Authors: Ellen Byerrum
“Howdy-don’t.” Her champagne glass was at the ready.
This time I’m throwing, not spilling!
“Keeping dear Nigel company.” He backed up a step. “He’s in a bad way, now that the wedding’s off. Showing him that all is not so black as night. Silver lining, darkest before the dawn, and all that. Life goes on. Lucky break, I say. Let’s drink to it. There are more women in the sea, or fish, or something like that. My sister, for one.”
“Culpeper, you disgusting cad,” the hapless groom said. “The wedding is not off! Just hit a small snag, that’s all. Nerves, runaway car, horrible mother, put anyone off her game. Stella will buck up, you’ll see. We’ll be right as rain.”
“You two are out of here.” Vic stood up.
“To be fair, darling, Nigel did save my life yesterday. I should hear what he has to say.” She touched Nigel’s arm. “I forgot to thank you for shoving me out of the way and into the bushes. So thank you.”
A bit of the old Nigel surfaced. “What? Smithsonian, thanking me? I must write this down! Date, time, notary seal, bronze plaque. Wait, I’ve got witnesses! Drunken witnesses, but no matter.”
“I knew I’d regret saying that,” Lacey said. She had thanked Nigel Griffin, and Gregor Kepelov thought they were friends.
What is the world coming to?
Bryan burped. “I know you and I are no longer best man and maid of honor, Lacey, but— May I call you Lacey?” He blundered on. “If this silly wedding is not meant to be, well, what’s that to us? We should make the best of it. You and I can still take beer showers and—”
Lacey tugged Vic’s sleeve. “He, on the other hand, has got to go!” She picked up her water glass and drew back her throwing arm. She was gratified to see Culpeper open his eyes wide and back up.
“No need for a bath right now, dear lady,” he cried. “Must you douse me every time we meet?”
“Culpeper, you ignorant twit,” Nigel stage-whispered. “She’s with him! Him! That’s the Donovan I was telling you about, Vic Donovan here is her—whatever he is!”
“That’s right, I am,” Vic said, “and Lacey and I were enjoying a glass of champagne together.” He grabbed hold of Culpeper by one arm and averted his face to avoid the boozy fumes rolling off the man. “You weren’t invited.”
Turtledove materialized at his side. “Need a hand, Vic?”
“Thanks. I could throw him out myself, but I’d like to spend some time with Lacey. However, for some unaccountable reason, she wants to listen to what this other drunk has to say.”
“I’m not nearly drunk,” Nigel said. “I can get much drunker. I’m English, it’s my birthright.”
“Not a problem. I’ll just take this one off your hands.” Turtledove picked Culpeper up as if he were a loaf of squishy white bread and propelled him to the front door.
“It’s my birthday, Nigel,” Lacey said. “So if we could move this along?”
“Birthday? Happy birthday and all that,” Nigel said. “I had no idea. I mean, I knew you must have birthdays, many of them, well, not
that
many, just never knew when.” He sat down at their table, oblivious to Lacey’s tête-à-tête with Vic. “Many happy returns. Oh, God, life is awful.”
“Do you want something, Griffin?” Vic asked. “Spit it out and then get out. Please.”
“I want to marry Stella,” he said sadly. “What can I do, Smithsonian? To convince Stella of my undying devotion? You do believe we belong together, don’t you? Admit it.”
From the next table, Rene Thibodeaux leaned in to listen.
“Nigel, I didn’t trust you when you first met Stella. I thought you’d just take advantage of her.”
“Smithsonian here thought I was a man-slut,” Nigel announced to Rene, and several other uninterested club patrons nearby. “Man-slut, she called me. Man-slut, man-slut, man-slut.”
“Yes, I called you that, but it was before you went over the cliff for her,” Lacey said.
“Are we talking for
real
you went over a cliff?” Rene asked. “Or some kind of, what do they call it, metaphor or something?”
“No metaphor, mate. Stella was pushed off a cliff and I flew right over after her. Well, Smithsonian?”
“You two love each other. Yes, I believe it. Besides, Marie thinks you guys will make it. Not that I always believe in Marie’s predictions, but this one I might. Love does amazing things,” she said.
