Veiled Revenge (22 page)

Even though Lacey’s workdays were spent parsing the meaning of hemlines and necklines and sleeve lengths, and debating the optimism and pessimism of colors and how it affected women in positions of power, she believed the real secrets to dressing well were simply
confidence
and
planning
.

Think about what your clothes are really saying. Make sure they say what you
want
them to say for any given occasion, don’t let your clothes talk you into something you’ll regret, and spend time in advance planning what to wear, instead of wasting time panicking at the last minute. Then you can forget about your clothes for the rest of the day or evening, and just let them do their job. If you started the day off in your well-planned, perfect-for-you outfit, you won’t have to worry four hours later about the fit and style, about unexpected creasing and wrinkling, about whether your skirt is riding up or whether the fabric adds ten pounds to your frame. . . .

Today, Lacey wished the life-and-death issues of fit and fabric were all she had to worry about. She finished the article and sent it to Mac’s queue.

It’ll have to do. So says the maid of honor
.

Chapter 25

Something landed with a soft thud on Lacey’s desk.

“You’re welcome,” Trujillo said. “This was waiting for you at the guard’s desk downstairs. I thought I’d bring it up.”

“That’s funny—they didn’t say anything to me.”

“Maybe it just came. And I’m just a pal doing a favor.”

She handled the large padded envelope. It was thick, but there was nothing hard inside. Papers? Brochures? Press releases? Some designer’s sketches for a spring line? She wasn’t expecting anything, but it probably was not a bomb that would blow them all up, she thought, and certainly not body parts. Lacey’s name was printed in block letters. There was no return address or name of the sender.

“Did you see who left this?”

“No, it was just sitting there for you. You gonna open it or what?” Trujillo leaned against the corner of her desk and propped one cowboy-booted foot on the Death Chair.

“Why are you so curious?” She leaned back in her chair, holding the package to her chest.

“I’m always available to watch you open your mystery mail, if you’ll remember. I hate to point out the obvious, Lois Lane, but trouble follows you around like a lost puppy. I don’t see Clark Kent or Superman around here to help you out in a tight spot.”

“So, I can depend on Tony Trujillo, Intrepid Police Beat Reporter?”

“Especially if there’s story value. It’s a slow news day.”

“A slow news day and you haven’t managed to snag a sugar bomb off your sweet Felicidad? She had mini cupcakes this morning. Yum.” Lacey said this just to torment him. “Caramel cake with, what was it—oh, yeah, dulce de leche frosting.”

“Dulce de leche? Madre de Dios! Do not mock my love for Felicity’s cooking. I get through many a long day here because of Felicidad. Did I miss them? Are they all gone?” He leaned over Felicity’s cubicle divider to see if any tempting treats remained on her desk. Empty. Not a crumb. He sat down in the Death Chair, forlorn, leaning his head against its tall back.

Lacey wrinkled her nose. Tony wasn’t going to budge, so she picked up her letter opener and slowly and delicately pried loose the sealed end of the package. She peeked inside. There was no note, letter, or papers that she could see. She opened the envelope carefully, just far enough to see a mass of black fabric covered with colorful embroidery. The missing shawl had come to roost. In her cubicle.

Oh. My. God.

She squinted at Tony. “Go away.”

“Not on your life.”

“This could be delicate.”

“And newsworthy?” He leaned forward, trying to see inside the envelope.

Leonardo merely rubbed the thing across his neck and died
. Her throat went dry and her heart danced the rumba in her chest.

“Sorry, Tony, I can’t open this here.” Her face flushed with fear, and she hoped Tony would take it for blushing. “This is for Vic’s eyes only, if you know what I mean.” She batted her eyelashes, hoping for coquettish.

“Dang, you’re blushing? Now I really want to see.”

“But you’ll be a gentleman and back off. Right?”

He reluctantly took a step backward. “This isn’t fair, Brenda Starr. I delivered it to you, I ought to get a peek. What is it, a new silk nightie? Velvet panties? Tell me.”

“No! This is not a sexy surprise for Brenda Starr from the island of the black orchids, Tony. This is just—for my eyes only, and Vic’s. You’re just going to have to use your imagination.”

