Veiled Revenge (23 page)

“Man’s right about that,” Turtledove said. “Cops always look close to home first. Usually the right place to look.”

“Leonardo hated Miguel. And me,” Lacey said.

“But in a good way!” Kevin said. Lacey snorted. “Listen, Leonardo hated everybody. He hated me too, but he was grateful to you. He told me, but he didn’t want you to know it. You found the killer of that Angie Woods girl and cleared his name. He was terrified of going to jail. I mean, notwithstanding all the shower jokes, prison was Leonardo’s worst fear. You saved his ass.”

“I’m sorry he’s dead,” Lacey said. She was sorry about the whole damn mess. She was sorry for everyone’s faith in her.

“Then you’ll do something?”

Lacey planned to deal with the shawl, somehow, and very soon, but she hadn’t considered the ripple of aftereffects on Leonardo’s entire circle. “What do you want me to do?”

“Whatever it is you do, that voodoo you do, that’s what Leonardo always called it. He may have called you a bitch because you wouldn’t let him touch your precious locks, but I know he also thought you were really clever.”

“Gee, thanks.”
I love backhanded compliments
.

“You know what I mean,” Kevin said.

“Why did he crash Stella’s party? To make a scene? To embarrass everyone?”

Kevin looked around nervously. “The thing about Leonardo is he kind of hated the world, and envied everyone for everything, but he really believed everyone liked him. He wanted to believe that, anyway. And it hurt him to be disliked, even though he could be such a jerk. Yeah, I know, crazy, makes no sense. It was like he was eight years old sometimes. Stella was sort of his mentor early on, and he was so hurt that he wasn’t included in her party. I guess he wanted to surprise her, and probably he wanted to see Miguel again. I knew that would go nowhere. They were so over.”

“You’re a suspect,” Lacey reminded him.

“Yes, I’m a suspect, like Leonardo was and Miguel is, an
innocent
suspect. That’s why you have to find out who really did it.”

“All I can do is ask questions and see where they lead. And I can’t do a lot of that until Stella’s wedding is over. I’ll do what I can.” She nodded to Turtledove and they pushed on, leaving Kevin behind on the bustling sidewalk.

“Okay, Lacey,” he called after her plaintively. “I’m counting on you.”

Walking swiftly to Turtledove’s car, she asked, “What do you think, Turtledove? Is he the type to kill Leonardo?”

“There’s no type for murder, Lacey. Anyone can do it. Even him.”

Lacey Smithsonian’s

FASHION BITES

The Bride’s White Satin Rule:
Dress Your Attendants As You
Would Have Them Dress You!

A wedding is more than the organdy, chiffon, satin, silk, and lace worn by the bride.

Yes, she will always be the center of attention, however, she should give a thought to those standing up with her. Bridesmaids are not mere clowns and puppets (even when they act that way), and they do not deserve public humiliation through their bridal attire. Unfortunately, for some brides that’s a tempting bonus. That’s why there are rules.

Therefore, let us establish a rule, not unlike the Golden Rule. We’ll call it the White Satin Rule for Brid
es: Dress Others as You Would Have Them Dress You
.

Bridesmaids
may
not want to don that hoop skirt and those Scarlett O’Hara curtains. They
might
not desire to be on display in skintight sheaths or fluffy gowns that point out their particular figure flaws. Put yourself in their place. Would you wear that dress? Without irony? Without blaming the bride forever after?

If the bridesmaids’ dresses are too hideous, they will become the focus of attention, not you. They’ll be all the guests will talk about. Behind your back, of course. Instant karma, as they say.

You can wield your power as a bride with grace, not greed. Your wedding is not a race to force your friends to spend as much money as possible. Bankrupting your BFFs in pursuit of your perfect day, adding up the dress, the shoes, the shower and wedding presents, and the tickets to an exotic location, will simply breed resentment. Unless you’re all millionaires or TFBs (Trust Fund Babies). If you make her wear a potato sack, a dress with flying buttresses, a bustle in a hue that turns her skin green, or a garish flower-patterned, puff-sleeved monstrosity, can you imagine what she’ll make
you
wear someday? Not a pretty picture, is it?

News Flash: Bridesmaids’ dresses do not have to be hideous and eye-poppingly hilarious. If your maid of honor is your friend, must you abuse her in puce? A considerate bride will often let her bridesmaids select their own dresses in an approved color palette and length—for instance, all tea-length gowns in pale yellow, or all cocktail-length in peacock blue. Your bridesmaid can choose the style and cut most flattering to her and still fit into your visual theme. She will be thankful and praise you, O Happy Bride, not curse your memory.

