Hostile Makeover (30 page)

Chapter 22

Driving the rental car the next morning with her mother chattering and Cherise frantically scanning stations on the radio, looking for something remotely like a Colorado station, left Lacey in a frenzy of distraction. She felt like a victim of circumstances that were poised irrevocably against her: a lightning bolt, a dead woman extracting a promise, her car stolen, her romance derailed, and her mother and sister with only one desire—a hostile makeover of her life.

“Radio sucks here,” Cherise said. Lacey agreed that Colorado had much better radio stations. They weren’t all yammering political chatter or shock jocks or oatmeal-flavored smooth jazz, like radio in D.C. “Hell has better radio,” her sister said grumpily.

Lacey had brought CDs of Ella Fitzgerald and Duke Ellington to play in the car. She popped one into the CD player. She knew Cherise was more of a classic-rock girl than classic jazz, but it would have to do. Ella always did it for Lacey.

Lacey needed time away from her family to accomplish something. So she did the only thing she could think of: put her mother and sister in the car and headed for Stylettos. Since meeting Stella, Rose and Cherise had somehow decided they needed a total makeover so they could hit the nation’s capital in style. They were taking Stella up on her offer. At least, Lacey thought, it would keep them out of Home Depot.

They urged Lacey to join them at Stylettos, but she convinced them she had an interview scheduled that she couldn’t avoid and just needed a couple of hours alone.

“I thought you hated to work weekends,” Rose said.

“This is different; trust me. I could always just drop you at the museum and meet you at noon for lunch,” Lacey said, maneuvering the clunky rental car over the Fourteenth Street Bridge.

“No, no, no, we want to see Stella,” Cherise said. “That way we can hit the Mall looking like chic Washington natives and not like tourists, so we don’t embarrass you.”

“You don’t embarrass me,” Lacey protested. “And you should be immensely thankful you’ll never look like Washingtonians.” Both her mother and sister were wearing jeans and white shirts, with sweaters looped over their shoulders. They had left snow and cold weather in Denver, and were amazed that the day was so temperate. They were dressed to blend into the D.C. scenery, except for the excitement and openness on their faces—a dead giveaway that they were from somewhere else. Lacey wore a pair of dark green slacks and a matching sweater, fitted around the midriff. She looped a scarf around her neck. She assumed that Rose and Cherise would be fine as long as she was with them. However, she was much warier of the danger of Stella spilling her guts to her mother. Last night was just a taste of what Stella could spill.

“I just want to get one thing straight,” Cherise said. “When you write about a ‘helmet head,’ that’s sort of like a bubbleheaded bob that’s hair-sprayed till it won’t move?”

“Yeah, it was very big here, but it’s on the wane.”

“I was confused, because back home, ‘helmet head’ is what you’ve got when you take your bike helmet off, or your white-water kayaking helmet, or your rock-climbing helmet, or—”

“Are you sure you can’t join us?” Rose asked. “A new look would do wonders for your outlook, dear.”

“I wasn’t able to adjust everything in my schedule.”

“People back home aren’t so proud of working themselves to death.”

“Sorry, Mom. You surprised me with this visit, you know.”

“Really fun, huh?” Cherise said. “Who knew we could be so spontaneous? Oh, look, the Capitol and the Smithsonian Castle!”

“Last chance,” Lacey said.

“Keep driving, dear,” Rose said. “Stella’s expecting us. We’ll spend the afternoon at the museums.”

Lacey drove on up Fourteenth Street while her mother and sister gazed expectantly at the glories of the city captured most beautifully on the National Mall, from the Washington Monument to the Capitol. The trees were turning in autumn glory, but the lawn was still emerald green. The sight always thrilled Lacey, and it seemed to work on her family as well.

“The leaves are almost all off the trees back home,” Cherise said, amazed. “We had an early snow.”

“You always have an early snow,” Lacey said. “And I imagine you’ll have another one soon, the traditional Halloween storm. So all the kids can trick-or-treat in their down parkas.”

“Well, we have the Rocky Mountains,” her mother said as if that ended it. In Rose’s world Pikes Peak trumped everything.

Lacey pressed on to Stylettos above Dupont Circle and miraculously found a parking spot two doors down, just as it opened up. She hesitated as they entered the salon, but she lectured herself that everything was under control.
A simple wash and blow-dry for them, Stella talks their ears off, and I get an hour or two to myself. What could go wrong?
She sighed.