He grinned at her wolfishly, and Lacey wasn’t sure she liked it. “All I gotta say, Miss Starr, is that Donovan is a lucky guy.”

“Everyone knows that. Wipe that smirk off your face, Tony.”

“Can’t make me.” But he shrugged in surrender and walked away. No cupcakes from Felicity, no peeks from Lacey.
No fair.

She watched him until he reached the middle of the hall and turned toward the cluster of cubicles where the police beat lived. Finally, she allowed herself to take a deep breath. She picked up the phone and called the guard desk in the front lobby.

“Hi, Lacey Smithsonian up in the newsroom. Did you happen to see who dropped off this package for me? Trujillo brought it up. Plain padded envelope, kind of thick, but soft?”

“Let me think,” the guard said. “You know, you’re not the only one in this building getting packages.” That was true. Even with computers and the Internet, D.C. was still awash in messengered packages of great import. “I gotta look at the log.” There was a pause. Lacey tapped her foot on the plastic floor protector covering the sad beige carpeting. A different guard came back on the line.

“Miss Smithsonian? I remember. Some kind of bike messenger dropped it off.”

“You get a name of the sender, or a signature?”

“They signed the log. Can’t read it. Just a squiggle.”

“Description? Male, female, young, old?”

“Hey, bike messenger, you know what they look like. Skinny, youngish, fit-looking, funny helmet, mirrored shades, those funky skintight bike pants and bike gloves, some kind of loud sponsor-logo bike shirt. You know, Coors or Snapple or something. Brought the bike in the lobby, which we don’t appreciate, by the way.”

“Man or woman?”

A pause. “No idea.”

“Thanks.” Lacey hung up.
Not exactly a trained observer
. But he was right—the messengers were often pretty sexless in their riding garb.

The glare from the mid-afternoon sun over her desk was blinding. She lowered the shades, and for just a moment she wondered if someone was watching her from the building across the street. The paranoia was taking over, like Kepelov had said.

Who took the shawl, and why? And why send it to me? What’s the point?

Lacey still believed that something deadly was attached to the shawl. After all, she’d been to the Spy Museum. It was one of Brooke’s favorite places, and she and Lacey had admired the lipstick gun, the Aston Martin from the old James Bond movies, and all manner of spy gear that tickled the imagination. It was the story of the spy who died after being shot with a poison pellet of ricin fired from the tip of an umbrella that Lacey now pondered. She peeked at the shawl inside the manila envelope.

Did someone want her to prick her finger on it and die, or fall into a hundred-year swoon like Sleeping Beauty? Lacey slipped the padded package into a large Tyvek shipping envelope from the supply room and tucked that package into an even larger one. She stuffed it all into the bottom of her tote bag.

It crossed her mind that Olga Kepelova herself might have taken the shawl for safekeeping and told no one, allowing everyone to think it was stolen. Why? So no one would suspect its whereabouts? That sounded a little improbable, but everything about Olga seemed improbable. Was it possible that she’d now sent it to Lacey? Why, again? She retrieved the card Olga had given her and dialed the number.

“Yes?” the woman said, not hello.

“This is Lacey Smithsonian.”

“You have found something out?”

“Not yet,” Lacey said carefully. “Did you find the shawl?”

“No. Gregor and Marie have turned the house upside down. The restaurant found nothing. The thief might demand a ransom for it, but nothing. So far.”

“Why would someone take it, Olga?”

“Why does anyone take anything? Greed, jealousy, fear, anger.”

“Maybe.” Lacey had no reason to either trust or distrust Olga Kepelova.

“What do you think happened to it, Lacey Smithsonian?”

“Perhaps someone took the shawl to protect it.”

“Protect it?”

“To keep it out of the wrong hands.”

“That is very optimistic of you,” Olga said.

“That’s me, Miss Optimism.”

“If someone was protecting it, why have they not returned it?”

“Maybe they will.” Lacey touched her tote to make sure it was still there.

“Perhaps. You talked to Gregor?”

“He thinks you’re being—overprotective.”

“No matter. He will be more cautious now. In any case, the shawl always returns. Eventually.” Olga hung up.

