Armed and Glamorous

by Ellen Byerrum

  “Not really. I just wanted to ask him, ah, if he’s heard anything new. Or if anything from the burglary has, you know, turned up?”

  “Far as I know, zip. You wanna call him on the road? Call his cell, Lace. He told me not to give out this number, but for you it’s totally okay, ’cause you’re gonna prove he’s innocent, right? So did you check out my blog yet?”

  Right. The blog. “Yeah, that’s some blog. Stellariffic. Gotta go, Stel.” Lacey called Griffin’s secret number. She got his voice mail and left a message telling him to call her back. She knew he wouldn’t.

  Lacey Smithsonian’s

  FASHION BITES

  Shopping Safari: Hunting for the Elusive Little Black Dress

  All you really need is one great Little Black Dress.

  You’ve heard that one before, haven’t you? The perfect LBD will take you anywhere. That’s another fine fashion fib, a style stumper, a clothing conundrum.

  The LBD is a thing of myth, the stuff of urban legend. The perfect little black dress is one you can wear anywhere and everywhere, to dinner, to a cocktail party, for a visit with your grandparents, for a company reception, for a first date with a new guy, for a Big Date with your serious boyfriend, for a wedding. Even to a funeral, in a pinch, if you camouflage it with a black sweater and a pin and a pair of sensible pumps and a tear in your eye. Do you really own one of those perfect dresses? Utterly reliable, never fails, always appropriate? Me neither.

  The Classic Little Black Dress worked for Audrey Hepburn, so why isn’t it working for you and me? Because let me tell you, the real authentic little black dress that works for any occasion is rarer than a Baghdad snow.

  The sad fact is that there is a huge difference between a perfect little black dress designed by Hubert de Givenchy, who designed the iconic dress Audrey Hepburn wore in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and that very imperfect little black dress hanging on the rack in the bargain basement, designed by absolutely no one. Which of those two dresses is the dress you and I are more likely to actually buy? Exactly. Hang that thing back on the rack right this minute!

  What’s the problem? It could be that you are not built like a broomstick. Or Audrey Hepburn. It might be that most little black dresses are simply dresses that are black. They are not necessarily dresses that are black and are well made and will flatter you. Every year the stores are full of garments advertised as the little black dress. And you’ve fallen for them, haven’t you? You’ve fallen for their false promises of sophistication and glamour, not to mention their magical thinning properties.

  Remember, the magic isn’t in the blackness of the dress, it’s in the dress.

  Check out the dresses in your own closet, the dresses you have called, with more hope than truth, your “perfect little black dresses.” Ask yourself, are they really perfect? That one, the one with the cap sleeves that cut across your arm in the wrong place and make you look like Popeye? Or the one with the wildly asymmetrical hemline that looks like it was sewn by a drunken seamstress aboard a storm-tossed tramp steamer? The third contender has that bizarre ruffle at the bottom, or the tie in the back suitable for a second grader, or the bad seams that make you look like an overstuffed sausage about to split its casing. Or, worst of all, the one with the enormous bow in the back, creating a striking bustle effect: For the woman with everything, that bow gives you a little more of it where you need it the least.

  The reality is: It’s a challenge to find that little black dress. And the question is: Are you up for the challenge? This isn’t a sprint, it’s a marathon. It separates the women from the girls. Keep in mind these tips.• Avoid catalogs. The perfect LBD is not hiding in the pages of a catalog, where you can’t get a good look at the material or the seams, or see that the model is wearing a sample size dress that’s been clipped in the back with clothespins to make the thing look like it fits her and has some shape. Chances are you’ll be sprinting to the post office to ship it back. When they ask if the package contains anything hazardous, what are you going to say? Yes, this dress is hazardous to my figure and my self-esteem!

  • The first rule of hunting and gathering the right little black dress is commitment. Commitment to trying on as many black dresses as it takes until you find the one that fits, whether that means two dresses or twenty dresses. You’re looking for the dress that has classic lines, a skirt that is flattering and does not “spring out” in the bottom, straps that stay up, and seams that do not pucker or split. You want a dress that flatters your shape, but is not too tight. You want it to make you look like you, only better.

