Designer Knockoff (33 page)
Approaching minute forty under the hair dryer, Lacey realized she should call Mac to tell him she’d be late, as if he couldn’t tell. She gingerly pulled out her new cell phone and pressed one button, hoping it was the speed-dial code for Mac, not one of the other dozen numbers already in her phone. She slipped out from underneath the hood.
To her relief Mac answered on the first ring. Lacey explained that her hair styling session was running longer than usual. “Today’s the last day, right?” Mac asked. “For your multiple-personality hairdo thing?”
“That’s right.”
“I hope it’s a good one; I’m sending Hansen over there.”
“Wait a minute; you want him to take photographs over here?”
“Yeah, your pal Stella suggested it the other night over fried chicken. She said it was your idea. It’s all set.”
The bobby pins came out, and the curls spilled down. Stella attacked with brushes and sprays and enough attitude to raise Rita Hayworth from the dead. Sure enough, the result was moody and curly and smoldering. Stella tilted Lacey’s head back to just the right angle in the mirror, and there it was: a hint of Rita Hayworth as the free-spirited heroine of
Gilda.
Parted on one side, it was Rita, but not Rita’s red; it was Lacey’s own light brown with Stella’s rich golden highlights. All she needed was attitude.
Gilda.
Parted on one side, it was Rita, but not Rita’s red; it was Lacey’s own light brown with Stella’s rich golden highlights. All she needed was attitude.
“Oh, my God, that’s it!” Stella yelled. “Lacey, that’s it!”
“What? What is it?”
“It’s the hair to go with the Gloria Adams dress. This is it.”
Lacey cocked her head. It was definitely the look for the dress.
Who knows? Maybe this time someone on the street in D.C. will even turn around to look at me.
Who knows? Maybe this time someone on the street in D.C. will even turn around to look at me.
Hansen chose that moment to pop into the salon and stare at the lady in red. As soon as Stella saw the cameras, she started applying blush to her own cheeks and spiking her hair with extra gel. By the time she was finished, she looked rather like a proud mad scientist with her latest creation. Happily for Lacey, Stella was the focus of the photos this time, and Lacey was seen only in profile, the better to show off the hairstyle. The shoot went more smoothly without Mac and Trujillo second-guessing the photographer. But Stella more than made up for it.
At the office the reaction to Look Number Five was generally favorable, in that timid, asexual, Washingtonian way, although Tony Trujillo’s eyes went perceptibly wider when he saw her. But he had his doubts, all of which he had no trouble sharing. “I don’t know, Smithsonian. You really want to waltz into the tiger’s cage looking like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like one of those babes they painted on bombers in World War Two.”
“Oh, Tony, you think I look glamorous!”
He grinned. “Just call me if you get into trouble.”
“What kind of trouble could she get into?” Mac wanted to know.
“Smithsonian kind of trouble,” Trujillo said. “She’s going to dinner with a Bentley. And tigers don’t change their stripes.”
“Don’t worry; I’m a tiger tamer.”
“You bringing a pair of scissors with you?” Tony prodded.
“That’s not funny.”
“No, it’s not.” Mac stepped into the fray. “From now on there will be no scissors, no fooling around, and no exploding vehicles. Isn’t that right, Smithsonian?”
“Mac, you must be psychic.”
He favored her with one of his wise parental looks. “Let’s keep it that way.” He marched off as Tony sat down in Felicity’s chair and leaned back.
“By the way, Tony, is there any more news about the scarf? Is it a Bentley?” Lacey said.
Tony kicked his feet up on the desk. “I know nothing. Gary Braddock is totally pissed that we printed the leak, so the gag is on.”
“How about Van Drizzen, anything new?” Lacey opened drawers and put her bag away.
“Only that the press guy, Cable, isn’t talking to
The Eye
anymore. You know him?”
The Eye
anymore. You know him?”
“Gum-chewing, Metro-screaming psychopath? Yeah, I know him.”
“Mutual admiration society, I see. What’s up with that?”
Lacey didn’t get a chance to answer. A riled Peter Johnson paid her a visit. “What the hell are you doing on my beat again?”
She and Tony exchanged looks. “Does this have anything to do with Van Drizzen?”
“Listen, Miss Smithsonian, you can play dress-up.” He who knew nothing about how to dress sneered at her vintage red power suit. “But don’t play reporter on my territory. The Hill isn’t your beat.”