Lacey waited for Rose and Cherise to be shuttled off to the shampoo bowls, and she briefly envied them their easy rapport and companionship. They had always been buddies, and she was the outsider. If only she lived through this visit without a hole eating through her stomach, she’d be happy.

Lacey was startled to see that Stella and the whole salon had gone prematurely Halloween. Stella was wearing her Bride of Frankenstein wig and makeup, and Lacey was afraid for a moment that her family might back out of the session. But no, Rose and Cherise seemed to be charmed by the extreme wig, the lightning bolts, Stella’s matching manicure, and the painted-on blood dripping down the side of her mouth. As long as the blood wasn’t real, it was apparently okay with everyone. The other hairstylists were coiffed as Marie Antoinette with a gory red line around her neck, Medusa with a headful of snakes, and Blackbeard the pirate with a long braided beard.
This would be such fun at
The Eye.
Mac could be Napoleon; Felicity could dress as herself, the Gingerbread Witch. And I’ll be the Invisible Woman.

“Oh, Stella? Come here for a minute.” Lacey crooked her little finger at her.

“They are totally adorable, Lacey,” Stella cooed. “Just wait till I get through with them.”

“Hold on, sport. Nothing radical. They have to go back to Denver Tuesday, and they have to look like normal human beings.”

“What? You think I’m gonna punk out your family?”

“Another thing. I am begging you here, Stella: Do not spill any more information about me.”

Stella grinned, with a wicked twinkle in her eye. “You can trust me. Your secrets are safe with me.” She crossed her heart.

“Secret or otherwise, do not gorge my mother and sister on the juicy gossip of my life, such as it is.” Stella briefly looked glum and suspicious. “But feel free to ferret out any counterintelligence from them, if you like,” Lacey said. “You can be my little spy for a change.”

The stylist brightened noticeably. “What do you want to know?”

“I don’t know—who my sister is dating, does my mom plan to run off with the golf pro, is my dad teed off about it, whatever. Their plans and dreams. Besides, they’re a clean slate for you. I’m old news. I gotta go.”

Rose glanced up from her chair and waved. “See you at noon, Lacey,” her mother called.

“Not to worry.” Stella smiled brightly and shooed Lacey out of the salon. “Have fun.”

Lacey walked through Dupont Circle on her way to the hospital, which was only about a dozen blocks away down New Hampshire Avenue. It was a beautiful day, and she needed the walk to clear her head. Near the fountain in the Circle she noticed a crowd of people milling around an impromptu memorial of flowers for the late Amanda Manville, as well as a camera crew with a reporter positioned in front of it, obviously shooting a news bite. She also thought she caught a glimpse of John Henry Tyler, Caleb Collingwood’s last friend, in the crowd. He was a small man wearing a white button-down shirt and khaki slacks held up by green suspenders. He looked owlish in his little horn-rimmed glasses and thinning hair.

Tyler hadn’t responded to her e-mail. She would have stopped to buttonhole him, but unfortunately she had to get to Spaulding first. His strength, and his goodwill in allowing her to visit, might go only so far. Lacey wondered whether Tyler could be the shooter, a would-be killer who hadn’t counted on his victim being surrounded by medical colleagues.
At least the bastard didn’t use my car this time.
She walked faster, burdened by Stella’s fear of the shooter.
Would he be here watching this little memorial scene?

Lacey suddenly lifted her head at the edge of the Circle. She was about to cross the street, but there was something in the air, a seductive aroma.
Doughnuts?
The Washington, D.C., Krispy Kreme store was on Connecticut Avenue, just steps away. From behind her came a voice that made her jump.

“Hey, Smithsonian, how you doing?” Office jinx Harlan Wiedemeyer shoved a flat box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts at her. “Here, have a doughnut.” Lacey backed away from him.

“No, thanks, Harlan. I’m in a hurry.”

“Take one with you.” He stepped closer and opened the box. A wave of hot doughnut aroma encircled her. He pushed the box in her face and she pushed it back.
Oh, no,
she thought,
I touched the Krispy Kreme box! I’ve been Wiedemeyered. I’ll get a booster shot of the Harlan Hex!
Then she told herself to knock it off.

“Uh, no, thanks, really. What are you doing here?”

