Armed and Glamorous

by Ellen Byerrum

  “Why him?”

  “Hadley believes Cecily was there at the school looking for him, to apologize.”

  “She knew he would be there? And apologize for what?”

  “They had some sort of spat in front of his mind control support group. But he also thinks there’s a chance she was already dead. Maybe the Feds put the body in the car in the lot? Maybe they concocted the whole crime scene specifically to frame him? They might even have gotten his fingerprints somehow and transferred them to the car.”

  “Oh, please, Brooke! Impossible.”

  Always unwise to tell Brooke something was impossible. “Not if they kidnapped him, knocked him out, and transferred his prints to latex gloves so someone wearing them would leave Hadley’s prints,” she said. “They probably implanted a chip in him while they were at it, GPS or something similar.”

  “If his prints are on the car, maybe there’s a simpler explanation, ” Lacey protested. “Like maybe he killed her?” Hadley didn’t seem the type, Lacey thought, but then, who did? “He could be laying the groundwork for his defense by speaking with you. An insanity defense.”

  “Maybe.” Brooke scowled. “I don’t like that idea.”

  “No, it’s much better to have an enormous government conspiracy that Damon can crack wide open and save the free world.” Lacey rubbed her forehead. The headache started pinging around inside her cranium again. Maybe that was part of the conspiracy too. If they can put voices in your head, what else can they put in there? Ball bearings?

  “Don’t be snide. And remember, Hadley had a public fight with her.”

  “Public how? You said it was just among their little group,” Lacey pointed out.

  “Public is public,” Brooke insisted. She looked around cautiously. “And if they really are victims of what they say they are, they’re under constant surveillance.”

  “Hadley said she was ‘one of us.’ Meaning one of them, people like him?”

  “She didn’t quite join the group, which has been lobbying Congress to legislate against mind control. As I understand it, she wanted to meet more people with the same problem, hearing voices. She met Hadley there. But when Hadley pushed her to go public, she freaked out. She didn’t want to be openly associated with a bunch of, quote, lunatics, because she was already trying to live down her crazy reputation. There was a scene. Was this woman difficult, or what?”

  Dim sunlight filtered through the windows, giving the coffee shop a soft glow. Lacey watched shadows of people on the street, passing by in sweet anonymity. Or were they part of Hadley’s conspiracy, always watching themselves, always listening to voices no one else could hear?

  “When you hear voices, what’s worse?” Lacey asked. “Thinking you’re simply crazy? Or thinking the government is after you? No one wants to believe you’re losing your mind all alone. Better to be a victim of someone else. And then you might find other victims to share it with.” Lacey could understand Cecily grasping at straws, reaching out to other people with the same problem, then running headlong into a bigger problem. “But what if the other victims suddenly want you to be their poster girl?”

  “Right. She thought he was after her money and connections. ” Brooke jotted down another Roman numeral on her notebook full of neatly printed notes. They were becoming complex. She underlined a note and added a footnote. A footnote. Lacey couldn’t help but be impressed.

  “She didn’t need her voices to tell her that.”

  “That’s the gist of it.” Brooke put the notebook down, but she dotted her point in the air with her pen. “And then there was the question of the fabric.”

  “What fabric?” Lacey hadn’t heard anything about fabric. It caught her by surprise, and she noted Brooke’s look of satisfaction. “Okay, spill it, Brooke. I’m clueless. You don’t have to smirk.”

  “Do too! Gotcha!” Brooke laughed, and Lacey laughed too, in spite of herself. “There’s some sort of project to develop a mysterious fabric. Something unlike anything else available anywhere. Supposedly it can deflect the electromagnetic rays the government—or whoever it is—was broadcasting into her brain. To block the voices.”

  “Thank goodness! This is where the tinfoil in the hat comes in!”

  Lacey imagined a feature article, or maybe a “Crimes of Fashion” column, with artists’ renderings of the latest styles in tinfoil hats. Aluminum dunce hats with shiny cones, chic chapeaus with shimmering veils of aluminum, and of course snappy silver fedoras with gleaming antennas stuck in the band like feathers. All of it a symphony in crinkled cooking wrap, a love song to American industry and ingenuity.