Her face burned as curious faces from the newsroom were drawn to today’s episode of
The Daily Planet, Eye Street Observer
style. Trujillo started to step in, but Lacey was having none of it: this was her fight.
The Daily Planet, Eye Street Observer
style. Trujillo started to step in, but Lacey was having none of it: this was her fight.
“I take it you mean my story on the Van Drizzen affair. Here’s a tip for you, you insufferable prig,” Lacey said. “Why don’t you ask Doug Cable why he’s trying to pin the blame for the whole appropriations bill mess on a dead woman who can’t defend herself? Maybe Cable had something to do with rearranging the numbers on his laptop, being the lapdog of Senator Van Drizzen, who just might have been in bed with the Bentleys, as well as with Esme Fairchild.” She threw her copy of
The Eye
at him. Mac stormed up the aisle, a fresh cup of coffee in his hand. No one spoke for a moment; then Mac broke the silence.
The Eye
at him. Mac stormed up the aisle, a fresh cup of coffee in his hand. No one spoke for a moment; then Mac broke the silence.
“Those might be very good questions, Johnson. Get on it.”
Being in a snit was one of Johnson’s talents, and he was working on a big one. “But they won’t talk to
The Eye!
Not even me! Because of
her.”
The Eye!
Not even me! Because of
her.”
Mac grimaced and rubbed his jaw. “If everybody liked us, we wouldn’t be doing our job. Now go find someone who will talk to you.”
That afternoon Hansen presented Mac with a proof sheet of all the Smithsonian shots, which was ordained as the big Sunday LifeStyle piece. Hansen could do very nice work, but he couldn’t resist at least one eye-rolling or eyes-shut-mouth-open shot in every batch. Mac actually consulted Lacey’s opinion on the photos of her five looks, which she chalked up to the power of the red suit. They wrangled over the exact choice for a half hour before they finally agreed on the five shots.
Lacey finished her last assignment of the day, dredging up glowing adjectives for the big makeover story and lauding her stylist, Stella, as a genius.
There’ll be no living with her after this.
There’ll be no living with her after this.
chapter 22
Lacey waited for Jeffrey at the entrance of her building. She didn’t know how she felt about letting him into her apartment. She loved her place, with its view of the Potomac River from every room, the building’s slight shabbiness notwithstanding; it was as comfortable as an old chenille bedspread. But certainly it would never measure up to a Bentley’s standards.
Despite Trujillo’s earlier fear, she had no intention of wearing the red suit to dinner. After dark, it was a suit that would say, “Hey, sailor, how about a hot date,” and she preferred to speak a little more softly tonight. She selected instead comfortable old blue jeans that were snug and flattering in an innocent girl-next-door kind of way. And a cherry-red sweater with a V neck and a fitted midriff; it was sexy and reliable and it had never betrayed her. It was warm enough for sandals. She grabbed a shoulder bag, and against all her better instincts tossed in the new cell phone.
Jeffrey pulled into the circular drive in the last vehicle Lacey ever expected to see a Bentley driving: a battered old pickup truck. She hopped in before he could get out and open the door. He smiled. “You look great. I’m really glad to see you in one piece,” Jeffrey said.
“Me too. Where’s your mother?” She looked into the back of the truck.
“Gee whiz, I don’t know! Mom, are you back there?”
Lacey laughed. She was ridiculously relieved. “I didn’t expect to see a Bentley in a good old American Ford truck.”
“It’s Mike O’Leary’s old truck. A Ford truck man from way back. I finally convinced him to break down and buy a new one if I promised to give the old one a good home.”
“O’Leary, the cop who busted the young delinquent Bentley Holmes?” Jeffrey nodded as he pulled into traffic. “Okay, tell me what happened next to the young demon seed. I believe we left him standing on the church steps having a spiritual crisis.”
“At dinner,” Jeffrey promised. “Where to?”
Lacey navigated them to Taquería Poblano, a cozy place that featured colorful surroundings, great margaritas, and a friendly staff. It was located in the Del Ray neighborhood of Alexandria and always seemed to be packed. Jeffrey ordered two margaritas. Lacey specified hers on the rocks, no salt, while a muffled ringing sounded nearby. She looked around.
Somebody answer that damn cell phone!
It took her another minute to realize that the annoying sound was coming from her own purse. She ripped open her bag and retrieved the irritating hunk of plastic and metal. “I’m so sorry. It’s new, what with the explosion and all,” she said to Jeffrey by way of apology. Into the phone she said, “Hello?”
