Designer Knockoff (39 page)

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Authors: Ellen Byerrum

Tags: #Mystery

BOOK: Designer Knockoff
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“I know you have to go now,” Brooke said. “But I predict we are going to have a long girls’ night out. Soon.” She looked meaningfully at Vic Donovan, who sat in the driver’s seat of his Jeep Wrangler. He looked casual and handsome waiting there with his sunglasses on. His curly dark brown hair spilled over his forehead, giving him a rakish look. “You’ve been holding out on me.” It was an accusation.
Lacey just groaned. “Okay, Brooke, I promise. You know what to do with this package?” Brooke rolled her eyes dramatically. At that, Lacey dashed back to the Jeep.
The heavenly aroma of baking dough hit them as soon as they pulled into the parking lot at the Krispy Kreme doughnut factory. The neon sign in the window proclaimed HOT DOUGHNUTS NOW, the rallying cry of Krispy Kreme fans everywhere. Lacey could see FBI agent Gary Braddock, a.k.a. the Undertaker, sitting with his back against the booth wall and looking out onto Route One. He was sipping his coffee and hefting a glazed doughnut. He seemed oddly peaceful, and he was not wearing his characteristic black. Instead he wore khaki slacks and a light blue knit T-shirt that seemed to intensify the azure gaze of his eyes. That gaze, no doubt, struck terror into the hearts of those he interrogated. He looked as lean as a grey-hound.
That doughnut diet must be working,
Lacey thought.
Vic waved to the agent, signaling that they would join him after succumbing to the siren song of sugar and dough. Lacey sauntered over to the table and took a seat opposite Braddock. “This is hardly my idea of a clandestine meeting place,” Lacey said.
“I didn’t realize it was supposed to be clandestine,” Braddock said. “Besides, if you have nothing useful to tell me, I still get something out of this—hot glazed doughnuts, a little round piece of heaven.” He lifted his coffee cup to her.
She pulled out the piece of silk from her purse. “I’ll make this simple. This material is leftover black-market silk from World War Two. From Hugh Bentley’s factory. It figures prominently in the disappearance of a young woman.”
“I read your story on Gloria Adams.”
“And her possible murder a long time ago.”
Vic joined them, setting down a coffee in front of Lacey with a chocolate glazed doughnut and the same for himself.
“I’m working on the Esme Fairchild murder,” Braddock said. “Why do you think I would be interested in a sixty-year-old disappearance?”
“Let’s just say murder might run in the Bentley family. And this black-market silk is twisted up in the murder scene. And the motive. And next week’s headlines.”
“And how would you know all that?” Braddock fixed her with his cool blue gaze.
“A witness was there the day Gloria Adams disappeared, but that isn’t the urgent part.” Lacey reached into her bag and produced
The Post
article describing the fabric that would be used in the First Lady’s outfit for the opening of the Bentley Museum of American Fashion. And a copy of the news clipping and photo of Hugh and Marilyn Bentley’s wedding in June of 1944.
Braddock looked at her expectantly. Vic escaped to the counter for more doughnuts and fresh coffee.
“When the First Lady opens the museum doors on Tuesday afternoon, she is expected to wear a new dress and jacket by Aaron Bentley. It’s supposed to be vintage silk. Based on what Hugh Bentley and a confidential source told me, I believe it will be this material. There were five bolts originally, and I can account for two.”
“The same silk? That’s pretty interesting, but why should anyone care now? This is so long ago that all the suspects must be dead too, and raising the dead is a little out of my line.”
“Oh, the suspects are very much alive. And this material is covered in blood, figuratively speaking. If the First Lady knew that, she might not want to wear it. The witness to Gloria Adams’s last day just wants the First Lady to know the story, and so do I. If the First Lady’s already seen a sample of the Bentley silk for her dress, she’ll know if it matches this piece. Then she can decide if she wants to wear the silk. We think it’s the right thing to do.”
“So this isn’t about the Esme Fairchild case. If you’re looking for a Boy Scout or someone to restore justice in a sixty-year-old crime, Smithsonian, I’m not sure the Bureau can help you.”
