Veiled Revenge (3 page)

Chapter 3

“What took you so long, Lacey? I could have given you a shampoo, cut, and blow-dry in the time you’ve been gone,” Stella complained.

Lacey was still steaming. She was debating whether to tell Stella about the intruders at the bar when a pair of arms swept them both up in a hug.

“Mis amigas! What’s up with you two? You’re like two little schoolgirls passing notes in the corner. Is this the bachelorette party or what? Because I am an honorary bachelorette!”

“Miguel!” Stella squealed and lunged into a hug. There were air kisses all around. “You came! I was afraid you wouldn’t make it! And hey, you cut your hair and you didn’t let me do it?” Stella smoothed back his sleek short hair with an expert touch.

“It’s a long train ride down from Manhattan, sweetie. It was wearing me out. High maintenance.”

Miguel had chopped off the long glossy black ponytail Lacey remembered, but his short combed-back style was just as flattering and more rakish. Tall and thin, Miguel was effortlessly stylish. Women couldn’t help looking his way and into his liquid brown eyes, before they figured out he was gay, but that didn’t stop the fairer sex from loving him. Originally from D.C., he was working as an image stylist in Manhattan. Among his clientele were fashion photographers, celebrities, and the occasional star diva who needed a jolt of fabulous. Miguel could bring the fabulous.

The first time Lacey met Miguel Flores, he was bruised and battered from surviving a violent armed robbery at Bentley’s Boutique in Chevy Chase, Maryland. He was the victim of a real-life crime of fashion, and his story was one in which Lacey had mixed high style and true crime on her fashion beat. Miguel was also an old friend of Stella’s and instantly became Lacey’s friend too. He and Stella once ganged up on Lacey while shoe shopping, the result of which was a pair of shoes sitting in Lacey’s closet that cost over six hundred dollars.
On sale
. Miguel’s fashion advice was seldom easy on the wallet.

“We must dish, my darlings,” Miguel said. “I want good gossip. And good golly, Miss Molly, look at you, Stella! Pink frosting on the bride as well as the wedding cake?” He tousled her pink-tipped curls.

“Do you just love it?”

“Only on you, dear.”

High-pitched laughter distracted Stella and her curls swiveled.

“Hold that thought, Miguel. I want more flattery, but first I have to go save poor Marie from my idiot cousin.” Stella tottered on her sky-high heels. “Even I can tell Rosalie’s fortune! She’s a bookkeeper, for pity’s sake. Fifty years of adding and subtracting, that’s her future.” Stella pointed her stilettos toward Rosalie.

“Let me look at
you
, darling. My, we’re very
Philadelphia Story
today, aren’t we?” Miguel lifted an eyebrow and a glass of pink champagne in a toast to Lacey and her outfit.

She had chosen a late-1930s garden party dress. The evening was a bit chilly, but the dress and the teasing air of spring had called to her. It was pale yellow voile over a cream-colored slip. The original belt was long gone, but Lacey substituted a green ribbon at the waist. The style was all in the details—the covered buttons, the lace cuffs, and the small decorative lace pockets high on the bust.

“I love it,” Lacey admitted. “But I don’t exactly blend in.”

“Blend in with these giggling girls? Why on earth would you want to? Could they disarm a killer and use his own sword cane against him? Please. I’ll take you on my side anytime, Lacey.”

Most of the bachelorettes wore skinny strapless summer dresses. They were pushing the spring season, which in the Nation’s Capital was unpredictable at best. Lacey couldn’t blame them. Once the buds appeared on the trees and light green leaves peeked out, spring fever couldn’t be held back. Even Brooke was in her sober, lawyerly version of spring-induced giddy finery. Lacey made a mental note to ask Brooke where on earth she’d found a strapless gray pinstripe dress.
Was it from Brooks Brothers’
Taking the Office to the Picnic Collection
?

“Whatever works, Miguel. Swords, scissors, or my devastating wit. As for clothes, I have a fatal attraction to things that are pretty. But tell me about you. What are you up to?”

“Boring. First you. I hear you and the hunky Vic Donovan are hot and heavy these days.”

“You’ve been talking to Stella,” Lacey said. “The Twitter Tease of Washington Gossip?”

“Stella tells me
everything
. I don’t even have to ask. It’s more efficient that way,” Miguel said. “But I realize I can’t believe half of what she says. Now, is it true you and Donovan are
muy serioso
?”

Lacey couldn’t keep herself from smiling at the very mention of Vic’s name. “Could be halfway true.
Un poquito serioso
.”

