Aunt Mimi to
leave
them to
her,
the only
woman
in her
family
who
would
appreciate this gift. The
wardrobe
Lacey
was
creat ing from the inspirations she found in the trunk suited all of her moods, from romantic heroine to femme
fatale.
The
wonderful
thing
about
clothes,
Lacey
often
thought,
was
they
always
offered
clues to a
person’s
real
character.
A chance to display your
own
character—and a chance to peer into others’, both what
they
want
you to see and what
they
try to hide. And sometimes to
find
a clue to their state of mind, or their bank account, or occupation, or mood, or dreams. Aunt
Mimi’s
trunk
was
a catalyst for
Lacey’s
imagination, and hap pily it had supplied a good deal of her
wardrobe
too.
By this logic, there had to be something about the little shep herd
girl’s
robe that could tell her something, she told herself. There were other clothes in the
Nativity
scene the girl could
have
taken, the more sumptuous robes of the wise men,
the
homespun blue of
Mary.
Or perhaps it
was
simpler than that. Maybe Jasmine took the little
shepherd’s
robe because it
was
the
only
garment
small
enough
to
fit
her,
the
only
one
left
after
others had plundered the stable.
Was
it just a leap of
Lacey’s
ro
mantic
imagination
that
the
shepherd’s
robe
seemed
uncon
sciously ironic, that a little lost lamb of a girl should choose to disguise herself as a shepherd?
Lacey
picked
up her cell phone and called
Cassandra’s
num
ber,
hoping that Jasmine
would
recognize
Lacey’s
phone num ber and
answer.
No one
picked
up.
Lacey
had just settled in at her desk on
Tuesday
morning with a steaming mug of what passed for
coffee
at
The
Eye
when her friend and hairstylist Stella
Lake
materialized in the
newsroom.
Stella flung a copy of
The
Eye
Street
Observer
down
on
Lacey’s
desk
and
pointed
a
bloodred,
daggerlike
fingernail
at
the
article
on
the
attack
of
Cassandra.
“There
you
go
again!”
Stella
wailed.
“Involved
in
another
crime
of
fashion
and
you
don’t
call
me?
Your
best
friend
in
the
whole
world?
Who
has
saved
every
last
hair
on
your
head
over
and
over
and
over?”
Stella
looked
closely
at
Lacey’s
hair.
“Lace,
aren’t
you
conditioning?”
Lacey
wondered
why
it
was
so
easy
for
crazy
people
to
get
past the security desk,
but
she
didn’t
say
anything.
Stella
was
one of her
favorite
crazy people, and Stella probably had the guard eating out of her hand. Or feasting his
eyes
on her
cleav
age. But this visit
wasn’t
a good sign. It meant Stella
was
feel ing
neglected.
It had been only a week or
two
since
Lacey
had her highlights refreshed and trimmed,
but
both she and Stella had been
way
too
busy.
They
hadn’t
talked.
Stella stood before
Lacey’s
desk, looking out of place.
Too
exotic
for the
newsroom.
Her lacquered black hair shone sleek
against
her
head.
Her
dark
eyes
were
enhanced
with
false
lashes
and
kohl.
She
was
still
channeling
her
silent
film
star
look.
Brass earrings that
looked
like
clapping hands dangled from her ears. She
wore
a quilted red leather
jacket
and a black silk scarf around her neck. While the
newsroom
seemed to be
washed
in shades of
watery
sepia, Stella stood out in
Technicolor.
“Good morning to you too,
Stella.”
Stella slipped
off
her coat,
revealing
a
lowcut,
Vneck
silver
sweater that
fit
like
wallpaper.
It
showed
off
her “Girls” and
provided
a moment (or
two)
of fun for one of the sportswriters
walking
past.
Stella
smiled
and
gave
him
a
big
wink
and
a
lit
tle wiggle before she refocused on
Lacey.
“So just what do you
have
to say for yourself?” “I
didn’t
write the
story,”
Lacey
said.
“Yeah,
but
you’re
in it, right here. ‘
Eye
Street
reporter
Lacey
Smithsonian alerted the
police,’
” Stella read. “This is a
fashion
crime.