What can I make of all that?
If she was the one who sent the shawl to Lacey, she didn’t tip her hand. Maybe the shawl had nothing to do with Leo’s death. For all Lacey knew, someone had scratched his neck with poison
before
the party. His complaint about the shawl biting him might have nothing to do with the garment. Maybe the fabric or the embroidery had irritated the wound. The way a splinter might be irritated. Leonardo had been acting bizarrely from the moment he crashed the party—perhaps the poison was already in his system, and the shawl simply took the fall.

Lacey’s phone rang. “Oh, hi, Brooke.”

“You didn’t forget we’re having drinks after work, did you?”

“Completely. It fell out of the black hole I call my brain.” Lacey turned her wrist to admire the lovely watch Vic gave her.
The gift of time. Unfortunately, it seemed to be running out.

“Not surprising, Lacey. Weddings cause stress, and stress does terrible things. Come on, we both need a drink.”

“I shouldn’t.” She needed a break, not a drink. And she had a hot shawl burning a hole in her tote bag. She needed to discuss it with Vic, and possibly Gregor Kepelov. And soon enough, Detective Broadway Lamont. She dreaded the thought of that little interview.
Vic first.
But Vic would be busy until seven.

“Really, one drink? I’m right around the corner,” Brooke said, adding a tantalizing bit of information. “I had an interview with Detective Hopkins. And I won’t divulge a single detail unless you come meet me.”

“You are heartless. I’ll be right there.”

Her tote tucked carefully under her arm, Lacey checked in with her editor. “I’m leaving, Mac. I’ve done all the harm I can do for one day. See you at the wedding, with my favorite junior bridesmaids?”

“It’s back on now? I can’t keep track.” Mac’s bushy eyebrows were knit closely together. “I haven’t said anything to the girls yet. I assumed you’d fix things. No need to get the household in an uproar. They are looking forward to this wedding, cowboy boots and all.”

“You assumed I’d be able to fix everything?” She groaned as dramatically as she could.

“Maid of honor, right? Keep me in the loop. You got that, Smithsonian?”

“You bet, Mac.”

“I mean everything, Smithsonian. The wedding, the Leonardo murder story, the missing shawl, everything. Especially if it’s newsworthy. Say, for instance, that shawl has something to do with the murder? Some kind of fashion crime? I want it. And yes, I am referring to the Killer Shawl story crawling all over the Web.”

“I haven’t proven anything one way or the other yet, Mac.”

“So you have been thinking about it?”

“If there is a story, Mac, a real story, nobody will write it except me. Nobody gets it but
The Eye Street Observer
.”

“Fair enough. You’re off tomorrow and Friday?”

If I live through it.
“Yes.” She exhaled loudly and her shoulders drooped.

“You don’t have to look so happy about it.”

“There’s a lot of ground to cover between now and then.”

He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms behind his head. “Okay. I’ll be herding my little cowgirls to the wedding.”

“I forgot to ask, did they get their pink dresses?”

“Did they get pink dresses! They’ll be wearing them to church for the rest of the spring and summer. Kim said they have very good taste. All I can tell you is they’re very pink.”

Lacey beamed. “I bet they’re adorable.”

“Yeah, apparently good taste plus pink costs a lot of money.”

“You’re learning, Mac. Well done, Dad.”

“Get out of here.”

Chapter 26

Free at last! Well, not really.

Turtledove sat between Lacey and Brooke at a small table at Teatro Goldoni, an Italian restaurant on K Street, where the gaudy harlequin décor promised a colorful drinking and dining experience, for those lucky people who weren’t preoccupied with things, such as sudden random death
.

The large bodyguard would have scared any random guys from flirting with the ladies. If random guys in Washington had the inclination to flirt. So many men along the K Street corridor were afraid of sexual harassment accusations, they were physically unable to flirt until they’d had at least two martinis. Lacey was as safe there as she was ever going to be. Her tote bag was securely tucked next to her feet under the table. Still, a quiver of anxiety ran up and down her spine.

Brooke sipped wine while Lacey and Turtledove worked on their (virgin) Bloody Marys. Looking overly serious, Brooke wore one of her tailored and expensive attorney pantsuits. This one was charcoal gray, which she paired with a lighter gray shell and a charcoal scarf.

