Grave Apparel, page 25
“Engine’s rebuilt. Low mileage.” He gave her the little Bimmer’s highlights. “Fuel injection actually works. Fast, reliable. I replaced all the rusted panels with galvanized steel.
And this model’s got the bigger, safer bumper. It’s the last year they imported the 2002tii. This car is from when BMWs
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were still cool, before they became shameless overpriced yuppie bait.”
“You worked on this car?” Lacey said. “I missed the part about you being a car mechanic too.”
“Um, I’m handy.” Vic flashed his killer smile, white teeth against his olive skin. It was devastating when he looked at her like that. “These things are notorious rust buckets, but I’ve taken care of all that. I work on it over here because my dad is the tool king of Northern Virginia.” He waved at the garage wall, covered with cabinets and tools hanging on hooks, a large and intimidatingly well-organized display. Everything from hammers and saws and drills to nails and screws and washers in jars, chainsaws, power sanders, power augurs, timing lights, things Lacey didn’t even recognize.
“It’s a great car, Vic. Wow. I’ve always liked these. It’s so cool.” She caught herself just short of saying it was adorable, it seemed like such a girly thing to say. She opened the door.
“Sheepskins on the seats?” It was a nice touch, a Colorado touch. She rubbed her hands over them in appreciation.
“To keep your cute bottom comfy.”
“You mean we get to drive this tonight instead of the Jeep?
All right!” She caught herself. “Not that I don’t love the Jeep and all that.”
Actually, Lacey resented Vic’s green Jeep ever so slightly. It always ran. It never seemed to break down, unlike her late lamented 280ZX, which had spent more time with Lacey’s mechanic than with her. It never got itself stolen, unlike her poor abused Z, which had been stolen and turned to a life of crime.
All the while, Vic’s darn Jeep Wrangler just kept running and remained rock solid and unmolested.
“I wasn’t thinking about me,” he said. “I was thinking about it for you.”
“Is it for sale? You’re really gonna sell your project car, your baby?” She needed a car and she loved this one. The forest-green color was almost identical to Vic’s Jeep. “How much?”
“It’s not for sale, Lacey. I’m not gonna sell it. It’s for you.
It’s a Christmas present.”
“A car! You want to give me a car?” A wave of astonishment mingled with panic washed over her. “A car?! I can’t accept a car!”
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“Why not?”
“Because! It’s a car! It’s too much. I mean, nice girls don’t accept cars, for heaven sakes. What would people say?” Lacey meant people other than Stella, who would think it was totally cool and that Lacey must have done something right for a change. Or people like Brooke, who would want to take a fast test drive and tell her about all the spies she knew who had once owned or driven or stolen a 1974 BMW 2002. Lacey meant nice normal people.
“What do you care what people would say? What anyone would say?” He stood there, looking impossibly handsome with his dark curls falling over his forehead and his eyes looking at her full of amusement. That was a good question. She’d have to think about it.
“Well, I don’t know exactly.”
“You’re my girl, aren’t you? You think I want you walking the streets unprotected?”
“But it’s a car, Vic! I can’t just take—”
He put his arm around her and steered her to the driver’s side door and opened it. “Why don’t you check it out? It has a few extras. Let me show you. Try out the sheepskins.”
In a mild state of shock, Lacey eased herself onto the sheepskin-covered seat. Her hands slid over the steering wheel and adjusted the rearview mirror. She moved the seat and noticed that it fit her very well. That Vic Donovan was a clever guy. But a car?
“I installed a GPS navigation system,” Vic said. “That little screen on the dash.”
“To keep track of me?” she said.
“I was thinking so you won’t get lost, but keeping track of you is a better idea.”
“A stereo?” Her fingers ran over the shiny buttons. “Does it work?”
“It better, I just installed it. This thing came with an eight-track. They didn’t have CD players back then, but now it does.
Brand-new air-conditioning too.”