To her amazement, Nigel reached over, hugged Lacey hard, and kissed her on the cheek. “Capital! Thank you!” Lacey wiped her face with a napkin.
Vic chuckled at her discomfort. “You let him stay.”
“That was not very English of you,” she commented.
“Being too English ne’er won fair maid. Tell me, Smithsonian. How can I win her back?”
Lacey had been thinking about that very question. “Three things. First, you have to get her away from her mother, Retta.”
“Horrible woman. Harridan. Harpie. Battle-ax hates me, doesn’t she?”
“Yes. Her mom says you and Stella are from two very different worlds and your marriage could never work.”
Or maybe she’s just jealous that openhearted Stella found her prince and Retta was on Husband Number Four
.
“Like Romeo and Juliet, hey? That’s pretty romantic.”
“Until they die in a tomb,” Vic reminded him.
“Okay, so I get Stella away from Mama Battle-ax. Then what?”
“Two. Flowers never hurt. Lots of flowers,” Lacey said. “And not just any old bunch of daisies. Stella’s wedding bouquet is pink peonies, pink and white roses, and lily of the valley, so if you bring her something just like that—”
“Brilliant! It will remind her of our vows. Our vows to be. Yet to be. Genius. Done, Smithsonian. Just give me the name of the florist. What else?”
“Three. Take her out someplace extra-special. She’s been talking about a restaurant called Co Co. Sala. Stella and Brooke and I thought it might be nice for girls’ night out.”
“Instead of the gun range?” Nigel said. “How traditional of you. I don’t approve of you three running around shooting guns, and for the love of heaven, never tell my dear mother! The Gorgon would strap on a six-gun at the very first chance and wreak havoc in every direction.”
“What’s so special about this restaurant?” Vic asked. “And why haven’t I heard of it?”
“Because it’s all about chocolate, expensive chocolate, decadent chocolate,” Lacey murmured in his ear. “You can get a five-course chocolate dessert menu at Co Co. Sala. Yum.” Vic shook his head in disbelief. “It’s on F Street near Gallery Place.”
“Special dinner, lots of chocolate. Got it,” Nigel said, looking more hopeful. “Anything else, Smithsonian?”
“Yes. Nigel, sober up, clean up, straighten up. And buy a new shirt that is not blue. Stella’s favorite color is pink. Have you noticed?”
“I’ll look like a bloody flamingo wearing pink,” he said. Lacey glared at him and he withered. “Very well, pink flamingo it is.”
“And lose the albatross.”
“Albatross?”
“Bryan Culpeper.”
“What, dump Bryan? He’s my oldest mate! He’s my best man!”
“He’s nobody’s best anything. He doesn’t want you to marry Stella, and he’ll be an obstacle every step of the way.”
“Culpeper is a swine, Nigel,” Vic added. “He’s your past. Stella is your future. If you know what’s good for you.”
Rene Thibodeaux leaned over again and nudged Nigel. “Dump him if you want to get married to your girl. That fool’s cramping your style.”
“But—but—” Nigel started to protest. “And excuse me, just who are you?”
“Put it this way, Jack,” Thibodeaux said. “I don’t know you and you don’t know me, but I know you got a choice to make. You want to spend your life with your drinking buddy? Or with your lady?”
Chapter 22
“I thought he would never leave,” Lacey said.
“One more minute and I’d have made that decision for him.” Vic held her hand as they descended the stairs at Velvet’s Blues.
“At least you got rid of Culpeper right off the bat. And I’m glad Turtledove shoveled them both into taxis.”
“As long as there are no more interruptions tonight.”
Lacey opened the club door to King Street. The air was clear and cool, with a hint of the coming rainstorm. “We’re alone now, alone in the crowd.” Her ears were adjusting to the street noise, which was many decibels lower than the music in Velvet’s Blues. “I’ll take it.”
“And who is that Thibodeaux character?” Vic inquired.
“Friend of Turtledove’s family, from New Orleans,” she said. “His fair-weather girlfriend up and left suddenly.”
