The familiar media images of the madcap socialite, scandalizing a formal White House dinner in a micro-miniskirt, hitching a drunken ride through Georgetown on the hood of a Metropolitan police car? Those images are not really her, claims Cecily Ashton.
They were snapshots of a naive young woman who didn’t know the ropes in this unforgiving city. “Washington is such a tough town,” she told The Eye in an exclusive interview. “But people change. I just hope people will take another look at me and see who I’ve become.”
The former wife of billionaire sports team owner Philip Clark Ashton, Cecily Ashton made her triumphs and her mistakes in public, and her public image has paid the price. Her well-publicized divorce from Ashton is now final, and Cecily Ashton is eager to begin the next chapter of her life.
The Capital City will see a different side of Cecily Ashton in February, when the Bentley Museum of American Fashion unveils a major exhibit on loan from her fabled collection. The collection includes one-of-a-kind haute couture pieces and unusual vintage clothing from many of the world’s leading designers, many of the pieces with remarkable histories.
“My collection is not frivolous,” she said. “It’s really world-class art, wearable art, and I see myself as its curator as much as its owner.” Cecily Ashton’s collection of clothing and accessories fill a fascinating complex of custom-designed closets and dressing rooms in her Northwest Washington home. With this exhibit she hopes to give the public a glimpse of her private life, the life behind the public image.
“I want to leave something beautiful behind after I am gone,” Cecily Ashton said as she opened her home to The Eye Street Observer . . . .
Chapter 14
It sounds different now that she’s dead, Lacey thought. She stopped reading and tossed the newspaper clipping on the table.
“It’s not exactly hard-hitting journalism,” Nigel Griffin said. “And not even a trace of that snippy snarkiness Smithsonian is famous for.”
“It’s a fashion feature. What do you expect? How would I know she would be murdered? And just how did you find out I was anywhere near the crime scene?” Lacey looked at Stella, who had heard about it last night at dinner after the gun range. What Stella knew, Stella told. So much for the Sisterhood of the Code. “Oh, Stella. Do you have to tell everybody everything?”
“I had to tell him, Lacey. There are no secrets between us. We’re a couple now. A couple couple, if you know what I mean.”
“Then we’re done here, Griffin. You already know everything I know.”
“Not at all. Perhaps we’ll get to why you want to be a private detective later, which, believe me, is fascinating. But first, what about the unusual coincidence of Mrs. Ashton shot dead surprisingly near you, just a week after speaking with you? She must have had juicier stories to share than this fluff. Did she come all the way out there to divulge them to you?” He rose from his chair and leaned over her. “Did you talk to her again before she died?”
Lacey stood up and looked him in the eye. “For your information, Griffin, my story was written a week ago. A week before she died. I never spoke to her again.”
“You’re quite sure? No e-mails, text messages, late night phone calls?”
Lacey snorted. “To get something, you have to give something, Nigel. So give. Your visit is related to her stolen jewels, am I right?”
“It’s rather more complicated than that.” Griffin rubbed his jaw.
“You knew the late Mrs. Ashton too?”
“Yeah, he did, Lacey, he told me all about it,” Stella blurted out. “Nigel knew her, but not in the, you know, biblical sense.”
“Not in the ‘biblical sense’? Meaning there was no Bible in the motel room?”
Nigel rushed to smooth the waters. “Smithsonian, whatever you think of me, we do need to know what happened. Cecily Ashton’s body was found in a parking lot where you were taking a PI class. You’re in a position to know. Why was she there?”
“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” Lacey wondered what his angle was. Stella looked anxiously from Griffin to Lacey, nibbling on the last piece of cinnamon toast.
“I’ll make some more,” Stella squeaked. She scurried back into the kitchen and started clattering pots and pans.
Lacey picked up her article and studied the picture of Cecily. “I don’t know why she was there. She never got in touch after the interview. She was already dead when I saw her.” She smiled knowingly. “Why don’t you ask your old buddy Kepelov?”
“Kepelov? Kepelov was there?” Nigel’s eyes widened in surprise. He sat down with a plop. Lacey wondered if the surprise was genuine. Griffin was such a liar, it was hard to tell.
