To Lacey’s dismay, Shirley assigned the story to Kelly Kavanaugh, the newest addition to the police beat, who had drawn newsroom duty that weekend. Kavanaugh was equal parts freckles and enthusiasm, but light on experience. Kavanaugh called Lacey back immediately.
“Are you sure you can’t tell me whether it’s suicide or murder? Come on, you saw the body, right?”
“Kelly, I’m not a medical examiner. I saw her through a car window.”
“Can you at least take a guess? Please?”
“Don’t beg,” Lacey said. “Reporters never beg. Borrow and steal, yes, but never beg.”
“What was Ashton doing in that parking lot all the way out there? Does this have anything to do with your story? It must, right? And what were you doing in that parking lot? Are you working on another story? You can tell me, I’m the police reporter on this, so we could double-team whatever you’re—”
“Give me a break, Kavanaugh,” Lacey said. “I’m on personal business here.”
“Do you at least think it’s one of those crazy Crime of Fashion things you keep getting mixed up in? And by the way, do you need any help on the style beat? Your stories tend to be pretty freaky, except for all the fashion stuff, that would be boring, but wow, some of the stories you’ve landed, I’d do anything to—”
“See you around, Kelly.” Kavanaugh in her collegiate khakis and cross-trainers and contagious perkiness would be a definite don’t on Lacey’s fashion beat. Lacey hung up and turned off her cell phone.
Hunt returned from his second interview with the police, ashen-faced and sweating. He summoned up some scraps of bravado. “Go home, everybody, or go to lunch. No more class today. If y’all paid attention out there, you got a lesson in what a crime scene investigation looks like up close. Next class is Monday night at seven sharp. If you’re not up for it, you can drop the course right now. Full refund due to unusual circumstances.” He looked around the room, from face to face. “Any takers?”
Did he want them all to drop out and let him off the hook, so he could cancel the course? Lacey wondered. No such luck. No hands went up. The ex-cops and ex-military guys all grunted or nodded. They would be there. Edwina Plimpton took his words as a personal challenge. She too gave Hunt a brave thumbs-up.
“Well, great.” Hunt mopped his forehead with a red handkerchief. “That’s just swell. I’ll see y’all Monday night. What about you, Ms. Fashion Clue?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Lacey said.
He looked at Damon Newhouse with a hopeful expression.
“Are you kidding? Me too. Unless we’re all in jail,” Damon said, BlackBerry in hand. He was keying in a text message as he spoke.
Hunt turned to Martin Hadley, the only student who, so far, had said nothing.
“I’ll be here,” Hadley said. “Unless I’m the next victim on their damn list.”
Chapter 8
The Farmers’ Market was closed by the time Lacey eased her car out of the parking lot and onto Little Falls Street. Not a trace was left of the colorful tents and tables. Lacey was happy to be away from the yellow crime-scene tape and the noise of her fellow students, but her plan to shop for lunch at the Farmers’ Market evaporated.
At least she felt safe and secure in her little green BMW, the car Vic had restored and given her for Christmas. It was a joy to drive, and she was beginning to like it even more than her beloved (but sadly stolen) Nissan 280ZX. Vic had thoughtfully updated the 1974 vintage model 2002tii with an excellent CD player and a GPS navigation unit. Lacey slipped in an Aimee Mann CD and turned up the volume on one of Aimee’s quirky laments.
Sean Victor Donovan was giving a paper on “Managing the Business of Corporate Intelligence” at a PI conference in Santa Barbara, California. It sounded like a pretty cushy gig to her. He and his dad were partners in a private security company with government contracts and high profile clients, including the Department of Homeland Security. Vic said giving his paper would raise his profile in certain circles. And it would bore him to tears to be there without her, he told her. She was glad she had the PI class to keep her busy and not pining for her handsome six-foot man with his devastating green eyes. Of course, that was before she saw Cecily’s body in the Jaguar. She wondered what Vic would make of this mess.
Lacey drove him to the airport the previous evening in the BMW. She kissed him hard before she let him get out of the car. He rewarded her with that smile that had such power over her. She wanted to lasso him and convince him not to go, to stay home with her. He must never know that, she told herself. Besides, she had things to accomplish.