Somebody answer that damn cell phone!
It took her another minute to realize that the annoying sound was coming from her own purse. She ripped open her bag and retrieved the irritating hunk of plastic and metal. “I’m so sorry. It’s new, what with the explosion and all,” she said to Jeffrey by way of apology. Into the phone she said, “Hello?”
“Are you okay?” This was not an entirely new side of Tony Trujillo, Boy Scout and protector of womenfolk, but it was a much more intrusive side.
“I’m fine. What do you think you’re doing? And who gave you this number?”
“You did, remember? Chill out, Smithsonian; I’m just checking. I’m standing by. If you’re in trouble, signal me.”
“Honestly, I’m okay.”
“You have a history of provoking homicidal maniacs.” She held the phone up. “He’s worried about my safety.”
“It’s true, you know,” Jeffrey said, licking salt from his glass. “I might be some kind of maniac.”
“Don’t worry, Tony; I have a steak knife.”
“As long as you’re armed, man. I’ll leave you to your dinner.” Tony hung up. Jeffrey waited for an explanation.
“The cavalry is waiting in the wings to rescue me from you. Just so you know.”
He sighed and leaned back into the booth. “Ah, the curse of the Bentleys strikes again. Now you have a taste of what it’s like to belong to the family. Women scatter like hunted prey. Men surround the castle with clubs and torches. So, is this guy your boyfriend?”
“No, that was Tony Trujillo, my buddy from work, police reporter. He’s written just as much about Esme Fairchild as I have. But no one’s gone after him.” Lacey felt a little irritated when she realized this. “No one blows up Tony’s Mustang. Why am I so special?”
“You should see how irritated you look. But Lacey, I honestly don’t think my family had anything to do with the bomb in the minivan.”
“Not even on aesthetic grounds?”
“Do you have a boyfriend?” It was the subject they had avoided the first time. She kept trying to think of Jeffrey as a source, but it was getting more difficult.
“That’s the million-dollar question. Kind of, sort of, I don’t really know. He’s been out of town getting a house ready to sell to his ex-wife. Or maybe he’s buying what the ex-wife is selling. What about you? Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Not at the moment. Although my mother keeps throwing girls named Muffy at me.”
“I know the type.” She immediately thought of Tyler Stone, beauty, breeding, and bucks, a closet full of chichi shoes, the type poor Jeffrey was probably destined for. “I met someone your mother would love. She works for Senator Dashwood.”
“That sounds like Tyler Stone.”
“Oops. You know her? Washington is such a small town.”
Or maybe being rich is its own small town.
Lacey realized she should tread carefully here.
Or maybe being rich is its own small town.
Lacey realized she should tread carefully here.
“Our families know each other, yes. Mother would like that. Tyler would definitely be ‘suitable’—she’s pretty and she knows all the right people. But Tyler”—Jeffrey shook his head—“is not my type. Besides, she doesn’t make me laugh.”
“Nothing like a good minivan explosion to lighten the atmosphere.”
“That’s not exactly what I meant, but you nevertheless always make me smile.” He favored her with one of his dazzling smiles. Lacey noticed a young brunette at the next table sneaking looks at Jeffrey while her boyfriend was figuring out the bill. “But I didn’t take you out to dinner to explain my family. Or talk about all my nongirlfriends.”
“Then tell me about O’Leary. You’re fifteen, at the church, St. Timothy’s.”
Jeffrey visibly relaxed and continued the story he began at their first dinner together. “A large hand clamped down on the back of my neck as I stood at the back of the church and a familiar, oddly musical voice whispered in my ear, ‘So, Mr. Jeffrey Bentley Holmes has come to see how the other half lives? All right. I’m going to escort you to your seat. And you are going to stand when we stand, kneel when we kneel, and sit when we sit. And you’re not leaving till I give you permission. Do you understand?’ ”
Lacey pictured the big Irish cop with the skinny young heir. It was hard to keep from giggling. Jeffrey had no idea that Officer O‘Leary ushered at the eight-o’clock Mass, still in his police uniform. Nobody left early at St. Timothy’s when O‘Leary ushered. “He more or less put me on display in the middle of the church. It was excruciating. After the Mass—and I stayed to the very end—O’Leary collared me again. He told me that if I had any money, they served coffee and doughnuts and juice in the community hall after the service. I took it as an order. I was afraid he would tell my mother where I was. To destroy your mother’s Mercedes is one thing, but sneaking into Mass with the townies was something else entirely.”
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