Hostile Makeover (35 page)

It was mere chaos and confusion now, but it threatened to be pure pandemonium later. People were jockeying for position, and the Smithsonians, under Lacey’s experienced leadership, selected their seats immediately in self-defense, to avoid the ruthless game of musical chairs later. There were far too many people invited for each to have a seat, so a disgruntled mob would end up lining the walls. Lacey was sure that was deliberate.
A packed house always looks better on camera.

Rose and Cherise were wearing their new outfits from the day before. They looked fashionable and chic, and their clothes were dark enough to be respectful at a memorial service. Lacey decided on a vintage navy wool crepe suit from the war years with gold buttons and full sleeves ending in tight buttoned cuffs. It fit her perfectly, and she always marveled at how clothes from the Forties fit her as if they were tailored for her. Her mother merely raised an eyebrow at the suit, but Cherise swore she loved it, which was just weird.

Judging from the funerals Lacey had been to in Washington, D.C., she assumed the mourners would be wearing a perfect hodgepodge of clothing. And they were. The simple rules for wearing dark clothing that did not evoke a party atmosphere were gone.

A trio of lanky models strode past the Smithsonians. They looked a little like aliens: too tall, too thin, too much eye makeup, giving them that big-eyed look that alien chicks dug so much. They wore pointy-toed stilettos and a little too much bare skin to show any actual respect for the dead. Their fashion statement seemed to be,
Look at me! I’m alive! And nearly naked!
Or as Rose said, “A strapless dress at a memorial service! Well, I never.”

“Not only that, it’s cold enough in here to store cadavers,” Cherise said, although with hot television lights, the room was bound to heat up soon. Lacey asked her sister to watch her seat while she circulated. “Fashion clues, you know.” Lacey moved through the crowd, taking in faces and clothing, not knowing exactly what she was looking for. She knew only that she needed to keep her eyes and ears open.

Cordelia Westgate, the former spokesmodel for the famous House of Bentley fashion empire, stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Lacey. They had met before, and there was no love lost between them. Cordelia had been involved with the Bentleys when intern Esme Fairchild disappeared earlier that year and was later found murdered. When Lacey’s stories for
The Eye
brought down the house, so to speak, Cordelia had been swept out of her position.

“What are you doing here?” Cordelia demanded.

“My job, and I could ask the same of you, Ms. Westgate.”

“If you must know, Amanda was a dear friend of mine,” she said without the slightest sincerity. Though only twenty-eight, Cordelia was in her waning days of modeling. It wasn’t the years, but the mileage, as they say, that was destroying her looks. Hard living and late nights were traced in the lines of her face and the bags under her eyes. Nevertheless, the fading beauty’s bones were still marvelous, and her ravaged looks were far more compelling than those of any interchangeable trio of younger models.

“Have you found a new gig yet?” Lacey inquired.

“Like I’d tell you,” she said. “You’re nothing but trouble.”

“I try not to cause it, but it does seem to cross my path,” Lacey admitted with a small smile.

Cordelia lifted her perfect nose and sailed on past to join the knot of supermodels, who tried to ignore her. Slightly worn, a little shorter, and not as anorexic as this year’s models, Cordelia was still truly beautiful. They were just the flavor of the month, and they would soon be out of fashion in their turn, like she was. But Cordelia Westgate was also notorious; partying, posing nude, and sleeping with rogues and killers would do that for a girl. Photographers crowded around Cordelia, who smiled serenely for the cameras.

Lacey recognized Hansen’s long lens among them. He was one of the still photographers wearing press credentials. She also caught sight of Tate Penfield with his video camera, with a throng of models and wannabes vying for his attention. She waved to him.

“Hey, Lacey, how are you doing?” His brown eyes were blood-shot, his hair was falling in his face, and he was sallow, as if he hadn’t slept in days.

“Tate, are you all right? You look worn out.”

“I was up all night editing the rough cut. I’m showing it tonight.”

“Your documentary on Amanda? Really, Tate, your subject isn’t going anywhere now. You shouldn’t kill yourself to finish it.”

“Very well put.” He favored her with a big smile. “But this is my own memorial to Amanda. Tonight I’m showing it at Brad and Yvette’s house. You’ll come, won’t you?”

“I don’t think the Powerses will ask me.”