Rene Thibodeaux had taken a pass on joining them. He’d had enough girl time, according to Turtledove.

“Just pretend I’m one of the gang tonight,” Turtledove said to Lacey. “Tell me anything, all your secrets. It’s been an illuminating week for me, with all the girly stuff.”

“Don’t mock the girly stuff,” she replied.

“I’m not mocking it, I’ve had fun. Really.” Turtledove was practically irresistible when he smiled. Washington men might not know how to flirt, but that didn’t stop Washington women. Every woman in the bar was looking his way.

“In that case . . .” Brooke leaned down and retrieved a large sack. “I need your opinion.”

“On what?” Lacey asked.

“I ordered this thing from J. Crew. I didn’t want to be spotted pink-dress shopping at Neiman Marcus. Did you know J. Crew has a whole wedding line for brides and bridesmaids? I figured I’d better buy something fast, with Bridezilla on the warpath. It just came today.”

She scanned the restaurant as if afraid she’d be recognized, and possibly disbarred. It was not often that Lacey saw Brooke so nervous. She was always in command of the situation, whether it was presenting a contract to a client or combating an adversary in court. She pulled out a rose-colored dress for their inspection.

Lacey told herself to relish the moment. It was rare when she held the apparel approval card over her friend. But Brooke had chosen well, a simple sleeveless dress with a natural waist and a V-neckline trimmed in a wide ruffle. The pink confection was pretty and eminently suitable for a springtime wedding beneath the cherry blossoms.

“It’s pretty, Brooke. Perfect.”

“It’s called azalea.” It was a full-bodied pink, close to the color of Lacey’s dress.

“It’s great,” Turtledove said. “I like it.”

“You’re sure?” Brooke looked doubtful. “It’s pinker in person than I expected. Much pinker. Much, much pinker.”

“This shade suits your coloring,” Lacey said. “Azalea. It would be a nice color to cheer up your suit.”

“It is rather pretty,” Brooke admitted. “But don’t quote me. Do you think Damon will like it?”

“Ask him yourself. He’s coming through the door right now,” Turtledove said.

“Oh, no,” Lacey said. “Speak of the devil.”

“Don’t worry,” Brooke said. “He’s here to see me, not you.”

“Good, because I don’t know anything else about the shawl, or its murderous intentions,” Lacey said, loud enough for Damon to hear. It was a fib, but one she felt she was committing for the greater good.

“Then it’s still missing in action, I guess.” Damon pulled up a chair next to Brooke and kissed her cheek. “Hey, T-Dove.” He punched Turtledove playfully on the arm.

“Could be anywhere,” Lacey said. “Even right under our noses. You heard anything?”

“’Fraid not. But if I do, you’ll read it on Conspiracy Clearinghouse first.”

“Second,” Lacey said. “Right after you read it in
The Eye Street Observer
.”

“Any more deaths? Attempts on the lives of the wedding party?” he asked cheerily.

“At the moment, Damon, we’re more concerned with what the wedding party is wearing. What do you think of my dress?” Brooke asked, holding it up again.

Damon leaned back to get the full effect, peering over his tiny black-framed glasses. “Wow! It’s so—pink! And luscious. Oh, and the dress is nice too.”

“Silly boy.” Brooke leaned in for a quick kiss.

“You have a bodyguard on board, Lacey?” Damon noted. “What’s up? You’re in danger? Again? What’s the story?”

“None of your business, newsboy. And you are under a gag order not to disclose any information about me,” Lacey said. Damon looked at Turtledove.

“I gotta say no comment,” Turtledove said. Damon looked pleadingly to Brooke.

“So sorry, Damon, I promised Lacey no news until after the wedding.”

“Besides, it’s in bad taste to be overly interested in my possible demise,” Lacey said, sipping her non-Bloody Mary.

“There’d better be a wedding,” Brooke said. “I broke down and went against all my principles of proper attorney apparel and bought a pink dress. If there is no wedding, it will hang in my closet forever. A big pink indictment of my folly.”

“May I quote you now?” Lacey asked.

“No.”

