Ladies' Circle of Murder (A Lacy Steele Mystery Book 8)

by Vanessa Gray Bartal

  “You look like a T-Rex,” Lacy said when Riley’s arms flailed helplessly above her too-big stomach.

  “Bring that box up here,” Riley commanded. Lacy unbuckled and did her bidding. Together, they began to rifle through Tosh’s anonymous cardboard box of junk.

  “Here, one of Tosh’s wife-beater undershirts. He wears them on days he has to wear his clerical collar because he sweats so much.”

  “Ew.”

  Riley held the tank top close and sniffed. “You’re in luck; it’s clean. And take off those khakis. Seriously, Lacy, who wears khakis to spy on people?”

  “The How to Spy on Your Mother handbook said khakis were acceptable attire. What is your solution for pants? Because I’ve been without them one day too many already this week,” Lacy said.

  “You can wear mine,” Riley said.

  “No offense, but if your pants fit me right now, I’m going to harm myself.”

  “These aren’t maternity pants. They’re my regular pants and they’re unzipped beneath the belly. I put a rubber band around them to keep them together.” She lifted her shirt to show Lacy the miraculous feat of engineering that was keeping her pants aloft, despite the fact that they were balanced precariously below the bump.

  “Where am I supposed to change?” Lacy asked.

  “You can use that leather-paneled changing room by the burned out phone booth. Or, I don’t know, you could change right here.”

  “In the car?”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never changed in a car before.”

  “Okay, I won’t tell you,” Lacy said, but she dutifully began changing out of her khaki pants and matching sweater set and into the ragged white undershirt and jeans that had spent too many days pretending to be maternity pants.

  “There’s nothing to be done for your sensible brown loafers,” Riley said. “PS, Patty Duke called. She wants her wardrobe back.”

  “It’s time for you to turn off the TV and stop watching reruns,” Lacy said. “Is this better?” she sat up straight so Riley could make her inspection.

  “You should take off your bra.”

  “What? Riley, I am not taking off my bra.”

  “It would look more authentic. People in this neighborhood aren’t so tightly bound, in more ways than one. But losing the bra would be a good start.”

  “I lost the ability to be ‘authentic’ after I surpassed a C cup. And these people have been traumatized enough by poverty. They don’t need to add to that by seeing my unfettered chariots swing low.”

  “Okay, A—I just threw up in my mouth. B—unfettered? And C—I can never watch the chariot scene in Ben-Hur again, thanks.”

  “Serves you right for making the suggestion. What about my hair?” Lacy asked. She patted her tresses self-consciously.

  Riley checked the box again. “Here, you can use this. It’s leftover from Halloween.” She held an object aloft, dangling between two fingers.

  “You want me to wear a gorilla mask? People are going to think I’m robbing a bank. If I walk into that building with this thing on, they’ll hit the deck and toss me their wallets,” Lacy said.

  “Not the whole mask, stupid, just the hair part. We’ll fold the face up. The back part looks like hair.”

  “This is cheap, matted, one-inch-long fake fur. No one is going to believe it’s my hair,” Lacy said.

  “You’re not participating in a casting call for a shampoo commercial. You’re sneaking into a building. You’re going to be moving the whole time. Walk in, take the pictures, walk out. No one is going to see you long enough to analyze whether this hair is yours or a poly-nylon blend,” Riley said.

  “I don’t know about this.”

  “Oh, come on. You know what Mom has been like lately. How good would it feel to have something on her? To be able to know, every time she’s driving us crazy, that we have this on her? That we have pictures of her dancing on a pole? Come on, you know you want revenge as much as I do,” Riley said.

  “Maybe, but don’t call it revenge. That makes us sound evil and deranged.”

  “What would you call it?”

  “Protective intervention. Mom wouldn’t even let us get our ears double pierced because she said only prostitutes have more than one piercing. If she’s really taking a pole dancing class, she’s flipped her lid and needs help.”

