Designer Knockoff (43 page)
He sighed. “She went away, Lacey. It became apparent that she wanted more than I was willing or able to give. Although there is so much I can offer, if only you could see.”
“She wanted to marry you.”
“That was a problem.” Hugh looked directly at Lacey. “She thought she had the upper hand because she was a brilliant designer. But I had learned from her and needed her less and less. In the end, I didn’t need her at all. Just as perhaps my offer to you was also unnecessary.”
“What about the black market? She threatened to go public.”
“Not much of a threat. I was a respected businessman with connections in Washington, and who was she? Just a factory girl. But if you must know, she chose differently than you. I sent her away. It was costly, but we came to an agreement.”
“Where did you send her?”
“To Mexico, and then after the war to Europe, Rome, London. Paris for a while. She became—a painter. You’ve seen her sketches, I suppose.”
Gloria never mentioned painting in her letters,
Lacey thought. “And she never came back?”
Lacey thought. “And she never came back?”
“No, that was part of the deal.” Hugh flipped open his cell phone and hit a number. “Bring Chevalier up, would you?” He waited for an answer, then put the phone away.
“Is she still alive?”
“We’ve been in touch over the years. You’ll see.”
“What about the silk for the First Lady’s outfit, the one she’s supposed to wear tomorrow at the museum opening? That fine embroidered ivory silk—I imagine it came to Bentley’s in 1944 via the black market. How many people died because of it?”
“You know nothing about it! That silk is mine and mine alone.”
Lacey withdrew the small piece of lovely fabric from her bag and held it out for him to see. “This silk. Aaron gave an exclusive to
The Post
describing the ensemble.”
The Post
describing the ensemble.”
“I’ve tried to be accommodating, but I’ve become quite tired of our negotiation, Ms. Smithsonian.” He reached out for the fabric, but she snatched it away from him and tucked it into her décolletage.
Aaron opened the door, smiling, accompanied by Chevalier. “How are you two getting along?” He looked at them and his smile faded.
“Aaron, I want Chevalier to put Lacey in touch with Gloria Adams, the woman she’s been writing about. She longs to learn about the end of the story. Please arrange it. I’ll come downstairs with you.”
Lacey saw Aaron’s face harden and she realized that maybe she should have taken Hugh’s job offer. Everything was moving too quickly now.
They marched her to the elevator for a silent ride down to the first floor. Aaron had a tight grip around her waist and shoulders. And Chevalier had her wrists. Hugh led the way.
“I’ve changed my mind about the job,” she said, but she knew it was too late.
“The offer has been withdrawn,” Aaron said. When the door opened the music was loud, but the crowd was louder. The string quartet had yielded to a blaring swing band. They were in an exclusive area cordoned off from the main party. Lacey hoped to catch someone’s eye, but the three men surrounded her. “We are ejecting you from this party, Ms. Smithsonian. I trust we won’t be seeing you again.” Aaron looked hard at Chevalier. “He will take care of you—properly this time.” Lacey stared at the beautiful Chevalier, his face shining cocoa-brown, his expressionless round dark eyes, and a sick feeling welled in the pit of her stomach. His navy tuxedo was set off by a pale blue ascot made of silk.
Hugh tapped his lion-headed cane on the floor. “Good night, my dear. It has been a trip down memory lane.” He gazed again at Gloria Adams’s creation. “A pity you didn’t take my offer.” He turned to his son again. “Nothing rough—I want that dress. Call me when it’s done.”
I’m in the lion’s cage now
, she realized, and her heart started beating a samba.
And the lions want my blood
—
andmy dress!
Aaron let go of her waist to transfer her to Chevalier’s care. “Don’t make a scene,” he snarled. “Or it will get ugly.” He turned to go, leaving Chevalier with the instruction, “Save the dress for Hugh.”
, she realized, and her heart started beating a samba.
And the lions want my blood
—
andmy dress!
Aaron let go of her waist to transfer her to Chevalier’s care. “Don’t make a scene,” he snarled. “Or it will get ugly.” He turned to go, leaving Chevalier with the instruction, “Save the dress for Hugh.”
Chevalier yanked Lacey’s left arm, pulling her off balance with her right arm suddenly free. She impulsively grabbed the soft silk ascot from his neck. It revealed the scar of a long-ago tracheotomy, the raised lumpy tissue pale against his chocolate skin. Something Miguel said clicked into place. Something about a beautiful black woman wearing a silk scarf to cover her scar, screaming and kicking him in the head. An angry light illuminated Chevalier’s blank eyes as he realized what she had done. He let go of her, clutching his throat to cover his one physical imperfection. He growled.
