Veiled Revenge (21 page)

“Nothing between me and your son ever seems to be private,” Lacey said. “I simply suggested how he could win Stella back. Get her away from her mother. Sweep her off her feet with the flowers she loves and a big date, at a restaurant she’s been dying to try. A lot of chocolate. And buy a new shirt that isn’t blue. Preferably pink.”

“Sounds rather simple. Is it enough?”

“Sometimes it’s the simplest things that work. Stella loves romance, and time is short. But Gwendolyn, you’ve got to keep Nigel away from that nasty Bryan Culpeper!”

“Bryan? He and Nigel were school chums, at one of the many schools my dear boy was thrown out of. Come to think of it, Bryan was thrown out too. You don’t like him?”

“I don’t like him and he doesn’t like Stella. Doesn’t think she’s good enough for Nigel, thinks they are better off without each other. He’s happy the wedding is off.”

Lacey remembered something she’d overheard Bryan say. He’d complained about Marie’s shawl, how it almost smothered him. He’d been close enough to stick a pin in it, so to speak. She shook her head. It was a ridiculous thought—or was it?

“But why?”

“Something about his sister being a better match for Nigel.”

“Aha! Adele! That conniving barracuda of a girl! He’s pushing her on my Nigel? You think he’s trying to interfere, with a hidden agenda? Oh, dear, a mother is the last to know.” Gwendolyn sipped her tea and examined her cup, as if she were reading tea leaves. “I shall call Nigel and remind him about what you told him. Then I shall ring up Bryan and invite him to tea, where he will be under my thumb for the rest of the day.”

“What if Bryan says no?”

“He wouldn’t dare say no to me. I know his mother.” It was as good as saying she knew where the bodies were buried. “That should leave Nigel free to mount his white horse and woo fair Stella. All the way down the aisle.”

“You’re very optimistic,” Lacey said.

“Merely determined. Now you call Stella and see which way the wind blows. If she wavers, you must convince her to give him one more chance.”

And to get out of her old sweats and into the shower.
“I’ll do what I can,” Lacey promised.

“Now about that young man who died? Such a puzzle.” Her eyes glowed with interest. “When is the funeral?”

“There’s talk of a memorial service. But not until next week or later.”

“Very well. Do keep me informed, if you would be so kind. Any word on what happened to him? How exactly did he die?”

“As far as I know, Leonardo’s body hasn’t been released. And there’s no official cause of death yet. The police are still questioning people. More than that, I can’t say,” Lacey said.

I could say, but I won’t.
She wanted to turn Gwendolyn’s energy to the problem of Nigel and Stella. If Nigel’s mother heard a word about spies and poisoned needles, it wouldn’t come from Lacey.

“I read that lunatic Web site today. DeadFed, or whatever it’s called,” Gwendolyn said, rising to take her leave. “Lovely stuff. Delightfully deranged. ‘Killer Shawl’ has a certain ring, don’t you think? But believe you me, Lacey Smithsonian, there is a human being behind this mysterious death, not a Killer Shawl on the loose.”

Lacey didn’t believe in curses or haunted clothes either, but she did believe in signs from the universe, and in staying alive.

And in the maid of honor’s work never being done.

 * * * 

Before calling Stella, Lacey checked in with Brooke. She texted her fellow bridesmaid. “Did you finish the favors?”

“Boxes and chocolates and rhinestones, oh, my,” Brooke texted back. “Favors and glue guns nearly finished me, but they are done. And so am I. Talk later.”

Lacey didn’t know why that message made her feel better. But she was convinced that if there was hope enough left within Stella to assemble hundreds of bride and groom boxes and glue on all those rhinestones, there was enough hope for her to waltz down the aisle. Lacey ignored the press release on her desk about what fashions were hot for spring and called Stella.

“Yeah?” Stella yawned.

“It’s me. How are you?”

“Napping.”

“Brooke told me you finished the favors.”

“Yeah, I couldn’t believe she showed up out of the blue to help. She’s so goosey about glue guns and crafts and stuff. But we rocked and rolled, Lace. It was fun. And even though Brookie acts all phobic about rhinestones, I think secretly she likes them.”

“So she really was helpful?”

“Oh, yeah, by the time she left, we were like an assembly line. And she kept me from eating all the chocolate kisses.” Stella paused and giggled. “It got a little intense during the rhinestone fight.”

