Killer Hair (10 page)

She stood there looking at him.

“Yes? No? Next Wednesday?” he inquired. Vic wandered around the room. She suspected he was looking for telltale clues of a male presence. He made himself at home on Aunt Mimi’s dark blue velvet sofa. “This is nice.”

“Don’t get too comfortable.”

“Hey, what’s in the trunk?”

“Pandora’s box.” She quickly gathered up her patterns, slipped them inside, and shut the trunk. She buckled the belt on the lid, put on her shoes, and wrapped her black jacket around her as armor. She hesitated. “What do you want, Vic?”

He stood up. “Dinner. And a truce.”

“Actually, I am a little hungry.”

“After looking at your fridge, I can believe it.”

“You said something about being friends.”

“Is that a new concept for you?”

Lacey shoved him out the door into the hall, pulled the door shut behind her, and locked it.

“It is when it comes to you. How about getting those boots in gear? I’m starved.”

 

Of course he had a Jeep parked behind her building, still sporting Colorado plates. Somehow she knew he’d still be a Jeep Wrangler kind of guy. And she knew it would be mechanically perfect, but not too clean. “A dirty Jeep is a happy Jeep,” she remembered him telling her. It had the right amount of clutter: a few maps, a water bottle. In the back, a metal box of tools was locked up, along with a small bag packed in case of emergency. Vic was the proverbial Boy Scout. The Jeep was also equipped with a good sound system and they listened quietly to an old Tom Waits CD, breaking-the-law kind of blues. They didn’t need to fill the car with chat.

The last time she’d seen Vic Donovan was New Year’s Eve at the Golden Slipper in Sagebrush, Colorado, six years ago. It was the biggest bar in town with a dance floor. Her boyfriend of the moment was highly peeved because she was leaving town and she had turned down his proposal of marriage. The man had surprised her with a diamond ring to convince her to stay, but it didn’t work; it merely scared her off. She canceled their New Year’s Eve plans and trooped along with the other three unattached
Daily Press
reporters to the Golden Slipper’s New Year’s blowout.

Lacey didn’t remember much about the evening—except one unforgettable moment. Somehow, at the stroke of midnight, Chief Donovan was suddenly standing in front of her. He had one arm around her, his hand circling her waist; he drew her close and used the other hand to tip her face up toward his. He bent down and kissed her. He didn’t give her any time to think about it. Vic’s ambush took her by surprise, but she kissed him back. It was no use denying the electrical charge that she felt. Finally he let her go.

“I couldn’t let you leave town before I got the chance to say good-bye. So long, Lacey. Good luck.” And then he was gone, into the rollicking mass of cowboys, good-time gals, and coal miners.

He won’t remember that in a million years. He was probably drunk.
She didn’t remember ever seeing him drunk. It always bothered her that she remembered Donovan’s kiss, but she could barely remember the other man, the one she might have married, whose kisses left no impression at all.

Donovan took her to a steak house down the river, south of Alexandria, with walls of knotty pine, decorated with elk heads and moose heads. Her mouth watered as they entered and the aroma of grilled meat greeted her. Vic was met by a curly-haired brunette in a fringed miniskirt and cowboy boots, a look that definitely said, “Welcome, cowboy.” She directed them to a cozy booth in Nonsmoking, tucked under a giant buffalo head. They ordered beer and steaks, medium rare with all the trimmings.

Lacey dove into her steak, savoring each bite. She rarely ate a big meal, but as a Colorado native, loving a good steak was her birthright. She closed her eyes in bliss, only to open them to find him watching her. He did this thing that made his eyes twinkle.

“You’re making little sounds.” He lifted his glass and indicated to the waitress to bring two more.

“I am not.”

“Are too. Little ‘umm’ sounds. So I guess you haven’t eaten in a week or two. Is that right?”

“You’re a beast, you know that, Vic?”

“A diet of popcorn makes a woman pretty cranky, I see.”

“I am not cranky.”

“She said, crankily.” Two more Dos Equis arrived.

“Does it make you happy to push my buttons?”

