Designer Knockoff (20 page)
There was no time to bathe, and that was just too bad. Lacey did not like early-morning expeditions, but if it was true, this was a scoop. She threw on a pair of jeans, a blue work shirt, and a pair of sneakers. She also grabbed a black hooded sweatshirt and knotted it around her shoulders. Makeup, although minimal, was necessary. If the building were on fire, Lacey would grab mascara and lipstick on her way out, which was how she dashed it on that morning, along with some brown pencil for her eyes and a spot of blush. On the way out the door she grabbed her purse and tape recorder and a small pair of binoculars from the Spy Store in the District. On the elevator down to the lobby, she calmed her hair in a securely tied band. It would simply have to do.
Trujillo’s black Mustang pulled into her circle driveway as she exited the front door of her building. He leaned over and opened the passenger door for her. “Nice timing.” Lacey guided him down the George Washington Parkway, then to a squealing right on Belle View up to Route One, and then a left and over the hill down to Lockheed. The Huntley Meadows wetlands preserve was just a few blocks west of the busy Route One corridor, lurking incongruously behind the endless strip malls. Tony pulled into the parking lot at the north entrance. It all seemed so smooth, but as they jogged down the path past the nature center they were stopped by a Fairfax County police officer.
Lacey flashed a smile at the cop. “We’re just looking for some early-morning cardinals.”
The cop shrugged. “You can’t go this way, ma’am.”
“Really? Well, we’ll just go the other way.” She tossed him another flirtatious smile. “Thanks, Officer.” She grabbed Tony’s arm and led him away.
The policeman tipped his cap, and Tony said nothing until they were out of earshot. “So, birdwatcher, what’s this about an early-morning cardinal?”
“I have no idea. Cardinals should be in bed now. Like me.”
Huntley Meadows early in the morning is full of sounds— chirping birds, the honking of Canada geese, small creatures slithering over dried leaves, and the splash of water as the geese land in the marshy pond. The strong scent of marsh grass and mud permeates the atmosphere. Nevertheless, there is the feeling of stillness that could, on any other morning, impart a contented peacefulness. Today it felt hostile, under the eye of unseen predators.
Lacey and Tony picked their way through the trees behind the nature center to a small observation tower, which was outside the yellow crime-scene tape but still allowed them good visibility of the small knot of police at the curve of the boardwalk. They climbed to the upper platform, where cheerful placards explained the ecosystem and wildlife of the protected wetlands, including the great blue heron, egrets, ducks, beavers, deer, and geese. Lacey could see part of the boardwalk that led from the nature center into the northern end of the marsh. It circled part of the pond and then trailed off into the woods leading to the observation tower where she and Tony were now standing.
“You see anything?” Tony asked. Lacey lifted her small ten-power binoculars to her eyes. “Binoculars, Smithsonian? I had no idea you were such a child of nature. Let me see.” He reached out for them, but she pulled away.
“Hold your horses.” She kept her eyes on the slow-moving crime-scene investigators. Some were standing on the boardwalk taking photos. Two in rubber hip boots were in the swamp up to their knees. They seemed to be extracting a large mud-caked object from underneath the boardwalk.
“What do you see?” Tony demanded.
“Tell me what you know.”
“I heard she was stashed underneath the wooden walkway, but this morning a couple of birdwatchers saw what they thought was a foot peeking out. What’s going on down there?” Trujillo was reaching for the binoculars, but Lacey jerked away again.
“Grabby. There’s more than just a foot.” The binoculars helped, but she was wishing they were closer. But then as two policemen moved aside she saw a nightmare in the morning light, one that twisted her stomach into a knot. She stifled a gag, thankful now for the distance.
The bloated body bore little resemblance to a living thing. Muddy hanks of hair were wrapped around the head, but a gaping hole with bone protruding was all that was left of Esme’s lovely face, savaged by decomposition and creatures in the muck.
If it is Esme.
It would be impossible to identify her without forensics. Although filthy, the clothing on the corpse could be a jade-green jacket and a short skirt. It could be Tyler Stone’s missing unworn Bentley suit. Tyler would never wear it now.
If it is Esme.
It would be impossible to identify her without forensics. Although filthy, the clothing on the corpse could be a jade-green jacket and a short skirt. It could be Tyler Stone’s missing unworn Bentley suit. Tyler would never wear it now.
Lacey choked and coughed and handed the binoculars to Trujillo, who uttered a “Madre de Dios” after focusing the lens.