She gazed up at him, her eyes very wide. “How can I possibly accept this?” Her moral sense was deeply conflicted. This was like a car guy’s equivalent of a marriage proposal and a diamond ring, but she wasn’t about to say that. And the car
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without the marriage proposal was like—a proposition? Or is that just my mother talking?
“Honey, it’s just an old car,” he said with a grin.
“An adorable old perfect vintage BMW! With a brand-new stereo! And air! And sheepskins! Lord, these feel good, are these made from real sheep?”
“Merry Christmas.” He leaned against the car and smiled, peering into the window at her. “So you like it.”
“ ‘Merry Christmas’?” She was horrified.
He held back his laughter. “What did you think I was getting you for Christmas?”
“I don’t know, a sweater, or a CD, or something. You know.”
“Oh, Lacey.” Now he was laughing. “Come on. And I did get you a CD, by the way. It’s in the glove box. Ella Fitzgerald singing Christmas carols. Gotta have something to try out the new stereo.”
“Well, what am I supposed to get you now? A yacht?!” She was dumbfounded. What indeed? A leather jacket, even one by Bentley, seemed so insignificant now. And a nice jacket would be pushing her budget, even before she’d bought two unanticipated little puffy parkas.
“How about the image of you behind the wheel?” Vic pulled her out of the car and kissed her. “And you are making our Christmas dessert. I’ll take a slice of that legendary pecan pie cake.”
“Are you making fun of me?”
“No. You’re all I want for Christmas. I have you, Lacey, and that’s enough. Unless I scared you off with this.” He held her tightly. “After all, you’ve been known to bolt when men get serious about you.”
“That’s not true!” It was sort of true, but she didn’t want to admit it. She couldn’t look at him.
“It was all over Sagebrush when that cowboy asked you to marry him. You bolted like a spooked deer.”
“He told the whole town he proposed! Everyone in town knew I said no. I couldn’t stay after that.” The man she’d been seeing then, a rancher, not just a cowboy, had wanted to keep her with him forever in Sagebrush, Colorado. She couldn’t imagine being embalmed in a barren, claustrophobic little boom town where the temperature often touched forty below in the winter. And he wasn’t the right guy for her to be embalmed
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with anyway. Lacey told the cowboy no, and then she hotfooted it out of town. It would have been too awful to stay, she thought. For both of them. Vic was off-limits at the time, being just barely separated from his wife and in the process of getting a divorce. So she left Sagebrush behind and headed east.
“You’re not going to bolt on me, are you?”
She certainly felt like bolting. “It’s a car, Vic!”
“Yup, it sure is. Are we back to that?” He sighed and folded his arms around her.
“You’re so casual about this. Have you given cars to other women?” Did he make a habit of this? And if he did, what kind of car did he give the last one?!
“You’re the first.” He kissed her again. “But if this works, hey, who knows.” The Bimmer was growing on her. “Knowing that you have a car that works is important to me, Lacey. A reliable car, but with something special, a car that fits you, a car that suits you. A car as cute and classy as you. Well, nearly as cute, anyway.”
“A BMW.” It told Lacey that Vic was pretty serious about this relationship. A guy doesn’t give away a vintage BMW to get a date. She felt warm and cared for and scared to death at the same time.
Nadine chose that moment to pop through the door from the kitchen to the garage. “Haven’t you given her that old car yet?”
she said. Vic sighed.
Lacey gaped at his mother. “Were you in on this, Nadine?”
“I didn’t turn any wrenches, Lacey, but let’s just say not much gets past me here, especially in my own garage,” Nadine said. “It’s cold out here, why don’t we go inside and have some eggnog while you give her the keys?”
Lacey was certain she looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Vic suggested a test drive before their eggnog. She looked at the car. It really was adorable. It must have been a lot of work. It would be incredibly rude to turn it down. Maybe if she drove the car her feelings would sort themselves out.
Christmas was still weeks away. Surely she still had time to decide? She realized she’d taken the keys from Vic’s hand. It wouldn’t hurt her to take a test drive. Maybe up to Shaw to look for Jasmine again.
