Hostile Makeover (37 page)

If Penfield had really captured months of Amanda’s private moments and the reactions of the people around her, Lacey presumed, there had to be something there for her to see. There would be a telling moment, a revealing look, a comment that took on a new meaning with Amanda’s death. And even if there were no clues, perhaps the film would supply some closure for her. Amanda had laid her burden on Lacey’s shoulders, and Lacey had not taken it seriously. She was working out her penance for that. There was nothing she could have done to save her, she told herself one more time, but it wasn’t helping much.
I could have believed her,
she thought.
Everybody wants to be believed.

As Penfield said, the film was a little rough, yet his handheld, intimate journalistic approach made it feel surprisingly personal. The first photo montage introduced a riveting time-lapse sequence of the changing faces of Amanda Manville, from a round-faced baby who looked like any other baby, to a cute, if rather strange-looking child, to a gawky, geeky teenager whose features seemed to be going through a Cubist period, to a homely young woman with a sparkle in her eyes, and finally to the amazing beauty she became. This last face cycled through its own set of changes, as Amanda evolved from the
Chrysalis Factor
makeover darling into the dazzling cover girl and runway sensation, a supermodel face with an endless variety of looks, from sporty girl next door to sultry seductress. Amanda’s many faces segued into interviews with friends, relatives, models, designers, fellow
Chrysalis Factor
participants, and her surgeons, among them Dr. Greg Spaulding, all intercut with Amanda in action on fashion-show runways and in photo shoots and interviews, both with Penfield and with the print and broadcast media.

Seamlessly following a segment from
Entertainment Tonight
, Lacey was shocked to see herself interviewing Amanda at their first meeting at Snazzy Jane’s on Tuesday morning. She hadn’t realized Penfield had videotaped the entire exchange—and he hadn’t asked her for a photo release. His skillful editing captured the screaming-bitch act Lacey had witnessed. She saw herself trying to reason with Amanda, then reluctantly agreeing to follow up if anything should happen. Confusion and disbelief showed on Lacey’s face on screen, which she could now feel burning.
Thank God the lights are out.

Cherise poked her in the ribs. Her mother stage-whispered, “Lacey, it’s you, dear!” Several people turned around to stare.
Why did I bring them here?
Lacey lamented.
I should have my head examined.

Amanda’s episodes of
The Chrysalis Factor
flashed by, with quick behind-the-scenes takes of Amanda with her homely fiancé, Caleb Collingwood, followed by the new Amanda with her new love, Dr. Spaulding. Lacey thought she saw something in one clip of Caleb in an unguarded moment, an off-center reaction, an odd look, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.
He was pretty odd-looking anyway. And wait a minute! What on earth is he wearing?
It nagged at her, but the clip was too brief; she couldn’t quite catch what was odd about it. She would need to see the entire TV episode again. If Penfield had taken his clips from the originals, he must have the complete episodes on videotape at his studio. But she would have to watch them tonight, with everyone partying here in Georgetown and not looking over Lacey’s shoulder.
And I’ll be able to fast-forward to the clip I need to see,
she thought,
without the Snoop Sisters at my back—if I can just get them to stay put here.

She told herself to pay attention. On screen she saw Amanda with her lovely sister, Zoe, Amanda swathed in bandages, and then the new Amanda revealed in all her glory. There was no narration to make the point, but the editing clearly compared Amanda’s emergence with the emergence of the Chrysalis Collection. There were shots of Zoe and Yvette hanging up the first dresses in the collection, giggling while Amanda dictated where things should go, Brad Powers predicting success, toasting them with a glass of champagne at the premiere showing of the collection at Snazzy Jane’s. A slightly disjointed sequence covered Amanda’s final photo shoot at Dupont Circle, including candid footage from the photo setup and the hair and makeup prep, presumably shot by Hansen. Lacey was surprised to see Stella sticking her tongue out for the camera while blowing out Amanda’s hair. Penfield’s editing of Hansen’s footage seemed rougher here, Lacey thought, more rushed, less polished; these must have been the segments he was working on right up to the last minute. There were a few of Hansen’s chilling, blurred stills from the shooting itself. Lacey felt her face flush and her heart race. In the aftermath Penfield got an evasive comment from Detective Steven Rogers and a few blunt words from Broadway Lamont. He even had an interview with Damon Newhouse of DeadFed dot com: Local reporter Lacey Smithsonian was “a magnet for trouble,” he said, but she was “committed to the truth, no matter the consequences.” Lacey squirmed in her seat.

