Armed and Glamorous

by Ellen Byerrum

  “We’re going to bed! Oh goody, take me to bed baby.” She threw her arms around her husband’s neck. “Hey big fella. Let’s go look at the stars, honey, you think the stars are out? Maybe we’ll see the Big Dicker!”

  The rest of the would-be PIs burst out laughing, even Lacey and Damon. Even the waitstaff, who had probably seen many patrons much drunker. Edwina Plimpton sagged into Mr. Plimpton’s arms as he dragged her through the door.

  “What do you know,” Snake said. “Never thought that dame would loosen up. I like her better this way. She’s kind of cute. She grows on you.”

  Eventually, the conversation returned to the hapless Hadley. By the end of the evening, by a jury of his slightly inebriated peers, Martin Hadley had been arrested, tried, and convicted. He had jumped bail to Bali, been bagged by Snakey Wakey the bounty hunter, and been beamed up to the mother ship, which flew him back to the government mind-control laboratories on his home planet.

  They all agreed: Life is just one great big conspiracy.

  Chapter 30

  Martin Hadley, as it turned out, was not arrested. Brooke called Lacey’s cell phone the next morning while Lacey was entertaining herself at the newsroom with Damon’s latest DeadFed story.

  “Apparently, the Falls Church detectives just wanted to grill Hadley about Damon’s story about him on Conspiracy Clearinghouse.” Brooke said. “It seems they don’t have enough for an arrest. They were unamused that Damon had exposed their murder investigation game plan. They had no idea Damon was sitting right there in your class, or I think they’d have grabbed him too. They said something about Damon and Hadley muddying their investigation. As if it could be any muddier. Damon will not be cowed. He has every right to publish Hadley’s story.”

  Lacey read DeadFed dot com’s lead story for Wednesday on her computer screen. COPS ROUST AND BULLY MIND CONTROL VIC; FIRST AMENDMENT, FREE SPEECH AT STAKE. It was turning into Damon’s own soap opera. As the Conspiracy Turns.

  “So Hadley’s voices are just wrong? The Edgar voice told him he’d be arrested and framed for the murder. Or is Hadley just delusional?”

  “Or the voices are playing with him for their own twisted reasons,” Brooke said.

  “Maybe Hadley really did kill her,” Lacey said, trying the idea on for size again. “Just walked right up to her Jaguar and pulled the trigger. He’s odd and intense and he hated Cecily. But he’s smart, making everyone think he’s simply crazy. People who hear voices are crazy, right? So it’s an insanity defense: ‘The voices made me do it.’ He gets off, goes to a mental ward, makes a miraculous recovery, gets out.”

  Brooke laughed. “And you think Damon’s version is crazy.”

  Lacey turned away from the screen. She’d worn brown wool slacks and a matching sweater that morning, so she felt at ease to prop her feet casually on the window ledge and watch sunshine pour over the neighboring office buildings. She played with the ends of her multicolored scarf as they talked.

  The smell of warm baked goods permeated the space as Felicity waltzed through with today’s offering, some sort of almond cake with a lemon filling and glaze and topped with whipped cream frosting. It was hard to pay attention with that aroma filling the air. Lacey gave in and took a sample. A little piece of paradise.

  “We have more important things to do right now, Brooke.”

  “More important than Hadley? More important than freedom of the press?”

  “It’s Stella. She’s still under Griffin’s spell. Like the song says, she’s got it bad, and that ain’t good.”

  “A Pink Code Talker in need of an intervention? You’re right. Perhaps we should sponsor another girls’ night out with guns. Ladies Night at the range.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of deprogramming her,” Lacey said. “We take her away for a weekend, some lazy beach town, find her some real bad boys, the kind she likes. Tattoos, piercings, motorcycles. Black leather, blue hair, maybe a Mohawk.” She thought of Snake Goldstein; now he was Stella bait. “I never thought I’d miss her old weird boyfriends. Whatever happened to that Bobby Blue-Eyes she was so hot for?”

  “You got me, I don’t keep track.”

  Lacey’s desk phone rang, interrupting their plans to free Stella from the tentacles of the toxic Nigel. She signed off with Brooke. The call was from Philip Clark Ashton.