“With all his money?”
“You already know the plotline.”
“I’ve heard this song before,” Vic said. “Hear it a lot in the P.I. business.”
“Rene came here to see if Turtledove can help him. He’s wary of police.”
“Probably has a record. He looks a little rough.”
“He said he wants to keep his trouble in the family, and apparently Turtledove is practically family. A friend of his cousin or something.” It was not a cold night, but Lacey shivered. Vic wrapped his arms around her and she felt herself warming up. “Just talking about New Orleans takes me back there. It was wonderful, and not so wonderful. I just wish nobody had had to die there. That day on the river.”
“It wasn’t your fault, sweetheart.”
“Feels like it.”
Lacey tried to block out the memory of the woman who had been killed in her search for the lost corset of the Romanovs. Lacey had fought her hand to hand on the upper deck of a riverboat.
The woman’s name was Natalija Krumina. Overtaken by greed and rage, Natalija ran at Lacey, intent on throwing her off the top deck. Lacey ducked at the last minute and Natalija went flying over the rail of the riverboat, hitting the wooden paddles of the big wheel. She tumbled into the muddy waters of the Mississippi and was gone.
“All you did was duck. Lacey, she was crazy, and she was trying to kill you.” He guided her to a navy blue van his company used for surveillance. “Over here.”
“Where’s the Jeep?” Lacey asked.
“In the shop.”
“You just had it tuned up.”
“Brakes went out.”
“What?” Lacey stopped short. “Vic Donovan is all about car maintenance.”
In the days before her old Datsun 280ZX was stolen, she resented Vic’s Jeep, which always seemed to run flawlessly, while her car far too often did not. Her sporty Z thrived on drama. Every day was a potential vehicular adventure: Would it start, would it run, how
long
would it run, would it get her to work and if it did, would it get her home, would the radiator blow on I-95, and would her regular mechanic have the parts, or would someone have to swim to Japan for them? Even so, Lacey had loved her sleek vintage sports car, the way it cruised the highway, the way it hugged the curves, until the entire matter was taken out of her hands by someone who stole her car and used it for—something else she didn’t want to think about.
She looked to Vic for an answer, but he was talking to two guys in a plain gray Honda Accord parked across the street. Lacey recognized them as one of Vic’s crack surveillance teams. The guys were laughing and giving him a thumbs-up. Vic walked back across King Street and waved to them. “Everything’s okay.”
“And by that you mean—what?” Lacey’s alarms were going off. “And why were you having your guys watch this van?”
“Get in and I’ll tell you.” He opened the passenger door and waited for her to buckle up. “Someone messed with the Jeep’s brakes. Deliberately, I assume. I was on Lee Highway and hit the pedal, and my foot hit the floor. I downshifted and got off the road and called a tow truck.” He laughed at her expression. “Everything’s fine, I didn’t hit anyone, no one hit me.”
“You could have been killed!”
“But I wasn’t.”
“Not reassuring. Any idea who messed with them?”
“Not yet. Nothing to worry about.”
“Are you crazy, Vic? Of course there’s something to worry about. Someone messed with your brakes, and someone tried to run me over yesterday. It’s not a coincidence. You always tell me there aren’t any coincidences. And what about
this
thing? How do you know it’s not sabotaged too?”
“Just got it back from a job in Lynchburg, checked it out myself, and my guys kept an eye on it. I’ll have them watching your building tonight too. But, darling, I don’t think you should drive your car until I check it out.”
“You won’t get any argument from me.”
“This must be my lucky day.” He turned the key in the ignition. Lacey held her breath. Nothing blew up. Vic drove down Union Street toward her apartment building. She didn’t see the gray Honda following them, but she knew it was back there somewhere.
“Go ahead. Everyone is mocking me today. First Nigel, now you.” She gazed down the Potomac River rippling beneath the moonlight, where a ferry was taking the last load of tourists to National Harbor on the Maryland side. She realized she hadn’t updated Vic on all the day’s events, not thoroughly anyway. There had been champagne to drink, and drunken louts to deal with. “Leonardo’s death was a mistake,” she began.
