really stayed canceled, Lacey would be in possession of a wacky wedding gown that Stella would never want back. She wondered idly where she could find another Bo Peep in need of bridal attire.

Lacey was dressed to ward off a cloudy day. She had chosen a simple sleeveless dress with a square neck, natural waist, and flared skirt, which she’d found at Bygones, a great little vintage clothing store in Richmond. It was the kind of pretty-for-its-own-sake dress that could only be found in a Southern city that still believed in
prettiness
as its own reward. It was dressy for day, but Lacey didn’t care. She toned it down with a wide black belt and a long-sleeved black bolero jacket. Today she needed the extra boost a great dress could give her.

“What did Broadway ask you?” she asked.

“Ask? He practically threw me against the wall. Ask indeed.”

“Miguel, really?”

“Very well. He looked like he
wanted
to toss me through the wall. Seriously, do I look like I’m capable of gay-on-gay violence? I’m not even a gym rat. Absolutely not,” he said, answering his own question. “Just because I loathed Leonardo, why would I kill him when I could simply cut him dead for life? But murder him? Who does that? Tacky, tacky, tacky. And I wouldn’t look good in those baggy prison togs.” Lacey’s eyebrows lifted.

“Please, Lacey, you could line up the people who hated Leonard Karpinski and they’d wrap all the way around Farragut Square here. Twice. Not even counting all the people whose innocent heads of hair he butchered. I hated him in a mere vanilla kind of way.”

“There’s vanilla-flavored hate?”

“Ordinary everyday hate.” He picked an imaginary speck of dust off his shirt. “It wasn’t deep dark boiling rage or anything like that. I don’t have the dark energy.” He leaned against the stone step and closed his eyes.

Lacey thought about the theory she’d shared with Vic the previous night. The poison needle in the shawl, meant for someone else. Mysterious spies plotting murders, motive and target unknown. It sounded much crazier by daylight.

Vic is right about one thing, I’m trampling on DeadFed territory.

Leonardo’s murderer probably was much more prosaic than a spy. If someone simply wanted to ruin the wedding and split up Nigel and Stella, it could be Bryan Culpeper. For that matter, some of Stella’s nearest and dearest were opposed to the wedding, including her bitter mother and her jealous cousin Rosalie.

Lacey gave Miguel a hug. He rested his head on her shoulder for a moment. “Better now? Broadway didn’t arrest you, after all.”

“Because I know my rights.” Miguel straightened up. “Hey, your big beautiful bodyguard is missing! Where is he?”

“I convinced Vic I couldn’t get any work done with Turtledove following me everywhere. And nobody else could either, what with all the staring and sighing.”

“We’re only human.” He sighed. “Your bodyguard, on the other hand, is some kind of a dusky Greek god.”

“He’ll be on duty after work.”

Vic had finally agreed that Turtledove didn’t need to be glued to her side at the office. And Vic would make sure some of his guys were nearby, unobtrusively. Lacey had hesitated momentarily about meeting Miguel in the open, forcing Vic’s invisible guys to cover two potential targets instead of one, but she decided she was being as paranoid as Olga Kepelova. If someone wanted to break up Stella’s wedding,
mission accomplished.
What more could they be after?
What about Vic’s brakes? And who’s next?
She pushed the thought out of her head.

“How did Broadway know you hated Leonardo, anyway?” she asked.

“That would certainly be from Kevin, Leo’s roommate,” Miguel said. “He despised me, or anyone who had ever been with Leonardo. The two of them! Such drama queens! Frankly, my dear, I think Kevin fingered me because he’s afraid the cops would focus on him.”

“Kevin who?”

“Kevin Early. Yeah, it’s really his name. And he never is—early.”

“So he’s taking the offensive? Did Kevin Early have a motive for killing Leo?”

“I suppose.” He threw his hands up in the air. “All they did was fight and scream. And scratch.
Meow
. The way they carried on, you’d have thought they were married. But they never even did the deed, as far as I know. Kevin always had a serious thing for Leonardo, but that wasn’t going to happen. Between you and me, he’s much too frumpy-dumpy for the great Leonardo. A little cute though.”

“Did you tell that to the detective?”

“Did I tell him! Oh, honey, I sang like the proverbial canary. If the canary was an opera singer named Maria Callas. Kevin is terribly upset though. He called me, crying. He’s putting together a memorial.”

“When?”

“Not sure, I expect it will take a week or two. Kevin’s no ball of fire. I’m sure you’ll be invited.”

As long as Lady G is safely back in England,
Lacey thought.

Miguel studied his cold coffee. “Leonardo was poisoned, did you know? Nicotine, of all the crazy things, so says the big detective. And Leo had quit smoking. Talk about irony.”

“The final toxicology results aren’t in yet.”

“So he told me. But he sounded pretty convinced, for some reason. Large Lamont said the entry wound was in the neck. Remember, Leo and his ridiculous tango with the shawl? And how he went on and on about how it
bit
him on the neck?”

“What did you tell Broadway Lamont?”

Miguel shrugged and sipped his cold espresso. “What everyone else says: The shawl did it.”

 * * * 

A pair of sturdy, well-tied brown oxfords planted themselves in the aisle next to Lacey’s desk. She noticed them as she reached down into her drawer for a fresh notebook. Shoes that brown and that sturdy and that polished could belong to only one person Lacey knew. She thought about staying down there until the shoes departed. But they were positioned there with a purpose. They weren’t going anywhere.