Finally a quick montage of the memorial service at the Bentley Museum led to a closing shot of beautiful doomed Amanda, pulled out of chronological sequence, perhaps from the
Chrysalis Factor
’s “big reveal” episode. Surrounded by mirrors, she repeated over and over, “It’s what I’ve always wanted. . . .” The screen went black.

Following a few moments of silence, the applause started and people began to chatter in relief. Lacey overheard snatches of animated conversation all around. “Of course the collection will continue; it simply must. . . .” “Brilliant piece of work . . .” “My God, she was beautiful. . . .” “What a loss . . .” “So if it wasn’t Spaulding, who was it?”

The lights came on. A number of people were wiping away tears, and Zoe was openly sobbing. Yvette looked drained but composed, and Brad, as usual, seemed angry about something. Tate Penfield was basking in the spotlight in his role as filmmaker. Women crowded around him, including the comely Cordelia. They made a stunning couple. Still, he caught Lacey’s eye and winked at her. She waved and edged out of the room to find Hansen at the buffet table, chatting with her sister and mother. They were enjoying the Brie and pâté and other delicacies, for which Lacey had no stomach. She pulled her lanky photographer friend aside and asked if she could borrow the keys to his and Penfield’s studio. She told him she had left her notebook there earlier and needed to pick it up, and without it she couldn’t finish her story for Mac tomorrow morning.

It was a transparent lie, she hadn’t even had a notebook with her at the time, but he didn’t seem to notice. Hansen was such a mellow live-and-let-live kind of guy, he didn’t find the request odd. Lacey suspected that if she told him she was going to throw an all-night rave party in his studio he’d simply tell her to “party on, dude.” He dug into his pocket and handed over the keys, detaching a small ring from a larger one.

“I’ll get them back to you tomorrow,” she said.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Cherise said.

“Nothing, I’ve got to go and pick something up at Hansen’s studio. Won’t take a minute,” she lied. “I’ll swing back to pick you and Mom up later.”

Rose Smithsonian overheard and stepped between them. “You aren’t going anywhere alone, Lacey Blaine Smithsonian; haven’t we made that clear?”
Oh, no, the middle name again.

“Yes, but you two are having such a good time; you haven’t seen the rest of the house, and you’ve hardly had a bite to eat—”

“Eating canapés hardly trumps my daughter putting herself in danger. I didn’t raise you like that.” Her mother smiled. “Lacey, honey, face it, you are not getting rid of me until you take me to the airport and wave good-bye at the gate.” Rose picked up an hors d’oeuvre for the road. “You’ve got something, don’t you? Something on the murder?” she said under her breath.

“Maybe,” was all she’d admit. “Cherise?”

“I’m coming too.” She sulked at the idea of leaving the party, but then she brightened. “Is what that Damon guy said about you true?”

“Not a word. He’s an Internet reporter. On the Web, it doesn’t have to be true. Makes the job so much easier.” Lacey rounded up their jackets and herded them quietly out of the Powers mansion. No one urged them to stay or even came over to say good-bye, though Hansen waved from across the room. Cordelia was draped over Penfield, and he and Brad and Yvette Powers were in an intense discussion with another very Georgetown-looking couple. Penfield looked over at Lacey, then smiled and shrugged as if to say,
I’m all tied up,
which was perfectly fine with her.

Lacey drove east across the District again to the warehouse area out New York Avenue Northeast, where Hansen and Penfield shared studio space. The area had looked a little desolate in the late-afternoon light; after dark it looked positively creepy. She turned off New York onto the deserted side street full of grimy old brick warehouses covered with gang graffiti. Everything seemed calm, but Lacey’s nerves were on edge.

“This dump again?” Cherise wanted to know. “We left cozy little Georgetown for this? This place is the pits. It’s like how Lower Downtown Denver used to look a million years ago.” Rose turned around from the front seat and flashed her younger daughter a meaningful look. “I mean, couldn’t we just look for the killer during the day, when it isn’t so spooky?”

