Designer Knockoff (28 page)
“Because after implicating Bentleys in that tragic story, you now have the chance to be fair to us. Objectivity and all that, and because you like myths. You’ve got one tailor-made for you: Cinderella Annette goes to the ball.”
“And meets her prince?”
Hugh laughed. “I can only do so much, Lacey.”
“Are you giving this to
The Post?”
The Post?”
“Of course I am, but not until tomorrow. For today the story is all yours.”
Then I have to get an exclusive with Annette, before
The Post
gets to her.
Hugh’s flack, Chevalier, arrived at the paper to deliver the official press release to Lacey before she could even find Annette’s phone number. The receptionist was all but drooling when Lacey walked out to the reception area to meet him.
The Post
gets to her.
Hugh’s flack, Chevalier, arrived at the paper to deliver the official press release to Lacey before she could even find Annette’s phone number. The receptionist was all but drooling when Lacey walked out to the reception area to meet him.
“Hugh Bentley asked me to deliver this personally.” He smiled, showing even white teeth.
“That wasn’t necessary.”
“Of course, it’s my pleasure. I wanted to see where your offices were located. And my job is to keep the Bentleys happy. And this is going to be a happy story, right?” He squeezed her elbow. “I certainly hope so. A positive story.” He bared his teeth in a smile, then left.
As soon as he was out of sight, Lacey made a beeline for her desk and called Annette’s office in the District, only a few blocks away. Annette was in and said she’d take an early lunch so that she could meet Lacey right away. Lacey grabbed her purse and headed for the door. She ran into Mac on her way out.
“Any more surprises today, Smithsonian? I don’t think I could take any more after your snood, or whatever Trujillo called it.”
“Just business as usual.” She smiled brightly and Mac looked doubtful but she ran out before he had a chance to utter any protests.
Hugh’s gesture was a good story. It blatantly pushed all the sentiment buttons, and Lacey hoped with all her heart that Annette would emerge as a beauty. Yet Lacey couldn’t dismiss the tingle of apprehension running up her spine. The master of the PR game was playing her, just as surely as she would shape the story to suit her own sensibilities.
It’s still a good story,
she told herself.
It’s still a good story,
she told herself.
Aside from the possibility of turning the story around, Hugh sounded genuinely interested in the Tremains. Did he think other designs by Gloria Adams might be hidden at their house? Annette and Willie said they didn’t have anything, but maybe there was something stuffed in a box, a drawer, a corner of the basement that hadn’t been explored in years.
How far would Hugh go to find out?
She met Annette in Farragut Square. They bought coffee from a little stand and strolled around, taking in the statute of the admiral in the middle of the square before settling on a bench in the crystal fall air. Lacey pulled an envelope out of her purse and handed it to Annette. “Thanks for the photos.”
“No, thank you! Of course, Mother was mortified when she opened the paper.” Lacey drew in her breath, but Annette reassured her. “Nothing you did; it was just that the story was so big, what with the photos of Aunt Gloria and Esme Fairchild. And it is all so tragic. But that’s why Mr. Bentley called. And he came over to our house last night to meet us, he and his driver.”
“To your house?”
He is after Gloria’s designs! He could have even sent someone to break into my apartment for the suit.
“Did he want anything else?”
He is after Gloria’s designs! He could have even sent someone to break into my apartment for the suit.
“Did he want anything else?”
“He asked Mother if she had anything that Gloria might have made. Things like that. But who’d have that kind of thing? I mean, she vanished sixty years ago.”
“You still have the same refrigerator,” Lacey pointed out.
“Yeah, but Mother said we didn’t have anything except the photos we gave you. She said everything we knew about Gloria was in your article.”
“But what about her letters about Hugh? I didn’t write about those.”
Annette’s eyes grew wide. “She’d never tell him about those. They’re private, and she thinks they’re all lies anyway.” But that was all she would say on the topic. It was clear that she didn’t want to talk about Gloria; she was too excited about the invitation to the gala.