Vic returned carrying a tray with more doughnuts and slid in next to Lacey. The agent wanted to know what would happen if no one told the First Lady the tragic story of Gloria Adams, and she wore the outfit.
“She could just read all about it in
The Eye Street Observer
.”
“Ah. She might not enjoy that. And this is all based on fashion clues?”
“Major fashion clues. And old people with long memories.”
Braddock gazed at the ivory silk. “Memories. Mark Twain once said he had an excellent memory; he could remember things that never happened. And if this material disappeared, then where would your story be?”
“Oh, please, don’t tell me you think I’m that stupid.” She was so annoyed she took another doughnut off Vic’s plate.
Braddock looked at Vic for guidance. Vic shrugged. “She likes to cover all her bases.”
“Then there’s more material.” Braddock smiled. “And you think I’m the right person to relay this information?”
“
The Eye Street Observer
doesn’t have a lot of pull at the White House,” Lacey commented. Vic started to laugh, but she threw him a look and he swallowed it.
The Undertaker was known for his sense of style. He was the FBI equivalent of a flashy dresser. He eyed the material closely, clearly unwilling to touch it with sticky fingers. Lacey realized it was time for her to shut up and let the silk speak for itself, if it had anything to say. “It’s a shame; it’s really quite beautiful.” Braddock paused to consider another doughnut and decided against it. “Do you know how cold cases are solved, Lacey? Times change, circumstances change, people want to get even, they get religion, they want to close the books. They don’t want to go to their graves uncleansed.”
Lacey folded the material up and placed it back in the small white envelope, then handed it to Braddock. He slipped it into his pocket.
“I’ll pass the information along with my personal recommendation to view it seriously,” he said. “Beyond that, no promises.”
On the way back to her apartment, Lacey was contemplating a long afternoon nap when she was struck by panic. “Oh, my God.”
“What is it?” Vic swerved the Jeep in alarm.
“The Bentleys’ big gala is tomorrow and I don’t know if my dress is ready.”
“Is that all? Lacey, honey, you’d look good in anything. Or nothing at all.” He kept his eyes on the road. “Do you want to go for a drive? If you like B-and-Bs, I know one—”
“Are you crazy? I didn’t even bring the stupid cell phone. I have to go home.”
Lacey was relieved when they got back to find a message from Stella on her answering machine.
“First of all, why don’t you get a cell phone?” Stella scolded. “And second, oh, my God, Lacey—”
“There are a lot of ‘oh, my Gods’ going on around here,” Vic cracked.
“—the dress is done, and it is totally ... well, like words totally fail me, and when has that ever happened, you know?” She continued: “We’re bringing it over for a final fitting tonight and, you know, a styling session. Be there at five.” Stella clicked off.
Lacey looked at her watch. It was five minutes to five. She glanced at Vic and saw him fumble with something in his pocket.
“By the way, since you’re playing dress-up tonight, this might be a good time to give you this. I picked these up at a little shop in Steamboat.” Vic handed her a small box inside a plain brown bag. She opened it up. It was a pair of simple antique drop earrings with pearls and diamonds.
She felt tears sting her eyes. “Vic, they’re beautiful.” She immediately put them in her ears and walked over to the mirror in the hallway to admire them. They swung gently and picked up the light.
“Hey, don’t cry! I don’t think they’re real,” Vic said, following her. “But I think they’re real pretty and they show off your face.”
She threw her arms around him and gave him a kiss. He tightened his arms around her and, in one of those moments of perfectly bad timing, someone knocked at the door. Lacey groaned. The styling team had arrived.
chapter 27
“Lacey, darling! We’re your SWAT Team,” Miguel said as he swept through the door with armloads of bags and boxes. “Special Wearables And Trappings, right, Stella?”
“I thought we decided it meant So We’re A Terrific Team,” Stella said.
“Oh, that too,” Miguel said, handing too many things to Lacey. “And you’re not Tony,” he said to Vic. “I thought Tony would be here, but you’ll do. I’m Miguel, and you are?”