  “Fine, call it what you will. The end result remains the same; you need to get in there and figure out what’s going on. And take pictures, lots and lots of pictures.”

  Lacy folded the mask in half and shoved it on top of her head, tucking her ponytail beneath. “I fee ridiculous.”

  “I’m not going to lie—you don’t look good. But I don’t think Mom will recognize you. And at least you’re no longer screaming, ‘Please rob me and take my pearls.’”

  “Oh, my pearls,” Lacy said. She unclasped her necklace and handed it to Riley.

  “Are you ready now, June Cleaver?”

  “As I’ll ever be,” Lacy said. She glanced in the mirror and quickly away. It was better not to see how utterly preposterous she looked. Cautiously, she eased from the vehicle and scanned the area. No one was looking at her. Good. Maybe she could make it through the whole ordeal with no one noticing the jeans that were bursting at their seams, the see-through tank top that, although belonging to a man, still clung uncomfortably, and the gorilla mask that only covered most of her hair. On closer inspection, there were still spots of red poking through. From a distance, she either looked like someone who’d had a dye-job gone wrong or someone who had intermittent bleeding patches on her scalp.

  She approached the building like a cat, easing from post to post and pausing to scout her surroundings. The street was empty. The fact that no one was watching her bolstered her courage. She pushed open the door to the building, but it also appeared empty. She walked the entire first floor. No one was there.

  Overhead, a music beat pulsed and throbbed. The kind of music one might play during a pole dancing class? Maybe. The elevator appeared to be out of service, so Lacy sprinted up the flight of stairs and put her hand on the door. The music was softer now, and it seemed mellower than it had downstairs. Had she mistaken classical music for hip-hop? Maybe they were dancing to a slow song. Whatever the case, she needed to be ready with the camera. She intended to poke her head in, snap a few pictures, and dash back to the car.

  She pulled out her phone, aimed it, and reached for the door. It didn’t budge. It wasn’t locked, but it was sticky. She leaned on it, but it didn’t give way. She took a few steps back and ran at it.

  Not only did it give way, but it exploded with a loud, “BANG!” that sent Lacy cascading through to the other side. The forward momentum sent her toppling. She landed hard on her hands and knees and looked up. Her phone clattered and skidded to a stop. Instinctively, she reached for it.

  Once she caught her breath, she realized that the room of women had come to a standstill, and none of them was her mother. Instead they all looked like Barbara Bush, only more stately and dignified. And they were all staring at her with her ill-fitting, worn jeans, too-tight white tank top and gorilla mask. She could feel the mask teetering precariously on her head. She reached for it and knocked it off. It landed on the floor with the loud smack of rubber meeting wood.

  Someone stopped the music. They were all staring at her, judging her. She did the only thing she could think of—she jumped to her feet and turned to run away. But before she could take a step, a vice-like grip surrounded her wrist, anchoring her in place.

  Chapter 11

  “Lacy Steele?”

  Please not him. Please not now.

  “Lacy? That is you. It’s me, Ben.”

  Reluctantly, she turned to face the man now manacled to her wrist. “Oh, Ben, hello. Nice day, isn’t it? Very sunny for autumn.”

  He let go of her wrist. She bent and scooped up the gorilla mask, stuffing it into her back pocket. Why did she have to meet the governor’s right hand man today? This man
had the power to grant her town development money. Why, why, why did the one person she knew in the city have to be the person she ran into when she looked like someone who had come to sell her plasma at the free clinic?

  “Are you okay? What are you doing here?” he asked. He sounded completely puzzled, as anyone might when encountering a businesswoman from another town who showed up dressed like she was ready to jump out of a cake at a bachelor party.

  She was so nervous that she blurted the first thing that came to mind. “I was looking for a pole dancing place.”

  “Oh,” he drawled.

  “Not for me. For my mom.”