  “Sorry. No tinfoil. The foil-lined hat as a radiation shield is falling out of fashion among mind-control victims,” Brooke said. There goes my feature article, Lacey thought. Not that Mac would buy it anyway. “Apparently it’s being developed by someone who worked for some research institution. I don’t know the whole story, so don’t quote me.”

  “We’re not in quotable territory here, Brooke,” Lacey said. “Believe me. We’re off the map.”

  “The goal was a lightweight, wearable material to protect the wearer from electromagnetic radiation. Lots of applications there. Medicine, research, nuclear power, the military. And of course the ozone layer is disappearing, so we may all need this stuff soon to keep from getting fried by the sun’s UV rays.”

  “This research scientist, is he legitimate?”

  “Who knows?” Brooke said. “A mad scientist with a pet project? My favorite kind.”

  “Would someone kill for this fabric?” Lacey asked. Brooke shrugged and put down her pen.

  A brand-new fabric would be a very interesting story, a new kind of fashion angle. Lacey tried to remember the last time a truly new fabric had been introduced. Rayon was invented in the 1920s. Nylon was introduced in 1938, a year after its inventor killed himself. Kevlar, invented by a woman, was patented in the 1960s, Gore-Tex for rainwear in the 1970s. Polypropylene fleece made from recycled pop bottles in the 1990s: warm, but not particularly stylish.

  A new cloth, whatever its original purpose, whether for the military or for mind-control victims, might have a fashion application. Lacey wondered what this stuff might feel like. Could it even be attractive? Designers would make clothes out of anything for shock value: gold coins, liquid latex, credit cards. Was it workable, was it light or heavy, scratchy or smooth, did it drape and fold, was it woven from some kind of natural fiber or something concocted out of chemicals in a test tube? What would it take to develop such a fabric, and where might it lead?

  “Maybe this conversation has possibilities, Brooke.”

  “Maybe this researcher had a serious project, went looking for money, and found Cecily Ashton,” Brooke said. “Or maybe she found him. Hadley doesn’t know.”

  “And then she found Hadley’s tinfoil-hat people.”

  “I thought lining your hat with aluminum foil was some sort of urban myth, but Hadley says some victims really do it,” Brooke said. “They’ll try anything, the voices can be so overwhelming. An ex-FBI agent I know tells me people call the Bureau regularly to complain about aliens or the government bombarding their brains with secret rays. He used to tell them to line their hats with Reynolds Wrap, just to get them off the phone. But Hadley says a recent study shows aluminum foil can actually increase the transmission of electromagnetic radiation to your brain. Makes a better antenna than a shield.”

  “So much for fashion advice from the FBI,” Lacey noted.

  “The real question,” Brooke went on, “is why would the government target these people? They aren’t politicians or scientists, most of them aren’t even very interesting, and the voices don’t say much of anything meaningful. It seems like pure harassment.”

  Lacey sighed and swirled the last of the chocolate in her cup. “The problem with any conspiracy theory, Brooke, is that no one, especially in the government, can keep that kind of secret. Secrets get out. People talk, they brag, they talk to reporters, they
write blogs. For heaven’s sake, they put it on YouTube.”

  A strong breeze signaled the door opening. The coffee shop was filling up with hearty bicyclists, no doubt fresh from a trip down the bike path to Mount Vernon, in search of hot fuel laced with caffeine.

  “And yet every single day, a new secret is born.”

  “Okay, Brooke, so where is this alleged magical mystery fabric?”

  “You didn’t know about that either?” Brooke’s face lit up again. She loved knowing something Lacey didn’t. “Cecily Ashton had the only known sample. It was taken in her odd little burglary. The magical mystery fabric is missing.”

  Chapter 16

  “Of course it’s missing!” Lacey felt deflated. The artist’s sketches of hats in her head crumbled into tinfoil dust. “Highly secret stuff is always mysteriously missing, Brooke. It’s missing because it never existed in the first place. Besides, Cecily discussed the burglary with me, but she never mentioned any secret fabric. You know what, Brooke? Not only is it missing, it’s a myth.”

