“You’re
psychic.”
Lacey
grinned.
“Doesn’t
take
a genius, what with
Sweatergate
casting its pall
over
the entire
office.”
LaToya
smoothed lipstick
over
her lips.
“And
that
Wentworth
witch has got no sense of
humor.”
“Some people
never
get one. And
they
can actually
take
oth ers’
away.”
Lacey
wondered
what Cassandra could actually do to harm
her.
Bore the other managers senseless? Write another wretched editorial, attacking motherhood and apple pie,
and
blame it on
Lacey?
She pushed the thought from her mind.
She
hung
her
garment
bag
and
opened
it,
revealing
her
dress
for the
evening,
one of her Aunt
Mimi’s
vintage
evening
gowns.
It
was
a perfectly simple cocktaillength dress from the 1940s,
featuring
a
sweetheart neckline
and sheer
organdy sleeves
dec
orated in subtle
velvet
polka dots. The dress
was
a sapphire blue
velvet
that made
Lacey’s
bluegreen
eyes
look dark and myste rious—at least
that’s
what she told herself. She slipped out of her suit and into the dress. She admired her reflection in the
mirror
and
felt
better
already.
Her
silky
light
brown
tresses
skimmed her shoulders in a soft
wave,
parted on the side with subtle blond highlights, courtesy of Stella, her stylist. As Stella
would
say,
it
was
“very
Rita bleeping
Hayworth.”
“Take
that,
Cassandra,”
LaToya
cackled. “That
ain’t
no pair of
yellow
bike
shorts you got
on.”
Lacey
smiled.
Once
again
she
silently
thanked
her
late
greataunt
for
leaving
her
a
trunk
full
of
wonderful
vintage
clothes from the late great twentieth
century,
chiefly the 1940s
and
a few
gems
from
the
1930s.
Not
only
was
this
vintage
wardrobe
fun and
fabulous,
Aunt
Mimi’s
clothes were one of a kind.
“And
I thought I
was
the only one who
was
going to look good here tonight!”
LaToya
exclaimed.
“Where did you get that dress?”
“The usual
place.”
Lacey
grinned at
her.
“Just a little some thing from Aunt
Mimi’s trunk.”
“Honey,
I wish she
was
my Aunt
Mimi.”
“Your
dress is beautiful,
LaToya,
and it suits you
perfectly.
You
look
terrific.”
Lacey
admired the clean lines of the simple
sleeveless
Aline
dress
that
LaToya
wore.
The
bright
red
showed
off
her beautiful caramelcolored skin and flattered her
curves.
Lacey
hoped she
looked
just as dramatic, in her
own
way.
“It’ll
do,”
LaToya
said, skimming her hands
over
her perfect hips. “So where is that other crazy
woman,
Felicity Pickles?”
LaToya
asked
with a smirk.
“Your
little
buddy.”
“Please.
It’s
not my day to
watch
her.”
“Whatever
she’s
wearing,
I
bet
it’s
gonna
be
good.
You
know,
good meaning bad. As opposed to bad meaning
good.”
“You
have
a premonition? A feeling?”
Lacey asked.
“Moi? I’m hoping she comes as a human aluminum Christ mas tree, with a batteryoperated color wheel in one hand and a big
shiny
star perched on her
head.”
“I hope
you’re
right. She disappeared early this
afternoon.”
Lacey
stroked
some blush on her cheeks. “Maybe she had to get her star
polished.”
“What about the ecobitch, Cassandra? She coming to the Christmas party?”
“Doubtful. She seems to
have
a phobia of
drunken
camels.”
“That’s
a shame. Only kind of camel I
like.
Course,
she’s
got
that
nosenseofhumor
thing
going
on.”
LaToya
vigorously
rubbed lotion into her hands, then sprayed perfume with a cir cular flourish. “I
was
hoping for a
knockdown,
dragout
fight
between the
two
of them. Maybe a food
fight.
A girl can dream, right?”
“And
get us
kicked
out of the National Press Club? Please! I
was
rather hoping for a quiet
evening.”
Lacey
closed her
eyes
for a moment and thought about her date,
Vic
Donovan.