  “All right, well that class used to meet here, but the city bought this building last week. We’re slowly but surely turning it into a community center. I’m here trying to sell the idea to the Daughters of the American Revolution.” He motioned to the group of women behind him, the same women who were darting them disapproving glances. No doubt they thought he was trying to shoo her away, poor debauched street creature that she was. “I could try to get the contact information of the class for you, if you want.”

  “No, no. No. I mean, no. I don’t want the pole dancing class.”

  “I thought you wanted it for your mom.”

  “No. No. See, I thought I saw my mom come into this building, and the Internet said it was a pole dancing place, so my sister made me put on her pants and her husband’s shirt and gorilla mask and go after her.”

  “I’m not sure I follow,” Ben said.

  “Me, neither, but it made sense ten minutes ago when I was in the car with my sister. The point is that my mom entered this building, and I don’t know why.”

  “Is she one of these women?” he motioned the group of blue bloods behind him.

  “No, she’s younger and has red hair. She looks like me, only slightly older and more frowny.”

  “I definitely haven’t noticed anyone matching that description. There was a woman with red hair, but it was covered by a folded gorilla mask.”

  She pressed her hands over her eyes. “Could I implore you to forget this ever happened?”

  “I don’t think so, but you could do me a favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I haven’t had much success trying to get these women to catch the vision of our downtown revitalization. I think if they heard it from you, it might go better.”

  Her hands fell away and she stared at him, abashed. “You want me to give a speech in this?”

  “Uh, no. I think it might go better if we scheduled you for another day. Can I call you and set something up? I would love for these ladies to hear what’s been going on in your town.”

  “What if you brought them on a field trip to the Stakely building? A visual might help. It would also be a good day of shopping and food. The ice cream parlor is making waffle cones now. Some people say they’re pretty good.”

  “I’ll be sure and include that in the email, and I think that’s a stellar idea. You’ve got a lot going on in that monkey brain of yours.”

  “I come up with my best ideas between humiliating episodes,” she said. “Am I allowed to go now?”

  “Sure, I’ll walk you down.”

  “No, really, it’s okay.” She wanted to shake free of him and sprint to the car.

  “I insist. This neighborhood is still a bit dodgy,” he said. “Give me a second.” He disappeared to speak with one of the women. Lacy thought about making a break for it, but with the kind of day she was having figured she would probably tumble down the flight of stairs and hobble her ankles.

  “Ready?” he asked and held the door for her. She preceded him through and they walked down the stairs together. For once she had the good sense to ask him a question instead of babble incoherently at him. He spent the walk out of the building telling her his plans for renovating the building. Lacy was able to provide him with a couple of contacts who helped her with the Stakely building. She was almost feeling good about herself once again when they spotted Riley sitting in the car.

  “Is that your sister?” he asked.

  “Yes, that’s Riley. She’s my younger sister.”

  “You look nothing alike.”

  “We get that a lot,” Lacy said. He began heading toward the car.

  “Don’t go any closer. She’s pregnant and not wearing pants,” Lacy said.

  “I’m going to be lying in bed tonight and still trying to figure out how those two things are related.” He stopped and held out his hand for her to shake. “It’s always interesting to see you, Lacy. Can’t wait to see what you’ll come up with next time we meet.”

  “Hopefully it will be a much more mundane encounter,” she said, shaking his hand.

  He gave hers a squeeze before he let it go. “I don’t think anything with you is ever mundane. See you later.”

  “Goodbye,” she said, flustered. She pivoted and walked to the car.

  “You met a man at a pole dancing class? Good on you,” Riley said.

  “I did not meet a man, I already knew him. And there was no pole dancing class.”

  “So what was Mom doing in there?”

  “I have no idea. I couldn’t find her.”

  “What? You have to go back in,” Riley said.

  “I am never going back in there. In fact, I might never leave my house again. We’re leaving. Whatever Mom is up to can stay a secret, as far as I’m concerned. Spying is not worth the damage to my psyche.”