“I’m Vic, and I’m leaving,” Vic said. Lacey looked stricken while the others watched with interest. “Don’t worry; I’ll be back,” he said with a grin. “I’ll go down to the store for more beer. You’ll need it.”
“So you’re the babe from Colorado? I’ve heard so much about you,” Miguel said. “Hurry back.”
Vic left chuckling, and the SWAT team set up shop in Lacey’s spare bedroom, the one she called her office, though she mostly used it as extra closet space. It was only a dress rehearsal to see if there were any last-minute alterations to the Gloria Adams gown, but Lacey was thrilled to finally have it in her hands. She sent Miguel and Stella out of the room after Miguel had shown her all the details. She wanted a long moment alone with the gown.
It was as magnificent as if Gloria had lovingly tended every stitch. The morning-glory blue seemed to have a life of its own. She wondered if she could possibly live up to it. Lacey stroked the impossibly soft material and admired the intricate shooting-star beadwork. The gown evoked a scene from the decade it belonged to. She could imagine a big band playing in a bandstand. She lifted it carefully and swayed to the music she heard playing in her head. “Sentimental Journey.” It was time to see if the magic would last.
In a rustle of blue silk it was over her head and zipped up the side with an invisible zipper, not a period touch, but a welcome detail. It fit snugly over the midriff, but it didn’t pull or bind. It hugged her like her own skin. In that moment, Lacey knew the utter indulgence of the exquisite couture dress built specifically for her. More than her tailored vintage clothing, it fit her perfectly, down to the last millimeter. Even the hem was perfect.
The gown seemed to make her eyes glow. She slipped on the wicked shoes, the impossibly expensive Scarpabella shoes that she had lacked the heart to return. Her cheval mirror held her glance and showed off the way the dress flowed like a blue stream, undulating with sparkling beads of shooting stars. It was one-of-a-kind and it was hers. She still wore the antique earrings Vic had picked out for her, all by himself she hoped, in Steamboat Springs. Simple pearl-and-diamond drops, the baubles caught the light and picked up the blue of the silk. That was all the jewelry she needed. A necklace and bracelet would be too much; they would take away from the intricate beading.
“Hey, Lacey, you stuck or something?” Stella’s voice broke the spell.
Lacey took a breath, shook her curls, and swept into the living room like the star they expected her to be.
“Oh, my God.” For once, Miguel was without a snappy retort.
Stella was momentarily speechless, but soon recovered. “If you ever get married, it’s got to be that dress.”
Lacey looked around, but Vic was gone. Miguel caught her expression. “He brought up Dos Equis and then he left. I think all this girly stuff was too much for him. His loss, Lacey. Just look at yourself.”
It figures, she thought. Every time we try to get together there’s some detour.
“So what do you think?” Stella demanded.
“It’s unbelievable, you guys.”
“Tomorrow’s the big day. I want you at the salon at noon.” Stella inspected Lacey’s hands. “Manicure, pedicure, hair, and makeup.” It was a command, not a suggestion.
“That’s pretty early, Stella.” Lacey wondered how to broach this to Mac, who wouldn’t have a clue how long it would take to prepare for a gala like this. He would expect her to work a full day and rush over right after work. And there was the Tremains’ makeover to cover. Luckily, that was scheduled to start at nine in the morning. Lacey figured she could bop over to the exclusive and pricey Georgetown salon early for the pre-makeover interview and then let Hansen take the photos later. Stella broke into her thoughts.
“Miguel and me, we’ve got to get to the Building Museum for an early training session.”
“Huh? What training seesion?” The glorious redbrick building was the site for the gala, and “Sixty Years of American Fashion.”
“We didn’t tell you?” Stella looked supremely satisfied with herself.
Miguel jumped in. “We’re going as catering staff. You know, hoisting silver trays with champagne flutes. I have a friend and I knew he must need extra help, so it’s a perfect cover to keep an eye on those rotten Bentleys. And your dress.”
Stella reached into her leopard-skin bag and pulled out a tiny camera. “It’s digital.”

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