“Oh, my God.You killed Esme Fairchild! With your scarf!” Lacey shouted. And she realized that the Bentley’s robbery was indeed an inside job. “Miguel!” Lacey yelled at the top of her lungs.
Where the hell is he?
Where the hell is he?
Chevalier’s lips curled into a smile. Moving slowly and deliberately, he reached for the blue ascot, but she was too quick. She backed away from him, kicking off the beautiful shoes so she could run. She scooped them up in one hand. A few people were beginning to stare. “Miguel,” she yelled again. “Stella! Vic!”
Where the hell is everybody?
Aaron Bentley had disappeared into the crowd. But Hugh had been detained just a few feet in front of her by an aging admirer.
Where the hell is everybody?
Aaron Bentley had disappeared into the crowd. But Hugh had been detained just a few feet in front of her by an aging admirer.
Lacey rushed toward him, and before he could react, with her free hand she grabbed the lion-headed walking stick. Chevalier was right behind her.
“Wait a minute; what’s going on?” Hugh demanded. “Chevalier, I told you to—” Lacey put Hugh between them, and Chevalier froze in Hugh’s glare. Lacey dodged around one of the giant Corinthian columns. He started after her again. She tossed one shoe at him. It missed and she heard a crash from a nearby table, so she hurled the other one, the heel striking him in the forehead. He grunted. She tried to weave through the crowd but the throng was too dense and she was stuck. Lacey stopped, turned, and flipped Hugh’s walking stick in her hands to swing it like a baseball bat. She felt a small button under the lion’s chin and tested it. Out snapped a small deadly-looking blade about six inches long from the top of the cane. “Whoa! How did you get past security?” she said aloud.
Trust Hugh Bentley to have another little secret.
Trust Hugh Bentley to have another little secret.
Chevalier was right in front of her. She swished the cane like a sword with both hands, holding him back for a moment. The crowd, aware that something was happening, circled around them, but the music was deafening. Somewhere close by there was the flash of a camera.
“Hot damn, Lacey, what’s happening?” The dulcet tones of Stella’s native New Jersey sounded like heaven to Lacey. “This is great. Smile!”
“Where were you?” she yelled, adrenaline still coursing through her.
“You disappeared, and we all went looking outside. Vic’s still out there looking for you. Boy is he mad.”
“Stella, this is not the time for a long story. You have to call security
now!”
now!”
Chevalier grabbed for the cane above the blade. Lacey jerked it back. “Get Miguel too, Stella—to identify this creep.”
Chevalier moved in again, but no one jumped in to help Lacey.
What’s wrong with these people?
“This isn’t the floor show,” she yelled as Chevalier again lunged for the cane. Lacey jerked it back sharply, but he had grabbed it and was holding on tight. Stella latched on to Lacey’s end of the cane and they managed to yank it away from the angry Chevalier. He grimaced, then shrieked in pain as the blade sliced through his palms. He clutched his bleeding hands, grabbing the handkerchief from his tuxedo pocket. Lacey looked around wildly for help and spied Miguel through a gap in the crowd, offering champagne to an elderly politician. She yelled for him again and this time he heard her, plowing through the mob to her side.
What’s wrong with these people?
“This isn’t the floor show,” she yelled as Chevalier again lunged for the cane. Lacey jerked it back sharply, but he had grabbed it and was holding on tight. Stella latched on to Lacey’s end of the cane and they managed to yank it away from the angry Chevalier. He grimaced, then shrieked in pain as the blade sliced through his palms. He clutched his bleeding hands, grabbing the handkerchief from his tuxedo pocket. Lacey looked around wildly for help and spied Miguel through a gap in the crowd, offering champagne to an elderly politician. She yelled for him again and this time he heard her, plowing through the mob to her side.
“His scar, Miguel. Look at his throat.” Lacey pointed the cane.
Tray in hand, Miguel stared at Chevalier, who stood at bay, panting, wiping his bleeding hands on his tuxedo jacket, and Miguel’s usually impassive face flashed into that of Miguel the Avenger.
“It’s her! The filthy bitch who stomped on my head.”
Miguel threw his tray of champagne flutes in Chevalier’s face, dove and body-slammed Chevalier. Lacey held the cane protectively over her friend, ready to stab like a bullfighter if it came to that.