She sat down on a nearby bench and propped her face in her shaking hands. Unexpected tears spilled down her cheeks. She had stared into the face of a murdered woman before. But this felt worse somehow. Esme clearly did not belong out here in the wild marsh among the muskrats and the herons and Canada geese. Someone had taken her suddenly from life to death. And there was no face to stare into.
Lacey glanced across the pond and saw a small group of people on the opposite shore standing on another observation platform. “Tony, look over there.” He turned the binoculars in that direction. News crews were setting up cameras.
“Hey, I think that’s one of our guys taking photos. I think it’s Hansen. We’re covered. He’s great with a long lens. Let’s go see if we can get any comments.”
The Fairfax County police at the tape line weren’t saying much, but someone let it slip that something was tied around her throat. They seemed to be waiting for someone. “FBI,” Tony murmured in her ear. Tony said he knew someone there he could call. They made their way back through the woods to Tony’s Mustang. He offered to take her to breakfast, but she declined. There were other things on her schedule and she needed to take a shower, a long hot shower, even though she knew it wouldn’t help wash away the memory of the end of Esme Fairchild.
A half hour later Lacey stepped out of the shower to answer the ringing phone.
That will be Brooke.
She had an understanding with her friends not to call before ten. She glanced at the clock. Ten sharp. She picked up the receiver.
That will be Brooke.
She had an understanding with her friends not to call before ten. She glanced at the clock. Ten sharp. She picked up the receiver.
“You know I sleep in on Sunday mornings.”
“They found Esme. Dead, of course.”
“I was there. It’s not confirmed.” The faceless body clung to her memory.
“No, but we know it’s her,” Brooke said with complete assurance. “Wait, you were there? What were you doing up before the crack of ten?”
“Hang on; let me turn on the television.” The phone had a long cord and she carried it with her into the small den where she kept the TV. She clicked the remote. Esme’s formerly lovely face filled the screen.
“Well?” Brooke was on the other end. “And who tipped you?”
“Trujillo. And yes, it’s probably her.”
“Okay, who are your main suspects?”
“The world at large.” Lacey had to change the subject. “By the way, where were you last night?”
No doubt out with Damon.
No doubt out with Damon.
“Tell you later. Van Drizzen’s a tempting suspect, but naturally a senator wouldn’t get his hands dirty personally; he’d let someone else do it. Of course, the police aren’t releasing any information on the cause of death, but the guy who found her, an early-morning wildlife enthusiast, according to the news, said there was something wrapped around her neck. So my guess is strangulation. Did you see anything on her neck?”
“Let’s talk later, okay?”
“Sure thing, Lacey. But I, uh, have a date this afternoon.”
“Oh, yeah? Afternoon delight? Who’s the lucky guy?”
“Damon and I are going to the Spy Museum. There’s a new exhibit on high-tech surveillance.”
“Happy spooking.” Lacey figured that would keep them out of trouble and out of her hair, but of course their theories, fanciful and otherwise, about the intern’s death would already be flying off into deep cyberspace. She hung up and watched the news. They ran video clips from the night before: Esme’s mother on the eleven-o’clock news. Police search teams combing the wooded parks in and around the District. A broadcast reporter caught her mother, Frances Fairchild, bursting into tears. In her frustration she cried out, “They’re not looking for a girl anymore; they’re looking for a body!”
There was small comfort for the Fairchild family in that even though their daughter was dead, they had finality. Unlike Gloria Adams’s family, they had a body to bury, a body to mourn. What little there was of it. Even if someone eventually discovered what happened to Gloria Adams, what comfort could that be at this late date?
The phone rang again. It was only ten-thirty. Maybe she should let the machine answer it. Or maybe she should unplug the phone, she thought. She answered it.
“Oh, my God, Lacey, I could be next!” The hysterical voice was unmistakable.
“Good morning, Marcia. I gather you’ve seen the news.”
“What am I going to do? It could be me in that swamp.” Marcia’s voice caught on unshed tears. “They’ll be finding me dead in a swamp next!”
“Try calming down. Now, why would they want her dead? Or you?”
“All I can think of is that it’s because she knew me. This is all because of me!”
On Planet Marcia,
Lacey thought,
everything is about Marcia. Terrorists are attacking America to get to Marcia! The alert level has been raised to Code Marcia!
“Get a grip, Marcia. You’ve told all your secrets to the special prosecutor, right?”
Lacey thought,
everything is about Marcia. Terrorists are attacking America to get to Marcia! The alert level has been raised to Code Marcia!
“Get a grip, Marcia. You’ve told all your secrets to the special prosecutor, right?”
“Well, yeah, I guess so.” She didn’t sound that sure.
