“My God, Stella, he really is a brute.”
“That’s how pissed he was. He’s going on and on about Angie and how she’s wrecking Stylettos. If Beau hadn’t been there, I don’t know what he would have done.”
“Beau?” Lacey tried to place the name.
“He’s trying to talk Ratboy into letting him drop out of college and work in the salon. Ratboy never went to college. So he’ll kill Beau if he drops out.”
“You think it’s Boyd, don’t you? You think he killed Angie,” Lacey said.
A pair of high heels—very expensive black patent leather stilettos—clicked sharply into the salon. Josephine Radford carried a large bouquet of yellow and red tulips and lavender lilacs, which she dumped in Stella’s arms.
“These are an apology from me for the behavior of my
très fou
ex-husband. Beauregard told me all about Boyd’s little tantrum and said he felt bad for you. And after I got through with Boyd he felt sorry for himself, I can promise you.” Josephine was wearing tight black capri pants and a lemon-yellow sweater with strategically placed strips of black patent leather on the bodice, down the sleeves, and around the collar. “I can’t afford to lose my best stylists because of him.”
The Frenchwoman glanced at Lacey with dismay, but quickly recovered. “Lacey Smithsonian!
Bonjour
. So nice to see you again. Boyd is hysterical about your little column. The man has no sense. It’s just a newspaper.”
“Did you read it?” Lacey asked.
Josephine waved her hands in dismissal. “I glanced at it. ‘Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow.’ A metaphor, no?”
Stella busied herself with the tulips and set them in a vase on the receptionist’s desk. “These are beautiful.”
Josephine rearranged the shampoo and conditioners displayed near the register. She wiped imaginary dust from her fingers. “
Mon Dieu,
I swear that man takes everything so personally. As if she killed herself over him.” Josephine uttered something explosive in French and gestured. “Who knows? He’s a man.”
Lacey wondered about Josephine’s own terrifying reputation. Perhaps she and Boyd deserved each other.
“Do you know where Boyd was the night Angie died?”
“He was with me at a fund-raiser. I like to keep an eye on him when he’s spending my money.”
“What fund-raiser?”
“I can’t remember. It’s written down somewhere. Wait. Are you investigating like Stella said? This will really make Boyd crazy.” Josephine laughed. “He’s a funny man, Lacey. He has special feelings for this salon. I think that’s why what Angie did—you know—bothered him so much. We took over this little salon from his uncle Max when Beauregard was just a baby. I would bring him and let him play all day in the corner, in his playpen of course.”
They both worked in the salon back then, she continued, and Baby Beau was quite happy to sit and watch them. “He even liked to play barber. So cute.”
“I heard that you and Angie had an argument before she died. What was that about?”
“
Dieu!
I can’t expect to remember every little disagreement I have with a stylist. It would give me the wrinkles. A fashion tip, no?” Josephine decided she had put enough effort into damage control and stalked out the door.
“Au revoir.”
A relieved Stella stopped holding her breath and led Lacey to the pedicure area. Lacey climbed into the monster chair that vibrated while her toes soaked in a roaring whirlpool. Her feet were scrubbed and massaged with lotion. Lacey looked into the mirrored wall, which reflected the entire shop. Jamie was with a man with shoulder-length locks, applying deep conditioner. Next to her, Michelle was shaving the head of a stunning black woman.
Hair,
Lacey thought.
Can’t live with it; can’t live without it.
Too soon, Lacey had to move her bottom out of the relaxing pedicure chair. Her toenails were polished, bright red and festive. She was directed toward the small table where Kim would paint her fingernails.
Lacey was dipping her fingers in a soapy bowl when Polly Parsons, Stylettos’ giant promo queen, breathlessly entered the salon and made a beeline for her. Lacey had been avoiding calls from Polly all week.
Good grief. How did she know I was here?
Lacey glared at Stella, who averted her eyes immediately, and she knew.
Lacey was captive to her manicure while her nails were filed, buffed, and polished. Making sure they were dry gave Polly another half hour to pummel her with PR chatter to convince her to write a feature on the Stylettos pros who would style celebrities at the Sizzle in the City fashion show. Polly had been given marching orders from Boyd Radford to elicit positive publicity. By the time her nails were set, Lacey wanted to scream.