“Tomorrow is the first day of school, sweetheart,” Vic said when he kissed her good-bye. He had warned her it wouldn’t be what she expected. He said it would be boring. “You really think you’re going to learn all my secrets taking this class?”
“One way or another.” She smiled at him. “I’ll learn them all eventually.”
“I was afraid of that.” He laughed and stroked her cheek. “You might find out how crazy I am for you. Have a good time, sweetheart, and don’t go looking for trouble.”
“I never go looking for trouble, Vic. You know that.”
“I know. It comes looking for you.” He put his plane ticket in his jacket pocket.
“You think you know everything.”
“I know this class will bore you senseless. It’s not all cops and robbers, it’s procedures and laws and regulations and knowing the Constitution backward and forward, and how Virginia, like every other state, tinkers with the law every year to make our job a little more difficult. It’s a litany of everything you can’t do as a PI. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”
“Fun enough.”
So far her PI class definitely wasn’t boring, Lacey thought. But fun wasn’t exactly the right word either.
The midafternoon sky was a dispiriting shade of gray. It made the world seem flat and shadowless, neither night nor day. Her stomach, however, told her it was well past time to eat. She spotted a little Thai restaurant a few blocks down Broad Street.
The restaurant was nearly empty and the waitress seemed happy to greet her. Lacey ordered the tom yum something-or -other, a spring roll, and a pot of tea, and leaned back in her quiet booth to admire the shelves lined with colored crystal vases. Her cell phone rang: Vic. Let’s see how far I can get without telling him about the dead woman in the Jaguar.
“Hey, sweetheart, I thought I’d catch you on a break.” Lacey closed her eyes to shut out everything but the sound of his voice. It was like hot buttered rum for her tattered soul. Better than hot buttered rum. “So how’s your PI class going?” Vic asked. “Are you at lunch? Is it as boring as I promised you it would be?”
The shooting in the parking lot seemed to Lacey like the wrong place to start.
“Well, it’s a little difficult to say,” she said. “But it hasn’t been boring. The very opposite of boring.”
“Bud Hunt’s a character, isn’t he? That sign still on the door, the ‘no loaded weapons in class’ thing?”
“Sign’s still there,” she said.
Vic sensed something in her hesitation. “Hey, what’s wrong, sweetheart? Did you drop out already?” He chuckled. “Did somebody get shot?”
“Well, I didn’t drop out.”
“Lacey, are you saying—” He sucked in some air. “You aren’t telling me—someone did get shot?”
“’Fraid so.” It was Lacey’s turn to take a deep breath. “Cecily Ashton. The woman I interviewed last week. Shot. Dead. In her Jaguar. Not my fault, Vic, I swear.”
“Shot dead? The crazy woman with the closets who was married to that old sports guy, what’s his name, Philip Clark Ashton?”
“Yes.” She waited.
“I hate to ask this, Lacey.” She could hear exasperation in his voice. “I’m three thousand miles away, darling, and you know I trust your instincts. I do. But I’m confused. How does this have anything to do with you, or your PI class? You’re
supposed to be learning the deadly dull rules and regulations of private investigation, not getting involved in some random shooting—”
“Cecily Ashton was found dead in the parking lot behind Hunt’s office today, just as we broke for lunch. With a bullet hole in her head. Some other people found her. I came in later, after all the screaming.”
Vic paused. “I’m so sorry you had to see that. Awful. Falls Church?”
Lacey suspected she knew exactly what Vic was thinking. Something like, Oh my God, what is it with my girlfriend and dead bodies? She also knew Vic was now wise enough not to say this, at least not to her face.
“Gunshot? Inside her car? What do they think? Suicide or murder?”
The waitress arrived with Lacey’s pot of tea and her platter of chicken and noodles and scooted away. The tom yum whatever-it-was smelled delicious.
“The cops didn’t say,” she told Vic, “but we didn’t see a gun.”
“Cops. You were questioned then? You gave a statement?”
