Designer Knockoff (35 page)
“What happened to the thing, the trunk you had here? I thought that trunk was really important to you. And where do I put my beer in case I have to kiss you again?”
“It’s in a safe place. I hope.” He stood up and placed his beer on the end table.
“Okay. I sense there is a long story here. Back in a second.” He opened the fridge and helped himself to another beer. “Have you not been to the grocery store since I left? It looks like the same provisions you had two months ago.”
“The moving crew cleaned me out. There are some crackers and cheese and summer sausage if you’re hungry. Or I could cook something,” Lacey lied. “I suppose Montana cooks?”
“Montana cooks up a lot of trouble.” He stood up.
Aha, I knew it.
“And you attract trouble.” He returned with a box of crackers, a block of cheese, and a knife. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
Aha, I knew it.
“And you attract trouble.” He returned with a box of crackers, a block of cheese, and a knife. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
And things were going so well, with all that kissing and stuff.
They ate all the cheese and they drank all the beer, and they talked till after midnight.
They ate all the cheese and they drank all the beer, and they talked till after midnight.
“Let me get this straight.” He looked at her through travel-weary eyes. He had been on the road for the last four days. “All you have to do to summon up a dead body is look in an old trunk? And bam, there she is, a sixty-year-old mystery. Most people, Lacey—and this is not a criticism—but most people would find this interesting stuff for dinner conversation. They would not proceed to the point of provoking people to blow up their cars.”
“That sounds like a criticism to me.”
“By the way, when you were thinking about securing the trunk and taking it to a safe location with such an ingeniously convoluted plan, did you think about your own safety, even once?”
“I really don’t want to talk about this anymore, Vic. I have to get up at the crack of dawn.” He opened his sleepy eyes wider. “It’s a long story,” she protested.
“It’s a long night.”
She explained about Dorrie Rogers and her plans to visit the one woman who might help her understand what happened to Gloria Adams. Vic didn’t like it. He didn’t like the part about the Bentleys, the missing woman, and the dead intern. And he especially didn’t like the part about her impetuous trip to New Jersey to see someone she didn’t know, who had been involved in this mess sixty years ago. “I’m sorry, Vic, but this isn’t about what you like.”
Lacey and Vic said good night in a state of detente. There was another kiss, another moment when they both knew they’d be in Lacey’s bedroom in another ten seconds, but they both pulled back. It would be too easy, she thought, and it wouldn’t solve any of the issues between them.
Stella will think I’m out of my freaking mind.
Stella will think I’m out of my freaking mind.
She laid out clean sheets and towels for him and gave him a new toothbrush. She had laid in a supply of extras after Stella’s surprise overnighter. Vic insisted that she needed protection and offered to go to New Jersey with her. But Lacey knew he was too tired for another road trip. Besides, she would be safer out of town than at home. Vic finally agreed.
Their relationship was so full of unknowns at this point, full of longings, missed signals, and misunderstandings. The bedroom was off-limits for the moment, they concluded, but spending the night on her sofa, he announced, was the only decent thing to do. After all, he had ratcheted up all her fears, as if there were a troll waiting under the Woodrow Wilson Bridge, just waiting to get his claws on her.
The next morning she awoke to the smell of coffee. Vic opened the door to her bedroom and delivered a cup, along with a plate of freshly toasted English muffins and a slice of cheese. Lacey smiled at the sight of him. She forgot she was wearing her favorite black satin nightgown with the oh-so-revealing décolletage.
“Coffee and breakfast in bed, this is great.”
“Smile like that and I will delay that trip of yours.”
She felt herself blush and she nearly upset her coffee.
How could Montana let you go?
she thought. But then, she reasoned,
Vic probably only behaves like this when your life is in danger.
How could Montana let you go?
she thought. But then, she reasoned,
Vic probably only behaves like this when your life is in danger.
Vic sat on the side of her bed with his own cup of coffee and gave her a few more personal-safety lecture points that he had neglected the night before.
“Nothing is ever easy, is it?” she said.
“Not with you it isn’t.” They heard the toaster pop. Vic headed for the kitchen.
The moment was gone.
Enjoy the little things,
she told herself as she picked up the muffin. She briefly reflected that for the second time that week someone had sacked out on her popular sofa bed.
I’d better buy a trundle bed before tourist season.
Enjoy the little things,
she told herself as she picked up the muffin. She briefly reflected that for the second time that week someone had sacked out on her popular sofa bed.