She had a glow that was missing before. It defied the clothing she wore, a pair of gray slacks missing a belt and a wrinkled white shirt, her hair held back in a ponytail and not a shred of makeup. But there was promise in Annette’s face, Lacey was sure of it.
“Can you believe it? It’s like a dream come true.” Annette was on high bubble. “We’re going to Bentley’s Boutique on Saturday to select our gowns. Bentley’s! It’s so hard to imagine.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Mr. Bentley said he would provide a stylist. Someone to help us decide what looks best.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Really, Lacey, I have no idea about what looks good. Given my druthers, I’d probably go for the full heaving-bodice, romance-novel, cover-girl look.” Annette sighed with happy pleasure.
“Annette,
The Eye
would like to follow your makeover and dress selection with a photographer, if you don’t mind. And I’d like it to be an exclusive.”
The Eye
would like to follow your makeover and dress selection with a photographer, if you don’t mind. And I’d like it to be an exclusive.”
“Oh, my God! You’re kidding.” Annette’s squeal probably communicated with dolphins somewhere. Lacey assumed that was a yes. Now all she had to do was tell Mac that she was turning
The Eye into Lacey’s Daily Makeover Magazine.
The Eye into Lacey’s Daily Makeover Magazine.
“You have a visitor, Lacey,” the guard told her as she passed through the newspaper’s reception area after saying good-bye to Annette. He read from a piece of paper: “ ‘Belinda Bentley Holmes,’ ” and he indicated the woman sitting on a plum-colored sofa beneath framed front pages of
The Eye.
The Eye.
Lacey greeted Belinda in a small conference room off the lobby. Clad in tailored navy slacks, a red blazer, and a matching red sweater, Jeffrey’s mother looked composed, wrapped serenely in her status as a Bentley. Gold jewelry complemented the buttons of her jacket, and every strand of her platinum pageboy was locked into place. Belinda was too thin, Lacey thought. It looked like she lived on cigarettes and black coffee, even though she turned down the offer of a cup from Lacey.
“I realize, Ms. Smithsonian, you are a busy woman, and no doubt I’m keeping you from dragging up another tawdry little scandal.”
“Can I help you with something?”
“I hope so. I am not a busy woman in the same way you are, but I have one overriding interest in life, and that is my son, Jeffrey.”
That’s not the way I heard it,
Lacey thought.
Lacey thought.
“I was an older mother, you see, and therefore he is everything to me. I understand he took you out.”
“For dinner. He was a perfect gentleman.” She didn’t think it was a big deal.
“Of course he was. Let’s keep it that way, shall we?”
“Excuse me?”
“I have been waiting for Jeffrey to show some interest in a suitable young woman.”
“You’re saying I’m not suitable?” Lacey didn’t know whether to be offended or amused.
Belinda surveyed Lacey’s outfit, complete with snood, and shrugged her shoulders with a dismissive smile. “It would hardly be seemly for him to be associated with a ... with a reporter who persists in digging up tragic news from the past and dwelling on unfortunate recent events. So distressing for his family.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t bring me a nice juicy apple,” Lacey said.
A poison apple.
But Belinda didn’t seem to have much in the way of a sense of humor. Lacey was more amused than offended.
Mothers usually like me,
Lacey thought.
I’ve never been warned off by anyone’s mother before.
A poison apple.
But Belinda didn’t seem to have much in the way of a sense of humor. Lacey was more amused than offended.
Mothers usually like me,
Lacey thought.
I’ve never been warned off by anyone’s mother before.
“Mrs. Holmes, Jeffrey is an adult. I doubt if he asks his mother for permission to ask someone out. I don’t.”
“I see. Then let’s be businesslike. What would it cost to keep you away from him?”
“You’re bribing me?” Lacey couldn’t help it; she started laughing. “It was only dinner!”
Poor Jeffrey.
Poor Jeffrey.
“You don’t understand what being a Bentley means.” Belinda picked up her smart little bag and stood up. “When you come to your senses we can do business.” She stood up stiffly with perfectly erect posture.
