Shot Through Velvet (19 page)

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Authors: Ellen Byerrum

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General

BOOK: Shot Through Velvet
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Lacey had had quite enough of Kelly. “Do not forget, Ms. Kavanaugh, I am the senior fashion reporter. You must pay your dues to be a reporter. Look through my archives for writing style. Look through the press releases for an idea. Someone is bound to be flogging some new frock. Make fun of it or play it straight, but just do it.”
Trujillo settled into Felicity’s chair. He was having too much fun eavesdropping to leave.
Kavanaugh’s face was fixed in an unattractive pout. “Anything else?”
“Yes. If you go to Capitol Hill, you must wear a jacket in the press galleries. Or they’ll throw you out.”
Kavanaugh slumped in utter despair. Lacey pointed to a couple of jackets that she always left hanging on the coat rack, dry cleaned and ready for the next wearing, in case of emergency. One was a classic blue-black blazer, appropriate for almost any D.C. occasion and a lifesaver in a pinch. She had lent it to other reporters who were surprised by an assignment more formal than they had dressed for.
The other jacket was a dark teal with a nipped-in waist and ruffled collar and cuffs. It could be described as
girly
, something Kavanaugh was guaranteed to hate.
“Here, try this one.” Lacey offered her the girly teal jacket. “If you’re not going to wear something fashion-forward, you have to appear professional. For a reporter. As we know, standards of professional dress are lower for the Fourth Estate.”
Kavanaugh shrank from the pretty jacket as if it were kryptonite. She whined, “I’ll check the press releases for something on fashion.” She fled back to her desk.
“ ‘Jejune’? That was a little mean, Lois Lane.” Tony watched Kelly Kavanaugh streak back to her comfort zone. “I liked it.”
Lacey smirked at Tony. “Yeah, it felt pretty good.” She spun around. “Who else can I torture with my fashion beat? Step right up.” She noticed something in his hand and leaned forward. It was a black extra-large coffee mug. In big red letters it said: FASHION
BITES!
“What? What are you looking at?” Trujillo realized too late he was holding Lacey’s purloined cup and tried to hide it behind his back.
“That’s mine! My missing coffee mug! You dirty mugnapper!” Lacey snatched it out of his hands and headed for the kitchen.
Lacey Smithsonian’s
FASHION BITES
Shopping as an Art Form:
Shop Early, Shop Often, Shop Well
When you’re shopping for clothes, the point is not to skip down store aisles and throw caution to the wind. The point is not to fill your closets with endless tops and pants and skirts and dresses and coats and jackets and ruffles and wraps. The point is to have the appropriate garments on hand when you need them. For most of us, unless you make your own, or have them made for you (oh, if only), that means you must
go shopping.
You do not want to leave that big event, whether a business dinner, a friend’s wedding, or an appointment with the Supreme Court, till the last minute. Trust me. When you buy a last-minute dress because you’re desperate and it
sort-of
fits and it makes you look only a
little
sallow and not
too
fat, you will experience buyer’s regret and declare you hate shopping.
It becomes a vicious cycle.
Believe it or not, you don’t always have to have an objective, such as scoring a black pencil skirt, which will perform the magic trick of tying everything in your wardrobe together, or a red cardigan that won’t make you look like a stuffed sausage. Often having a specific target only makes your desperation worse. The perfect top or best trousers may present themselves when you’re not looking for them. However, just as in life and love, you have to be open to the possibilities. A sharply tailored blouse in a great color that flatters your complexion may actually be worth full retail. When you see it, you should buy it.
But you don’t have to buy anything to shop, to get an idea of what’s out there, what’s new, what’s hot, what’s not. Maybe this spring all the colors will be muddy mustards and vile avocado greens. Feel free to pass them by.
