Designer Knockoff (4 page)
The Bentley clan was indulging in early cocktails, martinis all around, while Lacey, with her iced tea, enjoyed the gleaming hardwood floors, the polished paneling, and the red leather booths of the elegant restaurant. Background music played swing. The place was packed with lobbyists and lawyers and the occasional deep-pocketed tourist. The Bentleys occupied a secluded corner beneath a stuffed swordfish, and Belinda and Marilyn were discussing the shopping expedition they planned for that afternoon as eagerly as if they were seventeen, not seventyish.
Aaron and Cordelia arrived late from their hotel. She had insisted on changing into a sleek, bare, sleeveless black dress and sky-high heels. She made it clear she had given her all by wearing that itchy WAC uniform.
Apparently posing stark naked is all in a day’s work for Cordelia,
Lacey thought,
but wearing wool is above and beyond the call of duty.
Apparently posing stark naked is all in a day’s work for Cordelia,
Lacey thought,
but wearing wool is above and beyond the call of duty.
“But you were so fetching, Cordelia. It was a perfect performance,” Hugh said. “And it impressed the committee. Far more than I ever could have.”
“Not to mention the cameras. Remind me to thank your parents for those perfect cheekbones,” Aaron added, stroking her face before introducing Cordelia to Lacey. “She’s a reporter with
The Eye Street Observer.
Isn’t that a smashing suit? Dad says it’s an original Bentley from the first collection.”
The Eye Street Observer.
Isn’t that a smashing suit? Dad says it’s an original Bentley from the first collection.”
“You’re not from
The Washington Post?”
Cordelia asked Lacey, obviously disappointed.
The Washington Post?”
Cordelia asked Lacey, obviously disappointed.
“I’m sure she’s from a much more fair and balanced newspaper,” Aaron said. “Isn’t that right, Ms. Smithsonian?”
Another member of the clan joined the table. Jeffrey Bentley Holmes, Belinda’s son, who designed the stores for the family firm, was another late arrival. He hadn’t attended the hearing, being occupied with the museum opening. “Sorry, politics doesn’t interest me,” he said by way of excuse. “I’d rather hit myself in the head with a hammer.”
He smiled winningly at Lacey. “Is this seat taken?” Jeffrey had golden-blond hair and was decidedly not Lacey’s type. He was too perfect, he was too wealthy, he was too smooth, and positively too attractive. He could have been a Bentley model himself, with his even features and strong square jaw. He had an easy elegance, even though he was the most casual of the Bentleys, wearing a linen shirt and slacks and sports jacket. Lacey immediately marked him as the type who would pay no attention to her, preferring the allure of a Cordelia or an Esme. In her early thirties, Lacey figured a guy like Jeffrey would be looking for a woman with lower numbers in both age and IQ. He sat down next to her.
“Uncle Hugh loves it when people do their homework,” he murmured in her ear.
“Homework?”
“You’re wearing an extremely rare vintage Bentley, I gather from Aaron’s hyperventilating, and you wear it extremely well. You made a big impression on Uncle Hugh, and you don’t even look remotely like a reporter. Unless it’s Brenda Starr.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
I love Brenda Starr.
I love Brenda Starr.
The last arrival was Aaron Bentley’s special assistant, a tall, thin, black man they called Chevalier. He was almost too pretty with his cocoa skin and thick black eyelashes. He seemed ageless, and he could have been twenty-five or forty-five.
“Chevalier, do you know the whereabouts of Miss Esme Fairchild?” Hugh asked. “There was some confusion at the hearing. I expected to see her helping to manage this affair.”
“I’m afraid no one has seen her today, Hugh.” He busied himself with his napkin.
Cordelia narrowed her eyes at the mention of Esme. “How very odd. I thought she would have Velcroed herself to Aaron today.” She lightly touched Aaron’s arm with her perfectly manicured nails.
“Surely you didn’t mind her absence?” Belinda teased her.
“Of course not, Belinda. I just want to see her wear something as comfy as I had to wear today,” Cordelia said. “Something like a straitjacket, in itchy olive-drab wool.”
“I’m sure we could design something appropriate, Cordelia, dear,” Hugh said.
“Wearing that uniform wasn’t that bad, Cordy, and it was a good idea, even if it was Esme’s,” Aaron said.