Brides, be kind, even to your third step-cousin twice removed who was foisted on you as a sop to fractured family relationships. You might have to be her bridesmaid one day. Remember, she who marries last has the last laugh, as well as the most time to plot revenge.

If you ignore your bridesmaids’ wishes, there will a come a day when your unhappy friend is the bride and the omnipotent ruler of her own wedding day, and you will surely suffer retribution.

Turnabout is fair play in the world of the Bride’s White Satin Rule.

Chapter 27

Gregor Kepelov once told Lacey that a mystery was like a set of
matryoshkas
, the famous Russian nesting dolls. Open one up and inside you’ll find another, smaller doll. Open that one and you discover yet another doll, and so on, until finally you reach the tiniest doll of all. It might resemble the original elaborately decorated doll, but it would not be an exact duplicate. It might be very different from what you expected. But it was the kernel, the beginning and end point of the set. You never knew how many dolls you might have to open to solve the mystery.

How many dolls to go?

Several dolls had been opened, but no one was any closer to an answer. Was Leonardo the target of a killer, or an unfortunate bystander? Who wanted to kill the bride and groom and maid of honor, and why? What happened to Vic’s brakes? The Russian shawl might have been a witness or an accessory to these crimes, but Lacey wondered whether it could tell her anything at all.

Turtledove, staunch and silent, drove her to Vic’s office after their drinks with Damon and Brooke and their encounter with Kevin. She pushed everyone out of her thoughts and concentrated on the “material witness” in this crime.

Lacey didn’t believe in clothing that was haunted, but there was an order and synchronicity to the universe, and she was beginning to wonder what New Orleans and Rene Thibodeaux had to do with the things that were happening. Why was he in D.C. right now? No such thing as a coincidence, Vic often said, and Brooke too. Lacey just didn’t know how Rene fit in. Turtledove might know.

“Who is Rene Thibodeaux? Is he really here to look for a woman?” she asked, breaking the companionable silence. “Or something else?”

“Rene is a simple man, Lacey,” Turtledove said. “Keeps to himself. Works hard. Tight with his money. He doesn’t always make a dollar the usual way. Not that it’s illegal, necessarily, but maybe a little under-the-table.”

Living on the edges of society?
What did he find there?

Turtledove turned onto the Key Bridge linking Georgetown with Arlington, Virginia. Gray clouds over the Potomac held rain and the trees on Roosevelt Island were getting fuller and greener every day. Rowers on the river were making their way back to the boathouse.

“He trusts you,” she said.

“We’re old friends. Went to the same schools. I’ll say one thing—Rene doesn’t have the mind-set for subterfuge,” Turtledove said. “It took a lot of courage for him to come up here. I don’t doubt there’s a woman who took him for a ride, but I don’t know if we’ll ever find her.”

“Rene’s not telling you everything, is he?”

“Not yet. And maybe he never will,” Turtledove said. “Too proud to tell it all, every last humiliation. Not even to me. And I don’t want to take what’s left of his money if I can’t help find this Leah for him.”

“I know.” A few drops of rain hit the windshield. “By the way, thank you for protecting me. I know Vic hired you to, and I was snarky about it, but I feel safer with you around.”

“It’s a privilege. Besides, I want to know about the shawl too. I believe in mystery. I believe you have a gift. Way more fun than my usual clients.”

Lightning strikes appeared in the sky to the west and the clouds spilled the rain that had been threatening all day. It gushed down, releasing the pent-up pressure in the air, and Lacey wished it would release the tension she felt.

“If I find out anything you’ll know as soon as I can tell you, Turtledove. Promise.”

 * * * 

“Hi, Lacey, want to marry me?”

Vic greeted her at the lobby door of the steel-and-glass office building in Rosslyn where Vic and his dad, Sean Daniel Donovan, ran their security company. His low, soothing voice did something lovely to her spine. Lacey turned and waved to Turtledove that he was off duty. He waved back and pulled out of the lot.

“Yes, Vic, I want to marry you, but not right this minute.” She held on to him and kissed him. Her heart beat faster because of him, and it felt good. In his arms, she realized how fatigued she was and how much she wanted to let him take over the mystery for a while.

“My evening is yours. What do you want to do?”

“Play detective.” She nuzzled his ear.

“Not again!” He groaned, but it was a happy groan. “It’s not as much fun as playing doctor.”

“Later, darling. Let’s go upstairs. I have a surprise. Unfortunately, we have to ask Kepelov to join us.”