Too many women hate shopping these days. They aren’t in tune with the thrumming of their huntergatherer blood. Shopping without an objective sounds like torture to Ms. Type-A Attorney. But what happens when she prepares her oral argument for the Supreme Court? Is she just going to slap on that five-year-old, shapeless black suit with the boxy jacket and wear it with the dingy white blouse and boring pumps? Does she want to look like an underpaid and undermotivated government agency lawyer? I hope not.
Alas, the days of Supreme Court sartorial whimsy are gone. I long for the days when the late Chief Justice William Rehnquist, after seeing a sparkling production of a Gilbert & Sullivan operetta, had
four sassy gold stripes
sewn on the sleeves of his black robe. Rank has its privileges.
Now, the black suit is a staple of any Washington woman’s wardrobe, but it shouldn’t be generic. There are few things as attractive or professional as a perfectly fitted black suit, even pinstripes if you like. The skirt should skim the knee and provide enough room to run. It should not be a rumpled mess, with the sleeves hanging to the second knuckle. And how about pairing that perfect black suit with some snazzy red heels? Imagination! Initiative!
To shop well, keep some things in mind.
• If you hate shopping, plan to reward yourself for doing it. Buy a skim latte, or bring a friend with an eye for fashion. Someone who won’t mind hearing you complain or whine.
• Don’t shop when you’re too hungry or too full. Hunger makes you cranky and you’ll grab the first thing you see. If you just packed in a huge meal, you will feel too fat to try on clothes. I recommend a light, protein-packed breakfast or lunch. You can always take a coffee break.
• Don’t shop when you’re exhausted. Unless you’re energized by shopping after a grueling day at work, it’s best to plan a day trip when you’re refreshed and ready for those weekend crowds.
• Wear comfortable clothes and shoes that are easy to slip on and off. Nothing is as irritating as having to keep buttoning and zipping and taking layers on and off. And if your underwear is presentable, you’ll feel better in front of those three-way mirrors and ghastly fluorescent lighting.
• Beware of bargains! Yes, we all love bargains. Scoring a $400 dress for $25 makes your heart glad, but only if it looks good and fits well and works with your lifestyle. Take a breath. Does that sale seem too good to be true? The price could be rock-bottom because: Too many were ordered, in which case everyone else will already be wearing it; too few were sold, in which case no one would be caught dead wearing it; it doesn’t fit
anyone
the right way; the color would only flatter a sick wildebeest.
• Always try clothes on. Never,
ever
say, “It’s a six, I’m a six, so charge it!” Sizes vary with the manufacturer and the phase of the moon, and the fit will fluctuate. So do you. So do I. Trying it on will save you irritation when you get home. Because while shopping can be exhilarating, returning your mistakes is demoralizing.
Shopping well for great clothes is an art form, like writing, painting, or dancing in high heels. You need practice, practice, practice! No one can do it well without doing a lot of it and getting the rookie mistakes out of the way. Not even Hemingway, Picasso, or Ginger Rogers. So do it! Go shopping! To shop well, shop early and shop
often
.
Chapter 17
“Don’t tease me! What do you know?” Lacey eyed Vic across the table. “Tell me!”
“What? You want me to feed you more than lunch? I have to feed you information too?” He grinned at her and hid behind the menu.
“You know something. Please, Vic.”
“As long as you said
please
.” He reached for the bread basket, broke his bread, and buttered it
slowly
, letting Lacey’s anticipation mount. “Okay. Someone may have told me the preliminary autopsy results. It might have been determined that the recently departed Rod Gibbs had some kind of nasty head wound.”
“Aha! The killer knocked him out? It makes sense,” Lacey said. “Gibbs didn’t volunteer to be tied to that big spool of velvet. Tell me more.”
Vic’s information was good, but not as satisfying to Lacey as their impromptu lunch date. Lunch with Vic was the perfect antidote to her awful morning. He called and suggested lunch at a posh restaurant on K Street, and she jumped at the chance to get out of the office. In his leather jacket and cowboy boots, he stood out like an unsore thumb among the wonky Washington masses of bespectacled bureaucrats in their gray suits. He was fit and confident; they looked pale and pudgy and tentative. Vic’s dark green sweater deepened his jade-colored eyes, and when he smiled at Lacey and said, “Hey, beautiful,” her heart clenched.