  After their last meeting, she dreaded whatever he might have to say to her. She was surprised he hadn’t had a lawyer make this call. His raspy voice was so harsh Lacey had to hold the receiver away from her ear.

  “Mr. Ashton. So nice to hear from you again.”

  “Well, be that as it may, Ms. Smithsonian, you’ve probably just saved me a lot of grief. This is my personal thank-you call.”

  “Really. How thoughtful of me. How did I do that?” She kicked her feet off the windowsill and sat up straight.

  “Didn’t think you’d be doing me any favors, did you?” He sounded smug even over the phone. “You might have gotten me off the suspect list. Did you realize that?” He had the nerve to chuckle. Lacey said nothing. Ashton continued. “Because it’s always the husband, isn’t it, Ms. Smithsonian? Always the husband who pays and pays. Always the villain.” He chuckled again. “Oh yes, the police have been pressing me, politely of course, but enough to be monotonous. Why, I believe even you probably think I did it. But that would be ridiculous. There are so many other civilized ways to deal with one’s problems. That’s what lawyers are for.”

  That’s how he viewed his ex-wife. Cecily was just one of Ashton’s problems, Lacey thought, and buying people off or intimidating them is certainly more civilized than killing them. And in the end, he could certainly make their life a living hell.

  “No doubt. What exactly are we talking about?”

  “I reread that story you wrote about Cecily. One little thing nagged at me.”

  “And that was?” Not a complaint about a fact error, not now, she prayed. Please.

  “The photograph of Rita Hayworth. I bought that picture from a rare photograph dealer when Cecily and I were first married, a little something to go with the Rita Hayworth makeup case and those lovely pearls. I bought the picture frame in Spain. I wanted it all to be perfect, for my perfect jewel, my new wife. That’s what I thought back then. Anyway, I checked the paperwork.” He paused and Lacey heard papers rustling.

  “The paperwork?” This was clearly a man who liked making people wait for him. Lacey drummed her fingers on her desk.

  “The guarantee of authenticity from the dealer. There’s a detailed description of it. For insurance purposes. According to my papers, there was no little doodle, as you called it, on the back of the Rita picture. It would have been noted. If there were such a thing it might have been drawn by Rita Hayworth herself, which would have made it even more valuable. Another thing, the photograph had never been out of the frame after I bought it. Until the burglary.”

  “The doodle is new, then,” Lacey answered like a good student.

  “Yes,” he chortled. “The doodle is new. I do believe our thief signed his work.”

  Lacey thought the thief might have left fingerprints, but she never thought he might also have left the drawing.

  “Wait, you think you see a connection between the burglary and her murder?”

  “Give the lady a cigar,” Ashton said.

  “What connection could there be?” Lacey asked.

  “A message, perhaps? Don’t you see, the drawing was a warning for Cecily. ‘A bird in a cage,’ you wrote that yourself. Did you know her middle name was Robin? And why leave the photograph? The thief could just as easily have taken it with the frame. Someone wanted to put our rare bird in a cage,” Ashton said. “That might be why she was acting so bizarrely, worse than usual. And believe me, I would know.” He coughed suddenly. To hide a sob? Lacey wondered. “She knew what this drawing meant, but she didn’t tell anyone. If she had asked for my help, I would have protected her.”

  Brave words after the fact. Lac
ey wasn’t quite convinced by the billionaire’s logic, but he had a point. Of course he might also have arranged the burglary and left the cryptic message on the photograph himself. But then it struck her. Could the “cage” in the drawing be what Simon Edison had talked about, a “Faraday cage”? Did Simon plan to put Cecily in a cage somehow? What did that mean? And why did she have a copy with her when she died, as Trujillo mentioned? To confront Simon at the Falls Church Farmers’ Market? Or to show it to Bud Hunt and plead for his help?

  “Do you have any suspects in mind?”

  “My dear Miss Smithsonian, we should let the police accomplish something on their own, don’t you think? They should start with her lovers, she had so many. That’ll keep them busy.”

  “Are you including Nigel Griffin?”

  “No comment.”

  “Do you believe he had anything to do with the burglary? ” Lacey prompted.