“Gregor Kepelov? That doesn’t sound like fun at all.”

“I know he’s not your very favorite person. Nor mine. And you should meet his sister, Olga. However, this is important.” She handed him the tote as they headed toward the elevator. “Top secret.”

Lacey pulled out her phone and called Marie at The Little Shop of Horus. Kepelov answered. “Gregor, where is Marie?”

“Not feeling good. Tired out by police,” he answered. “I am closing up the shop.”

Lacey hoped there hadn’t been another fainting spell. “I wouldn’t ask this of you if it weren’t important, Gregor, but can you come to Vic’s office right now?”

“How important?”

“I have the—the thing that was missing.”

“What?” Kepelov and Vic both exclaimed at the same time.

“I don’t want to say much on the phone. It was delivered to my office.”

“I will bring Marie.”

“Of course.”

“Ten minutes.”

“It takes at least twenty minutes,” Lacey corrected. He clicked off.

Vic stood waiting, quizzical eyebrows in place. “Lacey, I hate to be Desi Arnaz, but you’ve got some ’splaining to do.”

“Can we do it over a fresh pot of coffee? Suddenly I’m not wired enough.”

The elevator took them high into the sky and Vic led the way to the office’s small kitchen, which gave Lacey a chance to look around. Although she had met him there a couple of times, she’d never had an official tour of the premises. Vic’s suite of offices in one of the Rosslyn high-rises had fabulous views to the north and east. She could see the Washington Monument looming over the Mall through the rain. The rest of the suite looked suitably neutral and corporate, but this window on the Capital City across the river made up for the bland décor.

With their coffee, Vic guided her to the conference room, where she could see the rooftops of Georgetown and the spires of Georgetown University. The lights of Key Bridge were lovely, especially because she wasn’t caught up in the traffic jam. The wind had picked up, and the trees far below looked like they were dancing. The storm had waited till most of the rush-hour traffic was over, but cars were still bumper to bumper, their headlights glittering in the beating rain. It felt good to be inside where she could see the amazing light show of lightning strikes on the river, and not out in the deluge. Lacey sat down in one of the oversized leather chairs and spun it until she was looking out the windows. Vic placed her tote bag on the long conference table.

“I hope this downpour leaves some cherry blossoms,” she said. “For the wedding.”

“At any rate, it’s out of your hands. And the wedding too.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “Lacey Smithsonian is not personally responsible for Mother Nature. Or for Stella, who is just as much a force of nature.”

“Thank you, dear,” she said. “I seem to be responsible for everything else. This maid-of-honor business is a tough gig.”

“Stop worrying. By now, Nigel should have given Stella her flowers and whisked her off to the chocolate orgy of her dreams. The rest is up to them. And hormones.” He turned away from the storm and hefted the tote bag. “Now, about the shawl? This is really Marie’s famous Russian shawl? The haunted Killer Shawl?”

“Not you too! Reading my competition, Vic? Wait, Damon’s not my competition. Let’s postpone the interrogation until Kepelov gets here.”

He crouched down next to her and whispered in her ear. “Okay, but I reserve the right to put you in the interrogation room with a bare lightbulb if I don’t get everything I want.”

She kissed him. “Yes, dear. And how was your day?”

“Ran a background check on Bryan Culpeper,” Vic said. “I didn’t care for the way he was talking last night.”

“Good. Me neither.”

“Something’s not right with him, darlin’. It figures Culpeper’s a friend of Nigel’s.” He stood up and stretched, gazing out the window. It was growing dark, and the rain created halos around the lights below.

“But you were at prep school with Nigel. You didn’t know Bryan?”

Vic grimaced. He hated to be reminded of sharing a past with Nigel Griffin.

“Sweetheart, Nigel took a world tour of prep schools. Some here, some in England. St. Albans, my old school, was just one of them. And I was only there for a year. I was on my own tour. You know I’m not a fan of Griffin’s. But a man should be able to get married without dead bodies blocking his way. And with a best man who’s not a saboteur.”

“He did spy with Nigel on the bachelorette party, but do you think Bryan is capable of more?”

“Murdering a random gate-crasher is pretty extreme, and he wasn’t at the party,” Vic said, “but you never know.”

“What did you find out?”

“Culpeper works at some lobbying outfit on K Street where he’s a flack. His hobby seems to be flouting traffic laws. He’s got a boatload of parking violations, he’s been booted twice, DUIs, speeding tickets. And he was arrested for vehicle theft. No charges filed.”