“Rhinestone fight?”

“Brooke totally fights dirty. Pink sparkles everywhere. I still got glue and rhinestones in my hair.” Lacey was trying to visualize this rhinestone fight. “It’s kind of awesome here with all the boxes everywhere, all the little bride and groom boxes? It’s so pretty, Lacey. As a bonus, Brooke and me and rhinestones totally drove my mother back to New Jersey. I think I should keep some pink rhinestones around always, like garlic against vampires. But what am I going to do with all the favors?”

“Get married on Saturday.”
Do not turn into Miss Havisham with a glue gun
.

“Ah, Lacey . . .”

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m kind of sad.” Stella’s voice dropped low and Lacey felt bad for her.

“You can still marry him.”

“If I want us to
die
!” Stella moaned. “I gotta tell you, Lacey. It’s getting harder and harder to stick to my guns here. But I don’t want to be responsible for killing the man I love.”

Lacey stretched back in her office chair. She moved the Death Chair out of her cubicle. The painted skull seemed to wink at her.

“You’ve spoken with Nigel?”

“No. He called, but I was sleeping. Brooke was here till, like, forever.”

“Miguel said he dropped by.”

“I guess so.”

“He said you were wearing the same thing you wore yesterday.”

“I guess. Like I had a naughty sleepover? Oh, God!” Stella gasped loudly. She must have looked in the mirror. “What happened to me? I look scary, Lacey. Poor Miguel, I didn’t want him to see me this way. I should get dressed. But who has the energy? I’m going back to bed.”

“Stella! Listen to me! No bed! Get in the shower. You’ll feel better if you get the glue out of your hair.”

“Oh, my God, Lacey, pink rhinestones are stuck to my pink highlights. It’s all Brooke’s fault.”

“I’m sure it is.” Lacey suppressed a laugh.

“Ow. I am going to have to use clarifying shampoo to get this stuff out.”

Lacey wished there was a clarifying shampoo for the
brain
. It would be a bestseller. “Don’t forget conditioner. Use some product.”

“Ha. Like I could forget conditioner. Some product, and some finger curls, and hey, look at that, I’ve got like twenty-seven calls on my phone from Nigel!”

“He’s trying to make things right. Talk to him, Stella.”

“I can’t talk to him.”

“You have to. You owe it to him. You owe it to me.” Lacey was fed up. “I thought I would never say this, but he loves you.”

“Oh, Lacey . . . I’m terrified. I’m not ready to meet my maker.”

“I saw him last night. Nigel, not your maker.”

“What! You never told me.”

“I’m telling you now. Nigel was drunk and frantic. You know he had to be desperate to come to
me
.”

“Oh, my God. Nigel is brokenhearted.”

“Buck up, Stella. What if he came over right now and saw you looking defeated like this? With strawberry sparkle hair?”

There was a gasp on the phone. “I would totally kill myself. Okay! Jeez! I’m getting cleaned up. You really think he might show up here?”

“Of course he will. You’re not answering his calls! What would
you
do?”

Stella squealed and hung up. Lacey mentally marked that chore off her maid-of-honor to-do list. Now it was up to Nigel to convince Stella to marry him. Or not.

 * * * 

Just when Lacey thought she could forget about wedding chatter for a few moments, Felicity, food editor and yet another bride-to-be, strutted over to her desk with a platter of frosted mini cupcakes.

Lacey was more fascinated by Felicity’s outfit than the cupcakes. She had broken out one of her spring sweaters, worn over a shapeless daffodil yellow print dress. The sweater was lilac, embroidered with purple and yellow pansies. Lacey had no idea where Felicity shopped. She had never seen sweaters like Felicity’s in department stores. Was there some catalogue or Web site specializing in shapeless sack dresses and festive seasonal sweaters for gardeners? And cupcake-baking, information-seeking missiles, like Felicity?

“I’m trying out a new caramel praline cake with dulce de leche icing,” Felicity said, wielding her platter of cupcakes like a weapon. “These are tiny, Lacey, just a bite. Hardly any calories at all. Go ahead.”

“Thanks, Felicity. They look fabulous. But I really want to fit into my dress on Saturday.”

“I can’t believe your bride is actually letting bridesmaids choose their own dresses?”