She
was
hoping
to
get
him
in
a
quiet
corner
somewhere
in
the
course of the
evening.
Mmmmm.
“I’m talking
live
entertainment. And who better?
Felicity
Pickles and Cassandra
Wentworth?
Two
humorless white girls tearing it up in front of the Christmas tree? Front page
news.”
“Make
sure
Hansen’s
there to get it all on
film.”
“Film is so
lastcentury,
Lacey,”
LaToya
said, slipping a
tiny
camera from her shiny gold purse. “I got my digital.
Smile,
honey,
you look
gorgeous.”
She took a picture of the
two
of them grinning into the
mirror.
Meg
Chong,
a
general
news
reporter,
swept
through
the
ladies’ room door and cheerfully plopped
down
at the counter between them. She peered into the mirror and applied her mas cara.
Meg
was
tiny
and stylish and
wore
her long black hair in a high ponytail decorated with sparkling
jewelry.
Her silver spaghetti strap dress left nothing to the imagination and
the
back dipped well
below
her
waist.
Lacey
felt chilly just looking at
her.
“Quite a dress,
Meg!
Won’t
you get cold in that?”
“How
can I get cold when I look so hot?”
Meg
smiled. “Be sides,
I’ll
be
warm
enough with one of our hot sportswriters draped
over
my shoulders all
night.”
“Which one?”
LaToya
asked,
her
eyes
wide in the
mirror.
“Does it matter?
They
are
all
hot!”
Meg
laughed and the oth ers joined
her.
Lacey’s
cell phone rang. She
retrieved
it from the
pocket
of
her
suit
jacket
hanging
in
the
garment
bag. The
number
on
the
screen made
Lacey
groan again. Cassandra
Wentworth’s
cell
phone.
“Yikes!
It’s
her
again!”
“Who her?”
LaToya
leaned
over
her shoulder and glanced at the
number.
“Oh, that her! The ecowitch.
Don’t
answer it. Let her grinch someone else tonight.
Later,
baby.”
LaToya
gathered
up
her
things
and
she
and
petite
Meg
Chong, freshly mascaraed, swept out of the ladies’ room chat tering,
leaving Lacey
alone to
face
the wrath of
Wentworth.
Lacey
stuck her tongue out at her phone. She pressed the
button
to reject the call. No doubt Cassandra had
recovered
her wits and thought of something
new
and
wicked
to say to
her.
Most people,
Lacey
thought, when
they
came up with a
snappy
comeback a minute too late,
would
simply call it old
business
and
forget
about it. Not Cassandra. She
was
the mistress of the
driveby
insult, and no insult
was
too stale to
deliver.
And she
would
back up
over
you on her
fattired
mountain
bike
just to
make
sure you got it.
The
phone
rang
again.
Lacey
sighed.
What
insult
could
pos
sibly be so perfect that Cassandra simply
couldn’t
wait
to say it?
Lacey
was
curious; her
fatal
flaw.
She
narrowed
her
eyes
at
the
phone.
Bracing
herself,
she
clicked
the
answer
button.
Lacey
gazed
at
her
reflection
in
the
mirror
and
thought
she
struck
just
the
right
note
of
cool
disdain,
her
right
eyebrow raised
imperiously.
“Merry Christmas, Cassandra,
it’s
been simply
ages.”
“You
have
to come!” A high
voice
pleaded
urgently.
“The lady is
hurt.”
The
voice
sounded young and upset.
This
is
defi
nitely
not
Cassandra,
Lacey
thought.
Is
this
a
child?
Did
I
read
the
number
wrong?
Lacey
glanced
again
at
the
screen
to
make
sure it really
was
Cassandra’s
cell phone calling
her.
It
was.
“Who is this?”
“You
have
to come
now!
She’s
hurt bad.
Please.”
“Who’s
hurt?”
“The lady!”
“I
don’t
understand.
Who
are
you?
What’s
your
name?
Why
are you calling me?”
“She’s
bleeding.”
The
voice
rose
higher.
“Outside! The lady is bleeding!
You
have
to help!”