The guards let just anyone in these days. If this keeps up, my reading public will never know what’s in and out for spring
.

She straightened up slowly, noting the rest of the tweed outfit that accompanied the sturdy brown oxfords
. How could one person own so much tweed, in so many shades of heather brown and blue and beige?

“Good morning, Gwendolyn. What brings you here on this beautiful day?”

“A mission of mercy. Well, perhaps not mercy. You are well aware of the situation, Lacey. We must stop this catastrophe from happening.”

Stopping a catastrophe? And I thought this might be difficult
.

“What catastrophe? I can think of several.”

Lacey pulled over the Death Chair and offered it to Gwendolyn, who stared at the death’s head. Was it simply the type of droll décor American journalists found amusing? Lady Gwendolyn Griffin wasn’t afraid of death’s heads, but Lacey hadn’t told her the chair’s peculiar history. Gwendolyn might want to take it home with her.

“The wedding. Rather, the imminent threat that there might be
no
wedding. Nigel and Stella are indubitably meant to be together. Why, who can say? But we can’t let them be torn apart by some silly superstition.”

“There is silly superstition, and then there are speeding limos out of nowhere trying to run them over. And me.”

Lacey bitterly wondered for the smallest moment why no one, except her, seemed to care that
she
might have been run over, along with Nigel and Stella. Lacey craved the chance to do a little therapeutic whining, but this was no time for self-indulgence.

“Granted, that sort of unpleasantness would throw a normal person off their stride. But Stella, I believe, is made of sturdier stuff.”

“She thinks she’s protecting Nigel by
not
marrying him. Stella is sure she’s saving his life.”

“She really is a dear, brave girl. I should have stayed there after our little tour of the Arts Club, instead of running off to frolic with the ambassador.” It was charming how Lady G referred to her husband as “the ambassador.” But her, frolicking? Difficult to imagine. Gwendolyn stood there like an implacable force of nature. “Now, how do you propose that we prevent this disaster? You are, I scarcely need point out, her maid of honor.”

“Averting disaster is part of my job too?”

“Most assuredly! As you well know, Lacey. Besides, someone’s got to do it and Stella will listen to you. I have complete faith in you.”

Lacey hunted for her F
ASHION
BITES
coffee cup. “Just because Stella listens, it doesn’t mean she’ll do what I say. Would you like some coffee?”

“No, thank you. Do you have any good English tea?”

“Good? I seriously doubt it. There may be some old tea bags in the kitchen. Stale, dreadful.”

“It will have to do. Milk and sugar, please. Thank you, Lacey. I’ll just make myself comfortable here in this most picturesque chair. American Gothic, what?”

“The most Gothic thing we have around here. Someday I’ll tell you all about it.” Lacey picked up another F
ASHION
BITES
mug and trotted off to do Gwendolyn’s bidding. She returned shortly with a cup of tea that she hoped wouldn’t damage the woman’s kidneys.

“Lovely. Thank you, my dear.” She took a sip while Lacey held her breath. “Not half bad.”

“What about the curse of the shawl?” Lacey asked.

“Curse, my right eye. Someone is trying to harm them and keep them apart.”

“Who, do you think?”

“Some strange and twisted miscreant. Perhaps jealous of their happiness. His dark motives we can’t really know. Yet.” Gwendolyn relished the mystery. “This is all very troubling, of course, but it is these kinds of trials that can bind a couple together forever.”

Perhaps Gwendolyn reads romances as well.
“You think so?”

“Why, of course I do. If those two lovebirds succeed in making it down that aisle under those cherry blossoms despite all this trouble and strife, they’ll have a very strong marriage.” Gwendolyn Griffin had a strange look on her face, determined yet wistful.

Lacey wasn’t so sure. Stella was unable to commit to a hairstyle for more than a couple of months. How could she commit to a man forever? Nigel was trying to be a reformed “man-slut,” but once a slut, Lacey worried, always a slut?
Her thoughts must have shown on her face.

“Oh, I know my Nigel can be a very naughty and flighty boy. A man as attractive as he is often leaves a trail of broken hearts. That man-eating Adele, for instance. But little Stella Lake has stopped him in his tracks. Nigel is a changed man. He cares for her above himself. That has never happened before. And miracles like that do not happen every day, believe you me.”

“You really like Stella, don’t you?”

“Stella is the rebellious daughter I never had.” Gwendolyn chuckled. “Well, perhaps not. But she’s very sweet and I adore her. And she never bores me.”

“And you have a hat for the wedding. I have a dress. We wouldn’t want them to go to waste.”

“Precisely. Oh, dear, my tea is gone.” She handed her cup to Lacey with an implied order. Lacey trotted off to make another cup of stale Lipton tea for Gwendolyn and poured herself a stiff cup of java.

“Stella’s crazy about Nigel, and he can turn her around if anyone can,” Gwendolyn insisted. “If Stella decides she’s getting married after all, nothing will stop her.”

“I talked to Nigel last night. I tried to set him on the right course, or something like it. I don’t know if he remembers it.”

“Too much to drink, I take it. This time at least he had an excuse. What did you tell him, my dear, if it’s not too private?”