“Stella said more than halfway. Of course there hasn’t been much room for idle chitchat, in between discussing the wedding dress and her hair and Nigel the Wonder Man. Tell me, Lacey, is he really George Clooney, Hugh Grant, and Paul McCartney rolled into one? Can he be cloned? I can’t wait to see this marvel.”

Lacey thought about the scene at the bar. “Well, maybe the Hugh Grant part—”

“Don’t tell me Nigel’s not all he’s cracked up to be. I knew it!”

“He’s certainly cracked.” She tried to be fair. “Oh, Nigel’s cute in that British romantic lead kind of way, the guy who stumbles and bumbles around before figuring out what he’s doing in the final reel. Some people actually think Nigel’s a babe. He’s just not my type.”

“Back to your devastatingly hot private eye. How serious is it? White-lace-and-promises serious, nervous-breakdown-over-the-flowers-and-the-dress serious?”

“Yes, I’m still going out with Vic.”

“But you’re not talking.” He poked her in the ribs. “Spill, Smithsonian, I’m sure it’s juicy.”

Lacey had a secret, and Miguel might be one of the first people she’d want to tell, but she wasn’t interested in divulging it anytime soon.

“My lips are sealed. This is Stella’s night, Miguel. It’s all about her, not me. But you can tell me all about
your
love life.”

He lifted his shoulders and let them drop. “They come and they go. But I’m open to suggestion. And I am such a pretty boy.” His smile revealed white and even teeth.

“Pretty is as pretty does. Perhaps you’re too pretty, Miguel.”

“Too pretty? Impossible! And speaking of
too pretty
,
look who the cat just dragged in.” There was a new arrival at the doorway.

“Is that Leonardo? The hairstylist?” Lacey couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen that celebrated diva. He and Stylettos had parted ways with a vengeance.

“Leonardo I’m-too-cool-to-have-a-last-name?” Miguel said. “He’s under the mistaken impression that he’s an
artiste
. But why not cut to the quick? Let’s call him a
barber
.”

Since he’d left Stylettos—where he was a major pain in Stella’s backside—Leonardo had shuttled back and forth among salons all over the District, insulting clients and attacking their hair, declaring his genius, and generally playing the diva.

“He wasn’t invited,” Lacey said.

“You surprise me. And that
hair
,” Miguel said. “What was he thinking? He looks like a part-time Swedish dominatrix. At a Roman bathhouse.”

The first time Lacey saw him, Leo had a sweep of auburn hair. Now he sported a platinum blond Caesar cut and a stroke of blue eyeliner. But the expression on his face was the same bored arrogance. Lacey wondered if it was possible to be born with a supercilious look on your face. Leonardo strode into the center of the pink party room.

“Stand back!” Miguel intoned loudly. “Man making a scene.” A few of the bachelorettes giggled. The intruder stood stock-still and glared.

“Back in D.C., Miguel? What’s the matter, Big Apple take a bite out of you?” Leonardo said.

“Dear Leo the Cowardly Lion,” Miguel drawled, “haven’t you learned by now not to judge others by your own failures?”

Leonardo stepped closer to Miguel, glowering. They were almost nose to nose when Stella inserted herself into the breach. She looked like a tiny pink badger between the two tall men.

Though she be but little, yet she be fierce
, Lacey quoted silently to herself.

“Miguel is here for my wedding—he’s my stylist and my consultant,” Stella said. “He gave up a special gig just to be here for me. More than I can say you ever did for me, Leo.”

Miguel gave her shoulder a squeeze. “There you have it. It’s all about Stella tonight, not you. Shoo, fly.”

“You’re not on the invite list, Leo,” Stella added.

“It’s Leonardo. And my sweet deluded Stella, I can see you do need
someone’s
help. Mine, for instance,” Leonardo said, focusing on her curls. “But isn’t Miguel’s taste a little rococo for you? You could have called me, you know. Though even I can’t perform miracles.” He gestured toward her hair. “Pink highlights? Really? What a tragedy.”

“Leo, take your bitch act on the road, why don’t you?” Miguel stepped into his face. “You’re so last week.”

“You wish.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Scram, Leo!” Stella’s expression was murderous.

“Don’t be silly. I just got here. Anything good to drink?” Leonardo spun on his heel and headed to the buffet table for a pink cocktail.

“I swear, he’s worse than a barnacle on the butt of a boat. I’m going to scrape him off.” Stella started after him, but Miguel held her back.

“He hates not being queen bee, so to speak,” Miguel said. “Don’t worry, Stella my sweet, I won’t let him ruin your party. He’ll just make a fool of himself. He’ll be over in this town. As if he weren’t already. And think of the gossip we’ll score.”

