Grave Apparel (36 page)

Settled?
What
made
her
think
this
was
settled?
“We
could start with the supposed weapon, the giant candy cane? Do you remember that part?”

“I
didn’t
write
anything
against
giant
candy
canes.”
Her
eyes
opened
wide
again.
“You’re
making
some
ridiculous
point
about Christmas, I
suppose.”

“I’m
not.
The
guy
in
the
alley
might
have been.”
Lacey
briefly
wondered
what she might do right
now
if she had a
large
peppermint weapon at hand.
No,
Lacey
thought,
I
wouldn’t
use
it.
But
I’d
like
to.
“Who do you think could
have
attacked
you?”

“No one. People
love
me.”

Did Cassandra want to talk about her popularity
ratings?
Lacey
could count on
several
hands and feet the number of peo ple whose noses wrinkled as Cassandra
walked
by.
“Think a lit tle
harder.”
The
patient’s
eyes
filled
with tears that did not
fall.
Lacey
pressed on. “Do you
have
any
enemies?”

“Of course I do! Big corporations, banks,
developers,
insur
ance
companies,
polluters,
the
government,
the
military,
abusers
of
the
Earth.
The
usual
suspects.
And
if
you
mean
someone closer to home,
like
the
office,
there’s
always
Felicity Pickles with her unspeakably tasteless
Christmasinthetrailer
park
obsession.”
Cassandra shuddered and wiped her
eyes.

“You’re
off
her
freshbaked
cookies list,
that’s
for
sure.”
Cassandra’s
expression
turned
ugly.
“Start with
Felicity.”

“I
don’t
take
orders
from
you.
Can
you
expand
that
list
beyond Felicity?
You’ve
written a whole lot of editorials that
offended
people.”

“My editorials are simply the
unvarnished
truth!”

And
modest
too.
Lacey’s
head
was
starting to ache. “What
ever.
You
don’t
really
believe
Felicity did this, do you?” She
sighed
and
leaned
against
the
window.
The
glass
was
cool.
Peo
ple
below
were crossing the street, dodging cars and cabs,
liv
ing
their
lives.
Lacey
wanted
to
join
them.
“You’re
the
one
who’s
responsible
for
Sweatergate,
Cassandra,
for
which
I’ll
re
mind you I
was
taking all the heat.
Even
I
wouldn’t
infringe on
someone’s
right
to
wear
the
ridiculous
holiday
garment
of
their
choice. It
would
compromise my right to laugh at them.
How
ever,
a lot of
very
unhappy
people were writing to me,
abusing
me,
threatening
me,
which
could
ruin
a person’s
Christmas
spirit.
But
now
that
everyone
knows
who
really
wrote
it—
you
—maybe
someone took it
personally.
Any
candidates?”

“I’m proud of that editorial!”
Cassandra’s
face
was
red with indignation,
but
not remorse. “My editorial
was
better than
any
thing you could
ever
come up with. If you learned from me, Smithsonian, maybe you could write a good column some
day.”
“You’re
pathetic.”
The
water
jug
was
temptingly close and
Lacey’s
fingers
itched. She
would
have
to
leave
soon or she
would
baptize this
woman
anew.
“You
simply hate
everything,
don’t
you?”

“I do not hate
everything.
Not
everything.
I
have
very
high standards for—”

“You
hate
Christmas
and
you
hate
people
who
love
it.
Why?” No
answer,
just a glower on Cassandra’s face.
“You
know
why
you
were
attacked?
You’re
a
Grinch.
Let
me
clarify
that for you. Grinch,
grincher,
grinchest. Shall I use it in a sen tence,
Your
Grinchliness?”

“Take
that back! I’m calling the nurse!”

Lacey headed for the
door.
“I’ll call her for you. I’m out
of
here.
Toodles,
Grinchus
Maximus.”

She strode out the door and
didn’t
look back.
That
was
a
kindergarten
moment,
she told herself
ruefully.
But
God
it
felt
good!

Lacey
headed
straight
for
the
elevators,
wondering
what
on
earth she could use out of that preposterous
interview
to
give
Mac the story he
wanted.
Cassandra
didn’t
seem to remember
anything
useful about the attack. According to
her,
either the entire
world
had a
motive
to try to kill her for
exposing evildo
ers, or else no one did. Except Felicity Pickles.
Lacey
was
also angry at herself for losing her temper with the victim of a vi cious attack. An infuriating
but
presumably innocent victim.

As she approached the
elevators,
a man and a
woman
who
had
been
sitting
in
a
small
alcove
rose
and
followed
her.
A quick scan of their clothes told her
they
were well to the left of
center.
Lacey’s
wellhoned
Washington
fashion
sense enabled her to identify nearly
every
subspecies of Democrat and Repub lican at
fifty
feet. She
pegged
them as genus,
radical/liberal
;
species,
shabby
and
proud
of
it
.
With a
nonprofit,
Lacey
guessed.

The man stopped
her.
“Excuse me, are you from
The
Eye
Street
Observer
?”

“Maybe. Who are you?”

“Are
you Smithsonian?” The woman spoke.
“You’re
who
Cassie
wanted
to see?”

“I’m Lacey Smithsonian.
Who’s
Cassie?” Lacey couldn’t imagine Cassandra with a nickname. She
was
Crazy Cassandra, the Portentous Prophetess of Doom, not a cozy little
“Cassie.”
“The
nurse
wouldn’t
let
us
in,”
the
woman
complained.
“One at a time and only as requested by the patient, she
said.”
“She’s
a pretty tough
nurse,”
Lacey
said. “I
wouldn’t
cross her.”

“I’m
Wendy.
Wendy
Townsend.”
She stuck out her
hand.

Wendy
was
tall
and
plain
and
androgynouslooking,
wearing
a
plain
straight
brown
knit
dress
of
ecofriendly
material
under
a generic
navy
blue
hoodie
that
had
been
washed
till
it
faded.
She
carried
a
green
canvas
bag
emblazoned
with
the
slogan
earth:
lo
ve
it
or
leave
it—before
you
pollute
another
minute
!
Lacey
noticed
a
red
Earthshaped
logo
for
something
called
GARRISON
OF GAIA
.
“We’re
friends
of
Cassie’s.
We’ve
been
waiting
to
see
her.”

Bouncing on her heels and shifting her weight from foot to
foot,
Wendy
spoke
with
a
breathy
intensity.
Her
medium
brown,
wild curly hair formed a perfect circle around her head. She
wore
no
makeup,
but
she
was
wreathed in an
overwhelm
ing
cloud
of
gardenia
perfume.
Lacey
took
an
involuntary
step
back.

“And
I’m
Alex
Markham.”
Wendy’s
companion
shook
Lacey’s
hand.
“We’re
Cassie’s
housemates.”

Markham
looked
like
an aging grad student with his horn
rim
glasses,
shaggy
brown
hair,
and
neatly
trimmed
beard,
speckled with
gray.
His jeans were frayed at the bottoms, his hiking boots were well
worn,
and he completed his look with a blue
work
shirt, a gray herringbone
jacket,
and, of course, the
everpresent
Jerry Garcia tie, a
key
fashion
accessory for those tiewearing
Washington
men who needed to project a certain middleoftheroad, nonthreatening hipness. He seemed a mel
low
contrast
to
his
companion’s
hyperkinetic
energy.