“Didn’t you know? But you two are thick as thieves, right? Underscore thieves.”
“No, no, not thieves,” Nigel insisted weakly. Lacey had knocked him completely off balance. “Far as I know, he’s a retriever like me. A freelance finder of lost objects of value.
What with the KGB out of business and all. He was there? I had no idea.” Griffin picked up his coffee cup. It was empty. He laughed nervously. “Kepelov is always in the thick of things. Funny old Bolshevik, isn’t he? That’s brilliant, just brilliant. So is he a suspect?”
“Says he has an alibi,” Lacey said. “And he’s quite the capitalist these days. He’ll be happy to see you, Griffin. Maybe we should have let him shoot you that time in Paris.”
“It was New Orleans.” Griffin’s coffee cup rattled on his saucer. “And he wasn’t serious about that.”
“Don’t tease him, Lacey, he’s sensitive about being shot at. Now Nigel, you have to be completely honest with Lacey.” Stella poured him a fresh cup of coffee.
“I am the soul of honesty, my dearest Stella.” He took the coffee, his hands shaking. “It’s true, I’m surprised Kepelov is still a man about town here. We are not thick as thieves, as you put it. Our partnership never really bore fruit. Well, you were there, weren’t you?”
Nigel had never been straight with Lacey about his relationship with Kepelov. The equation kept shifting: partners, mortal enemies, both. First Nigel didn’t know the notorious ex-KGB spy, except by reputation. Then they were deadly competitors. Then, surprise, suddenly they’re partners, working together all along. Then they weren’t. They had been after a fabulous fictitious Fabergé egg. They thought Smithsonian knew where it was hidden.
“I was there, and I was way ahead of you,” Lacey said, though she knew it was partly just luck. And the blessing of good intentions.
“You were indeed, and that’s why I come, hat in hand, begging for stray scraps of information from the intrepid Lacey Smithsonian.” Griffin was back in his charming mode. Must be Stella’s coffee. “And so Gregor Kepelov was on the crime scene too. We must get in touch. Well, here’s to the old bolshie. Never burn the bridge all the way to the ground, I say.” He topped off his coffee with milk and added three teaspoons of sugar. “Kepelov has always been in search of rare antiquities, interesting artifacts, or the rare Russian jewel, as you may recall. Sometimes he finds them first, sometimes I do. And every so often we’ve thrown in our lot together. All is fair in love and jewels.”
“So collaborating with jewel thieves is part of your job description as an insurance investigator?”
“Jewel retriever. Please!” Griffin looked unperturbed. “And the job is my own, uniquely tailored to my unique skills. Besides, my clients are happy with my work.”
“Because you just make it up as you go along.” Lacey sipped Stella’s coffee. It was quite good. Coffee was always better, Lacey thought, when someone else made it.
“Children, children,” Stella chided them. “Stop squabbling, the both of you, or there’ll be no more cinnamon toast for you.”
“But that is not the matter at hand,” Griffin said. “Sorry, Stella, for being peevish. I’m a man in pain. This no-ciggies-with -my-coffee thing is agony.”
“And what is the matter at hand?” Lacey wondered how much of her precio
us Sunday this would use up.
“You have something unusual, Smithsonian, even unique. Something I admire.”
Stella opened the broiler and checked her second batch of cinnamon toast. “Fashion clues, Lacey. I’ve been telling him how you got that EFP thing going on for you. You know, your extra-fashionary perception.”
Lacey studied the coffee in her cup, trying not to laugh. “Whatever you call it,” Nigel said, “what does it tell you about her death?”
“Nothing. Yet. Tell me why you’re so interested in Cecily Ashton.”
“It’s pure business, Lacey.” Stella brought her freshly toasted cinnamon concoctions to the table. “His company insured Cecily Ashton.”
Aha! Here’s the angle. “But so little was taken,” Lacey pointed out. “Relative to the size of her fortune. So is it really such a big deal?”
“My firm has a reputation to uphold,” Griffin sniffed. “Cecily Ashton is very high profile, or she was. The objects stolen were unique. Historically significant. And of course, it would be a coup for me to recover the stolen goods. Never underestimate personal gain as a motivation, you know.”