  “What happened?” Riley asked.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Lacy said. For a while, they were quiet. Lacy concentrated on wending her way out of the downtown and back onto the highway. Losing herself in driving felt like blessed relief for her overheated brain. There had been too much humiliation this week. Usually she stuffed it down and moved on, but she was at max capacity and on the verge of overflow.

  “I think someone’s following us,” Riley said after a few minutes of silence.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because someone is following us. Turn right.”

  Lacy did as she was instructed.

  “Turn right again,” Riley said, and Lacy followed suit.

  “Yes. There, do you see them now? Three cars back, the big gray one. Or maybe it’s white, or maybe light blue. It’s hard to tell.”

  Lacy stared hard in her rearview mirror. “That’s a Cadillac.”

  “So our stalker is rich?” Riley said.

  “Not necessarily. It could be used. Apparently Dan Foreman has sold them to half the town.”

  “Why would someone be following us?”

  “The only reason I can think of is because I’ve been asking questions about Bob Hoskins’ death. But if it was an accident, why would someone care?”

  “The obvious answer is because it wasn’t an accident and you’ve been pulling a thread that’s making someone touchy.”

  “But who? Can you see who it is?” Traffic was too heavy for her to stare at the car.

  “No. My stupid giant belly won’t let me turn around. But from what I saw before, I think it was a woman. The profile looked small.”

  “That rules out Dan,” Lacy said.

  “Unless Marcia was doing his bidding or covering for him,” Riley pointed out.

  “This is crazy. I mean, just because someone is following us doesn’t mean that person killed Bob Hoskins, or that he was even murdered. What if I’m grasping at straws because I so badly want to prove Detective Arroyo wrong?”

  “Or because you want to figure out Mom’s shady connection to him,” Riley said.

  “Exactly. My motives aren’t pure in this investigation. I’m biased, something a reporter should never be. I need to clear my head, write the article, and have done with it.”

  “So do it.”

  “I can’t. I have dodgeball tonight.”

  “Oh, right. How’s that going?”

  “It’s the worst. If I didn’t know what a good guy Jason is, this game would make me question hi
s sanity. What kind of person enjoys a game where you slam round objects at human targets? I feel like Katniss in The Hunger Games.”

  “I love dodgeball,” Riley said.

  “Exactly. You’re one of them.”

  “One of who?”

  “The athletic, pretty people who never get pelted. You’re a predator. You have no idea what it’s like to be prey. Playing dodgeball for me is like covering a wounded lamb in fresh blood, shoving him in with a pride of hungry lions, and telling him to have fun frolicking with his friends.”

  “So let me play with you tonight.”

  “What? You can’t play in this condition.”

  “Why? Because it will send me into labor? Like that’s ever going to happen.”

  “You could rip something or pop something. Liquids might come shooting out of you,” Lacy said.

  “Wow, congratulations to our high school health teacher because your understanding of female anatomy is spot on. Besides, I’ll take it kind of easy and then we’ll be on level playing ground. I’ll get to see what it’s like from your perspective.”

  “No one is going to throw a ball at a pregnant woman,” Lacy said.

  “Then our team will win,” Riley said. “Please? If I have to spend another night at home staring at the clock and fighting a downhill battle against acid reflux, I’m going to lose my mind.”

  “Fine, but I’m off the hook for any injuries you might sustain,” Lacy said.

  “Wish I could say the same for you. If you add any more bruises, you’re going to look like Barney the dinosaur. Don’t they hurt?”

  “Only when someone reminds me of them, so thanks,” Lacy said.

  “I don’t know how you’re still walking around with all those bruises and scratches.”

  “I’ve developed a high pain threshold.”

  “Maybe you should have the baby,” Riley said.

  “No, thanks,” Lacy said.

  They arrived at Riley’s house. Lacy surrendered the car and headed toward home. “Are you sure you should be walking?” Riley asked. “Someone was following you, after all.”