  • The second rule is: Pace yourself and reward yourself, or you’ll burn out and settle for second best. Rewarding yourself is important after a tough day in the glare of unattractive fluorescent department store lights searching for the mythical perfect dress. Whether it’s a cup of coffee, a cappuccino, a copy of your favorite author’s latest book, or a slick magazine, you deserve a treat.

  • The third rule: When you find it, buy it! If you happen to find the perfect little black dress for you, drop everything and go in for the kill, even if you’re shopping for towels or a bathing suit. You think you’ve spotted it in the wild, now you know where to find it, and you’ll return when you’ve lost those five pounds or have the cash or your hair is looking better? The legendary and elusive perfect LBD will be gone.

  Finally, remember, Constant Shopper, you may have failed today, but you lived to hunt another day. The perfect Little Black Dress is out there, right around the corner, lurking on that next rack. Happy hunting!

  Chapter 29

  “When your pretext becomes your identity twenty-four-seven, you’ve gone undercover,” Bud Hunt was saying. “Some people go there for months. Years. Deep cover requires a different skill set and a whole separate mind-set. You’ve got to have a talent for that kind of work. You either got it or you don’t.”

  Hunt had reappeared from his own undercover mission, whatever it was, and he was holding forth during the Tuesday evening lecture.

  “When you are undercover, you no longer skulk in the shadows. When you have a plausible pretext for being whoever and wherever you are, it is imperative to act like you belong there. When you go undercover, you become so familiar to the subject of your investigations that he or she doesn’t think twice about you. You’re just the guy in the corner pouring drinks, the friend of a friend shooting the bull, the woman balancing the books.”

  Kepelov was nowhere to be seen. Skulking in the shadows, Lacey presumed. Hunt failed to mention his absence at the previous class, or Kepelov’s commandeering the surveillance exercise. If Hunt learned anything from Ashton’s staff, he wasn’t sharing it. Lacey had called Cecily’s housekeeper herself, but the woman wasn’t talking, because, she said, the police had told her not to.

  “Not even reporters?” Lacey had asked her. “Not even reporters who were also friends of Cecily?”

  “Especially not reporters who were Mrs. Ashton’s friends,” the woman replied. “No one. Not even that nice Mr. Edison.” So Simon was trying to find out something too.

  Hunt, on the other hand, might be on closer terms with the staff, having been on closer terms with the mistress of the house. If she were a real D.C. insider, Cecily’s housekeeper would have danced around a bit to see what Lacey might offer her, and then talked “on background.” But she was just a working woman worried about her job.

  Maybe Vic could find out what Hunt knew. Lacey planned to talk with Vic later that evening. She added her question to her long mental list of things to say. It began with, “I’m crazy about you, when the hell are you coming home?”

  “Okay, now you’re undercover. How do you get close to your subject?” Hunt regained her attention. “You become part of your subject’s world. If he bowls, you bowl. If she golfs, you golf. If he sails a boat, you rent the slip next to him. The boat slip thing, by the way, is a perfect way to keep track of somebody’s comings and goings, not to mention the comings and goings of your subject’
s known associates.”

  Willow strolled in late in the middle of his comments and stopped the class dead. Her white-blond hair piled high on her head, she wore sky-high heels, full big-evening makeup, and a close-fitting cherry red dress. It didn’t reveal much skin, but it revealed that there really was a trim female body under all those frumpy sweaters she had been hiding in. Stella strikes again—and hits a home run.

  Edwina Plimpton stared at her. Snake the bounty hunter offered to buy her a drink after class. There was a low wolf whistle from somewhere in the back of the room. Willow ducked her head shyly and sat down next to Lacey.

  “All right, people, quit gawking at the pretty lady,” Hunt demanded. “Are we gonna get through this class tonight or what? Nice dress, by the way.”

  Under her breath, Lacey asked, “What does your new boyfriend think?”

  “He flipped for it.” Willow’s face glowed.

  "As I was saying,” Hunt said, “you have to join their club. Whatever it takes.”