“Then no one has a reason to get rid of you. People get killed in this town to keep them from talking, not to punish them after the fact for talking and talking and talking, like you did. That would be considered backward. Believe it or not, Marcia, you actually were protected by the press. Your notoriety is your best life insurance!”
It’s a theory, anyway.
It’s a theory, anyway.
“Are you sure?” Lacey eventually managed to calm Marcia down and get off the phone. She could only imagine who would call next. Stella? Marie? Mac? The FBI?
My mother?
She pulled the plug.
My mother?
She pulled the plug.
She put on clean black slacks, a red-and-white sweater, and a black wool blazer with gold buttons. It was suitable for church—and for calling on the last family link to Gloria Adams.
chapter 14
The Tremains, mother and daughter, lived in a small two-story redbrick colonial with a neatly trimmed lawn and matching maple and dogwood trees on either side of the walkway. A few bright orange leaves poked out of the bottom branches of the maples.
The white front door opened and a small round woman stepped out to greet her. She wore a flower-print shirtwaist dress with a blue sweater, plain sensible navy pumps, and a strand of pearls around her neck, which must have been her church outfit. She wasn’t much on makeup, and her hair was worn in a serviceable puffy bob; streaks of gray shot through the pale brown. Lacey estimated her age at around fifty-five, though there could have been a five-year difference on either side.
“You must be Lacey Smithsonian. I’m Wilhelmina Mosby Tremain. Gloria Adams was my aunt. Call me Willie. Annette is inside.” Even though Northern Virginia has become pretty Yankeefied, Willie struck Lacey as quiet and dignified in an Old Dominion way, with a soft Southern affect. “Do come on in. Please excuse the house. We don’t get visitors that often.”
“Thank you so much for seeing me on such short notice.” Lacey followed Willie into the small hallway and set her purse down on a side table. “Something smells good,” she said.
“Annette just made some banana bread, and she’ll have tea out shortly.” Lacey realized she was hungry and thanked heaven the Tremains embraced old-fashioned Virginia hospitality.
The house was comfortable and clean, though its furnishings had seen better days. It had an overstuffed feeling and just missed being “shabby chic.” Magazines and paperbacks were piled everywhere. A worn burgundy Oriental carpet lay in front of the fireplace, where two ancient wing chairs were placed. The sofa, likewise, had seen a lot of use. Annette entered quietly from the kitchen carrying a tray set with treats and, obviously, the good china. “This is my daughter, Annette.” She was probably in her late twenties, but she looked younger. She also seemed terribly soft, as if exercise were a sinister concept to her. Perfectly plain mousy brown hair, parted down the middle, hung lankly to her shoulders. She had pale green eyes and pale lashes. She might have been pretty, Lacey thought, with some color in her face. Annette wore a wispy light blue blouse and jeans and sandals on her feet.
Willie indicated that Lacey should take a seat. “I didn’t mean to put you to so much trouble,” Lacey said, suddenly feeling guilty for their effort.
“No, no, no trouble at all.”
“It’s our pleasure,” Annette said, looking very interested.
Lacey’s immediate impression was that Annette was standing at the front door of life, waiting for someone to open it up for her and escort her in.
Too shy to ring the bell?
Lacey remembered that Duffy said they seemed to be timid women.
Too shy to ring the bell?
Lacey remembered that Duffy said they seemed to be timid women.
They settled down around the coffee table. Lacey handled the china carefully, afraid to break it. Willie had thoughtfully gathered pictures of Gloria for Lacey, including a studio shot of a serious-looking young woman wearing wire-framed glasses: Gloria at twenty-one, a year or so before she went missing. Her unruly hair was subdued into a large poof on top, revealing her ears, and brushed down in the back.
Her thick eyebrows could use a trim,
Lacey thought. But her gaze was direct, hungry for something. A later photograph, taken when she was living in New York, showed she had abandoned the glasses and developed a bit more polish. And she wore lipstick.
You’ll hardly recognize me, Mims,
one of her letters had said. It was just a snapshot, but it had a lot more life than the professional shot. She looked happier, freer, with finger curls spilling over her forehead. There was also a picture of Gloria and her sister, Gladys, Willie’s mother. They strongly resembled each other.
Her thick eyebrows could use a trim,
Lacey thought. But her gaze was direct, hungry for something. A later photograph, taken when she was living in New York, showed she had abandoned the glasses and developed a bit more polish. And she wore lipstick.
You’ll hardly recognize me, Mims,
one of her letters had said. It was just a snapshot, but it had a lot more life than the professional shot. She looked happier, freer, with finger curls spilling over her forehead. There was also a picture of Gloria and her sister, Gladys, Willie’s mother. They strongly resembled each other.
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