I’d better buy a trundle bed before tourist season.
chapter 23
The weather was back to blisteringly beautiful and she could think of better things to do than head up Interstate 95 to the New Jersey Turnpike in a rental car. As much as she loved her burgundy-and-silver Nissan 280ZX, it was rather noticeable and rather old, and the mysterious minivan bombers must know by now they had gotten the wrong car. While the engine might run forever, its supporting cast of metal, plastic, and rubber parts was proving to be less durable and more delicate. Now she was in some sort of big navy blue box. It said Ford on the trunk and she was grateful not to be driving a big white box, like a refrigerator on wheels.
Vic offered again to go with her, but she refused. She let him drop her off at the rental place and check out the car, which made him feel better.
As she drove, Lacey kept scanning the traffic in her rearview mirror. She didn’t think she was being followed. She was beginning to wonder if she had overrated the whole minivan episode. Maybe it really was Felicity’s fault after all. It irritated Lacey that everyone, even including her, and most of all Vic, simply assumed she was behind things like that.
Lacey was negotiating the Jersey Turnpike traffic when the cell phone rang and nearly scared her to death. She’d forgotten to turn it off before she started. She ignored it and its persistent annoying ring, which she realized apparently replicated the opening five notes of some vaguely familiar classical piece of music. She managed to get it out of her purse and click it off.
It’s bad enough lugging you around, she thought; I’m certainly not going to answer you, especially while driving.
Every driver in Virginia and the District seemed to be on the phone all the time now, and it drove her crazy.
It’s bad enough lugging you around, she thought; I’m certainly not going to answer you, especially while driving.
Every driver in Virginia and the District seemed to be on the phone all the time now, and it drove her crazy.
She pulled over at one of the turnpike rest stops for a quick break, a cup of coffee, and a fill-up for the big blue box. An apple-cheeked young man of about twenty-one pumped her gas. She did a double take: He was so neatly dressed with his blue slacks, white-and-blue-striped shirt, and blue tie, neatly knotted with the tail tucked between his shirt buttons, that Lacey couldn’t help herself; she told him how nice he looked, even though smudged with oil. With golden-brown hair and ruddy cheeks he looked like a
GQ
model, but his voice was pure Jersey. His nod to self-expression was rolling the sleeves up over his muscular biceps.
GQ
model, but his voice was pure Jersey. His nod to self-expression was rolling the sleeves up over his muscular biceps.
“You think I’d dress like this if I didn’t have to?” But he smiled at her as he filled the tank. “Company makes us.”
God bless company dress codes.
She glanced around to get her bearings. It didn’t help. All the Jersey Turnpike stops looked the same to her; she wondered if this was the Molly Pitcher or the James Fenimore Cooper. The cell phone on the passenger seat accused her silently. She turned it back on just for the break and it rang immediately. It was her third cell phone call. Who had her number? For a start, Brooke, Damon, the trunk moving crew, Tony, and Mac. And Vic. She realized she should have asked Mac not to pass it around. At least it couldn’t be Stella. Or could it? “Hello?”
She glanced around to get her bearings. It didn’t help. All the Jersey Turnpike stops looked the same to her; she wondered if this was the Molly Pitcher or the James Fenimore Cooper. The cell phone on the passenger seat accused her silently. She turned it back on just for the break and it rang immediately. It was her third cell phone call. Who had her number? For a start, Brooke, Damon, the trunk moving crew, Tony, and Mac. And Vic. She realized she should have asked Mac not to pass it around. At least it couldn’t be Stella. Or could it? “Hello?”
“Ms. Smithsonian. Where are you?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Agent Braddock, FBI.”
“Top of the morning to you too, Agent Braddock. I’m at a gas station.”
“A gas station where?”
“On the road. Why, are you following me?”
“Evidently not, or I wouldn’t be calling you.”
“How did you get my number?”
“Douglas MacArthur Jones, your editor.”
“His friends call him Mac. Is there something I should know, Agent Braddock?”
“Negative. Is there anything I should know, Ms. Smithsonian?”
“I cover fashion. I’m on a fashion-related story and you scoff at fashion clues. So why the big surveillance?” The spiffy attendant handed her the credit card slip to sign.
“If we were surveilling you, Ms. Smithsonian,” he said reasonably, “we would know where you were. I’m just keeping in touch. And by the way, I’d never scoff at a fashion clue.”
“You’re not going to tell me not to leave town, are you?”