  “Joining the yacht club sounds expensive,” Damon Newhouse said.

  “Depends on the case. Maybe you’re the guy who swabs the deck. Depends on how deep you need to get, how much your client’s willing to pony up.”

  “What kind of cases are we talking about?” Damon asked. “Your client here isn’t necessarily the guy next door, right?”

  “Your client might very well be a city or state government agency with deep pockets, chasing around the world for an embezzler living high on the hog. You may be working with local cops, or maybe a local bounty hunter to conduct the takedown.”

  “Yo.” Snake put two fists in the air. “That’s where I come in.”

  “It takes a certain kind of person who can sustain an identity undercover,” Hunt continued. “Tough to stay focused. Easy to get sucked into your own cover, especially if you’re around drugs and money. For example. But if you’re tough enough, quick enough, creative enough, you might be in line for some interesting work. Money can be good.”

  “Have you ever gone undercover?” Lacey already knew he had been under Cecily’s covers.

  Hunt nodded thoughtfully. “Not really my thing. It can wear you out. When you’re undercover, it’s a whole different ball game. You’re not invisible, you gotta have your pretext down cold, make no mistakes, play the part twenty-four-seven. You might wind up your sleazeball subject’s new best buddy. Home might be months away. That’s tough on a marriage. Anybody here married? Want to get divorced? Working undercover’s a good way to do that.”

  Lacey wondered whether Edwina or Snake or Willow was savvy enough to go undercover. Was she?

  “Sounds like fun.” Edwina sounded like she was making another wager with her bridge club girlfriends. “I’ll take the yacht club assignment, I already know that club.”

  Edwina’s tinkling laugh was interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps pounding down the outside stairs and through the office doors. Hunt stepped out into the reception area, but a uniformed officer pushed right past him into the classroom. Another waited at the classroom door. The lead cop paused for a long moment. The classroom chatter stopped.

  “Falls Church Police. We’re looking for Martin Hadley.”

  All eyes were on Hadley. He looked tired. His face was drawn. He seemed resigned, and perhaps a bit relieved, now that the moment he’d predicted was at hand.

  “I’m Martin Hadley.”

  “If you’ll come with us, sir,” the first cop said. “We just need to ask you a few questions.”

  Hadley stood and gathered his overcoat and class notes methodically, as if he were a senator humoring an impatient aide. Damon Newhouse jumped up beside him, ready to assist in his lonely struggle.

  “Solidarity, dude.”

  “Not you, sir.” The cop blocked Newhouse. “Mr. Hadley’s the one we want.”

  Damon remained standing. He seemed at a loss. Hadley looked over at Lacey for a moment and smiled sadly, as if to say, I told you so.

  Lacey left her seat and followed them to the reception area. The cops were waiting while Hadley put on his overcoat. Snake passed Hadley his card and said he knew a good bail bondsman.

  “Hadley, don’t sweat it, man, he’ll have you sprung in no time.”

  The lead cop cleared his throat and held the door open.

  “Edgar says I should never doubt him,” Hadley said to Lacey. “The son of a bitch.”

  “You’re not under arrest,” Lacey reminded him.

  “Not yet.” He sighed deeply and walked through the door, one cop before him, one behind. The door slammed behind them.

  Bud Hunt never quite regained order in the classroom. He seemed flustered by the intrusion, but perhaps also relieved that it was Hadley the cops wanted, not him. Snake started a betting pool on whether Hadley was, in fact, Cecily’s killer, and how much his bail would be. Everyone suddenly had an opinion on the murder, it seemed. It was possible, some thought, that Hadley could have left the first session during the break, just long enough to, quote, “pop the lady in the Jaguar.”

  Edwina sniffed that Martin Hadley didn’t look like a killer, even if he was “stark raving loony tunes.” Damon Newhouse countered that they were all “tools of the power structure” and this obviously was a “dirty low-down setup.” Hunt seemed content to let people talk it out. He looked pleased to be off the hook for the moment.

  “Willow, are you all right?” Lacey asked.

