Armed and Glamorous

by Ellen Byerrum

  “I understand the boys in blue are pressing Bud Hunt pretty hard.” Vic heard it through the grapevine, all the way out at his convention in California. Hunt wasn’t the kind of private investigator to go to PI conventions, but many people there knew him, or knew of him, and bad news travels fast. It made a good cautionary tale about getting involved with your clients.

  Hunt was one of the few quarters in the Ashton murder that hadn’t been heard from. Lacey pulled the covers up. “So is he really a serious suspect, or do they just want to lean on him? He was a little busy with our class yesterday morning. Although I don’t know exactly when the murder happened, and Hunt left the room for quite a while, so maybe he had an opportunity.”

  “Shooting a woman you’ve been involved with and leaving her sitting in your own parking lot? Hardly the work of a smart or seasoned killer, or a PI with half a brain. My guess: Either Hunt’s alibi is weak and the cops are pounding on it just because that’s what cops do for lack of a better suspect, or they’re misleading whoever might have framed Hunt for the hit. That’s pretty subtle for cops. I know ’cause I was one, but it’s possible.”

  “So maybe they’re looking at the ex-husband, but they want him to think Hunt’s the main suspect for now?”

  “Could be.”

  Lacey paused. “I forgot to tell you about the comic relief.

  Gregor Kepelov and Nigel Griffin. It just keeps getting better, sweetheart.”

  “Those knuckleheads? The Two Stooges?” His voice shifted subtly. “They’re involved in this thing?”

  “Kepelov is teaching surveillance for Hunt. Seems to have an alibi.”

  “Hunt must be hard up for instructors.”

  “Oh, and Damon Newhouse followed me to school. I’m his alibi.”

  “He’s the Third Stooge.” This time Vic laughed. “Your little shadow.”

  “More like a big dark cloud. But Brooke loves him, so maybe we’re both wrong about him.” Lacey and Vic both laughed. Neither one thought they were wrong about Newhouse. “And it turns out Griffin was the insurance investigator for Ashton’s insurer, or one of them. He was involved in the burglary investigation. He thinks she stole her own jewelry to lure him into her bed somehow and pin it on her ex. Don’t laugh yet, Vic, there’s more. Griffin says the burglary was strictly amateur hour, but he can’t find a lead on the stolen jewels, so that proves it was obviously Cecily who burgled herself to seduce him, poor Nigel, who is as pure as the driven snow, because he was saving himself for Stella. So it’s all about Nigel.”

  “It’s good to see Nigel’s ego is intact.” Vic was amused. “But Cecily Ashton sounds like a complete mess. Does he have a clue who might have bumped her off?”

  “No, but he’s very interested. He’s sure he’s a suspect but swears he didn’t do it. His job is also on the line. Ashton wants Griffin fired for possibly colluding with Cecily on the burglary, but mostly for sleeping with Cecily, I think, which as I said, he denies. And it gets better. Or worse. Stella and Nigel are back together.”

  “She didn’t get enough of him the first time?”

  “What can I say? She’s susceptible to his dubious charms. I’m trying not to freak out about it and drive them closer together. I’m counting on her short attention span when it comes to the opposite sex. And counting on Nigel to do something really stupid.”

  “What’s Nigel doing with himself at the moment?”

  “I don’t know, but he seems very nervous, underneath the smarmy patter.” Their morning visit replayed in her head. The cinnamon toast was by far the best part.

  “Wait a minute, you’ve seen the two of them together? You didn’t just get all this from Stella?”

  “I’ve seen the Nigel and Stella show, live and in person. They popped in on me this morning. Wiped out all the charitable feelings I got at church and then some. Made themselves right at home. It was pretty darned domestic.”

  “Sorry I missed it.”

  “So am I.” She could imagine Vic ejecting his old friend the Brit Twit from the premises. It made her smile. “If you’d been here, Vic, he’d have sent Stella alone, as his emissary. Do you think Nigel is capable of murder?”

  “Lacey, honey, everyone is capable of killing, given the right circumstances.”