“All I said was that I’d like her to wear that damn uniform herself,” Cordelia protested, wide-eyed. “Wool! I’ll have a rash for a week.” Cordelia lifted up her arms to expose an imaginary rash—and much more—to the slightly disconcerted waiter. Then she ordered the lobster. “At least she’s not here with us making big cow eyes at Aaron.”
“Pay no attention to them, Lacey; Bentleys are all wicked to the core,” Jeffrey informed her.
“And you are not a Bentley?” his mother asked in high dudgeon.
“I’m only half a Bentley.”
“That’s not funny, Jeffrey.”
Hugh broke in. “Did you get all of the press statements, Miss Smithsonian? The important ones. Ours.” Chevalier assured the patriarch that he had handed out all the statements without Esme Fairchild’s help.
“But if you need anything else, please call me.” Chevalier produced his personal business card for Lacey. She glanced at it, expecting to read his full name, but it said only Chevalier. And a cell phone number.
Even their flunkies are pretentious,
she thought.
Even their flunkies are pretentious,
she thought.
Hugh ordered the salmon and turned to Lacey. “Did we put on a good show today?”
“Do you mean Cordelia and the WAC uniform? It was a crowd pleaser.” She wasn’t sure how the Senate panel would react to “the Bentley show.”
“It was all very much spur of the moment. We got that request to appear before the Senate committee just last week,” Hugh confided. “All of our communications people are in Paris and Milan preparing for the fashion weeks in October. So we’re working with Chevalier here to see if he has what it takes to be our entire PR department for a week or two.”
Lacey turned to Chevalier. “What do you normally do?”
“Jack-of-all-trades.” He smiled at her.
And master of none
? she thought. “How’s it going?”
? she thought. “How’s it going?”
“I’m taking lessons from Hugh in the schmooze department. Generally I work on a variety of jobs for Aaron, sort of his right-hand man.”
“Enough chat!” Hugh suddenly declared, and turned to Lacey. “I’ve been dying to ask you, Miss Smithsonian: Where
did
you get that suit?”
did
you get that suit?”
“It’s Lacey, please. And the suit was a gift from my aunt. Great-aunt. Her name was Mimi Smith. Mary Margaret Smith, actually, but everyone always called her Mimi.” She paused for effect. “I understand that she knew you, once upon a time. During World War Two.”
Hugh was silent for a moment. “Mary Margaret Smith.” He shook his head. “No, I can’t say I remember a lady by that name. Of course, the war—that war—was a long time ago.” Lacey thought Mimi was pretty unforgettable. She was a little disappointed—and a little unsure whether she should believe him. “But do you happen to know how she came by the suit?”
“I imagine she bought it. She loved beautiful clothes. She left it to me.”
“She’s no longer with us?”
Lacey shook her head.
And took your secret, whatever it was, to her grave.
And took your secret, whatever it was, to her grave.
“I’m sorry. She must have looked lovely in that suit, if her beautiful niece is any indication.”
Marilyn addressed Lacey for the first time. “Don’t pay any attention to him, Lacey; he’s an incorrigible old flirt.”
“But a charming one, I hope, Mrs. Bentley,” Hugh said.
“So that’s where Aaron gets it,” Cordelia cut in.
Hugh paused a moment to evaluate his salmon plate. He took a bite, deemed it acceptable. “I should point out that I have been married to this charming lady for almost sixty years,” he said, and smiled at his wife.
“And everyone knows that Marilyn has been his biggest inspiration,” Belinda said. “It must be true; it’s been in all the news stories.”
“That’s enough, Belinda,” Marilyn said. “She’s incorrigible as well.”
“Incorrigibility runs in the family,” Jeffrey cut in.
“I understand there will be a fund-raising gala the night before the museum opens,” Lacey said, changing the subject.
“The theme is ‘Sixty Years of American Fashion,’ starting from the war years,” Marilyn said. “Because you have an interest in vintage clothing, perhaps you should come and cover it for your newspaper, Lacey. It’s black-tie, but many people will be wearing vintage evening wear, vintage couture, as sort of a style retrospective. I understand there will be some very special Bentley originals.” She lifted her glass to her husband and winked.
The thought of seeing all that vintage clothing in action was intoxicating for Lacey. It was true she would have wrestled alligators to get off the fashion beat, but she did love good clothing, especially from the Forties. “I’ll have to check with my editor, but thanks. I’d love to.”
Belinda cleared her throat. “Of course, you don’t have to wear old clothes. I’ll be wearing something very sleek and modern from our latest collection.”