“You are wrong about one thing, Mrs. Holmes. I am completely aware of what being a Bentley means,” Lacey said, but Belinda strode out and showed no signs that she’d heard her.
Lacey wondered if this was standard behavior for Belinda Bentley Holmes. She had moved across the country to rid herself of her own family. It had been a long time since her own mother embarrassed her in front of dates, but the memories lingered on. Of course, that was in high school, when a mother is the most embarrassing burden a daughter could possibly carry, although her father and sister ranked right up there as well. Lacey remembered her house as a constant agony of cheap furniture, lurid colors, bizarre food combinations, blaring TV, and tacky behavior. Her mother so often plied Lacey’s dates with vile concoctions: Rice Krispies Treats and something indescribable made out of cornflakes and melted chocolate chips. But Rose Smithsonian never warned anyone off, and high school boys loved her wacky cereal-based goodies, from her own recipes. One favorite combined shredded wheat, marsh-mallows, peanut butter, and caramel sauce. She had, however, given up trying to get Lacey matched with anyone. She sighed a lot and pinned her hopes on Cherise, Lacey’s sister.
Lacey hoped Belinda’s visit was the last surprise of the day. It was a vain hope.
Chapter 19
Just another crank caller. This makes two today. Unless you count Belinda Bentley Holmes.
That’s what Lacey thought, until the explosion rattled the front windows, flashing white light through the newsroom. A momentary shock; then reporters flew to the windows, crowding her to the side. She upgraded the crank’s status to lunatic.
Lacey had been trying to finish a Fashion Bite, something at last that had nothing to do with the Bentleys, trying to make it funny, when the phone rang.
“I’m warning you, bitch. Stop writing those stupid stories.”
“Who is this, and which stupid stories are you referring to?”
I’m on deadline here, gumball.
I’m on deadline here, gumball.
“Look outside and say good-bye to your wheels.”
She was puzzled. Her ungrateful Nissan 280ZX was still at Paul’s shop, rusting complacently in the humid air of Washington, no doubt waiting for someone to swim to Japan for new parts. At least she thought it was. She hurried past four rows of desks to peer out to the street below.
My
Z
isn’t out there.
The only mode of transportation she recognized was Felicity’s dismal gray monstrosity of a minivan parked illegally in the fire lane outside
The Eye
offices.
My
Z
isn’t out there.
The only mode of transportation she recognized was Felicity’s dismal gray monstrosity of a minivan parked illegally in the fire lane outside
The Eye
offices.
The impact of the explosion took only a moment, but Lacey remembered it in slow motion. Shards of metal flew up from what was left of the hulking frame. It sat on melted wheels, showering twisted metal minivan bits onto the street, along with several open tins of home-baked cookies, now cookie dust. Lacey was horrified. Outraged. She streaked back to her desk, snood flying, hoping the creep was still on the phone. She grabbed the receiver and listened to the sound of expectant breathing.
“YOU THOUGHT I DROVE A MINIVAN?!”
There was silence on the other end. A thoughtful silence. Then, “Uh-oh.”
“Listen, you brain-dead piece of protoplasm, if you think I’m going to stop writing stories because you’re blowing up other people’s minivans, you’re out of your freaking skull.” The caller hung up, leaving the dial tone buzzing in her ear. “What stupid story?”
Why on earth did this nameless idiot think that Felicity’s minivan was mine? Oh, my God—Felicity.
Why on earth did this nameless idiot think that Felicity’s minivan was mine? Oh, my God—Felicity.
“Felicity?” Lacey had seen her just a minute ago. She looked around to see if the evil food writer was still in the newsroom. Unfortunately she wound up nose-to-nose with Mac. He was wearing the Unhappy Editor’s face.
“You have something to tell me, Smithsonian?”
“Mac, I ...” There were people standing around the window, people crowding around her desk. A distant wailing of sirens drew closer.
Mac twitched his eyebrows dangerously. “Smithsonian. In my office now.” She closed her eyes for a moment, then marched into his lair. Mac slammed the door shut behind her, then pulled the blinds over the glass. He took a breath and glowered before trusting himself to speak.
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