“He stole a car? Wouldn’t be a black limousine, would it?”

“No details, and it was a few years ago. At the very least, he doesn’t think the rules apply to him.”

“Anything else?”

“Nothing violent, outside of drunk and disorderly.”

Vic was interrupted by a call from the downstairs desk announcing the arrival of Gregor Kepelov and Marie Largesse. He escorted them up to the conference room. The visitors shook off their wet raincoats, and they seemed excited and happy. Marie looked anything but ill. Her eyes were shining. Kepelov obviously had told her the shawl had been recovered.

“I do love a thunderstorm,” she said.

“Gregor said you were ill.” Lacey took her coat.

“Oh, yes, I always get a little queasy before a big storm. The air pressure gives me a terrible headache, but once the rains pour down, I feel so relieved.” She sighed with pleasure. “I smell something delicious.”

“Care for coffee?” Lacey headed toward the aroma and Marie followed. “I was worried that you might have fainted.”

“No, no, cher, nothing like that, but thank you for your concern. I am trying to learn to let the visions come and just wash over me without giving in to the panic. Olga is teaching me some breathing exercises and focusing through the darkness,” Marie confided. She sat down, breathed deeply, and closed her eyes, gesturing with her arms.

“Does it work?”

“Can’t hurt. I’m hopeful. And thank you, Lacey, for shaking Stella out of the glooms.”

“You heard from her?” She handed one of the cups to Marie and poured.

“Did I ever! She seemed practically her old self. Bubbly and bouncy and looking forward to seeing Nigel.” Marie dumped in sugar and creamer.

“Do you have any predictions for her?”

“Just the one I’ve always made. A beautiful wedding.”

Lighting struck and thunder cracked, as if to defy Marie’s prediction. They both turned toward the light show outside.

“What about the pink petals? This storm is going to wash most of them right off the cherry trees.” Lacey strolled back to the conference room and gazed out the window.

“Don’t you worry about that. There’ll be enough left for a wedding.”

“Yes, enough for a wedding.” Kepelov was behind them. “Enough coffee talk. You have the shawl?”

From his jacket pocket Kepelov pulled heavy leather gloves and a magnifying glass. Lacey carefully extracted the big envelope from her tote. Vic noted the white Tyvek wrapping with a raised eyebrow.

“Taking precautions, I see.”

“Precautions are good,” Kepelov said. “Be bold always, but careful.”

“You have a plan, Kepelov?” Vic asked.

“To conduct a very careful examination. Bold, and careful.” He sliced open the end of the Tyvek envelope and smiled when he found the second Tyvek envelope covering the original padded envelope. “How did the shawl come to you?”

“It was dropped off by a bike messenger at my office today. Typical messenger outfit, according to the not-very-observant guard who accepted the package. He couldn’t even tell me if it was a man or a woman. I’m guessing it was an actual messenger, but there’s no way to tell who it was or who sent it. No name, of course, and no return address.”

“I can’t believe we’ll have our beautiful shawl back,” Marie said.

“We make sure it is safe, my love,” Kepelov said. “And we must know how the young gate-crasher was killed.”

“What if it was sent by someone who accidentally took it from the party?” Lacey looked at Vic. She knew she was grasping at straws, trying to make the shawl’s arrival seem less ominous. “Maybe it fell in someone’s bag in all the confusion after Leonardo left? She found it later, embarrassed, and sent it to me anonymously? Although why to me and not to Marie, I have no idea.” She thought about Rosalie with her degree in chemistry and her dislike of Stella. Could this be her doing?

“A little complicated, Smithsonian,” Kepelov said. “The accidental taking, the embarrassment, the anonymous return? Occam’s razor says more likely a thief. But why the return?” He shook his head, puzzled.

Vic, who pulled on thick rubber gloves of his own, carefully withdrew the beautiful shawl and spread it out on the conference table, after covering the table with a large sheet of white paper. He brought bright work lights to illuminate it. The shawl was even larger than Lacey remembered, jet-black with an explosion of embroidered colors, pictures and symbols and ornaments that somehow fit together beautifully. Gold metallic and multicolored silk threads created raised patterns in the wool. It took her breath away.

“I suppose it’s crazy to think that something like a poison pellet or needle could have been inserted in it somehow,” Lacey said. “Like in an umbrella.”

“Ah, yes, old KGB umbrella trick,” Kepelov said. “You do your homework, Lacey Smithsonian. That was a good piece of tradecraft with the ricin. And a poison needle is not so crazy. Now we look for needle in haystack. In this case, shawl is haystack.”