“Less bloodshed that way,” Lacey said.

“Seems way too casual to me.” Felicity shook her head disapprovingly. “Brides shouldn’t leave the dresses to chance. What if she hates what you pick?”

“What if she picks what we hate?”

“That’s the bride’s prerogative.”

“We’re all wearing the same color.”
That’s the least of Stella’s problems
, Lacey thought.

“Everything is on the bride’s shoulders. It’s so not fair. My maid of honor is hopeless,” Felicity set the platter on her desk and picked up a cupcake. She took a bite. “Is everything set for your friend’s wedding? She really hasn’t had much time. My wedding is in September and I am spending every single minute to make sure it’s perfect.”

“She finished the favors.” Lacey thought that was a neutral enough statement.

“Good grief! The wedding is this weekend!”

“I wasn’t actually on the favors committee.”

“Have you seen them? How do they look?” Felicity clicked a key on her keyboard and a wedding site popped up. “She’s using the bride and groom boxes, right? They’re so
adorable
.” She turned her screen so Lacey could see. Lacey didn’t recall telling Felicity about the favors, but she’d no doubt overheard. There were few secrets in a newsroom. “And her personalized miniature Hershey’s chocolate bars must have come in by now, haven’t they?”

How does Felicity know about the personalized chocolates?
“Yes, they came in, no problem. Boxes of them.”

“And the English toffee for Nigel?”

The
Eye
’s food editor certainly had news-gathering skills when it came to food and weddings. “That’s right.”

While Felicity worried over the details of someone else’s wedding, Lacey dug through her in-box to make sure she’d taken care of any pressing news before she left for the next couple of days. Felicity, she knew, would happily babble on about weddings and food. It didn’t really matter if anyone answered.

“Lacey”—Felicity leaned in conspiratorially—“do you think you could bring me a set of her favors—the bride and groom boxes? I know it’s a lot to ask. But I’m working on what to give my guests. I’ve been looking at all kinds of wedding favors. It’s
research
.”

“Top secret, no doubt.”

“Classified, on a need-to-know basis. I need to make a final decision soon about favor boxes. There are so many choices. And I want to make sure they’re perfect. Not cheap, not flimsy. Not tacky. So I’d really appreciate seeing what Stella’s look like.”

“With or without the pink rhinestones?”

“Rhinestones?” Felicity flinched. “Well. I’d like to see the total effect, of course. It’s not like I’d be copying her. And I’d never glue rhinestones on mine. I mean, my wedding is out of town, none of our guests will overlap. Except you and your boyfriend. And you are in the wedding party, of course, because you introduced us, and there was that incident at Christmas with the police where you helped out. Harlan insisted you should come. And—and—I do too.”

“Understood. We wouldn’t miss it.”
But I’ll try.
“Tell me, Felicity, are you getting your personalized chocolates from Hershey’s, like Stella? Or are you going with M&M’s?”

“I was born in Hershey, Pennsylvania. So of course I’m getting Hershey’s, I grew up with Hershey’s, but I’m not copying Stella. My favors will be
unique
.”

Sure they will
. “I’m sure she’ll have a few extras, one way or another.”
Maybe hundreds
. “I’ll bring you a set.”

The color rushed back into Felicity’s face. “Thank you!” Felicity picked up a pen and pad and marked through a line on her list of things to do.

 * * * 

Brooke was unavailable for lunch, so Lacey hailed a cab, to head to Stella’s. She didn’t want any more surprise visitors, but she ran into Turtledove in the lobby. He and his old friend from last night were coming in as she was going out.

“Hey, Turtledove. I thought you were off duty,” she said.

“Thought I’d check in. And here I find you on the run.”

“Very funny,” Lacey said. “I’m checking on Stella. See if she’s okay.”

“She the one that sloppy drunk last night is crazy ’bout?” Rene asked.

“That’s the one,” Turtledove said. “I’ll drive. You mind Rene hanging with us?”

“Not at all. How’s the search for your lady going?” Lacey asked Rene as they headed for Turtledove’s SUV.

“I don’t hold out much hope. She is a needle and D.C. is a mighty big haystack.”

Chapter 24

Lacey had her hand poised to knock on Stella’s apartment door when it opened and Detective Broadway Lamont emerged. Lamont was snorting and practically pawing the ground like the thick-necked bull he always made her think of. He took one look at Lacey and bellowed.