  “Yeah, I was afraid you’d say that.” Nigel Griffin gave an impression of being so mild and bumbling, charmingly so when he tried. Could that act hide a calculating killer? What did he really want from Lacey? What he said he wanted, inside information on the investigation, as if she had any? Or something else? Or to mislead her? She closed her eyes and thought about asking Mac for a personal day off tomorrow. No, he wouldn’t let me off the hook.

  One of the tourist cruise ships was making its way down the river, festive white lights outlining the vessel. Lacey had never been on one of the Potomac dinner cruises. She wondered if it would be romantic, like the Bateau Mouche she and Vic had ridden up and down the Seine in Paris, or would it be just another Washington tourist trap. She really missed Vic. His voice on the phone was not enough.

  “Griffin wants to know everything I know,” she said.

  “He couldn’t know half of what you know, darling.”

  “Sweet talker. On the positive side, Stella tells me he’s now a reformed man slut.”

  “ ‘Man slut’? The things you women talk about.”

  “I’d rather be talking with you.” Lacey suppressed a giggle. “And maybe not talking with you.”

  Vic laughed, but she could hear the frustration in his voice. “Do you think you can stay one jump ahead of this mess, until I get home? I’ll be back in a couple of days, after the conference.” His voice was like honey and rum, seeping down her spine and through her veins and over her nerves, so soothing and sexy. She closed her eyes and saw his face, his green eyes under dark brows, his strong jaw.

  “I always do take care, don’t I?” It was a bit of a lie, but a soothing one. She tried to stay out of these messy stories, but somehow they followed her and grabbed hold of her, like quicksand.

  “Stay safe, Lacey. And do me a favor and think carefully about whether you really want a concealed carry permit. If you want to do it, we’ll do it together. Anyway, we need some more range time.”

  “Of course I’ll think about it, Vic, honey.” After all, I’m practically Annie Freakin’ Oakley after our girls’ night out at the range.

  “And Lacey—”

  “Yes, Vic?”

  “Why don’t you take a trip through Aunt Mimi’s trunk tonight?”

  “Are you making fun of me?”

  “Not me,” he laughed. “You and that trunk have some kind of magical connection. Anyway, darling, it helps you sleep. When I’m not around to rub your shoulders. And other things.”

  They said good night. A trip through the trunk was tempting, but Lacey thought she owed Brooke and her Pink Collar Crew a little homework time. She pulled the Code out of her bag and opened its black leatherette cover. Good camouflage, she thought. It looked like a very dull legal document.

  The first page was the executive summary, followed by the index. Trust Brooke to include an executive summary for a secret code! And an index! And a glossary. And illustrative usage examples. Brooke suggested using the acronym PCC, for “Pink Collar Code,” or the phrase “pretty cute curls,” as a signal that the conversation should slip unobtrusively into the Code.

  Lacey read the summary and started to turn the pages, but she found it was putting her right to sleep. In person, Brooke could be endlessly amusing, but on paper she wrote like a lawyer, even a lawyer writing a wacky secret code. This really was a dull legal document. Lacey closed the cover. She would try to wing it if Brooke or Stella ever hit her with a pop quiz. Vic’s suggestion was much more to her liking. The siren song of Aunt Mimi’s trunk was calling her.

  The trunk was a treasure trove of vintage clothing and patterns and fashion memorabilia, most of it from the Thirties and Forties. It was packed with fabrics and half-finished ou
tfits in various stages of completion, all preserved in pristine condition along with their patterns. The trunk stood sentry in her living room, doubling as her coffee table. She cleared away magazines and candles, unbuckled the leather straps with their brass fittings, and gently lifted the lid.

  As Vic said, Lacey and Aunt Mimi’s trunk had an almost magical connection. She loved to wander through it, touching the fabric, feeling the past come alive in her hands, full of textures and colors and memories. It made her feel almost as if she were visiting with her late great-aunt, her favorite relative, soaking up the wisdom and the worldview of another era. Besides clothes and fabrics, Mimi saved letters and photographs and the occasional old magazine article. Her great-aunt’s personal time capsule always calmed her. Lacey found strength and clarity in it, two things she needed at the moment. Sometimes the trunk seemed to let the busy unfinished thoughts of the day tumble into place, like shaking the pieces of a puzzle and seeing a picture start to emerge.

