Grave Apparel, page 20
“Of course I believe you, Lacey, Damon was just having a little fun with you. But I always listen to what Damon says, especially if he has an alternative theory. He has a lot of alternative information.”
166
Ellen Byerrum
“Alternative to what? The truth?”
“Damon is my soul mate. He is a voice of wild possibility in the wilderness of mundane Washington rationality. I’m hurt.”
“No, you’re not.” Lacey pulled on her jacket.
“Okay, not too hurt.” Brooke stood up and gathered her things. “I’d love to stay, Lacey, but duty calls.”
Lacey followed suit. Since Brooke was going back to work and couldn’t give her a lift home, she wondered whether she could afford another cab ride back across the Potomac to Old Town or she’d have to take the Metro. Again.
“Damon didn’t mention renegade circus midgets, did he?
What’s DeadFed going to say tomorrow? Brooke, are you listening to me?”
Back in her apartment half an hour later, Lacey changed her clothes and opened her Great-aunt Mimi’s trunk. She took out some light blue wool fabric that had been stashed in the trunk decades before by her aunt. A Life magazine from the 1940s was open nearby, featuring schoolgirls in Washington with braided hair, wearing chesterfield coats with velvet collars. The girls looked smart and the coats looked warm. The faces were all well-scrubbed white faces. It didn’t look at all like the Washington, D.C., that Lacey knew. It didn’t look like the Washington of Jasmine Lee. Lacey wondered if the girl would call again. And if the offer of a new coat was enough. “Reel her in,”
Mac had ordered. Fine, Mac, but how?
Vic liked to tease Lacey about living a secret life inside Aunt Mimi’s trunk, but he knew that rummaging through the trunk was something that took her out of the moment to a timeless place. It was part of her thinking process, allowing her troubles to simmer on the back burner until a solution bubbled up. Or not.
Her Aunt Mimi had stuffed the trunk with old clothes and memories, letters, clippings, photographs, surprises, mementos, the memorabilia of an unusual and adventurous life. And it was filled with patterns and unfinished suits and dresses from the late 1930s and 1940s. The dress patterns were classic styles with a touch of whimsy, fashions that flattered a woman’s figure without torturing it. Lacey loved them, and she had several of the most striking patterns made into brand-new vintage clothes that fit her beautifully. How very clever, she thought, of
G R AV E A P PA R E L
167
Aunt Mimi to leave them to her, the only woman in her family who would appreciate this gift. The wardrobe Lacey was creating from the inspirations she found in the trunk suited all of her moods, from romantic heroine to femme fatale.
The wonderful thing about clothes, Lacey often thought, was they always offered clues to a person’s real character. A chance to display your own character—and a chance to peer into others’, both what they want you to see and what they try to hide. And sometimes to find a clue to their state of mind, or their bank account, or occupation, or mood, or dreams. Aunt Mimi’s trunk was a catalyst for Lacey’s imagination, and happily it had supplied a good deal of her wardrobe too.
By this logic, there had to be something about the little shepherd girl’s robe that could tell her something, she told herself.
There were other clothes in the Nativity scene the girl could have taken, the more sumptuous robes of the wise men, the homespun blue of Mary. Or perhaps it was simpler than that.
Maybe Jasmine took the little shepherd’s robe because it was the only garment small enough to fit her, the only one left after others had plundered the stable. Was it just a leap of Lacey’s romantic imagination that the shepherd’s robe seemed unconsciously ironic, that a little lost lamb of a girl should choose to disguise herself as a shepherd?
Lacey picked up her cell phone and called Cassandra’s number, hoping that Jasmine would recognize Lacey’s phone number and answer. No one picked up.
Chapter 22
Lacey had just settled in at her desk on Tuesday morning with a steaming mug of what passed for coffee at The Eye when her friend and hairstylist Stella Lake materialized in the newsroom.
Stella flung a copy of The Eye Street Observer down on Lacey’s desk and pointed a bloodred, daggerlike fingernail at the article on the attack of Cassandra. “There you go again!” Stella wailed. “Involved in another crime of fashion and you don’t call me? Your best friend in the whole world? Who has saved every last hair on your head over and over and over?” Stella looked closely at Lacey’s hair. “Lace, aren’t you conditioning?”