“One more person tells me that damn shawl killed Leonard Karpinski, aka Leonardo, I’m arresting them.”

“For what?” Lacey ventured to ask.

“Obstruction of justice. And irritating an officer of the law beyond human endurance. I want answers, not some haunted-Killer-Shawl load of crap. You hear that, Smithsonian?”

“Loud and clear, Broadway.”

Turtledove stood still and smiled. “How do, Detective.”

Lamont grumbled, “I’ve been better.” He was a big man and muscular, but Turtledove was bigger and in better shape. “What are you doing here, Forrest?”

“Working.” Turtledove inclined his head toward Lacey.

“Hot on a fashion story, Smithsonian? That why you need a bodyguard?”

“I want to see how Stella is doing,” Lacey explained.

“The wedding is still off, if that’s what you mean,” Lamont said. “Ms. Lake is afraid of the shawl, which I gather is missing. Pretty damn convenient.”

“How’d you hear that?” Lacey asked.

“I sure as hell didn’t hear it from you, did I? And I thought we were friends. I’m curious to see this Killer Shawl everybody’s talking about, so I contacted the psychic woman, who tells me it’s gone. If she’s so psychic, why can’t she peer into her crystal ball and find the damn thing?”

“Apparently being psychic doesn’t work that way,” Lacey said.

“Oh, you think?” Lamont was a master of heavy sarcasm.

Stella stood in the doorway, warily watching the others. She had cleaned up and pulled on some black leggings and a man’s blue oxford cloth shirt, probably one of Nigel’s. Lacey figured the shirt was a positive sign: a metaphorical hug, or at least a sartorial one.

“Lacey, I only told him—” Stella began, but a glare from Lamont silenced her.

Rene seemed to melt against the wall. He obviously had no wish to tangle with a cop, any cop, anywhere. Detective Lamont picked up on that.

“Who are you and why are you joining this little tea party?”

“I’m with Forrest.” Rene barely looked up.

“This here is Rene Thibodeaux, friend of mine from down New Orleans way.”

“How long you been in town?” Lamont asked.

“Drove up yesterday.”

“He wasn’t anywhere near the party, or Leonardo,” Lacey said. Even as she said it, Leonardo’s death seemed very far away, as if it had happened ages ago.

“Says you.” Lamont switched his attention back to Rene. “What do you think of haunted shawls killing folks? Crazy-ass story or what?”

Rene stared at Lamont and spread his hands wide. “Being as how I’m from the neighborhood of New Orleans I wouldn’t discount a thing like that.”

Lamont lowered his head. His body language said he was surrounded by idiots.

“Have you spoken with Brooke Barton yet?” Lacey hazarded to ask him.

Lamont leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “That would be the other bridesmaid who hosted this deadly little shindig with you?”

“Leonardo did not die at the party, and you can’t say for sure he was poisoned there.”

“Not yet, I can’t. But if he did get the fatal dose from your party, I will prove it. And I will come looking for everyone who was at that party. And speaking of that lunatic lawyer, I don’t care to hear that the shawl is conspiring with a purse or a pair of shoes or something, unless it kills off all the idiots in this town. You better be glad I’m not questioning her. That particular pleasure belongs to Detective Hopkins. He’s got more stomach than me for dealing with lawyers.”

“Things happen that we can’t explain, you know,” Turtledove said calmly.

“You’re right about that, Forrest. Nothing can explain why I’m standing here talking to a bunch of know-it-alls who know nothing and tell me less. Stay available. All of you.”

“Good seeing you, Broadway,” Turtledove said with a grin. Lamont took the stairs without another word. The trio walked through Stella’s door and stared.

Inside Stella’s apartment every surface seemed to be covered with miniature boxes. A veritable army of brides and grooms marched across her dining table, coffee table, end tables, bookcases, and windowsills. More were lined up along the floor.

Rene picked up a small tuxedo box and shook it in wonder. “What on earth is all this?”

“They’re what the wedding guests will take home as a party favor,” Lacey said.

“Party favors? For a wedding?” The thought had clearly never occurred to him. “You getting married?” he asked Stella, still fascinated with the box. He opened it and stared at the pieces of toffee as if they were pieces of eight.