“Darling, it’s that fine insight you have into police procedure that makes me so hot for you.” She heard Vic chuckle over the miles between them. “Yeah, I got the second or third degree. A Detective Jance, Tom Jance.”
“Don’t know him. Lacey—” Vic fell silent.
“What is it?” Lacey asked. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking this will be pretty rough on Bud Hunt. How long did they question him?”
“I don’t know. They talked to him a couple of times. He sent us all home early. Offered us refunds. He seemed rattled, but anybody would be. And why would Hunt be taking this so hard, other than it looks bad, having a shooting right in your parking lot? Bad for business?”
“No, because they had a thing, a few months back. A fling. The Ashton woman and Hunt. Big mistake.”
Lacey’s mouth dropped open. “Cecily Ashton and Bud Hunt? No way! You can’t be serious!” Lacey was getting a headache and her lunch was getting cold. “I don’t believe it. No way, he’s not fling material. Not for her. Vic Donovan, tell me everything! What, where, when, why. Even how. I want everything you know.”
“Gee, you sound like a reporter.”
“Off the record, for now.”
He thought for a moment. “I’m not breaking any confidences here, it wasn’t much of a secret. Everyone noticed Bud started going to a lot of football games. Box seats. People saw them together. Also she was a client of his, something to do with her divorce settlement. Probably she needed someone to dig for the ex-husband’s hidden assets. And maybe she needed to dig up some dirt on the ex, to tilt the settlement in her direction. Divorce can be nasty work.”
“But a fling? With Bud Hunt?”
“It happens,” Vic said. “A mystery of the universe.”
Lacey snorted. Hunt was just a beefy ex-cop with war stories to tell. Cecily Ashton was rich and beautiful, if a little damaged.
“I don’t get it, Vic. He’s a frog and she’s a princess. Princesses don’t kiss frogs. Not unless they’re incredibly rich frogs. Like Philip Clark Ashton.”
“Lacey darling, no man ever believes he’s a frog.”
“I suppose not.” There was a kind of desperation about Cecily, Lacey remembered. If she were very afraid of something or someone, maybe it made sense for her to latch on to the big ex-cop, a tough-talking guy who could handle a gun. And who would feel pretty damn lucky to be with her.
“Hunt was a cop, he knows this game,” Vic said. “The police will be all over him. He’ll lawyer up. Standard operating procedure.”
“But maybe it really was suicide. Why would he kill her? And he’d be crazy to kill her behind his own building, right?” Lacey dug into her chicken. Not bad, but it needed soy sauce. She waved to the waitress.
“I wouldn’t figure Hunt for a killer, but people do strange things when love and sex and money are involved. They had a personal connection. Suicide or murder, either way she’s dead. On her ex-lover’s doorstep? Looks bad. Looks bad for Hunt.”
Lacey wondered how many PI students would really go back to class on Monday. “You don’t think he’ll cancel the course, do you?”
“He might have to, if the cops lean on him hard. Might be the best thing,” Vic said. “I hope he doesn’t cowboy it out alone and try to solve it.”
“Ah, because private investigation is even tougher when it’s personal?” she asked.
“Yeah, you must have been listening in class.”
“I listen a lot.” Lacey sipped some tea. “You’re not gonna quote that ‘murder magnet’ thing again, are you?”
“You? A magnet for murder? No, I think you’re more like duct tape for trouble, Lacey. It just sticks to you. Like I do. I wish I were stuck to your sweet side right now, so I could keep you out of trouble.”
Lacey wished that too, a lot. Trouble seemed to follow her now and then, and the question of self-defense sometimes arose. She used whatever was at hand, hairspray, scissors, shampoo, or her mother with a golf club. But what if she really needed a gun?
“Maybe I should get a concealed carry permit,” she said. She wasn’t quite sure if she was testing Vic or not. She was conflicted about the idea, but this seemed like the right time to bring it up. “Since I seem to be ‘duct tape for trouble,’ as you say, and you never seem to be around when I need you, I better learn how to defend myself.”
“You seem to do pretty good for yourself. But—”
“And a concealed carry permit would look nice next to my PI registration, wouldn’t it?”