“There’s more, or you wouldn’t be here. Look, Nigel, I can’t share if you won’t share.” Not that she had anything to share with him anyway.
“Nigel’s job is on the line,” Stella cut in. “His reputation is at stake.” Lacey raised an eyebrow at that.
“You might as well know. God knows you might suss it out with a fashion clue. The way I button my shirt might scream unemployed. Ashton’s demanding I be sacked.”
“Because he hasn’t found the jewels. You see, Lacey, Nigel’s reputation is a double-edged sword thing, he’s that good,” Stella added.
“Old Ashton thinks I should have wrapped it up by now. Of all the lunatic things, he thinks I might have staged the burglary, or be an accomplice.”
“Is there more?” Losing his job? Now she understood Griffin humbling himself before her. He looked miserable. Even Lacey could see he needed a cigarette.
“Um, yes. Certain people may be under the impression that we had a sort of intimate relationship. Cecily and I.”
“Tell me again how you’re a reformed man slut?”
“Like I said, Lacey,” Stella intervened. “He’s not a man slut anymore, and he didn’t sleep with her. I’d know. I’m like a bloodhound on the scent of lost relationships. Hey, maybe I should blog that.” Her pink-tipped fingers waved a piece of toast, spilling cinnamon and sugar all over the table. “This is the real deal. She threatened to get another insurance company if he didn’t do the deed with her. Honest. Swear to God.”
“But you didn’t have an affair with her? Why not? And let’s skip over the ‘I’m a new man’ stuff.”
“Cecily, lovely though she was, could be unpredictable. Unstable. Unattractively unstable.” Nigel reddened. He looked very embarrassed. “A little scary, let us say. As well as a bit of an emotional blackmailer.”
Lacey paradoxically felt a sudden rush of sympathy for poor Cecily. Her looks were her main lure for men’s attention, and when that didn’t work, Cecily dangled money and power in front of them. How desperate she must have been, for so many things she couldn’t buy. But good grief, she thought, what bad taste in men she had!
“What was the most valuable thing taken?” Lacey asked.
“Rita Hayworth’s makeup case, no question,” Nigel said. “A one-of-a-kind case made by Louis Vuitton for a star of the silver screen? Difficult to even put a price on it, it might go for any amount at auction. Commissioned by Orson Welles before he married Hayworth. Her second husband, I believe. The case has secret compartments, specially made perfume bottles, all sorts of expensive little details. A unique history. A very exciting piece.” The jewel retriever in him was very excited. “And that perfect strand of natural round pearls tucked into the hidden compartment makes it really quite priceless.”
“I’ve only seen it in photographs,” Lacey said.
“I saw it in Philadelphia. I vetted the security arrangements for the company when it was exhibited there. It’s exquisite. What a find it would be.”
Lacey was familiar with other types of antique cases, but the Vuitton Rita Hayworth case clearly was the most exotic and ingenious. Lacey’s Aunt Mimi had left her Lacey’s great-grandmother’s vanity set from the 1920s. It was a black leather case with all the necessities a lady would require while traveling, fitted combs and brushes and mirrors, jars for hand and face creams, a compact for rouge, drawers for her jewelry. Each piece was accented with silver and mother-of-pearl and set against the blue satin lining.
Lacey loved to play with the set as a child, fitting the pieces together like a puzzle, lovingly memorizing every piece. The vanity set now decorated her dresser. She treasured it, with all its bottles and brushes and pretty compacts. The Rita Hayworth makeup case with its tooled red leather and brass fittings would be something to see.
“What do you want from me, Griffin? I don’t have it. I know who Cecily said took it, but I don’t have any evidence.”
“Philip Clark Ashton?” Nigel shook his head. “I know he’s everyone’s obvious suspect, but use your imagination, Smithsonian.”
“Your EFP, Lacey,” Stella added helpfully.
Lacey wanted to smack them both. Then it dawned on her. “You don’t think Cecily burglarized her own home? Why? To blame it on her ex-husband? Out of spite?”
“First prize! To keep Philip from taking the things back from her somehow. And to entangle me with her. Or both.”