Lacey naturally was expected to attend. It would be full of politicians and their wives, dressed to their capped teeth and pandering with abandon. Not only are they incorrigible baby kissers, but they are eager to be photographed wearing everything from cowboy hats and full Indian headdresses to hard hats, baseball hats, top hats, helmets, and clown wigs. They have no shame. They will wear almost anything. Why not ruin a fashion show, too?
The charity event would also feature some of the local news anchors, known for doing anything and everything. Balloon rides? They are set aloft. Circus elephants? They ride them. Charity softball games? They arrive with bats and gloves. The media hounds of Washington television are ready for anything, anytime, anyplace, as long as there are cameras rolling.
Polly pressed on, but Lacey wasn’t listening. As far as she was concerned, Stylettos had gotten more than enough publicity already. She turned to Polly and said what she always said.
“Send me a press release.”
Finally, Polly left, but not without a terrible suggestion: “Let’s have lunch.” Luckily, when people in D.C. say that, they usually mean, “Good-bye forever.”
Lacey confronted Stella. “How could you do that to me? That woman gives me hives.”
Polly Parsons, the FBI. Who’s next? Beelzebub?
“Orders from Boyd. I’m sorry, Lacey. I hated to turn you over to that bitch, but she’s sleeping with him and I’ve got car payments!”
Friday night.
All painted up and no place to go, except into hiding.
The light on her phone was blinking. The first message was from Mac, who never called her at home.
Mac’s voice had the power to blister her, even on tape. “Well, well, well, Smithsonian. This is your editor, yeah, you remember, the one you keep leaving out of your secret life as a reporter. This time, I am letting you in on a little secret of my own. And I want you to worry about it all night.”
She felt a pain in the pit of her stomach. Damn it, she thought. He knew she was a worrier.
“We have a command performance upstairs tomorrow at ten a.m. That’s Saturday, Smithsonian.” Upstairs was where
The Eye
kept the publisher and various bigwigs. “You, me, our publisher, the paper’s counsel, and oh yes, the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Working with you, Smithsonian, it’s special.”
The second call was from Stella, apologizing again for Polly Parsons. Followed by a call from Brooke, of course.
“Marcia Robinson! A scoop and you didn’t tell me? I’ll be over at eight. Unless you have plans. However, unless I’m misinformed, the pheromone jammers are still firmly in place.”
Lacey returned Brooke’s call. She couldn’t wait to hear what Brooke would have to say about the FBI visit. At least she’d have a theory.
The blond barrister arrived with reinforcements, a pizza and a bag of cookies. Brooke was in her glory, theories of conspiracy dancing in her head. Lacey spilled everything.
“Aha! The FBI doesn’t work on Saturdays. They’re nine-to-fivers. Marcia must be snarled up in something really big.”
“What about me, Brooke? I have to talk to the FBI. I’m trying to be cool, but I’m freaked out. And what in the world do I wear?”
Brooke breezed through the apartment, setting out hot pizza, plates, glasses, and napkins. She retrieved a couple of Vic’s Dos Equis from the fridge and they sat down to eat. Brooke doled out legal advice like a dealer tossing aces.
“First of all, you’re a reporter and they have to tread very carefully with you, particularly because you didn’t break any laws. You didn’t, did you? Good. The Fourth Estate still terrifies Los Federales in this town—okay, maybe not
The Eye
—but let’s pretend. Second, they’ve already interviewed hundreds of people in this probe, so it’s no big deal. Strictly routine. Besides, they’re following Marcia, not you.”
“So far.”
“Right. Third, take the offensive. You’re the reporter, turn it around on them. You ask the questions. And answer what you want to answer. You’re not under oath. You’re not in court. And fourth, you wrote the book on what to wear, remember? ‘Never Wear Pink.’ Besides, we’ll play dress up together after the movie.”
That was four aces. Lacey felt enormously relieved. Thank God for Brooke. She would make Mac—and the FBI—pay for turning her stomach upside down.
“So let’s see how Barbara Stanwyck does it,” Lacey said.
“Does what?”
“Conquers the world.”
Lacey had picked up a couple of Preston Sturges movies at Video Vault. The perfect antidote to modern American life: Not only were the women smarter than the men, the dialogue was delicious and the costume designer was the legendary Edith Head.