“It’s my guest list, not theirs. And you’re invited.” Penfield pulled a card from his pocket that read, TATE PENFIELD. PHOTOGRAPHER. On the back, he wrote the time and the address of Brad and Yvette’s Georgetown home. He also wrote,
You’re invited! Tate,
and he underlined it for emphasis. He handed it to her.

“I don’t know. I’d love to, but I’m saddled with my family this weekend.”

“Bring them along, I’d really appreciate it. Believe me, we’ll be overloaded with supermodels.” He grimaced. “I could use some real human beings in the mix, for balance. And it’s being catered. Lots of food.”

“Catered food? For supermodels? Don’t they just consume lettuce leaves, caffeine, and cigarettes?”

“And vodka.” Penfield laughed, and his weary features regained some of their chiseled beauty. “So there’ll be plenty of leftovers. Please be there. You’ll be the only reporter.” He pointed his camera at her and clicked the shutter. He started moving toward the podium.

She hated it when people seduced her with the promise of being the only reporter. An exclusive: It was a bait she found nearly irresistible. And his invitation would give her something unique to offer her mother and sister. She had been planning popcorn and a couple of old movies from Video Vault. “What time?” Lacey asked before Penfield was out of earshot.

“About eight.”

“I’ll try.”

Hansen approached leisurely, cameras slung from his shoulders. “Hey, Lacey, I’m having a problem with my old Peugeot wagon; can I trouble you for a lift to my studio on your way home? It’s not far out on New York Avenue, and you can catch Two Ninety-Five back to Virginia.”

She shrugged. “Sure, but you’re tall, and you’ll have to deal with my family in a dreadful rented Echo.”

“No problem. I once drove to California nonstop with two buddies in a Volkswagen Beetle.”

“Great. Catch me after the service.” Lacey turned around and almost tripped over Brooke Barton and Damon Newhouse.

“Lacey, can you sit with us?” Brooke asked, hoping, no doubt, to share her latest conspiracy theory about the skinny models who looked like aliens. In Brooke’s world, Lacey thought, they
were
aliens, progeny of the secret beings that survived a spacecraft crash in Roswell, New Mexico. Damon looked very intense and said nothing.

“Can’t. I’m with the family. They’re holding my seat for me.” She perched on a seat and pointed over to Rose and Cherise. Brooke waved. They waved back. Brooke was wearing a lawyerly gray pantsuit and gripped her Burberry tote, and Damon was in his usual black cyber-beatnik attire and his small black glasses, looking very serious. They made a very attractive couple, though beneath their sleek, polished exterior, Lacey knew, they were just conspiracy-addled adolescents playing “I Spy” with high-tech toys.

Brooke tapped Lacey on the shoulder. “The Grim Reaper? With a scythe? Lacey, how could you not tell me last night? I am seriously disappointed in you.”

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t tell you with my mother and sister hanging around. Besides, you always find out everything anyway.”

Brooke was only slightly mollified. “Damon says you nearly caught a rogue government assassin in the attempted murder of Dr. Gregory Spaulding.”

Lacey glared at Damon. “You didn’t put that on your Web site, did you? Tell me you didn’t.”

He smiled and waved the peace sign. “You know, Lacey, in certain circles, GR stands for an officially nonexistent group of assassins and thieves known as the Government Repossessors. Their unofficial logo is the Grim Reaper. Coincidence?”

Do not smile,
she told herself.
You know how you are, if you smile, you’ll laugh, and this is a memorial service, for heaven’s sake, and your mother will hear you laughing, and you will never hear the end of it, so do not smile!

“I see. And what does this have to do with the death of Amanda or anything else?”

“Ah,” he said, knowing he had her attention. “They are sent to wipe out debts. Spaulding owed a debt because his Bionic Babe was a spectacular failure. First the GR repossessed her, and now they’re repossessing him. Or trying to. Be careful, Smithsonian; you’re not on the repo list, but you could get caught up in the net.”

“And this is all secret, right?”

“Not anymore,” Brooke jumped in. “Not with Conspiracy Clearinghouse on the job.” She proudly stroked Damon’s arm.

“I thought so. So how’s the other little project going,” Lacey asked brightly, “detecting whether these supermodels have clandestine GPS units in their breast implants?”