Lacey wondered why it was so easy for crazy people to get past the security desk, but she didn’t say anything. Stella was one of her favorite crazy people, and Stella probably had the guard eating out of her hand. Or feasting his eyes on her cleavage. But this visit wasn’t a good sign. It meant Stella was feeling neglected. It had been only a week or two since Lacey had her highlights refreshed and trimmed, but both she and Stella had been way too busy. They hadn’t talked.
Stella stood before Lacey’s desk, looking out of place. Too exotic for the newsroom. Her lacquered black hair shone sleek against her head. Her dark eyes were enhanced with false lashes and kohl. She was still channeling her silent film star look.
Brass earrings that looked like clapping hands dangled from her ears. She wore a quilted red leather jacket and a black silk scarf around her neck. While the newsroom seemed to be washed in shades of watery sepia, Stella stood out in Technicolor.
“Good morning to you too, Stella.”
Stella slipped off her coat, revealing a low-cut, V-neck silver sweater that fit like wallpaper. It showed off her “Girls” and
G R AV E A P PA R E L
169
provided a moment (or two) of fun for one of the sportswriters walking past. Stella smiled and gave him a big wink and a little wiggle before she refocused on Lacey.
“So just what do you have to say for yourself?”
“I didn’t write the story,” Lacey said.
“Yeah, but you’re in it, right here. ‘ Eye Street reporter Lacey Smithsonian alerted the police,’ ” Stella read. “This is a fashion crime. Your territory. Our territory! And I see your coworker, that Miss Smartypants I-hate-Christmas-sweaters-and-bahhumbug-let’s-kill-Rudolph-the-Red-Nosed-Reindeer, gets cracked in the noggin with a handy weapon, possibly a candy cane? And she’s found wearing a Christmas sweater? Which I admit sounds pretty tacky, although I personally adore Christmas. And someone tells me the sweater belongs to your Miss Cucumbers, or whatever her name is. And you don’t call me to tell me about all this? Just what do you have to say for yourself, Lacey? Are we still BFFs or what?”
“It’s Pickles, Stel, not Cucumbers,” Lacey said. “Felicity Pickles. And of course we’re still BFFs.”
“Pickles, Cucumbers, Zucchinis, whatever. What I mean is, Lacey, how can you expect me to go to the salon and put a little zing in everyone’s day and not know what is going on with you? I am your stylist, your friend, your confidante.” Stella leaned over Lacey’s desk and drummed her nails. “I shoulda known these things.”
Lacey looked at the woman who dared call Miss Cucumbers’s Christmas sweaters tacky. “This isn’t a case I can do anything with, Stella. The police are investigating. All I’m doing is—”
“All you’re doing is asking questions. Broken record. Ho hum.” Stella mock-yawned. “I have a reputation to uphold, Lacey. You are an important news source for me. And I haven’t heard from you in like days!”
“Well, you haven’t called me either,” Lacey said defensively.
“Details! You are hung up on details, missy, and let me tell you something, you are not going to get me offtrack on why I came to see you. Which is: You been ignoring your friends.”
“What about you?” Lacey said. “New man in your life? No time for your friends?”
“Stick to the subject and anyway, what’s the matter with
170
Ellen Byerrum
you?” Stella pointed to the mug of coffee sitting on Lacey’s desk. “You lose your manners or something?”
“Sorry, Stel, come with me to the kitchen. But I have to warn you, it’s bad for you. Newsroom coffee? Poisonous. Brewed from newsprint and printer’s ink. And bile.”
“Oh please, Lace, we got you beat at Stylettos. Who knows how many chemicals get mixed in with our brew? Half and half: Half java, half perm solution.”
Lacey escorted her friend to the newsroom’s kitchen. She was sleepy, and she was glad she’d worn a suit today. It was quick and easy, one of her Brenda Starr/Lois Lane looks, and it would pass muster for her lunch with Jeffrey today. In forest green wool gabardine from the 1940s with a black velvet collar, it was shapely and fit well. It didn’t require a fussy blouse or too much thought. No nerve-wracking episode of What Will I Wear Tomorrow?! She’d found just the right dark green pumps to go with the suit. But she caught herself thinking that maybe she should switch to more of a Wonder Woman look. The magical gold bracelets and lasso were definitely accessories Lacey Smithsonian could get behind.