  Ashton paused for a moment. “No comment. If you’re working through a list of her male admirers, this could take all day.”

  “What about Simon Edison?”

  Ashton snorted. “Please, that dreamer? He adored Cecily. Besides, they weren’t lovers. I always knew who they all were, she could never keep a secret.”

  Until she was dead. He sounded pleased with himself. Philip Clark Ashton wins another game on the chessboard of life and gets to rub a humble reporter’s nose in it.

  “Mr. Ashton, you make such a good argument about the Rita photograph. Would you mind faxing me a copy of it? And the back side, with the drawing? I know I already described it in my story, but would you mind? And the dealer’s paperwork too?”

  “You really are a reporter,” he laughed. His laugh was even raspier than his speaking voice. “I’ll deny that I provided them to you.”

  “I’ll deny that I got them from you. I’ll just say the photograph and documents ‘were obtained’ by The Eye Street Observer. What do you say?”

  Ashton laughed again. He was enjoying himself this morning. “Sure. I’ll have my secretary fax all of it to you.”

  “Thank you. It’ll make a good story. And Mr. Ashton, I was also wondering about Cecily’s funeral arrangements.” Lacey wanted to pay her respects.

  “There will be no funeral. I’m having her cremated. As soon as they release the body.”

  “You’ll be having a memorial service then?”

  “There’s no reason. It would turn into a media circus. Cecily didn’t believe in anything in particular. She had no family to speak of. Let people remember her as they please.”

  “Very well then. I’ll wait for the fax. And I’ll give your regards to Claudia.”

  Ashton paused and Lacey thought she heard a sigh on his end of the line.

  “And to answer your earlier question, Ms. Smithsonian. Yes. I did love Cecily.” He hung up the phone. And yet he would have no funeral for her.

  Lacey sat back at her desk and shook her head to clear it. It didn’t work, it just made her head hurt. She didn’t know what to make of Philip Clark Ashton now. While she waited for his faxes to come through, she made another call to Cyber Rescue Squad. She’d had no response from O’Neil. This time, however, she reached a live human on the phone, the receptionist.

  “Eric isn’t here this week,” the woman said. “He wouldn’t even be checking his voice mail. He’s gone hunting.”

  Hunting?! Marie’s cryptic words about “hunting season not being over” echoed in her ears. Willow had called him a “hunter” too. She’d half chalked up Eric O’Neil’s very existence to Willow’s overactive imagination. Lacey hoped he wasn’t hunting for anyone she knew.

  The receptionist was still chatting away. Eric was a “real outdoorsy kind of guy,” the “nicest boy, and everyone loved him, just loved him.” Just as Willow said. He’d called in to say he was having a very good hunting trip. The receptionist said he was due to call in again, and she’d relay the message.

  Lacey spent the next half hour checking the newsroom fax machine every five minutes until all of Ashton’s images were transmitted. She studied the photo of Rita Hayworth and the odd little drawing on the back. Her offhand description of it was “a bird in a cage,” but now it suggested something else to her. She consulted a dictionary and the Internet. Lacey started her story with this headline:

  ASHTON MURDER LINKED TO “BIRD IN CAGE”

  The unsolved murder of Cecily Robin Ashton may be linked by a mysterious drawing of a so-called “bird in a cage” to an earlier burglary at her home, The Eye Street Observer has learned . . . .

  She wrote the story about Philip Clark Ashton’s new information on the Rita Hayworth photograph as straight as she possibly could. It didn’t need any spin. She left out her Internet research and Trujillo’s tantalizing tidbit about Cecily having a copy of the drawing with her when she died. It wasn’t confirmed, and she had no idea what it meant. The paper might have been in her purse for days.

  Lacey stared at the lines on her computer screen, lost in thought. Finally she sensed the presence of another person behind her. She turned around and felt her face light up before her eyes had even met his. Then she saw his green eyes, grass green and welcoming, and his wicked grin.

  “Vic Donovan! Oh my God. Thank heaven you’re here.” She was instantly on her feet and in his arms for a kiss. She broke away just long enough to look around for newsroom gossips. Then she kissed him again, seriously this time.

  “Can’t live without me, can you?” he said when they came up for air.