Together they watched Barbara Stanwyck befuddle and entrap Henry Fonda in
The Lady Eve
in less than two hours, giggling like schoolgirls. Sadly, success in life doesn’t depend on witty repartee and clever little outfits.
If only.
There were too many successful badly dressed clods proving otherwise, like Ratboy.
But being witty and well dressed is its own reward. In that, I’ve got the FBI beat without even trying.
Chapter 16
In the morning, thanks to Brooke’s take-no-prisoners advice, Lacey was able to calm her panic down into something resembling mild indigestion. Going to the office on a Saturday to meet the FBI was not something she relished. Nevertheless, she almost convinced herself this was a great opportunity to find out more about the FBI, Marcia, and maybe even Angie’s death.
She was also very curious about
The Eye
’s publisher, Claudia Darnell. Lacey had heard tales of the notorious woman who had purchased
The Eye
less than three months before, but there had been only a couple of confirmed sightings in the newsroom. She was a new publisher with an old score to settle with Washington, D.C., which three decades earlier had branded her the scarlet woman in a Capitol Hill scandal.
Lacey met Mac in the lobby next to the elevator. He was waiting for her in a navy suit, white shirt, and subdued striped tie, indicating how seriously he took the matter.
“Planning any surprises today, Lacey? I’d like an idea, just in case it’s real good. Or do you think keeping me in the dark is healthy for my blood pressure?”
“I was going to tell you about the FBI, Mac, but you seemed busy. I referred them to you.”
“So I gathered.” He enjoyed seeing her squirm. “This is not what I call keeping me in the loop, Smithsonian. Could have a bright side, though. Maybe you can spend some time in a D.C. jail cell to prove your love for the First Amendment.”
“Hey! There are shield laws for reporters in D.C.”
“They can still make your life miserable. You can write a column on those orange jumpsuits they make you wear.”
“You’ve been reading my column. How sweet. Are you enjoying yourself, Mac?”
“Yes, I believe I am.” He hummed something to himself.
Lacey wore a dark blue crepe dress, circa 1942, that always made her look good and feel in control. It had a V neck and three-quarter sleeves. A splash of bright embroidered flowers on the left shoulder and right hip took it out of the ordinary. She hoped it worked today.
They ascended to the upper floor, a far more rarefied atmosphere than the proletarian newsroom, where the furniture was propped up on OSHA regulations and copies of the
Federal Register.
Mac and Lacey were ushered into the conference room, which was outfitted with cream-colored Chinese carpets and an impressive Georgian cherry conference table and chairs. The soft peach walls featured framed front pages of
The Eye
. The paper’s attorney, Sophia Wong, wore a tan linen suit, looked elegant, said little, and was utterly lacking in humor. Wong sat with two FBI agents, one of whom was wearing a familiar ugly tie.
The guy from the Bishop’s Garden.
Lacey broke the silence. “Agent Thorn, I presume. I see your tie goes just as badly with your blue suit as with the tan.”
Mac’s mustache bristled. It was a warning.
Agent Thorn coughed. He looked like the second banana to the hero in a comedy. He had thinning pale hair cut very short, light blue eyes, and a slightly long nose. He seemed terribly earnest and tendered a crooked smile. He introduced his partner. Agent Josiah Watkins was black, stocky, and equally earnest. Everyone shook hands and then sat in uncomfortable silence until the door flung open and Claudia Darnell sashayed in.
She looked as if she had flown in from Palm Beach just for the occasion. Perhaps she had; that was her home base in the winter. All eyes turned toward her. Claudia was a knockout for a woman in her mid-fifties. Her tan was creamy toast, her eyes glittering aquamarine, and her hair a straight platinum pageboy. Her butter-soft chamois suit clung to her well-maintained curves. Claudia Darnell was stunning—a lioness—and Lacey marked the rise in the testosterone level of the tame male house cats in attendance.
Following the introductions with Claudia, Agent Thorn cleared his throat. “I have to say, I really think you’re all overreacting. We just wanted to talk informally with Ms. Smithsonian concerning her articles about Marcia Robinson. Of course, if you prefer a group discussion with your lawyer, that is acceptable.”