“And a shoulder holster under your vintage Bentley suit?” Vic laughed. He’d taken her shooting at the pistol range once, months ago. She’d surprised them both by being a pretty good shot. “Wait till I get home, darling. We’ll go back to the range, you’ll get qualified, do the paperwork. Go to class and stay out of trouble, and I’ll be back in a few days, okay?”
Vic had to say something soothing to calm his own nerves, she realized. He needed to have a plan. He wanted to take care of her. Silly, adorable man.
“It’s sweet of you to care,” she said, knowing she was trying to say much more than that. Vic just laughed. He had to go. They signed off with I love you.
Lacey smiled and closed her eyes again, the better to visualize Vic in all of his muscular, masculine, curly-haired, green-eyed glory. She realized she’d forgotten to tell him so many things. And she had neglected to tell Vic she had a date to go shooting at the pistol range that very night. Without him.
Chapter 9
“What is she doing here?” Brooke Barton hissed at Lacey while pulling her nine millimeter Glock pistol from her black leather range bag and racking the slide. An irate Brooke nailed Lacey with her best inquisitorial attorney’s glare, while managing at the same time to look wounded.
It was a nice trick, but Lacey wasn’t buying it. She had her own bone to pick with Brooke, a not-so-funny bone named Damon Newhouse. They’d met at the range as planned, but they hadn’t had a chance yet to “discuss” why Brooke had let her boyfriend Damon trail Lacey to her PI class like a bad puppy. They hadn’t mentioned the Cecily Ashton shooting either. Lacey assumed Brooke knew everything Damon knew. However, she wasn’t eager to open up that subject, and Brooke would hardly talk about it in front of the third member of their party.
“Well?” Brooke inquired testily. “I thought this was our night at the range! But no, she has to tag along—”
The “she” in question was Lacey’s friend and stylist, Stella Lake. Stella had breezed in swathed in a huge hat and coat, waved hello, and immediately disappeared to the ladies’ room, to “freshen her makeup,” she said. Just one more thing for Brooke to be annoyed at Stella about: Wasting range time fixing her face before they started shooting.
“I might have mentioned we were going to the range, just in passing,” Lacey replied. “And Stella just might have invited herself. You know Stella.” She decided to let Brooke’s little snit blow over before she tackled the Damon issue. She a
ccepted the stainless steel .357 Magnum revolver Brooke offered her.
“I do know Stella. And pistol shooting at the range comes up all the time in your everyday hair salon conversation, right?” Brooke fumed. “You just said one day, Hi Stella, I need a shampoo, cut, blow-dry, and a box of those cute little nine-millimeter hollow points! You know, the ones that look like little lipstick tubes? Say, you wanna come shooting with us and drive Brooke nuts?”
“It was exactly like that,” Lacey agreed. They were waiting in the locker room for Stella to reemerge. They heard the muted pops of gunfire from behind the indoor range’s soundproof doors. Lacey also heard Vic’s voice in her head, repeating Rule Number One of gun safety: “Assume all guns are always loaded.” She opened the cylinder of her borrowed Smith & Wesson to check the chambers: clean and empty.
“Exactly the same way you apparently said to Damon, Private eye school won’t be hard enough for Lacey, just being the Girl Reporter stuck in that testosterone shark tank! So Damon honey, why don’t you tag along and make fun of her, bug the hell out of her, just for kicks?”
“I know Damon gets very—enthusiastic. I shouldn’t have let it slip. I think taking the PI class is a terrific idea for you, Lacey. He does too. He’s just so awestruck by you.”
“Sure he is. Just be nice to Stella,” Lacey said. “Please? This is silly. You two are my best friends. I don’t know what that says about me, but you are. The way you needle each other, it’s like we’re all still in seventh grade or something.” Brooke sighed. The weapon felt heavy in Lacey’s hand.
The Pine Ridge Arsenal shooting range was tucked into a warehouse complex off Route 50 in Fairfax County. In the front of the building they sold guns, ammo, and shooting supplies. Behind the gun shop, soundproof doors led to the range. The pungent smell of gunpowder drifted out every time someone opened the doors, and it whetted their appetites for shooting.
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