“Go on.”
“Broadway Lamont said Leonardo was probably poisoned, and it looks like he ‘got it in the neck.’”
“When did you discuss this with Detective Lamont?”
“At the paper today. He showed up to have a little chat with me.”
Vic cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. “He had to see you in person?”
“Me? No. He came to see what Felicity was baking. He has a crush on her, or at least on her food. And of course he came to shake me up. To tell me Marie is crazy, as well as a suspect. And he blames me for everything, because I hosted the bachelorette party. He wanted to let me know he’s irritated to have to work on another murder case with a possible fashion angle.”
“Broadway’s crazy about you. He knows he’ll always get something to talk about with the guys,” Vic said. “And he gets to visit Felicity and gobble her baked goods.”
“I only wish she’d made something sweeter than biscotti.”
“Back to Leonardo and this supposed poison. Do they have toxicology already? Any guess as to type?”
“No to the toxicology, but apparently they found a bartender who saw him in distress late that night and his symptoms fit nicotine poisoning. I suppose it could be something else, but they suspect nicotine. The poison may have entered through a wound in the neck. Leonardo complained that’s where the shawl bit him,” Lacey said.
“Bit him?”
“I thought maybe a metallic thread scratched him. He was such a big crybaby. But the point is Leonardo crashed the party. No one knew he was coming. He wasn’t meant to have anything to do with the shawl. He wasn’t the intended victim. He was just an accident.”
“You’re not saying the poison was in the shawl?” His skeptical expression was back.
“I was hoping you’d ask.” She took a deep breath. “Now this might be a stretch.”
“No, not from you, not Lacey Smithsonian! Not another extravagant fashion-clue theory!”
“Who’s the smart-aleck now? Well, I don’t have to tell you.”
“Yes, you do.” He reached out and touched her knee. “Darling, you know I’d love to know your theory. Please.”
“Right. Do you remember reading about a Russian defector who was poisoned with a pellet shot from the end of an umbrella? Happened way back in the Seventies.”
“Right—the Bulgarian umbrella business. Spy stuff? Leonardo was no spy.”
“He wasn’t supposed to die either.”
“And who was?” Vic pulled into the apartment building lot.
“Maybe Marie or Stella. No one else would be touching the shawl. Or that’s what someone assumed, because of the curse,” Lacey said.
“So-called curse. Lamont’s going to love this.”
“Maybe the poisoner loves weird spy stuff. And believes in curses.”
“So it’s a Three Stooges type of spy. Like your friend Brooke.”
And Kepelov, who was some sort of spy
. “Anybody could have seen this at the Spy Museum. They have the umbrella on display there. A poisoned needle or a barbed pellet of some kind could have been inserted into the shawl. You wouldn’t see it because of all the raised embroidery.” Lacey was getting warmed up. “When Leo rubbed the shawl across his neck, the pellet or the needle stuck him, and the poison—went in. Hey, it’s a theory.”
“You tell that theory to Lamont?”
“Ha. Do I look like a forensic crime scene investigator?”
“No, but that’s never stopped you before, darlin’. And spies with poison pellets? You’re awfully close to DeadFed territory.”
“Then we have to be very careful that Damon doesn’t hear a word of it. Or Brooke, for that matter. As for Lamont, I’m sure the crack D.C. crime lab will figure out how Leonardo died. Eventually. Then we’ll see how close my theory is.”
“Why would Marie be a target?”
“Not a clue.”
“This theory of yours is crazy, you know.”
“Better than a haunted Killer Shawl stalking the District of Columbia.” The wind picked up, shaking the trees in her parking lot, making them look like black shawls waving in the night. They sat for a moment in the van. “There are all kinds of crazy theories in this spy-ridden town. Some of them are even true. Mine is as good as any.”
“Please tell me you haven’t shared this theory with anyone.”
“You’re the first, you lucky boy.”
“Before you go public with this, let’s see what we can figure out.”
“You’re going to feel pretty silly if I turn out to be right. Besides, if this pet theory of mine, though weird and twisted and dangerous, is
newsworthy
, I am Bogarting this baby till after Saturday.”