Stella followed Lacey, the heels of her tall black boots clicking on the old linoleum floor of the newsroom’s tiny kitchen.
Lacey rummaged around for a clean cup that wasn’t chipped.
She found one in the back of the cupboard, rinsed it out, and poured the now crisp-smelling coffee in the cup.
“Cream and sugar, please, Lace. Lots. You know how I like it. So as I was saying, Lacey.” Stella added even more sugar and stirred it with a plastic spoon. “You ain’t off the hook yet. You have all but ignored me, and yet I have been defending you.”
Lacey rolled her eyes. “Defending me from what?”
“That editorial on Christmas sweaters? That it turns out your Little Miss Crabby-Negative-Person wrote? I knew you didn’t write that snotty thing. You can do snarky, but it’s always snarky with style and soul, you know? This sweater thing was just plain mean, not like you at all, except when you’re neglecting your friends, like recently. Do I have to find out everything that is going on in this town from DeadFed dot com?”
“That’s not news, Stella, it’s science fiction.” Lacey sniffed her coffee and put it down. “And it’s gotten worse. It used to be just—”
“Like I said to my three o’clock perm yesterday, Lacey
G R AV E A P PA R E L
171
Smithsonian can be snarky and smart-alecky, but she’s not that lowdown mean.”
“You think I’m mean?”
“We’re all a little mean. Gives us character.” Stella grinned and sipped her coffee. “Hey, this isn’t bad. Anyway, as I was saying, if we weren’t a little mean sometimes, we wouldn’t even be breathing. But you know what I’m talking about. Like really mean, like this Cassandra person. What is her deal?”
Lacey led the way back to her desk. Stella grabbed the Death Chair and wheeled it up close, tracing her scarlet fingernails on the face of the skull and crossbones. She plopped down on it.
No mere Death Chair could spook Stella Lake.
“What do you want to know?” Lacey settled back down.
“Tell me about this weird little man in the alley who got away. DeadFed says it’s some kind of conspiracy against the freedom of the press or something. Or else aliens.”
“Stella. Please tell me you know nearly every word on DeadFed is complete fiction, don’t you? Even ‘and’ and ‘the.’ ”
Stella laughed. “I’m surprised you’d even read it, knowing that it’s run by Brooke’s lunatic boyfriend.”
“That’s why I’m here. For the truth. And I wouldn’t have to resort to coming over if you kept in touch better. I want you to come to the salon.”
“I don’t need anything done right now.” Lacey ruffled her hair. “See? I’m using your conditioner. My hair is drowning in your conditioner.”
It was Stella’s turn to yank on Lacey’s hair with her practiced eye. She was a maniac about conditioner. “I’m not talking about your hair. Your hair looks great, thanks to you know who.
But you gotta come see the salon! The salon is decorated. The tree is up, the light-up menorah is so cute, and we even have a Kwanzaa thingy, whatever it is. We are totally socially and politically and holidazically correct.”
“ ‘Holidazically’? And the menorah is a nice touch, Stel.”
“I’m half and half, you know. Half Jewish and half Christian and all fabulous, so I get to celebrate everything. I always get lots of great presents, me and the Girls.” Stella was as excited as a kid. “Have you bought me a present yet, Lacey? I posted my wish list on my blog, in case you need ideas. I told you about my blog, didn’t I?”
172
Ellen Byerrum
Lacey covered her eyes with her hands. “Wait a minute, a blog? You have a blog?”
“Duh! My daily observations and innermost thoughts! It’s Stellariffic. I’ll e-mail you the link. You’re so last century, Lace.
But about my present? No prob. We’ll go shopping together.
It’ll be awesome.”
“Stella, every time I go shopping with you, I spend money.
Lots and lots of money. Too much money. And that’s just on me, much less on you.”
The stylist gave her a wide-eyed look. “And this is a problem why exactly?” Before Lacey could explain that yes, it was a problem, Stella’s cell phone rang. She dug it out of her purse.