“Let’s hit the road, cowboy,” she said. “You said there’s a CD in that glove box?”
Lacey Smithsonian’s
FASHION BITES
Don’t Be SAD:
Get Help for Seasonal Apparel Disorder!
Tweed on the beach? Flip-flops in the snow? You’ve got Seasonal Apparel Disorder! Consult a mirror. Call your stylist. Get help now.
Seasonal Apparel Disorder, also known as SAD, is
caused by a clash of seasons, the real one outside and the imaginary one you’re dressed for, the season inside your head. Perhaps it’s already spring in your heart or summer in your sandals, but when the Beltway is coated in black ice and the forecast is freezing drizzle followed by more freezing drizzle with a good chance of freezing drizzle and you’re frozen to your flip-flops, my diagnosis is SAD.
SAD victims fill the streets of Washington, D.C. Recognize them by their shivering state of denial, their touching belief that it’s still half past summer, that fall will last forever, and winter will never come. Winter comes late to Our Nation’s Capital, but come it does. SAD sufferers cling to their summer dresses and sandals. They eschew stockings. Their winter coats are in storage and they’ve lost the key. They are dazed and confused and wondering
what to wear, and who can blame them! What are the rules?
There used to be rules, sensible, easy-to-understand and easy-to-follow rules such as: No white shoes after Labor Day. Believe me, frostbite is not fashionable, nor is heatstroke stylish, but both threaten the cluelessly clothed when the weather starts to change.
Yes, it is difficult to deal with unpredictable transitional weather, but remember, it doesn’t just taunt you personally, it
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torments all of us indiscriminately. When the seasons shift, it’s cold in the morning and hot in the afternoon. It freezes when they predict balmy; it monsoons when they say dry. It did this last year, too, remember? Why? It’s Washington, people!
What’s the solution? Clothes. The right clothes. And a few simple rules and some basic advice. Take responsibility for your own wardrobe decisions. Catch a weather report. Sure, it’s often wrong here. But if torrential downpours are predicted, grab the umbrella, ditch the sundress.
Don’t just assume the Washington weatherman is always wrong, simply because Congress is. (Congress is paid to be wrong. Meteorologists are wrong because it’s a science.) Weathercasters give us secret clues, subtle hints like wind chill factors and humidity indexes. These clues can tip you off to wrap yourself up in wool and microfiber up to your eyebrows, or reach for the bikini and sunblock. Get a clue. Here are a few more.
• When the weather is changeable, it’s time to layer.
Think jackets, vests, wraps, shawls, and a pair of
gloves in your purse. Think versatile layers of easy-on, easy-off midweight clothing, not the single overstuffed Everest-rated parka over the bare halter dress. Layer, layer, layer!
• Breathe! Humidity is our middle name here. Humidity makes everything worse, cold colder, heat hotter, and both can happen in the same twenty-four-hour
period. If your clothes don’t breathe, you won’t either.
• When it’s cold, tights and hose are your friends, unless you really like the look of dry, flaky legs and the feel of goose bumps. Under your tights you may still have the goose bumps, but no one will see them.
• Oh yeah, remember this: Never wear flip-flops to the White House, Congress, or the Supreme Court, summer, winter, spring, or fall. Not ever. That’s not just SAD, that’s silly. But you already knew that, didn’t you?
Chapter 27
On Wednesday morning, with a chill in the air and winter fast approaching, Lacey could no longer deny her inner sweater girl.
No, not thick bulky novelty sweaters, not the dreaded Christmas sweaters that had inspired the fiasco that was Sweatergate, but the soft warm sweaters of winter. There would be no Seasonal Apparel Disorder for her.
For workdays Lacey liked silk, cotton, merino wool, and cashmere sweaters. Turtlenecks, V-necks, pull-ons, all went with suits for an easy, carefree style. Lacey selected a violet cashmere sweater to wear with a flared black wool crepe skirt and high heeled—though not excessively high—black leather boots. A black wool crepe coat with velvet collar completed the outfit. But the Bentley reception after work, where nonprofit types would hobnob with members of the Bentley Foundation and vie for the inside track to foundation money, posed a trickier problem. It was after all, sponsored by the famous fashion design firm. She couldn’t go looking like just any reporter.