  Sources often left out the most important or the most intriguing part of the story, even with a sympathetic reporter. Lacey knew that. They did it to her all the time. Did Cecily not think the fabric was important enough to mention? Or was she focused that day in her dressing room only on the sentimental items she’d lost, and the mystery fabric didn’t qualify? Or was it all Hadley’s fantasy, destined soon to become an urban myth, courtesy of DeadFed dot com?

  “It exists all right. Hadley may be troubled, but he is very concrete.” Brooke tapped her pen on the table. “And I assume the inventor has the patent information.”

  “How does Hadley know all this?”

  Brooke pointed the pen at Lacey and grinned. “Guess.”

  “Voices in his head? Great. Will they testify for him in court?”

  “No, no, no. Cecily. She told him about it when she was considering hooking up with the victims’ support group. Apparently the mysterious stuff was secured in a special case of hers.”

  Lacey slammed her empty cup down in exasperation. “It was in the Louis Vuitton case? The Rita Hayworth makeup case?” No mystery fabric could possibly compare in her mind with the Rita Hayworth case. “Of course it was! How convenient.”

  “Louis Vuitton? Really?” Brooke dashed off another note in her notebook.

  “Oh, now you’re interested in the old makeup case too?”

  “I have a Vuitton bag or two,” Brooke said. “Or three. I have to dress to impress, as you very well know, and my clients are very impressed with status symbols.”

  “Impressed that they’re getting their money’s worth in a lawyer?”

  “That’s why you’re the fashion expert,” Brooke agreed. “Vuitton is very impressive.”

  One of the cyclists brushed close to Lacey. She noticed his lean and tightly muscled legs encased in bright blue tights, definitely too tight in certain areas. He wore a neon yellow jersey and his aerodynamic bike helmet made him look like an extra in a Flash Gordon movie. He caught her eye and winked. Lacey wondered if that was the sort of protective gear envisioned by the inventor of this mythical fabric, a sleek, skintight, radiation-proof suit. Hollywood always seemed to be saying that in the future everyone would dress like bike messengers. Or else like postapocalyptic zombies. Set my time machine to 1939, please.

  “I read your article,” Brooke said. “On Cecily.”

  “I know.” Lacey put up her hands in surrender. “I’ve already heard it’s a lousy article. It doesn’t even hint that Cecily Ashton would be found dead a week later, suspiciously near where the fashion reporter was taking a private investigator class. How could I have left that part out?” Lacey snorted in disgust. “Good grief, Brooke, do people think I arrange these things?”

  “Getting some feedback, huh?”

  “All I have to say is that I am not a freaking psychic and it was just a fashion article.” Lacey caught people at the table near the window staring at her. She raised an eyebrow at them.

  “I don’t agree with your critics. I thought it was a wonderful look at a troubled woman in pain.” Brooke pulled the article from her purse and unfolded it. “There are lovely details in here, Lacey, telling details. For instance, she says her divorce was difficult and she was no longer in contact with Philip Ashton. But you noted that there is a picture of them together from happier days, that she hasn’t put that picture away or smashed it into pieces. Instead, her fingers stroked the glass, and she seemed to forget you were there. And the moment in her dressing room when she mentioned the burglary? Beautiful.”

  Lacey smiled, relieved. Brooke hadn’t made a dig about the scrawled sketch on the back of the Rita Hayworth photo.

  “I’m not being nice, Lacey. You really captured her regrets, her mixed feelings, the darkness in her life. You even mention, and so delicately I might add, the particular clothes she wore at pivotal moments in her life. Different dresses, different men, different versions of herself. The highs and lows. The older she got, the more daring the décolletage, right up to that shocking little black dress she was wearing when she rode the hood of that police car careening through Georgetown. Each outfit reflected a different state of mind, a different stage in her evolution. You saw her lose herself, dress by dress.”

  “You really got it.” Lacey felt her cheeks flushing pink.

  “You did the impossible—you made the too-rich out-of-control party girl sympathetic. Moving. Even tragic.” Brooke folded the article back precisely into thirds. “And I must say, I’m green with envy over those closets. They sound like a spa and a private club and a magic labyrinth all wrapped up in one.”