“It always did. You have cute buttons.” He grinned and took a slug of cold beer. “It’s not a bad thing, enjoying your food. A man likes a woman with a healthy appetite. Yours looks pretty healthy.”

She didn’t know what to say. Was he commenting on her weight? She ignored him and continued to savor the morsels left on her plate. But she tried to keep the sound effects to a minimum.

Vic finished his steak and was in the mood to talk. Their blowup at the funeral was definitely out of bounds. They danced around several light topics. Colorado. Virginia. Lacey even confessed that she loved the cherry blossoms in the District and would like to go to the Tidal Basin sometime to see them early in the morning before the crowds descended. She wanted to see the sun rise and drink coffee on the steps of the Jefferson Memorial, but she wanted it all to herself. Vic nodded. He hadn’t seen them since high school.

Eventually, they got around to old times. “So, whatever happened to that boyfriend of yours?”

“He married someone else.” She paused. “What happened to your wife?”

“She married somebody else. After the divorce. Someone who’ll stay put, right under her thumb.”

“Smart woman. What about girlfriends?”

“No one steady. And you?”

“Stella didn’t tell you?”

He laughed. “She says you’re pretty particular.” After he sated Lacey with beef and beer, Vic decided it was time to utter the forbidden word: Stylettos. “About your investigation. Tell me more about your theory. What do you plan to do?

“I see. You come on all wine-’em-and-dine-’em and all you want is information.”

“That’s all I said I wanted.”

Lacey did a slow burn.
Even if I don’t want you, you could have the courtesy to want me.
“Actually, you said dinner and a truce. Information is a two-way street.”

“We’ll switch drivers later, Lacey.” He ordered coffee. “Stella strikes me as a bit high-strung, to say the least. Do you think she’s out on a limb with this murder theory?”

“She’s always out on a limb, but I don’t disbelieve her.”

“She really rattled Radford.”

“Don’t you mean really slapped him? Ratboy is just afraid the customers will be spooked if they think someone’s actually been killed in the salon. Suicide is bad enough,” Lacey said.

“ ‘Ratboy’?”

“Stylists’ pet name for their boss.” Lacey found herself defending Stella to Vic. Stella went from the spike-haired harpy who bugged Lacey to distraction to a noble, singular voice crying out for justice. It wasn’t so crazy, Lacey told Vic. “The death looks suspicious. Angie had no history of depression or self-mutilation.”

“According to Stella?”

“Yes. I know she talks a lot, but I don’t think she lies. You’ve seen suicides, Vic. So why would Angela Woods do that to herself?”

“I didn’t see this one.”

“Okay, pal,” Lacey said. “Your turn.”

Vic confided that he had reservations about working for Radford, who had already gone through several security companies, making ridiculous demands on their time and personnel. But the money was too good to pass up. And it was his dad’s contract. A murder, if it was murder, would complicate matters even more.

“Who do you think is stealing shampoo?”

“I just got here. Who are your suspects, Lacey?”

“It’s not my problem, Vic.”
I’ll have to ask Stella.

“Radford says our job is to clamp down on the shrinkage problem and not to trip over any dead bodies. That’s okay by me. But he
kept
warning me off. Could be a little too much protesting going on. He told me not to listen to ‘that nut Stella’—or you. You’re just ‘the crazy reporter.’ Of course, I already knew that.”

“That Ratboy, he’s a charmer.”

“Warn your friend to watch her step.”

“Stella?”

“He’s itching for the chance to fire her. In fact, he turned blue every time Stella’s name came up.”

“Sounds like high blood pressure, but he can’t fire her. She knows where all the bodies are buried.”

“Meaning?”

“She slept with him once and she knows others who tumbled for the promise of a management position. If he tries anything, she’ll scream bloody murder, and file a sexual harassment lawsuit.”

Vic had learned from Radford that the publicity surrounding Angie’s magical makeover on Marcia Robinson was a huge boost to Stylettos’ business. But as rapidly as the gods of public whim had smiled on Stylettos, they could just as easily fade. The less people knew about Angie Woods’ death the better, Radford told Vic.