  She hugged him hard, then held him at arm’s length to feast her eyes on him. “I didn’t expect to see you till this weekend.”

  Vic’s jeans were faded and fit him well and his black sweater hugged his muscles. He was wearing the brown leather jacket she’d given him for Christmas. It wasn’t exactly a fair trade; after all, he’d given her a car, her wonderful little restored BMW. But it was the nicest thing she could afford and he wore it well.

  “I was hoping you’d turn around and notice me,” he said in a slight drawl. “And I was hoping I wouldn’t have to wait all day.” Lacey didn’t ask how he’d slipped past the security desk downstairs. He always managed to do that.

  “You could distract a woman from her work.”

  “I was counting on that,” Vic said. “I’m here to take you to lunch, lady. Can you tear yourself away from all this?”

  It was noon and she hadn’t even noticed. She quickly reread her story, with Vic reading over her shoulder, then sent it to her editor. Mac could make of it what he would.

  “Hey, I didn’t get to the end, and what the heck is going on now?” He spun her around, his eyes dark with concern. “How involved are you?”

  “You’re so cute.” She grinned back at him. She slipped Ashton’s faxes into her purse and grabbed her coat. “Let’s go, cowboy. You buyin’?”

  “You better be hungry. I came a long way.”

  “Oh, yeah, I’m hungry.” I’m a starving woman and you are my candy bar.

  Vic examined the small image on the faxed copy from Philip Ashton. He held it up to the light at their table in the dim restaurant. “The creature in the cage? A bird?”

  “I don’t know what to think. Her middle name was Robin, but I don’t think that looks like a robin, do you? Look closer. See? It sort of has the head of an eagle and the body of a lion. See the tail?”

  Vic leaned back and sipped his iced tea. He took his time examining the drawing. “You think it’s a griffin in a cage?” He raised his eyebrow. His black sweater showed off his strong shoulders. Yum. Lacey was in danger of losing her train of thought. “A griffin as in Nigel Griffin?” he prompted.

  She shrugged. “He’s the only griffin I know.”

  Vic drummed his fingers on the table. “Nigel didn’t draw it. First off, he can’t draw. He can barely write. I went to prep school with him, I should know. Second, he may be an idiot, but he’s not dumb enough to sit down and sketch something during a burglary and leave it behind. And third, it strike
s me as more likely someone wants to implicate our bad boy Griffin in that burglary. Assuming what Ashton said is true. Though it’s an odd way to try to do it.”

  “But it probably wasn’t Cecily who drew it, was it? She told me she didn’t,” Lacey said. “And if she drew it, why would she have a copy in her purse to show someone? Then there’s the little matter of Stella’s key.”

  “Stella’s key? That is another chapter I seem to have missed while I was on the opposite coast.”

  Lacey filled him in on the key that appeared to match the Louis Vuitton makeup case, the little skeleton key that now hung on a chain around Stella’s neck.

  “This is all highly entertaining, Lacey, but not as entertaining as running away with you this afternoon and taking the phone off the hook.”

  “People will talk.” She slid over closer to him in the booth.

  “Not to us. We won’t answer the phone. We’ll give ’em something to talk about though.”

  “But first we have to go to the horse’s mouth,” Lacey said. “Or should I say the griffin’s mouth?”

  “Yup.” Vic squeezed her hand. “And we’re going to pull his teeth.”

  After lunch, they parted at the restaurant with a kiss and a plan and a promise to meet later. Lacey took a detour to St. Matthew’s Cathedral on Rhode Island Avenue, a place she often visited for quiet and meditation. Today, surrounded by the marble and mosaics of the church, she lit candles for Cecily Ashton, because it was only right to say a prayer for the dead.

  Someone had to do it, and the man Cecily loved would not.

  Chapter 31

  Lacey tried Nigel Griffin’s cell phone repeatedly and finally made contact. Of course he hadn’t returned her calls on the road, he said, he was on business. However, now that he had returned from Richmond, he agreed to meet her at an up-scale martini bar and restaurant on Sixteenth Street. Just the sort of place a snob like Griffin would appreciate, with its mix of cool neon and sleek industrial metal and exposed pipes in the ceiling. Lacey found the décor far too cold, she would take rococo any day of the week.