  She loved the clothes too. These clothes from the past seemed to be meant for Lacey, as if Mimi had unconsciously collected them in her youth to save for her yet-unborn great-niece. Some of them had come to Lacey’s aid when she needed them, like her favorite black Gloria Adams suit with its neatly tailored lines, and the spectacular Gloria Adams dress that Lacey had resurrected from the designer’s patterns and sketches and a few key scraps of fabric. The only thing missing, Lacey often thought, was a sack of gold doubloons.

  Maybe she’d find them waiting for her, at the bottom of the trunk.

  She reached into a corner and pulled out a small white paper sack she had scarcely peeked at before. It held a heather green wool crepe, soft and heavy, a lovely piece of fabric, and the pattern Mimi had selected for it. The sketch on the package featured a smartly tailored jacket with patch pockets and strong but not outlandish shoulders, from the early 1940s, Lacey guessed from the style. Mimi also included a handwritten note, with a faded color photograph clipped from a magazine. The note said this jacket would “look smashing” with wool trousers in cream or light tan and her “new plaid scarf.” Lacey agreed. This, she decided, might be her next project. She wondered about Mimi’s plaid scarf. Maybe it was in there somewhere too.

  Lacey lifted the note to look at the photograph: A smiling movie star, wearing a very similar jacket over a silky white blouse. Mimi often took her fashion inspiration from the movies. She loved the styles of the golden age of Hollywood, the era of her own youth, and Lacey too loved the glamour of that long-ago era.

  The flame-haired actress in the tailored jacket was Rita Hayworth, standing in her dressing room at a movie studio. On the table in front of the makeup mirror stood the one-of-a -kind Louis Vuitton case. Around her neck she wore a string of large, round, perfect pearls.

  Are you trying to tell me something, Mimi?

  Chapter 18

  “Hey, Lois Lane, what’s your angle on the Ashton murder?”

  Police reporter Tony Trujillo jumped on the elevator just as the door was closing. He gave a nod to her outfit and gazed at Lacey expectantly. She gave him a look and said nothing.

  “Nice outfit, Smithsonian. Take no prisoners. Putting Clark Kent in his place today?”

  “Today and every day, Tony.”

  “I’ve been warned.”

  Lacey thought this day might call for aggressive, don’tmess -with-me dressing. She pulled out Mimi’s deep red suit and curled her hair to fall in 1940s waves around her shoulders. She finished her outfit with a faux pearl choker, bright red lipstick, and a deadly look in her eye. The only accessories she was missing were Wonder Woman’s magic bracelets.

  The suit fit Lacey like a dream. The jacket was tailored close to her body for a perfect hour-glass silhouette, and she blessed the designer for that illusion. Deep red velvet cuffs on the sleeves were folded back to reveal large covered buttons, marking the suit as fashioned by a seamstress, not a factory. The wartime clothing restrictions under which Lacey’s Aunt Mimi had chafed outlawed such things as French cuffs and excess material. Fabric was needed by the men and women at the front, not meant for such fripperies as covered buttons.

  “Have a nice weekend, Tony?”

  “Sure. Nice quiet weekend. No one even called me to tip me off to the murder of the month. Possibly the murder of the year, but then it’s only January.” He leaned against the elevator door and crossed his arms. “But why tip off the poor hardworking senior police reporter at your own newspaper? Why not just keep the murder of the year for yourself? Must be a fashion angle in it somewhere, right, Lois Lane?”

  “You snooze, you lose,” she smiled at him. “I did call it in, and Shirley gave it to Kavanaugh. Since when did you want to work weekends, Trujillo?

  “Since the craziest rich socialite in Washington got whacked. Any theories?”

  “No, I’m done with Cecily Ashton,” she lied. “I did my little feature. The fabulous closets, remember? And I haven’t been talking to the cops, like you have.”

  “You’re not done, Smithsonian. Mac wants a follow-up.”

  She shrugged. Elegantly, she hoped. Lacey had only the vaguest idea of where to go with the story, at least on a fashion level. An allegedly unknown fabric in a missing makeup case that once belonged to Rita Hayworth. Volunteer suspects. The upcoming museum exhibit. Bud Hunt. The ex-husband. Mind control. She didn’t know where to start.