“Oh, jeez, Lace! Look at the time.” She pushed a button and tossed the phone back into her enormous black bag. She took a final gulp of the nasty coffee. “I gotta run, but I want to see you soon, at the salon. We’ll talk. And then we’ll shop.”
“I’ll call, I promise,” Lacey said.
“You’ll tell me everything. ” It was a command, not a request.
Lacey would have escorted her to the elevator, but her own phone rang.
“Get the phone, Lacey, I know my way out, past the cute guy with the messy desk. He’s totally in love with the Girls.”
“Go torture him then.”
Stella waved and grabbed her coat on the run. “Call me!”
The phone call turned out to be a hang-up from a number she didn’t recognize. Funny how often that happened, Lacey thought. No one really wanted to talk with the fashion reporter, they just wanted to leave her messages.
“Lacey, can we talk?” This voice wasn’t on the phone, it belonged to Felicity, who rarely spoke to her except to tempt her with something fattening. She was wearing a new dark green Christmas sweater that featured round sequined ornaments with a pair of black slacks. Lacey was glad to see that the Cassandra incident hadn’t diminished her innate spirit. She had crossed the aisle to Lacey’s desk and was offering her a piece of hot chocolate pudding cake topped with peppermint pieces. “Here, take a fork too.”
This couldn’t be good, Lacey thought. Beware of Felicity bearing gifts. And she’s baking again! But the rich aroma filled
G R AV E A P PA R E L
173
the air and her stomach was rumbling. She reached for the pudding cake and hesitantly took the offered plastic fork.
“This smells good.”
“It’s for the Sunday food section. ‘A peppermint twist on holiday fare.’ ” Felicity was evidently trying out phrases for her food column. “Or maybe: ‘Hot, chocolate, and comforting.
More than pudding. More than cake. Bake yourself a pudding cake.’ ”
“Thanks, Felicity.” Lacey took a bite. “Delicious.”
Felicity looked as if she needed more than food to comfort her.
“I know we’re not exactly friends,” she began, but then her nerve failed her, and she dashed back to her desk for her own piece of today’s featured dessert. She pulled her chair over to Lacey’s desk, avoiding the Death Chair, and nibbled at the delicacy.
Lacey took another bite. The peppermint twist melted in her mouth. It was amazingly good. But would it be good enough for Vic’s mother at Christmas? Tough call. This dessert had to be presented still hot from the oven, not made the day before.
Lacey realized she’d lost track of what Felicity was saying.
More than pudding, more than cake, bake yourself a—
“I know we’re not exactly friends, Lacey, but, well, the police called me in again.” Felicity started over. “They accused me of all sorts of terrible things. They aren’t nice to me like that nice Detective Lamont who comes to see you.” Her lip quivered. “How could they think I would attack someone, even Cassandra? I’m not a violent person.”
“This is very tasty, Felicity. Did they come right out and accuse you?”
“No, they just browbeat me. Where was the sweater, where was it the last time I saw it, did I hate Cassandra, what was this thing about Sweatergate, can I prove I was where I said I was?
It was horrible. Where did I get the candy cane? What candy cane? They didn’t even offer me a cup of coffee.”
Worse if they had, Lacey thought. I’ve had their coffee—
Police brutality. “I’m sure everything will work out.” Lacey didn’t necessarily believe it. “But it would be better if you had someone to verify where you were on Friday afternoon.”
“Mac said you’d help me.”
“Excuse me?” Lacey put her plate down. So Mac had promised both Cassandra and Felicity that she would help? Without her permission? Behind her back? Of course he did.
174
Ellen Byerrum
“I’m scared, Lacey. If you need to know anything, I’m here to help,” Felicity said. “Harlan too, anything you need. Let me know what you come up with, okay?” She sighed and retreated to her own desk, the very picture of woe. “And if you could be quick about it, that would be great.”
Lacey stormed into Mac’s office. “Were you planning on telling me you’d committed my time and efforts to help both of them? Do you just like the surprise element of it all? Or did you do it just to get Felicity baking again?”
He lifted his own plate of hot chocolate pudding cake and saluted her with his fork. He had the nerve to chuckle. “I had to tell them something, didn’t I? You’re the one ruining Christmas. I was just trying to save it. And it’s your fault anyway, Smithsonian.”