Lacey did what working women everywhere do: She packed a change of clothes to take to the office.
From the famous Aunt Mimi collection, she selected a vintage fitted blouse in heavy, almost crocheted, creamy white lace. The top featured a soft ruffle down the décolletage that showed off her neck, a nipped-in waist accented by a burgundy sash, and a graceful peplum that dipped lower in the back. A cultured pearl necklace and earrings, also from Aunt Mimi’s famous trunk, would complement both looks. Although she would be weighed down with the extras on her daily commute, Lacey thanked her late great-aunt.
The outfits would be fine, but the shadows under her eyes
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were not. Lacey had tossed and turned half the night, worrying by turns about two little girls lost in the District and Vic’s lovely but preposterous Christmas present. After one glorious test drive across the Potomac to Shaw and back, she left the beautiful green BMW parked in his folks’ garage in McLean for temporary safekeeping. She was tempted but conflicted, and after all, she told Vic, it wasn’t Christmas morning yet. He just smiled and told her to take her time, the BMW wasn’t going anywhere without her.
Vic’s surveillance team reported no sightings of the girls in Shaw or Farragut Square. They came up empty on their first night on the job, and they asked for more information, which Lacey couldn’t supply. They were stalled. Lacey was stalled.
Christmas was stalled. Everything seemed to be stuck, waiting for the Santa Dude.
When Lacey strode through the lobby of The Eye that morning a commotion was under way. She couldn’t even see the tastefully decorated Christmas tree for the uniformed D.C. cops tussling with a tall man in a navy blue dress coat. Mac was in the corner talking with Detective Charleston, the cop on Cassandra’s case. A smug-looking Peter Johnson stood by them, eavesdropping.
Lacey elbowed her way through the crowd to listen. Pushing to the front of any room was a skill she’d honed as a journalist. The detective glanced her way, but he made no move to stop her. Mac said nothing. He kept his eyes on the man in the middle.
The subject of everyone’s attention was a tall wiry man, his mouse-brown hair shot through with gray. Lacey placed his age somewhere in his fifties. His eyes were large and pale behind wire-framed glasses, and he seemed an unlikely object of police attention. His voice, however, was strong and betrayed a large measure of outrage. Lacey inched forward to stand at Mac’s elbow.
“False arrest, that’s what this is!” the man was shouting.
“We’re not arresting you yet, Mr. Graybill,” the detective broke in. “We just want to ask you a few questions.” He smacked a puffy business-sized envelope in his hands.
“I have every right!” the man he called Graybill spluttered.
“My First Amendment right to express my opinions.”
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“You don’t have a right to make threats of violence.”
Charleston didn’t seem particularly upset by the man or the envelope, and he barely seemed interested in the exchange. Just going through the motions, Lacey thought.
“The Second Amendment of the Constitution of the United States of America guarantees me the right to—” Graybill began.
“Let’s move this along,” the detective said. “We want to ask you a few questions about these threats you’ve been sending.”
“I don’t have to say a word. That’s my Fifth Amendment right under the Constitution.” The man’s voice rose higher. “Or don’t you dumb-ass bozos know that?”
“Bad move,” Lacey muttered.
“Never pays to insult the police,” Mac said under his breath.
“You ain’t getting squat from me,” Graybill declared.
“Mister, that’s all I’ve been getting from you.” Charleston was moving from bored to weary. “Let’s go.” The uniforms took Graybill’s arms.
“What’s the charge?” Graybill shouted. “I demand to know the damned charge.”
“Disturbing the peace.”
“Bull!” The man struggled to remove the strong arms of the lawmen.
“How about stalking. Resisting arrest.”
“You just said I wasn’t under arrest. False arrest! I have witnesses, all of you here saw this.” Graybill swiveled his head at the bystanders.