“I have to find a videotape of that original episode of the makeover show that Amanda was on,
The Chrysalis Factor
. I noticed something in one of the clips tonight; I’m not sure what. There’s a copy of it here at the photo studio. At least there should be, because Penfield used footage from it in his documentary,” Lacey said. “And we’re not looking for the killer. If I find anything, I’m calling the police detective I’ve been talking to. You saw him in the film. The really big one.”

“You didn’t tell us about the big detective,” Rose said. Lacey knew that now she was getting the “mom look,” but she kept her eyes on the road.

“I would have gotten the police involved last time I had a, ah, a confrontation, but they weren’t around. This is just a little reconnaissance mission tonight, okay?”

“Who do you think did it, Lacey?” Cherise prodded, wanting at least an interesting story out of the evening.

“I have to watch the videotape,” she said evasively. “But I want to hear what you two think. Any ideas on who the murderer is?”

Her mother leaned forward in the backseat and uttered a sigh. “That was a lovely home, but my money’s on Yvette. She’s as cool as a cucumber. I think she could do it without mussing her hair. Did you see how organized her kitchen was? And with company coming! And caterers running around everywhere.”

“But could she drive my car and gun down Amanda at the same time?” Lacey asked.

“Her husband could have driven while she pulled the trigger,” Cherise offered. “Or vice versa.”

“They said they were having drinks with Zoe at the time,” Lacey said.

“Well, duh, they could all be lying.”

“What about that Zoe?” Rose asked.

“Her own sister?” Cherise was aghast.

“Cain and Abel,” Rose said.

“Yeah, but Amanda was Cain, not Abel,” Lacey said. “Wasn’t she?”

“Okay, maybe Zoe was in on it too, only later she regretted it,” Cherise chimed in, “and now it’s, like, eating her up, in spite of Amanda being a holy terror? She’s, you know,
torn
.”

“Very nice, Cherise, I like it,” Rose said. “What do you think, Lacey?”

“The Powerses are icy characters, and Zoe does seem torn. But they only want to sell clothes. Whoever did this involved me on purpose. What for?”

“Do you think your father would like a red dining room? Like the one at the Powers home?” Rose mused, much more interested in decor than death. “I had hoped that we would discover the killer at that lovely Georgetown home, rather than in some dump of an industrial zone. But we will endure, dear.” She patted Lacey on the shoulder. “A red room.” She sighed.

Lacey was silent as she pulled the icky little Echo into the empty lot at the warehouse and parked under one lone light.

“Good grief, Lacey. Couldn’t we have waited till tomorrow?” Cherise was moaning. “And that Hansen of yours is so cute. He is single, isn’t he? Why didn’t he come with us?”

“Don’t you have a boyfriend back home? That wreck of a football hero?”

Her sister ignored her. “I’ve never been in a house like that before. I mean, a dark red room? How cool is that? Two parlors? Hot and cold running waiters? It’s so cool.”

“Black marble bathroom fixtures with gold faucets. Can you imagine?” Rose said. “And we didn’t even get to see the upstairs.”

“You guys didn’t have to tag along with me, you know. You could have stayed. Maybe Yvette would show you her closets, and her wine cellar, and the butler’s pantry—”

“You’re the murder expert,” Rose said.

“Murder expert!” Lacey choked. “I’m not—”

“I’m sure we are doing something more important here.” Her mother got out of the car first as Lacey locked up. “You would actually come out here to this dismal place alone at this hour of the night? Tell me you would have called that nice Vic Donovan for help if we weren’t here.”

“I would have called Vic.”
Of course, that would be difficult. He’s a little hard to reach right now, between Homeland Security and man-eating Montana.
The thought of Montana gave her an uncomfortable pang in the heart, but she concentrated on the task at hand.
But maybe Turtledove? Maybe I can ask him to watch over me. Again.
Lacey checked to make sure that her cell phone was in her jacket pocket. She had coded Turtledove’s number into speed dial, just in case. But it wasn’t there. She remembered she’d left it plugged in at home again, charging the dead battery.
Damn.

“Well, that’s good.” Rose seemed slightly mollified. “You know, you could always move back home to Denver, where it’s safe.”

“We’d be at each other’s throats.”

“No, no, no, you could live with your sister.”