Damon shushed her. He looked a little crestfallen, and Brooke hastened to explain. “We think they have a jamming device. We haven’t been able to get a clear signal in here, although you wouldn’t believe how many cell phones we’re picking up. We’re hoping to get a lot closer to one of our targets later.”

Lacey bit her lip to keep from laughing at her mental image. “I have to go find some people. Okay? We’ll talk tomorrow.” As Lacey stood to go, Damon and Brooke both gave her the thumbs-up sign.
Just a couple of crazy space cadets in love.

She decided to take just a few minutes for herself in the Bentley wing. She slipped away from the crowd and made her way back down the main hall. She wanted to revisit some of the magnificent pieces from Hugh Bentley’s early collections that were displayed there. Maybe it would help her to take a breath, let her mind relax. The effortlessly elegant dresses and suits from the Forties that had made Hugh Bentley’s reputation were beautiful. She admired them for some minutes, recalling that Hugh, the old bastard, had once yearned to enshrine her own one-of-a-kind Gloria Adams suit in this very display. But she knew she had to get back before the service started. She turned at the sound of voices coming from a side hall that led back to the far end of the museum’s Grand Lobby, which appeared to be the staging area for the memorial service.

Lacey saw Zoe in profile, leaning against the wall. Yvette was standing still beside her, and from their vantage point they seemed to be able to check on the crowd and time their entrance for the main event. Lacey stepped back and found that by gazing into a mirrored display case at the corner of the hallway, she could see all the way down and still remain hidden from their view.

Zoe was dressed in a black wool crepe from the Chrysalis Collection, with perfect princess lines and long, roomy sleeves with satin trim. It was an appropriate dress for the event, and it slimmed and flattered her. She drank designer water from a plastic bottle, then set it down on a side table. She checked her watch and sighed while Yvette bounced lightly on her heels, anxious to get the show on the road.

With her hair in a shiny chignon, Yvette was looking her Grace Kelly best, beautiful and sophisticated. She wore a chocolate-brown wool suit with a shawl collar and gold buttons. The acoustics were so clear over the polished surfaces of the hallway that Lacey could hear her every word. Yvette told Zoe she would be out in a few minutes to start the program.

“It’s best to wait for everyone to arrive,” Yvette said. “For the cameras.”

“I’m so tired, Yvette.”

“Just a little while longer and this will all be over.”

“I didn’t want her to die,” Zoe lamented. “I just wanted my life back.”

Yvette lifted Zoe’s face with her hands. “And fate stepped in and gave it to you. She changed, Zoe; she wasn’t the Mandy we knew. Now you have to be strong and get through today. Tomorrow will be easier.”

Zoe took a deep breath. “I’ll try.”

“Good. It’s time. Go take your seat. I’ll be there in a moment.”

Zoe nodded and started walking toward the podium. Lacey lingered to see Brad Powers emerge from the shadows and kiss his wife on the back of her neck.

“Now all you have to do is your part,” he said.

“Hopefully the last in this ugly melodrama,” she said. “Good-bye, Amanda. For a while, I was afraid she was going to make it.”

Was that just an incredibly nasty thing to say?
Lacey caught her breath.
Or did Yvette just allude to a possible involvement in her death?
Lacey checked her position to make sure no one knew she was there and moved farther back.

“It’s all over, Yvette. She can’t hurt us anymore.”

“Or sleep with one of us anymore.”

“Would you just forget that? She’s dead. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Now go on out there. Chrysalis is going to be a huge hit with you and Zoe at the helm. And Amanda’s beautiful, tragic face to sell the line.”

“I just want to get out of here till the circus subsides.”

“You please the cameras today, and we’ll be on a plane to California tomorrow. Now, go out there and break their hearts.” He gave her a swift kiss on the forehead, and she held on to his hand for a moment before moving down the hall. Powers stood watching his wife, arms crossed.

Lacey’s shoe squeaked on the polished floor, and she froze. Powers spun around quickly and peered down the hall. He saw her reflection in the display case, and their eyes met. Lacey decided this was a good time to make tracks back to her seat. As she turned to go, he rounded the corner in a hurry and roughly grabbed her arm.

“Oh, no, you don’t, Smithsonian. What the hell were you doing spying on us?”