“I don’t know.” Stella wrung her hands. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Rene put two and two together and turned to his friend Turtledove. “She’s the little bitty pretty thing that Nigel dude was talking ’bout last night?”

“That’s her,” Turtledove said.

Stella stood still in the middle of the hundreds of boxes. She looked almost herself again.

“Stella? What did you say to Broadway Lamont?” Lacey asked.

“I don’t remember. I should have had a lawyer here. Or you, Lace. I mean, you know how I am with cops. I can’t take them. They make me just— I don’t know. Crazy.”

Stella’s father had been a cop who had abused his family and abandoned them long ago. She hadn’t seen him in years, and she hadn’t bothered to try to find him to invite him to the wedding. She wasn’t interested in seeing him on her wedding day or any other day. “It’s not like he’s giving me away,” she had told Lacey. “He did that long ago.” Stella was determined to walk down the aisle by herself.

“I’m sorry you had to go through the interview, Stel. But what did you tell Lamont?”

Stella blinked a couple of times. “Rosalie is totally going to be pissed at me.”

“Why, Stella, and what does this have to do with Lamont?”

“It’s the cop thing. I don’t know what to say when they get in my face and he was
totally
in my face, like
this
close to my face.” Stella held her thumb and her index finger an inch apart. “This close, I tell you. So I said I thought the shawl was haunted or possessed and like, hunting people down, and he kind of went berserk. When he calmed down he asked me if I knew anything about poisons, because of Leonardo being poisoned and all. And it didn’t occur to me to mention how permanent wave solution and hair dyes at the salon are poisons, so I blurted out the only thing I could think of. About Rosalie. About how she was, like, a chemistry major in school before she switched to accounting. A total chem nerd. And she’s a fanatic gardener and she’s totally into pesticides. Poison, pure and simple.”

“What did Lamont say?”

“He just listened. Think I should call her and warn her?”

If Rosalie had something to do with the poison that killed Leonardo, best not to warn her, Lacey decided. But could Rosalie really be a suspect? Would she have gone to such extremes to ruin Stella’s wedding? And how exactly was the poison administered, and who was it meant for? Had she been in contact with the shawl before Leonardo arrived? If she was a chem nerd, whipping up a little homemade nicotine dose would be a snap.
Wouldn’t it?

Rosalie knew about cars too. She’d disabled Stella’s car in retaliation for a bad haircut. She worked at an auto supply shop. Maybe she knew how to hot-wire a car as well? Lacey wondered whether Rosalie could have been behind the wheel of the limousine. But why? Jealousy? Family squabbles? Revenge for a bad haircut years ago? It didn’t seem to add up. But didn’t Vic always warn her about trying to hunt for motives? Everybody has a motive for something, and yet they never quite add up.

Lacey stared at a framed photograph of Stella and Nigel, cavorting on one of the huge stone griffins outside the old Art Deco Acacia Life Insurance building, just a few blocks from Union Station. After Stella discovered the griffins, she insisted on having her engagement photo with Nigel Griffin taken there. The two of them looked daffy and thoroughly in love. Stella was sitting on top of the griffin’s wings while Nigel knelt on the griffin’s paws and handed a red rose up to her.

These two goofballs deserved each other.

“Did Nigel call?”

“Yeah. I miss him so much, Lacey.”

“Just imagine, it’s been two whole days and he still wants to marry you.”

“I know. He asked me to go out with him tonight. He wants to take me to Co Co. Sala, can you believe it? I mean, how did he know I’ve been dying to go there?”

“Soul mates have a psychic connection.” Lacey gagged mentally. It sounded stupid to her even as she said it, but Stella nodded. Rene and Turtledove shared a look.

“If there was any way I thought we’d have a chance, I’d marry him in a heartbeat. But with Leo dead and now with the shawl missing, I don’t know what to think.” Stella ran her hands through her hair. “I feel like a target. Like I got a bull’s-eye painted on me. And Lace—”

“You love him,” Rene broke in. “This man loves you. He wants to marry you. What’s the problem?”

“People are dying,” Stella said. “And wait, who are you again?”