“You are going to look adorable, Counselor,” Damon declared to Brooke. He was in his usual full cyber-beatnik mode, black pants, black shirt, black jacket, black high-top sneakers, shaggy dark hair, and carefully clipped short black beard. His square black-rimmed glasses made him look like the hippest dude in the record store, but Lacey thought he still looked like a college kid with a fake ID, trying to hang with the grown-ups. Together, as a couple, Damon and Brooke looked like somber emissaries from the Dark Side.

“What do you think, Lacey? Will this wedding happen or not?” Brooke asked.

“Who knows?” Lacey said. “Stella’s got a date with Nigel tonight.”

“Thank God. I’d hate to think I glued all those rhinestones in vain.”

“Not to mention the epic battle,” Lacey said.

“What battle?” Damon asked.

“Sources say it was a pink rhinestone fight. Would you care to elaborate, Brooke?” Lacey teased. “Inquiring minds want to know.”

Brooke gave Lacey a look of exasperation. “Things got a little crazy, as you might expect when you send someone like me to help with a”—she shuddered delicately—“
crafts
project with a deranged bride-to-be.” Brooke studied her menu casually. “That’s all.”

“Stella said there were rhinestones everywhere and she had glue in her hair,” Lacey told Damon.

“
Her
hair?! She dumped an entire box of pink rhinestones in
my
hair!” Brooke squealed. “I was still combing them out this morning. I found rhinestones in my ears. Hot-glue guns are a double-edged sword, you know. You have to expect retaliation when you attack someone with rhinestones and glue.”

“I’m sure it’s a sparkling new look for you, Brooke,” Lacey said. Turtledove and Damon snickered behind their drinks.

“Move along, people,” Brooke said huffily. “Nothing more to see here.”

Lacey remembered why she agreed to meet for drinks in the first place. “Brooke, you met with Detective Hopkins today.”

Brooke smiled, back on her own turf. “Why, yes, I did. Homicide Detective Donald Hopkins, known as Don. We had quite a chat. Nice guy, for a cop. Could be smarter, but then he might not be a cop.”

“What does he think?” Damon pulled out his iPad to take notes.

“He doesn’t think the shawl killed Leonardo,” Brooke said.

“Does he have a theory?” Lacey asked.

“First he had to do the big-tough-detective routine and impress me with his hard-ass attitude. Been there, seen that. He’s got his own theory and it’s not the shawl. He’s looking at Leonardo’s housemate, one Kevin Early, and also your pal Miguel Flores.”

“Romantic entanglement?” Damon asked.

“He’s calling it a domestic situation. He said it’s almost always the spouse. Or pseudo spouse. Or ex-boyfriend.”

“But there was no romantic relationship with Kevin, according to Miguel,” Lacey said. “Although Kevin wanted one. But Leonardo spurned him. The relationship, I’m afraid, was with Miguel. And it ended badly.”

“Spurned and scorned, always a motive,” Turtledove said.

“But it doesn’t explain how the shawl fits in,” Brooke said. “How could the shawl come in contact with this Kevin Early person?”

“It didn’t. The shawl is not alive,” Lacey pointed out. “It doesn’t roam the streets seeking prey. And, according to my sources, clothes don’t appear to make good vectors for spirits or hauntings. No matter what
you
say, Damon.”

Lacey was uneasy talking about the thing while it was lying concealed in her tote bag at her feet.
Good shawl. Go to sleep. Just be quiet down there.

“So say you,” Damon said.

“New subject,” Lacey announced. “What’s Detective Hopkins like?”

“He’s a little bantam rooster to Broadway Lamont’s big bull in a china shop.” Brooke ran her fingers through her hair, untangling a knot. Perhaps a stray rhinestone. “Short, wiry. Balding. Standard-issue khakis, green shirt, blue tie, Brooks Brothers navy blazer. You do want to know what he wore, right?”

“So he blends in with your average Hill worker, or at least the average EPA staffer,” Lacey said.

“You got it. He looked like a greenie.” Brooke liked to call employees of the Environmental Protection Agency “the greenies,” because so many of them wore green shirts or ties, as if visually embodying the agency’s green mission.