  “I left out the part about the safe room. It was supposed to be invincible and impregnable. But it didn’t save her. Or her Louis Vuitton case.”

  “A safe room?!” Brooke’s eyes opened so wide Lacey laughed. “You left out the most important part! Tell me everything.”

  Lacey described the “secret” security features of Cecily’s innermost dressing room, the secret buttons and sliding steel panels, the secure phones to the outside world. Brooke made detailed notes and sketches. Lacey filled Brooke in on her morning too, her editor’s call and the irritating visit from Nigel and Stella.

  “Griffin thinks he’s a suspect. Hunt’s afraid he’s a suspect. Hadley wants to be a suspect,” Brooke said, summing it up. “What fun. Maybe in this case, the more you think you’re a suspect, the more you’re not.”

  “It’s a theory. And don’t forget Edwina Plimpton, she knew her socially. And Kepelov, who knows everyone.”

  “Sleep on it, and Damon and I will do the same. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Lacey slipped on her coat. “And remember, Brooke, Cecily blamed all her troubles on her husband, or ex-husband. And when a woman is murdered, isn’t it always the man?” She stood up to go. “So Ashton is the real suspect.”

  “Spoilsport. You want a lift home?”

  “I’ll walk, thanks. It’s a lovely afternoon.”

  “It’s freezing and I gotta run.” Brooke gulped the last of her chocolate. “Damon and I are meeting to compare notes.”

  “Rock on, Blonde Ammunition. But don’t mention my name.”

  “See you around, Girl Friday. Read the Code.” Brooke tucked her notes into her bag and headed up King Street to her car.

  The afternoon light was softening into deep violet shadows. The colonial town homes looked inviting, with the electric candles glowing softly in their windows, illuminating handsome rooms painted in deep shades of green and red. A few beribboned wreaths from Christmas remained on some of the doors. The aroma of wood smoke perfumed the air. Lacey’s cheeks were pink and she felt energized, but her thoughts were troubled.

  A violent death happens and people want to make sense of it, she realized, and in the process they may see patterns that aren’t there. After mentally sorting through all of Cecily’s other troubles and all the students in her PI class and all the self-announced suspects, one obvious f
act remained. Cecily had been involved in a bitter divorce with a rich and powerful man. Lacey’s own words rang in her ears. When a woman is murdered, isn’t it always the man?

  But which man?

  Chapter 17

  “I miss you like crazy.”

  “I miss you crazier,” Vic said.

  Lacey leaned back against the headboard of her bed. The phone against her ear was a poor substitute for Vic’s presence. She flicked the bedside light off so she could see the moon spill over the river.

  “I wish you were here, Sean Victor Donovan.”

  She felt sorry for herself. It had been an exhausting and unfruitful day. She wasn’t ready for Monday morning and her meeting with her editor.

  “I’ll be there soon, tiger,” he said. “Now tell me what’s been going on. Tell me you’re safe and warm and the police have it under control. Tell me that, even if you’ve gone off half-cocked and you’re skulking through the dark alleys of Washington, D.C., in your one-woman crime crusade to find the killer of the billionaire’s wife. Tell me, Lacey, so I won’t think you’ve grabbed the sword from the stone without me.”

  “You know, if I didn’t know you better, Sean Victor Donovan, I’d say you were making fun of me. I don’t skulk through dark alleys,” she protested, “I strut!” There was a chuckle on the other end of the line. “Okay, I don’t often strut through dark alleys either. Very seldom, in fact. Not that fond of alleys.”

  “Just tell me you’re safe.”

  "Of course I’m safe, cowboy. By the way, how was your presentation?”

  “It went great, but it would have been better if you were there.”

  “That’s sweet of you to say.”

  “You really should be here. No one died. Boring convention, business as usual, I made some new contacts, I have some new clients to see, and I miss you. Okay, now you can tell me what’s going on,” Vic said. “But remember my heart condition.”

  His only heart condition was Lacey, and she knew it. She sank in among the pillows and tallied up today’s annoyances and the rapidly multiplying list of potential murder suspects. Vic didn’t like it, as usual, but he offered a tidbit of information.