“Stella’s wedding day.”
“That’s right. At least theoretically her wedding day.”
* * *
Although it was late when she and Vic got to her apartment, Lacey felt obligated to open birthday packages from her family. They were waiting right where she left them, on her cherrywood dining room table, which was also a gift, from her Aunt Mimi. Lacey sank into Mimi’s lovely velvet sofa with the sparkling glass of champagne Vic had poured for her, grateful that she could be surrounded by such lovely things, even on a reporter’s salary.
* * *
“Here.” Vic dropped a present in her lap, as curious as she was. More, in fact. Lacey knew the kind of things her family liked to buy her.
“It’s a shame to open them. The wrappings are so pretty and no doubt ecological. Probably nicer than what’s inside.”
“Don’t they buy you nice things?”
“You don’t understand, Vic, honey. I’m sure these are great, whatever they are, but my family just doesn’t
get
me. Any presents they might ever buy me will be perfect—for someone who is not me.”
He sat down next to her. “Now I really want to see what’s in there.”
She unwrapped the first one. Her mother, Rose Smithsonian, had sent her a gluten-free and sugar-free gift basket of tasteless organic snack bars. Lacey was certain they’d have the palate-pleasing flavor of twigs and tree bark. Along with a fresh supply of vitamin D, of course, because she was sure her daughter wasn’t getting enough fresh air and sunshine, there in the foggy humidity of the East Coast.
“Do you like these things?” Vic asked with a frown, picking up a snack bar.
“No, but squirrels do.” Vic handed her the other wrapped gift box from Rose. Lacey shook it. “It’s pajamas.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Oh, yes I do.”
Lacey attacked the wrapping with grim determination. Rose had outdone herself. These pajamas were made of her mother’s favorite earth-friendly fabric, a scratchy blend of recycled cotton and hemp. At least they weren’t in the usual earth-tone palette of hemp: They were a neon orange that would wake the dead. They would also alert hunters to her presence in the woods at bedtime, if she wore them on a camping trip, which was another thing Lacey wouldn’t do.
“Those are bright,” Vic said, trying not to laugh too hard. “Sexy too, what with all those buttons. Where on earth did she find blaze orange pajamas?”
“The color is the least of it, Vic. I never wear pajamas! I haven’t worn pajamas since I was ten years old. I wear nightgowns. And not neon orange nightgowns. T-shirts only when I’m sick. If she knew anything about her own daughter, she’d know that.” Lacey closed her eyes and leaned her head against the back of the sofa. “My mother has given me a pair of pajamas every birthday and Christmas since I was a little girl.”
“Maybe she really doesn’t understand.”
“She understands. I’ve told her not to waste her money. Somehow she thinks if she sends me sex-defying PJs every year in increasingly garish colors, one day, magically, I will look at them and fall in love with them.”
“Can’t you return them?”
“Too much trouble, and it would hurt her feelings. I’ll put them in my special pajama box for the poor. Vic, I love my mother. We just don’t live on the same planet.”
Her sister, Cherise, sent her another winner, a shiny, reflective lime green windbreaker, in a breathable but waterproof high-tech fabric that the tags promised would wick away perspiration and defy the elements—not to mention Lacey’s fashion sensibility. Not only that—it could be seen from at least a mile away. It apparently came highly recommended for nighttime bike riding.
“Talk about a crime of fashion,” she remarked.
“You could wear them together,” Vic said.
“My God. You could see this thing from
space
.”
“Wear it with your blaze orange jammies. Give the astronauts a thrill.”
“It doesn’t matter, darling. You’ve already given me the nicest birthday. I love my new watch, and the champagne.” She threw her arms around him and kissed him. “And you.”
“And the bodyguard?”
“Not exactly the perfect accessory. However, he is something I never would have bought myself.”
“Hey, there’s one more thing under the wrapping, from your dad.”
She picked up the package, puzzled. “That’s odd. He never sends me anything. He lets my mother take care of everything. Who knows what horrors lurk beneath this wrapping paper?” She tore it open. “Oh, my. This is gorgeous.”