The way Miguel talked about their gate-crasher made Lacey wonder. “Miguel, did you and Leonardo ever—you know?”

“Have a fling? Let me think.” He pretended to search his memory. “I am popular, you know, and Leonardo wasn’t always such an exhibitionist. He was even rather delicious once. I’m embarrassed to say this: Yes. We flinged. And flanged. And I flung him out. There, it’s out. I don’t know what I was thinking.” Miguel briefly covered his face in mock shame.

“Did he have a hard time letting go?”

“I practically had to pry his fingers off. Like a zombie. He’s dead to me.”

Leonardo helped himself to a Stellarrific cocktail, then twirled, as graceful as a ballet dancer, and bowed toward Stella. “Congratulations, dear Stella. Our bride-to-be.”

“Are you high?” Stella demanded, clenching her fists. “You are not invited! Go away!”

His smirk soured just a bit, but he recovered. “I was crushed, so I crashed. We’re such good friends, you and I. We have such a long history, and yet you neglected to invite me. Invitation lost in the mail, no doubt. And yet you invited Twinkle Toes here.” He cast a sneer toward Miguel. “Plus, I thought with your tendency toward the obvious you might hire some awesome male strippers. With all those ripped abs and porn star moves. They
are
all gay, you know. Once they see me, anyway. So I’m here for the show.”

“Strippers?” Rosalie’s eyes went wide. The bedraggled bridesmaid stood off to the side, listening intently.

“We’re going for a little class here, Leo,” Stella said. “So that excludes you.”

“So adorable, Stella.” He directed his attention to Lacey. “And the empress of the fashion crime. Still dressing from Grandma’s ragbag, I see. What’s on the menu tonight, Smithsonian? Mayhem, or murder?”

“Take your pick, Leo. If you remember, last time we met, you were a suspect.”

“The name is Leonardo, and I suspect everyone.” He stroked his hair, smoothing the blond fringe on his forehead. He reached for Lacey’s hair. “Still, I’d like to get my hands on those tresses of yours. Get them out of Stella’s clichéd clutches.”

Lacey smacked his hand away.

“Keep your mitts off Lacey’s mane,” Stella growled. “Marie’s telling fortunes, Leo. Want to risk it? Or should I tell you what’s going to happen if you don’t leave?”

“Fortunes? Really? I love fortune-telling!”

“Watch out, Leonardo,” Lacey warned. “Marie’s shawl has magical powers.”

“Magic?”

“Now you’ve done it,” Miguel said. “He’s such a sucker for show biz. He’ll never leave on his own.”

Leonardo pushed his way through the bachelorettes to Marie, who was taking a break. “Pretty shawl!” he cooed. “Is it really magic? Let me see.”

The psychic held the wrap close, protectively. “Careful, Mr. Whoever You Are. This shawl was given to me by my fiancé, Gregor Kepelov.” Marie backed away from him. Bachelorettes started forming a protective barrier around her.

“I only want to touch,” Leo purred. “Tell me about its powers.”

Marie couldn’t seem to resist talking about the shawl, even to this annoying interloper. “This very special shawl, one of a kind in all the world, came from an ancestor of Gregor. Her name was Irina Katya Kepelova. She worked at the mill where they wove the fabric. But Irina wanted a shawl grander and more intricate than any produced in their sweatshop.”

She had everyone’s attention now. Lacey had heard only bits and pieces of the shawl’s history. Marie wrapped the shawl slowly around her shoulders. She snapped out one draped arm, like a dancer, to show off its glory. The bachelorettes gasped and giggled.

“Irina selected the finest, softest wool she could find and she embroidered each blossom and every leaf. But if you look closer, there are other pictures here, very tiny, in between the flowers and the leaves. You might mistake them for a misshapen blossom. But Irina made no mistakes. Everything she stitched, the people and cities, the mountains and mythical creatures, this perfect little house and this church, all tell the tragic and triumphant story of the Kepelov family.”

“Stella says it’s cursed,” Rosalie said.

“No such thing as a curse,” Leonardo sneered. “Magic is altogether different.”

“This shawl is haunted,” Marie said. “Inhabited by the spirits of all the Kepelova women who have passed on. They left their marks on the shawl in needle and thread. And their blood and tears. I believe they also left a little of their spirits.”

Great story.
Lacey slipped out her tiny digital camera and snapped a couple of frames. She contemplated how she could use it in a Crime of Fashion story.
First you have a beautiful, one-of-a-kind Russian shawl. The hook is its history, and the hook has a twist: The shawl is haunted.
She wondered if she should save it for Halloween. But Halloween seemed very far away, and she always needed a new story to feed her unique twist on a fashion beat.