Suddenly Miguel was down and Chevalier scrambled to his feet, poised to kick Miguel in the head the way he had at Bentley’s Boutique. Lacey lifted the sword cane and stabbed it down as hard as she could. She thought she’d missed—but Chevalier seemed to have trouble swinging his leg. They both looked down at his foot, puzzled. She had stabbed the blade clean through his black patent-leather Bentley’s tassel loafer—and his foot. He was nailed to the floor and he howled like a trapped coyote.
Chaos reigned for all of thirty seconds in that small corner of the Building Museum while the band blared on. Miguel jumped up and put his fist in Chevalier’s gut and doubled him over, still pinned to the floor. People in black gowns and tuxedos started screaming and retreating. Lacey looked around for her shoes but couldn’t find them in the hubbub. She became aware of videocamera lights glaring in her face, and then realized the composition of the observers had changed. She heard clicking and saw a ring of weapons drawn at the four of them, at her and Miguel and Chevalier and Stella. Orders were issued to freeze. Lacey looked past the lights and saw Gary Braddock, part of the ring of pistols. Trujillo stood behind him, no doubt taking notes. Hugh and Aaron Bentley were nowhere to be seen.
“No more sharp objects, Ms. Smithsonian. It’s always fun until someone gets their eye poked out,” Braddock said.
“They offered me a job! In Paris!”
“How dare they. Care to explain?” he asked her. “Upstairs, I think.”
“Wait! Aaron and Hugh will get away—”
“I don’t think so. The speeches are starting—and they’re making them.”
Someone in uniform assisted Chevalier in hobbling away to a waiting police car, the walking stick still impaling his shoe. His tuxedo was smeared with blood from his hands, and he was spitting obscenities at Miguel and Lacey. She was hustled off for questioning, up to the now-vacant pension commissioner’s suite. Miguel and Stella were also taken away for questioning somewhere else.
The small commotion at the end of the hall did nothing to stop the gala. It went on without another hitch, without Lacey. The Bentleys shared the spotlight and drank in all the glory.
Upstairs, after taking Lacey’s statement, Braddock finally allowed Vic in the room, then left to question Chevalier. Vic took one look at her, his face a thundercloud of concern. “My God, Lacey. I thought you’d been kidnapped. What the hell happened?”
It was much too complicated to explain. She looked down at her bare feet. “I lost my shoes,” she said in a small voice.
He gathered her up in his arms and didn’t let go for a long, long time.
chapter 31
The following day, the First Lady was unexpectedly unable to attend the opening of the Bentley Museum of American Fashion. She sent her regrets and the Vice President’s wife in a plain blue suit, who cut the designer ribbon. The entire Bentley family, minus Jeffrey, was at the Second Lady’s side, smiling for the cameras. If they were disappointed that the First Lady did not appear and wear the highly touted outfit of vintage silk, they did not betray it. All the major entertainment media were in attendance, but the story took second place to the news that Esme Fairchild’s suspected killer—and Lacey’s attempted abductor—was also one of the Bentley Bandits: the mysterious “woman” in Chanel.
Although suspicions of Bentley involvement with Esme’s disappearance were mentioned in the press, the Bentleys made no statement and referred all inquiries to their lawyers.
After Braddock finally turned them loose, Vic had taken Lacey, still barefoot and in Gloria’s gown, to a twenty-four-hour diner in Arlington, listened to her story over and over, then drove her home just before dawn. He also offered to buy her a new pair of shoes, but she refused to tell him how much they cost. Vic spent another night on her sofa bed. Lacey roused herself to go to the office at about three in the afternoon on Tuesday. She had missed the museum opening, but she didn’t care.
Mac, who stayed on the story till an extra edition was on the street, was bleary-eyed, but crusty as usual. “Thanks to you, Smithsonian, no one but Claudia and my wife got to eat dinner at the fancy gala. Do you know how much that cost per plate?”
“I’ll buy you a doughnut.”
“No need. Hell of a story, but generally journalists are supposed to stay outside the action. News to you, I know.”
She had already checked out DeadFed, which in its own inimitable way led with “Smithsonian Blades Again.” The cut-line accompanying its photo read, “Don’t Cross Her.” Mac handed her the special edition of
The Eye.
The front page showed her wielding the sword cane in a dramatic standoff with Chevalier. The headline:
“Eye Street
Reporter Nails Suspect in Fairchild Killing.”
The Washington Post
buried it in Metro: “Suspect Questioned in Intern’s Death.”
The Eye.
The front page showed her wielding the sword cane in a dramatic standoff with Chevalier. The headline:
“Eye Street
Reporter Nails Suspect in Fairchild Killing.”
The Washington Post
buried it in Metro: “Suspect Questioned in Intern’s Death.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Where did you get the photo?”
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