“I tagged along with Forrest, my buddy, we go way back. I don’t mean to butt in, I got my own troubles, but you say people are dying because of a haunted shawl? Could be. I don’t disbelieve in weird things happening in this world. Where I’m from, folks leave bottles of bourbon at the tomb of a voodoo queen who died a hundred years ago, just to keep her happy, and her body’s probably not even in there no more. People believe all kind of strange things and maybe I do too. But love should be stronger than any crazy thing people say, stronger than any ghost, stronger than any evil spirit.” Rene picked up one of the wedding dress favors to go with the matching tuxedo box. He clicked them together, like they were dancing. “I mean, love can move mountains, ain’t that what it says in the Bible?”

It was faith that moved mountains, but Lacey wasn’t going to correct him. She liked Rene’s version just fine. And Stella was listening to him, really listening.
Sometimes it takes hearing it from a stranger.

“Yeah, I guess,” Stella said. “I’m Stella.” She wiped her eyes and put out her small hand for him to shake.

“I’m sorry,” Lacey said. “I should have made introductions. This is Rene Thibodeaux.”

“He’s an old friend of mine from New Orleans,” Turtledove said. “Rene, this is Stella Lake.”

“Up here on some personal business with Forrest. But we were talking about you and what you gonna do. Your man is in pain,” Rene said to her, “and so are you. You’re the cure for him. And he’s yours. You gotta cure each other.”

Stella looked around at her visitors. “I don’t want anyone else to die.”

“Try wrestling gators sometime,” Rene said. “Me, I’m scared to death every day in this city, with all the crazy cars and crazy drivers and crazy politicians. Druther wrestle gators than be here. But I’m here to find someone I lost. You already found your someone.”

Stella took his hands in hers. “She really hurt you, whoever she is?”

“Do me a favor, cher,” Rene said. “Go out with your man tonight. Get real pretty for him. He’s trying his best. Give him another chance.”

Stella’s eyes filled with tears. “Yeah. You’re right. How can I say no to him? Oh, my God! Wouldja look at the time! I gotta get going if I’m gonna pull off a major va-va-va-voom by seven.”

Lacey herded Turtledove and Rene out of the apartment and issued a last-minute order at the door. “Call me, Stella. After your date. I want a full report.”

“Okay, Lace, but it could be late.” Stella started to giggle. “Really, really late.”

 * * * 

“Girl, you are twitching like a bug on a hot sidewalk,” Rene complained as they reentered
The Eye
’s lobby.

Lacey couldn’t shake the feeling she was being watched. Even though she was with the very capable Turtledove and the rough but ready Rene Thibodeaux, she was wary of every face and shadow on the street behind her. She jumped at the sound of every horn and every siren, of which Washington, D.C., was full to overflowing.

“At least I’m alive and twitching,” she said. “Thank you for escorting me, Rene, Turtledove. I’ll be fine.” Lacey nodded toward the guard’s desk, which theoretically provided a barrier to unwelcome guests, but never really did. “I’m safe here from everything but my editor.”

It struck her funny that in a town like Washington, where cameras were watching all over the city, she almost always felt anonymous and invisible. As a reporter, she witnessed up close and personal how hard it was for someone to stand out in the flood of information pouring forth from other journalists on papers, on radio, on television, and on the Web. Her articles and columns were just a drop in the media ocean. The ever-present crowds were a form of protective camouflage.

Not today.
She was glad Vic had arranged to have Turtledove bodyguarding her. She couldn’t wait for Broadway Lamont to figure out who killed Leonardo and who was behind the car attacks. She couldn’t live in this limbo much longer.

Her lunch hour had been spent in a good cause, but now Lacey’s stomach growled and reminded her she was starving. On her way to the newsroom she detoured to the small takeout deli on the first floor of the building. She picked up a container of Greek yogurt and a banana. It would have to do.

She sat at her desk and stared at her notes and her computer screen. The deadline for her Fashion Bites column was looming.
Come on, Smithsonian. Snap out of it
, she told herself.
Wrap this up and you’re free for the week. Free to be . . . Supermaid of Honor!
There were times when she had no energy left for the last story of the day or the week, and this was one of them. Even a story as silly as “What’s Hot for Spring.” She called a couple of her favorite boutiques for quotes on this vital question of the day and powered through it.

What’s in this spring? Easygoing pieces in breezy colors that evoke the season without being garish. Brighten up your wardrobe and your outlook with crisp tailored separates, as well as versatile spring dresses that take you from day to evening . . .