  “I’m confused! It was Mr. Hadley who killed Cecily Ashton? So it couldn’t have been Eric?” Willow’s colorful new face looked a little shell-shocked and Lacey hoped she wouldn’t cry again. “Is that what the police think?”

  “I don’t know. Hadley seems to be a suspect, but just one of many. Bud Hunt is another. And Nigel Griffin, Stella’s boyfriend that you met today. And her ex-husband, Philip Clark Ashton. Probably others too. Eric will just have to get in line. But you know, maybe we should try to find out more about your Eric anyway.”

  “Please, Lacey, I don’t want to think about Eric anymore, I don’t want to talk about him anymore. It scares me. I told you how people just fall under his spell.” Willow took a deep breath and lifted her head. “It’s wonderful that you’ve helped me out, you’ll never know how grateful I am. But now I look so different and the police have arrested someone else, so maybe Eric doesn’t matter anymore.”

  Lacey wondered what Willow’s real story was. Was she more afraid of the police talking to Eric, or of not talking to him?

  “I need a drink,” Edwina announced loudly, “and I don’t mean coffee.”

  The class session was in a shambles, and anyway it was time for a break. Hunt proposed adjourning to Ireland’s Four Provinces, the Irish pub on Broad Street a few blocks away, and this proposal was met with popular approval. Most of the PI students straggled down the street to the pub, except for Willow, who told Lacey she was going home. She was exhausted from all that shopping. Besides, she said, her new guy was staying over that night, to protect her. Lacey gave her a wink and wished her luck.

  The Four Provinces was warm and inviting, the staff was friendly, and the Guinness was perfect. There was no band playing live that night, but lilting Irish music filled the air. Lacey ordered a Virgin Mary. She had no desire to get drunk with her fellow PI students, but she wanted to listen in on the scuttlebutt. It was better than second-guessing what they might have said and missing all the action.

  Snake and Edwina, who had unexpectedly bonded during the abortive surveillance exercise, placed bets on whether Hadley would actually be arrested, and if he would lawyer up. Edwina thought Hadley was in big trouble. Snake Goldstein disagreed.

  "Come on, Winnie, he’s a K Street big shot of some kind. Those guys never do serious time,” Snake said. “Sometimes they jump bail, but they’re pretty easy to catch. They make me laugh.”

  “I thought you liked Martin,” Edwina said.

  “I do,” he answered. “He’s all right, for a nutball. I’m just sayin’, you know?”


  Damon pointed out to Lacey two big men in black suits sitting at the bar, quietly nursing clear drinks. “It’s an Irish bar! And they’re drinking club sodas! They couldn’t stick out more if they tried. It’s a lousy covert surveillance.”

  Lacey peered at them. “Please. Lawyers heading for night court.”

  “Ha. Men in Black.” Damon kept an eye on them. “Listening to what we say about Hadley.” He reached into his backpack and pulled out a mini radio frequency scanner. Lacey recognized it. Brooke had used it, or one just like it, to check their hotel room in Paris for concealed listening devices. Damon scanned the table and stared at the little screen, frowning. No bugs. He pocketed the scanner and shrugged.

  Edwina was drinking too much too fast, and soon her husband had to come and collect her from the bar. “She’s not usually like this,” Mr. Plimpton apologized, as he struggled to bundle her up into her sensible black wool coat. “Really, she never has more than one at the country club.” He put some bills on the table to cover her drinks.

  “Thass right!” Edwina had lost her headband and her blond hair flopped in her face. She kept swatting it away with one hand. “I never drink more than one on a school night ’cept once in a great while like when people die and people get arrested and people get hauled out of class by the cops ’cause you know it makes it kind of hard to concentrate on your schoolwork.”

  “I don’t know what’s gotten into her since she started taking this class,” her embarrassed spouse said.

  “I know what’s gotten into her,” Snake chuckled. “Three double martinis! Ain’t that right, Winnie?”

  Edwina suddenly giggled. “I wanna change my bet. I bet it was you, Snakey Wakey!”

  “Come on, Edwina,” her husband said. “Let’s get you home to bed.”