The waitress took their orders, the meatloaf special for him, a steak salad for her.
“Ah, but the head wound didn’t kill him,” Vic added.
“No? He drowned in the dye?”
Vic shook his head. “Nope. Funny thing is—and this is the best part—it looks like Rod Gibbs died of a gunshot wound. In the chest.”
“Shot? You’re kidding!” Lacey remembered someone said the devil poked a hole in Rod with a pitchfork. Maybe that was what they were referring to. Who was it who said that? She couldn’t remember.
“I never kid about autopsies. By the way, you didn’t hear it from me.”
“You don’t have to worry.” She opened her napkin and spread it on her lap. “Who did you hear it from?”
“Someone close to the investigation.”
“I’m guessing the Black Martin cop, Armstrong. Special Agent Mordecai Caine is too fond of bogarting information.”
“My lips are sealed.”
“Really?” She touched his lips lightly with her fingertips. “I’ll just contact the medical examiner’s office for a comment when I get back to the office.”
“They probably won’t comment. You want the scenario?” She nodded. “Looks like he was hit in the head. Then someone decided to string him up and make the Blue Devil really blue. And then he was shot, to boot.”
“That works. But we didn’t see any blood in the factory. Of course, there was dye everywhere, and by then, it was blue blood. Maybe he bled out in the tub of dye? So someone knocked him out, tied him to the spool,
then
shot him, and then dunked him in the dye? Wow. I don’t know what to think. Why shoot him
and
dye him? And who did what first? And why? And how many were there? What do you make of it, Vic?’
“Lacey, darling, it’s pretty darn strange. Someone wanted to make a point. Make a spectacle of him. Or else there’s no reason for all the drama. You hate him, you shoot him, you leave.”
“What kind of gun was it?”
“Looks like a nine millimeter. A slug was dug out of the velvet.”
“The slug was in the velvet?” Lacey drew a breath. “Honey Gibbs has a nine millimeter, a Christmas gift from Rod. She was pissed about it. She wanted diamond earrings. Motive for murder right there. See, smarty-pants, I have sources too.”
He smiled at her. “Lots of people own nine millimeters.” Vic paused. “Doesn’t narrow it down much, unless they can match the bullet to the weapon.”
“Can anyone join this party, or are you two exclusive?” They turned to the inquiring voice. Tall, dark, and handsome, the man grinned at Lacey and smacked Vic on the back.
“Turtledove! It’s been a while.” Lacey leaned in for a hug.
Turtledove commanded as much attention as Vic did. Lacey could see the surreptitious stares from nearby tables, and she was glad to be at the center of attention. Who cared if there was some low-level congressman in the corner and a deputy secretary of some agency or other hogging the center of the room? The good-looking guys were all with her. Turtledove was not the kind of operative who would fade into the background. He wore a tight short-sleeved polo shirt that strained over his biceps, and a leather jacket slung over his shoulder. An exotic mix of ethnicities, including black and Cajun and who knew what else, Forrest Thunderbird was a rare combination of spectacular good looks and a restrained and elegant demeanor. He took a seat.
“Forrest, nice to see you,” Vic said. “I made it over to Velvet’s Blues after your set last night, but I missed you.”
Turtledove smiled. “Sorry about that. I got a little busy after the gig.”
“Getting busy with the singer, or someone new?” Lacey asked.
The big man cleared his throat. “Remind me never to try and fool a woman. Especially this woman.”
“So it
was
the singer,” she said with a smile. He laughed and turned toward Vic.
“Now, I understand we have a situation down in Black Martin, Virginia,” he said. “I can be down there this afternoon if you need me.”
“That would suit me,” Vic said.
“You don’t expect any more trouble down there, do you?” Lacey wondered if they were leaving something out.

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