“Doughnuts.” He pointed out the obvious. “See, I got a half dozen of the chocolate with little orange sprinkles; they’re the special Halloween doughnuts. And I got a half dozen of the pumpkin. For the newsroom.” She looked at him like he had two heads. “Oh, you mean what am I doing here in the District today? Just putting in a few hours at the office.”

“I didn’t think you worked on the weekends.” But actually, she realized she didn’t know much about other reporters’ schedules at
The Eye
. On the fashion beat she got to take most weekends off.

He looked a little embarrassed. “Well, you know, I thought maybe Felicity would be there. There aren’t too many people in on the weekends, and sometimes she comes in. I’ve seen her there. From a distance. I think she likes the peace and quiet. Such a sweet thing.”

Sweet thing? The Gingerbread Witch?
Lacey wondered what kind of drug Felicity was slipping into her brownies now.
A spoonful of sugar helps the hallucinogens go down?

“And you thought you’d ask her out?” Lacey asked hopefully. Maybe it would get Harlan out of her hair.
And into the witch’s clutches.

“Gosh, I can’t ask her out just like that. I mean, I kind of like to simply be around her. But if I got my nerve up . . . well, it would be easier on a day when the newsroom isn’t packed with reporters.”

“Ask her out, Harlan. Offer her a ‘hot doughnut now’ at Krispy Kreme. She’d like that,” Lacey urged, but he shrank away at the suggestion.

“Oh, no, I’ve got a hot lead on a story today.”

“Don’t tell me; it’s about some poor bastard.”

“Exactly. Poor bastard died while posing as a human piñata.”

“You’re right, Harlan, that happens way too often. I’ll read all about it tomorrow,” she said, edging away from him. She was grateful that there was no rain in the forecast, no threat of lightning strikes.

“Don’t you want a doughnut?” Harlan held a doughnut out to her, one of the special ones with sprinkles, but as she backed away, he looked at it and shrugged and took a bite.

Lacey picked up her pace, speed-walking down New Hampshire until she reached Washington Circle, which she crossed, and turned down Twenty-third Street to the George Washington University Hospital.

Lacey didn’t particularly like the new hospital, with its preposterously dangerous entryway just outside the escalator to the Metro. Ambulances had the enticing opportunity hundreds of times a day to mow down commuters on their way to work.
Must be good for business at the ER.
It was a miracle no one had been killed yet. She walked through the security station into the shiny circular lobby, and the antiseptic reek of the hospital hit her. It was vaguely oppressive, but the walk had restored her spirits, and she felt more like herself again. At least she was free for the moment from her would-be redecorators and remodelers. And Harlan Wiedemeyer.

Her first impression of the hospital was that it was intensely beige, from the blond-wood paneling to the cream-colored polished floors with splashes of dark taupe. The medicinal smell caught Lacey in the back of her throat.

Even though Spaulding had agreed to talk with her, however reluctantly, Lacey felt she should show some manners. She dashed into the gift shop and bought a small flower arrangement in a ceramic vase, wondering if she could get
The Eye
to reimburse her, and stuffed the receipt in her pocket. She continued down a labyrinth of hallways to his room and checked the door: Spaulding should be in the far bed.

Lacey expected Dr. Spaulding to be hooked up to machinery, tubes, and monitors, and not looking his best. But she did not expect the Grim Reaper himself in a long black hooded robe to be standing by his bed, complete with decorative scythe—and a fat pillow, which he or she or it was just about to press down over the doctor’s unconscious face. But that was what she saw. She would swear to it. It certainly wasn’t the latest advance in medical technology.

“Hey! What’s going on?” she hollered, and the figure in the black robe spun around, stopping momentarily what he or she was in the act of doing. A ghastly grinning white skeleton mask gazed calmly at Lacey. Then the Reaper resumed the task at hand, the pillow heading inexorably toward Spaulding’s face again.

“Stop that, you freak,” she yelled, and tossed the only thing she had: the vase of flowers she carried. Lacey made a direct hit on the Reaper’s back. She screamed for help, furiously pounding the call button on the empty bed next to her. The figure turned and came toward her, shaking its hooded head and waggling a black gloved finger at her as if to say,
Naughty, naughty!
She could dash for the door, she realized, but then the Reaper would simply finish Spaulding off. She calculated that perhaps she could stall while help was coming. After all, unlike Spaulding who was helpless, she was ambulatory, and fast on her feet.
Except I’m just standing here like an idiot.