Lacey was better at decoding women’s clothes than men’s. Men so often dressed exactly the same, whether they were pen pushers, bill collectors, cops, or congressmen. And very often, women were involved, for good or ill, in a man’s choice of pants, shirts, ties, suits, even his casual wear. Take Mac. Lacey often wondered why Kim allowed him to go to work in his shabby corduroy pants and frayed plaid shirts, when she clearly had such good taste in her own wardrobe. Was she irritated with him, had she given up on changing him, or did he simply insist on comfort over style? Or did she think he was cute that way? It was a mystery
.

“His wife probably bought him the jacket,” Lacey said. “What did you tell him? That the infamous Killer Shawl was responsible for Leonardo’s death?”

“Give me some credit. Hopkins cleverly made a preemptive strike. Warned me not to mention the shawl, because he read all about it on Damon’s site.” Brooke smiled at Damon and patted his knee. “He said he wasn’t in the mood for comedy when he was investigating a murder. Well, when someone rolls out his idiot game plan for you like that, you have to respect his limited horizons. So I didn’t mention the fact that we don’t know who or what might be out there, shawls included, and that murder doesn’t necessarily follow a detective’s neat little script.”

“My favorite kind of bureaucrat,” Damon said. He was no doubt contemplating how to make Hopkins look like a fool, at least to his readers on Conspiracy Clearinghouse. “What about the poison? Have they identified it yet?”

Lacey didn’t mention the nicotine. She’d given that tidbit to Tony for
The Eye
’s news story.

“No, but Hopkins said poison is personal and intimate, typically a woman’s method,” Brooke said. Turtledove and Damon nodded in agreement. “But that doesn’t explain the speeding limo that tried to run you over, does it? That was pretty personal, but not intimate or typically female.”

“No,” Lacey agreed. “It doesn’t explain anything.”

Or why someone tampered with Vic’s brakes
.
How many killers do we have out there?
Lacey tapped her tote bag with one foot, to reassure herself that the shawl was still under her control.

For the moment.

 * * * 

“Lacey. Lacey Smithsonian!” A man on the sidewalk yelled at her as she and Turtledove exited the restaurant. “I have to talk to you!”

She spun around. As she turned, Turtledove grabbed hold of the man before he could reach her. He was dwarfed by the big bodyguard.

“Do you know this gentleman?” Turtledove asked, lifting and shaking the man gently, like a cheap suit on a rack.

She stared at the stranger. He seemed disheveled and his clothes—standard D.C. fare of khaki slacks, white shirt, blue blazer—looked slept-in. His pale blue eyes were red rimmed.

“I’m Kevin!” he yelled. “Kevin Early.”

Realization dawned on her. “Wait a minute. Leonardo’s roommate Kevin?”

“That’s me.” He nodded furiously.

“That explains your haircut,” she said. It was similar to Leonardo’s blond Caesar cut. Kevin was a little pudgy, but not quite the hot mess that Miguel had described. People were starting to stare. “Let him go, Turtledove. Gently, please.”

Turtledove glowered at Kevin and set him on his feet, gently. The smaller man took a step backward.

“I like this haircut,” Kevin said, smoothing it down. “Leonardo cut it for me.”

“Are you stalking me?” she inquired.

“No! I just wanted to talk with you. You weren’t at your office.”

“Why?”

“Because I want—well—you have to find out who killed Leonardo.”

Lacey stood still. “I do?”

Kevin rubbed his hands as if he were freezing. Or pleading. “You proved Leonardo was innocent of murder last year.”

“I didn’t do it for him.” Last year! It seemed so long ago now. Just the year before, in April, Lacey had been dragged into her involvement with murder and its aftermath. It was never intentional. But Lacey was tired of being involved with death. She simply wanted to get through the wedding alive.

“That doesn’t matter,” Kevin said. “You saved Leonardo and his reputation.”

“You told the police Miguel did it? You know Miguel’s not a killer.”

They were discussing murder a little too loudly on the crowded sidewalk. Lacey ducked into a quiet entryway to dodge the crush of workers leaving their jobs in the afternoon exodus. Kevin and Turtledove followed.

“I never did that!” Kevin ran his hands through his hair, mussing up his Caesar cut à la Leonardo. “Don’t you know that whenever there’s an unsolved crime involving gays, the cops automatically suspect the rainbow community first? We’re all guilty until proven innocent.”