“No.” He said it with a heavy sigh, as if he had heard this line a lot and he didn’t find it particularly clever.
“It’s a little late for that anyway.”
“You will call me if you uncover any more trouble, won’t you?”
“If I require the services of the Federal Bureau of Investigation I will certainly let you know. ’Bye.” With that she turned the damn thing off and drove the rental car over to the parking lot in front of the rest stop.
Travelers weary from the endless Jersey Turnpike can count on the Woodrow Wilson or the Richard Stockton or any number of other interestingly named rest stops to refresh them for a few minutes. They supply their own unique entertainment. Lacey was struck by how many basically attractive people she could see in the most extreme fashions. Sky-high heels and tiger-lady nails for the women, and muscle shirts and gelled pompadours for the men, and impressive physiques on both, bursting out of skintight clothing. It was definitely not D.C.
Hunks and babes wearing funny clothes—there’s a column in there somewhere.
Hunks and babes wearing funny clothes—there’s a column in there somewhere.
The rest of the drive to Dorrie Rogers’s assisted-living facility east of Princeton was uneventful. But Lacey couldn’t help feeling uneasy. Braddock’s call had awakened her imagination once more. Fighting paranoia was hard. What if Agent Braddock thought she was actually onto something important? That thought made her feel better.
Bravado is good. If I’m in danger
,
I must be on the right track. Who knew fashion could be this fun?
Bravado is good. If I’m in danger
,
I must be on the right track. Who knew fashion could be this fun?
She pulled into a small shopping center a few blocks away from Dorne’s home to pick up some fresh flowers and freshen up. She reluctantly turned the cell phone on again. Of course it rang. This time it was Vic.
“Are you playing games with Braddock?”
“What? You know him too?” Vic seem to know entirely too many people in law enforcement everywhere he went.
“We’ve crossed paths before. I figured he’d be in on your little escapade. We traded information.”
“I don’t like the way that sounds.”
She could hear him chuckle. “He says you’re a bit prickly.”
“Ha!
I’m
prickly? He doesn’t hang around with many reporters, does he?”
I’m
prickly? He doesn’t hang around with many reporters, does he?”
With a little extra time on her hands, Lacey sat down at a small coffee shop to relax, take in the crowd, and peruse
The Post.
The Style section featured a retro stylized sketch of the First Lady’s outfit for the gala, designed by Aaron Bentley. It was described as a creamy ivory silk with “splendid embroidery.” So Aaron had given
The Post
the exclusive. It wasn’t surprising that he hadn’t given it to her, considering the negative press she had thrown at the Bentleys, but still it grated on her nerves.
The Post.
The Style section featured a retro stylized sketch of the First Lady’s outfit for the gala, designed by Aaron Bentley. It was described as a creamy ivory silk with “splendid embroidery.” So Aaron had given
The Post
the exclusive. It wasn’t surprising that he hadn’t given it to her, considering the negative press she had thrown at the Bentleys, but still it grated on her nerves.
A familiar popping sound made her glance over at an intense man sitting near her wearing a white Izod shirt, khaki pants, and Topsiders without socks. He was chewing gum and blowing bubbles between sips of coffee, reading
The Post. Good grief
,
what’s he doing here?
She decided to take the offense.
The Post. Good grief
,
what’s he doing here?
She decided to take the offense.
“Are you following me, Cable?”
He jerked his head up, stared at her in surprise, and snarled, “Me? What the hell are
you
doing in New Jersey?”
you
doing in New Jersey?”
“Communing with nature. And you?”
She stood her ground silently while he compulsively blew another bubble. “Okay,” he finally said. “This is off the record. Mrs. Van Drizzen is here visiting her son.”
“I thought she had the furniture moved back to Arkansas or wherever they’re from.”
“She did.” Cable glared at her and upset his coffee onto the paper. “I’m here to try to convince her to go back to the senator before next year’s race. She has to stick with him through this scandal mess. A mess you made a lot worse.”
“Just following leads. And why blame the appropriations mess on Esme Fairchild?”
“To take the heat off the affair. Duh. Besides, the little tramp may really have diddled those figures for all I know. She’s my number one suspect.”
“Is that a quote?”
“Like I said, off the record. For all I know, you’re following me. I never want to see you again, Smithsonian. And if you spill one word about this, I will strangle you.”
“Under the circumstances, Mr. Cable, that is a very poor choice of words.” She pulled out her cell phone. “Want to repeat them to the FBI?”
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