  “You’re not sharing a thing, are you?” Trujillo said glumly.

  “I haven’t even had my coffee yet, Tony.”

  “Enough said.” He backed off. “We’ll talk later. Over coffee. ” The elevator doors opened and Trujillo strutted his cowboy boots toward the corner of the office that belonged to the police reporters. Female heads turned as he walked by. His olive skin and seductive smile worked on nearly everyone, but it didn’t work on Lacey.

  She turned in the other direction. She was relieved to see her own corner of the newsroom was empty, including the desk across the aisle from hers. It belonged to Felicity Pickles, the food editor. If only she could have a few minutes and a cup of coffee to herself before life—and Mac—came roaring at her like a locomotive.

  “Smithsonian!” Too late. “Editorial quality meeting this morning.”

  “Good morning to you too, Mac.”

  Her editor’s brow was furrowed, his eyebrows undulating.

  Mac meant business. His café au lait complexion matched the coffee in his cup. “Upstairs conference room. Now. You’re on the list.”

  “Editorial quality? Me?” She groaned audibly. “What have I done now?”

  “You, me, and everybody else in Editorial. Another damned content quality meeting. Don’t blame me, I hate the whole thing. Blame our publisher, Claudia.”

  Lacey reluctantly gathered her notebook and pen. She grabbed a cup of the early morning sludge (not quite fully burnt) that the staff kitchen called coffee and trudged upstairs. Trujillo fell in beside her with his own mug of steaming sludge.

  “I thought you were too slick to get caught in one of these roundups,” she said.

  “Mac used his cattle prod,” Tony said. “If you want to make a break for freedom, I’m with you. Wanna light out for the border?”

  “The border of where? Maryland? Don’t tempt me.” Lacey felt a scowl creeping over her face. She tried to erase it, but it was a losing battle. She focused her mind elsewhere. The basics: means, motive, opportunity. Who could have killed Cecily Ashton. Who wanted her dead. Who was there and did the deed.

  “Man, I totally forgot about this meeting,” Tony said. “I don’t have time for this crap, I have a murder to work.”

  “I never filed it in my brain in the first place.”

  “There was a massive company-wide edict by e-mail.”

  “That explains it.”

  The meeting had already started when they arrived. They signed the attendance sheet with a growl. The Eye’s reporters weren’t the kind of people who respond to group-think and team-building exercises. They couldn’t
deal with hug therapy, trendy business speak, and big egos, and they especially hated being dragged into endless meetings to be indoctrinated with the half-baked management mantra of the month. They just wanted to be left alone to do their work. Lacey and Trujillo looked for seats near the door.

  Unfortunately, the only seats left were near the moderator, Jeff Dryden, one of the business reporters. Dryden had bought into all the current upper management-speak. This month’s buzz phrase was “editorial quality,” which meant management thought there weren’t enough readers and it was time, once again, to blame the reporters.

  Dryden had big round grayish eyes and a bowl haircut. He wore a crisp white shirt and pressed gray slacks. Lacey suspected his mother dressed him. He was talking about “quality content,” whatever that was supposed to mean. It seemed to Lacey management’s idea of improving content usually meant simply removing content.

  It isn’t “content,” Lacey wanted to scream. It’s NEWS, damn it! News! Stories, articles, columns, opinions. People want to get the news. They don’t get up in the morning and run out to get the “content.”

  Dryden invited the copy editors to get the ball rolling. They were busy complaining about everything the reporters did wrong. Copy editors: the forgotten wallflowers of journalism. They never get out of the office to tango one on one with the ever-changing dance of the news, the way reporters do. Copy editors and reporters at The Eye Street Observer, as at most newspapers, were locked in an age-old rivalry. Reporters considered copy editors merely failed reporters. Copy editors considered reporters something far worse: failed writers.

  Lacey thought their editing at The Eye routinely betrayed this jealousy. Some of them vengefully removed context and nuance and added commas and hyphens, all without the responsibility that came with the byline. The copy editor’s mantra, per Lacey’s observation: A successful story? Thank the copy editor. A failure? Blame the reporter! I’m in purgatory, she thought.