“Oh please, Griffin! All the world revolves around you!”
“Scoff if you want, Smithsonian. That very curious and priceless assortment of very sentimental items went missing, and Cecily came calling on me.”
“So? You’re the big jewel retriever, right? For her insurance company?”
“In my opinion, the makeup case is not really missing at all. The phony burglary was just a lure to get me involved.” Nigel stood up. Stella stood by him and took his hand.
“You see, Lacey, Nigel thinks she’s hidden the loot somewhere. But now the insurance company might have to cut a very large check. Like I said, Nigel’s job and reputation are on the line. And his freedom. He’s a suspect!”
“You’re a suspect in the burglary? Or in her death?” Lacey thought this was getting clearer and muddier at the same time.
“Take your pick. I’ve had a little chat with the police.” He pressed his lips together. “I have an alibi, but they don’t like it and there are things they’re not telling me. Cops are like that, I know, but—”
“Why would you be a suspect, Nigel?” Lacey half held her breath. “Did you kill Cecily Ashton?”
“Of course not! Don’t be absurd. You don’t think I’d come to you if I did it! I didn’t kill Cecily. Or burglarize her. I didn’t kill anyone.”
“Come on, Lacey,” Stella said. “You know Nigel can’t even defend himself in a fistfight.”
“Thank you, Stella darling,” Nigel replied. “Not quite the rousing defense of my character I was hoping for.”
“Cecily wasn’t in a fistfight, Nigel, she was shot.” Lacey put her index finger to the side of her head. “Right here.”
“Smithsonian,” he pleaded. “Lacey. I had no earthly reason to kill her.”
“Then why are the police looking at you?”
“Ah.” Griffin paused and took a deep breath. “My own fault. My old reputation as a ‘man slut.’ My word is considered slightly less reliable than a gentleman might hope. And my alibi for the day of the murder is considered a bit weak.”
“So you did have an affair with her.”
“I did not, swear to God, but she hung on me, she made a fuss over me, she led people to believe we were together. And we’d had a rather loud confrontation over the burglary. I made the mistake of suggesting it was a very inside job. She threw a Jimmy Choo shoe at me. A stiletto. She could have put my eye out. Unfortunately, this unpleasantness was witnessed by the hou
sekeeper.”
“When did this happen?”
“Two days before she was killed.”
“And your alibi?”
“I was driving to Richmond yesterday, all by myself, to take in the museum down there. And to see about some possible professional connections, should I need them. The museum has a lovely little collection of Fabergé items from the Romanovs. I have a professional interest.”
“Honest, he was, Lacey,” Stella said. “That’s why we could all go to the range together last night for girls’ night out, ’cause I didn’t have a hot date with Nigel.”
Stella’s expression held far too much naive faith. Lacey felt her own doubts must be written all over her face. She’d have to cut that out, it would make wrinkles.
“Just what do you expect me to do?”
“I don’t know how you suss these things out, Smithsonian, but you do, so I need to know if you come up with something. I don’t even care if it’s one of those famous-yet-ludicrous fashion clues, or your EFP, I just want to know what it is. And in my fondest dreams, I dream that you might bring this fashion clue to me before you show it to anyone else. For the sake of all the good times we’ve shared.”
“For the sake of the jewels?”
“For the sake of truth and justice, let’s say.”
“Keep dreaming, Griffin.” This scoop is mine.
Griffin reached for the toast plate. “Oh, and while you’re at it, why not find the killer too and get us all off the hook?” He had the audacity to smirk at her while munching the last piece of cinnamon toast.
The sunshine was so bright Lacey reached for her sunglasses. But the air was frosty, so she buttoned up and picked up the pace. After the dynamic duo finally left her apartment she walked down to King Street in Old Town Alexandria to clear her head, telling herself if only she could think about something else, she would feel better. She needed to get her mind off the late Cecily Ashton.
It was fashion, as usual, that diverted her. It was the middle of winter and yet the little dress shop in Old Town was featuring sleeveless dresses. On behalf of women everywhere, Lacey cursed the sleeveless state of style. When was the last time, she wondered, there were actual sleeves for women? Somewhere around 1987?
Armed and Glamorous Page 11