“Will the First Lady be at the gala?” Lacey hoped that sounded casual, not like a reporter fishing for a story. There was a moment’s silence as the Bentleys exchanged glances.
“We haven’t had confirmation from the White House yet,” Marilyn said carefully.
“Aren’t you going to spill your big news, Hugh?” Belinda teased. She turned to Lacey. “The First Lady will cut the ribbon and open the doors to the museum two weeks from today.”
“I’d heard a rumor to that effect,” Lacey said.
“These things always get out, especially with a little help from Belinda.” Hugh sighed. “But you might as well be the first to know that Aaron is designing a special outfit for her, which is very exclusive. It will become the basis for a new ‘First Lady’ line of designer wear.”
Lacey’s fashion reporter senses were quivering.
It’s the suit,
she thought.
Wear a great suit, get a great story.
“A special outfit? What does it look like? What color? A dress, a suit?”
It’s the suit,
she thought.
Wear a great suit, get a great story.
“A special outfit? What does it look like? What color? A dress, a suit?”
“That’s enough of a scoop for now,” Aaron said testily. “Who knows, maybe someone will leak you a sketch of the design before the opening.” He glowered at the others.
“You have to be patient, Lacey. Aaron jealously guards his secrets,” Hugh said, rapping the floor with his walking stick for emphasis. “But I can tell you this. We’ll be using vintage silk that has been in the vaults for decades. It was too special to use—until now.”
By two-thirty, the Bentleys were shopping and Lacey was back at her desk. The office seemed calm, and even Felicity Pickles, the food writer and sometime copy editor at the next desk, was gone. Lacey was making some headway on the First Lady ribbon-cutting story. But too soon, Felicity’s new perfume entered the airspace. It cost a hundred and twenty-five dollars an ounce, smelled like a cross between gardenias and metalworking fluids, and spread like a cloud of mustard gas. Felicity lumbered into view behind it.
Dabbing a drop of WD-40 behind each ear would cost a lot less, smell better—and prevent rust! Not to mention attract a certain class of men.
Lacey decided not to tell Felicity this. It wouldn’t help, and Felicity was a heavyweight contender who could beat her in any fight.
Lacey decided not to tell Felicity this. It wouldn’t help, and Felicity was a heavyweight contender who could beat her in any fight.
“More old clothes, Lacey?” Felicity clucked sympathetically, as if Lacey had dressed out of a Goodwill grab bag.
“It’s an original vintage Bentley suit. You’ve heard of them. As in ‘the Three Bs of American Fashion: Beene, Blass, and Bentley’?”
“If you say so.” Felicity chuckled. Lacey knew she was thinking that the fashion beat really should have been hers.
Felicity would be writing about how to accessorize your muumuu with an attractive canvas car cover.
Felicity would be writing about how to accessorize your muumuu with an attractive canvas car cover.
“You have some crumbs on your chin,” Lacey said.
Felicity wiped her face and glared back. To be fair it was very difficult, if not impossible, for someone who wrote about food all day (when she wasn’t copyediting Lacey’s prose into oblivion) to keep the pounds at bay. And people wouldn’t think about it, except that Felicity herself always brought up how much weight she was gaining.
Tony Trujillo’s approach saved her from more pointless banter with Felicity. Tony was
The Eye’s
cop reporter and hailed from New Mexico, while Lacey was originally from Colorado. He considered them old neighbors, the Westerners among the Eastern flatlanders.
The Eye’s
cop reporter and hailed from New Mexico, while Lacey was originally from Colorado. He considered them old neighbors, the Westerners among the Eastern flatlanders.
“Hey, Smithsonian, what’s been keeping you?”
“Lunch with the Bentleys at SeaWorthy, that new seafood restaurant on K Street.” She said it for Felicity’s benefit. Lacey didn’t really care for seafood or lobster.
We don’t eat bugs that big in the West.
But she knew Felicity would be jealous. “And I’m working on an exclusive about the Bentleys and the First Lady.”
We don’t eat bugs that big in the West.
But she knew Felicity would be jealous. “And I’m working on an exclusive about the Bentleys and the First Lady.”
“Yeah? Well, I got a real crime of fashion for you.”
“What, your new boots? Which endangered species are these made from? Komodo dragon?”
Tony leaned against her desk to show them off. “Ostrich. And they’re not endangered. They’re—Never mind, we’ve got an armed robbery. Right up your alley.”
“Since when is armed robbery up my alley?”
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