Your
territory.
Our territory! And I see your
coworker,
that
Miss
Smartypants
IhateChristmassweatersandbah
humbuglet’skillRudolphtheRedNosedReindeer,
gets
cracked
in the noggin with a handy weapon, possibly a candy cane? And
she’s
found
wearing
a
Christmas
sweater?
Which
I
admit
sounds
pretty
tacky,
although
I
personally
adore
Christmas.
And
some
one tells me the sweater belongs to your Miss Cucumbers, or
whatever
her name is. And you
don’t
call me to
tell
me about all this? Just what do you
have
to say for yourself,
Lacey?
Are we still BFFs or what?”
“It’s
Pickles, Stel, not
Cucumbers,”
Lacey said.
“Felicity
Pickles. And of course
we’re
still
BFFs.”
“Pickles, Cucumbers, Zucchinis,
whatever.
What I mean is,
Lacey,
how
can you
expect
me to go to the salon and put a lit tle zing in
everyone’s
day and not
know
what is going on with you? I am your stylist, your friend, your
confidante.”
Stella
leaned
over
Lacey’s
desk and drummed her nails. “I shoulda
known
these
things.”
Lacey
looked
at the
woman
who dared call Miss Cucum
bers’s
Christmas sweaters
tacky.
“This
isn’t
a case I can do
any
thing
with,
Stella.
The
police
are
investigating.
All
I’m
doing
is—”
“All
you’re
doing is asking questions. Broken record.
Ho
hum.”
Stella
mockyawned.
“I
have a
reputation
to
uphold,
Lacey.
You
are an important
news
source for me. And I
haven’t
heard from you in
like
days
!”
“Well,
you
haven’t
called me
either,”
Lacey
said
defensively.
“Details!
You
are hung up on details,
missy,
and let me tell
you
something,
you
are
not
going
to
get
me
offtrack
on
why
I came to see you. Which is:
You
been ignoring your
friends.”
“What about you?”
Lacey
said.
“New
man in your life? No time for your friends?”
“Stick to the subject and
anyway,
what’s
the matter
with
you?” Stella pointed to the mug of
coffee
sitting on
Lacey’s
desk.
“You
lose your manners or something?”
“Sorry,
Stel, come with me to the kitchen. But I
have
to
warn
you,
it’s
bad for you.
Newsroom
coffee?
Poisonous.
Brewed
from
newsprint
and
printer’s
ink. And
bile.”
“Oh please, Lace, we got you beat at Stylettos. Who
knows
how
many chemicals get mixed in with our
brew?
Half
and
half: Half
java,
half perm
solution.”
Lacey
escorted her friend to the
newsroom’s
kitchen. She
was
sleepy,
and she
was
glad
she’d
worn
a suit
today.
It
was
quick and
easy,
one of her Brenda Starr/Lois Lane looks, and it
would
pass muster for her lunch with
Jeffrey
today.
In forest
green
wool
gabardine
from
the
1940s
with
a
black
velvet
col
lar,
it
was
shapely and
fit
well. It
didn’t
require a fussy blouse or too much thought. No
nervewracking
episode of
What
Will
I
Wear
Tomorrow?!
She’d
found just the right dark green pumps to go with the suit. But she caught herself thinking that maybe she should switch to more of a
Wonder
Woman
look. The mag ical gold bracelets and lasso were
definitely
accessories
Lacey
Smithsonian could get behind.
Stella
followed
Lacey,
the heels of her tall black boots click ing on the old linoleum floor of the
newsroom’s
tiny
kitchen.
Lacey
rummaged around for a clean cup that
wasn’t
chipped. She found one in the back of the cupboard, rinsed it out, and poured the
now
crispsmelling
coffee
in the cup.
“Cream
and
sugar,
please,
Lace.
Lots.
You
know
how
I
like
it.
So
as
I
was
saying,
Lacey.”
Stella
added
even
more
sugar
and
stirred it with a plastic spoon.
“You
ain’t
off
the hook yet.
You
have
all
but
ignored me, and yet I
have
been defending
you.”