“He’s terrified of what you’ll write in that, quote, crummy little rag of yours.” Vic lifted his glass to her. “I had no idea you had such power, Lacey.”

“I am the fashion queen, Vic.” She rolled her eyes. “The mighty tremble at my words.”

“Yes, ma’am. But if you find out anything I should know, I want you to tell me. Got it?”

“Aren’t you going back to Steamboat?”

“Haven’t decided yet.”

“You’re not top cop anymore.”

He sighed. “This account means a lot to my dad. He has a reputation to live up to. I’d appreciate any information you could pass along. Please.”

“Please” wasn’t a word she associated with Vic, but she didn’t show her surprise. “Sure thing, cowboy, but remember it works both ways.”

Lacey ordered a very expensive dessert, very chocolate, very bad. She knew she’d pay for it later with extra exercise. Vic could pay now. He didn’t order his own dessert, but he picked up his fork and dug into hers.

They drove back in silence, listening to some sweet country swing music. Vic walked her to the door of her building and made sure she was safely in. It crossed her mind he might kiss her good night. But of course he didn’t. She was relieved, puzzled, and irritated.

It was gone, she was convinced. Whatever she used to have that attracted men to her was gone. Washington—and time—had taken it away.

Chapter 7

Arguing with her stylist was only slightly less pointless than bashing her head against a wall, Lacey decided.

“Stella, I don’t like being told what to do. Do you get that? Do you understand?”

Stella was unperturbed. “I told you to get highlights and you did.”

“Highlights! Do I really have to point out that getting highlights and investigating murder are two different things?”

“The highlights look great, and now you’re investigating a murder.”

“If I’m going to look into Angie’s death, I’m doing it my way. As a reporter, not a detective. Anything I do has got to end up in a story I can sell my editor. Are we agreed?”

“Absolutely.”

Lacey had agreed to meet Stella for coffee Saturday morning. As usual, it was a matter of life and death. So Lacey had insisted on the Mud Hut, a shabby but sweet little coffee shop just off King Street in Old Town, full of writers tapping on lap-tops. She had a habit of popping in on Saturday mornings, and she acknowledged a few other people she recognized.

The Mud Hut’s shabbiness was refreshing. Old Town Alexandria generally is aggressively Colonial, heavy on Virginia’s Founding Fathers and all things George Washington. Many Old Town homes of distinction keep their front drapes open so people walking by may gaze in reverence at the genuine period furnishings and illuminated portraits of illustrious Colonial ancestors.

Stella might raise eyebrows in the snooty part of town, but here no one would look twice at her crew cut, double-digit earrings, and leather-lass look. Today she was wearing a purple leather halter dress that laced up her cleavage to a dramatic swelling, like a Valkyrie’s Wagnerian WunderBra. Stella paired it with a cropped black jacket with gold leather lightning bolts stitched on the back and down the sleeves.

Lacey was wearing high-waisted, loose-fitting khaki slacks with a light blue fitted blouse. Her clothes were comfortable and attractive, but lacked the one-two punch that Stella mastered.

“Where
do
you get your clothes?” Lacey asked.

Stella beamed down at her purple laced bust. “Great dress, huh? Picked it up at this leather shop in Georgetown. I’m kind of a regular, so they call me when they get something special in my size. You should come with me sometime.”

The brave, noble Stella of last night’s discussion with Vic was once again Lacey’s personal pain in the neck. Featuring Angie’s death in “Crimes of Fashion” was only the beginning of Stella’s plan. But Stella didn’t count on extra help, which appeared in the shape of Brooke Barton.

The blond intruder, looking fresh in jogging shorts and a hooded navy sweatshirt even though she’d been out on a run, padded into the shop and spotted Lacey. “Aha! I thought I’d catch you here,” she said.

Lacey was confused. “Did we have plans, Brooke?”

“No, it’s just that you’re a creature of habit and if it’s ten a.m. on a Saturday morning, you’re swilling down a mocha latte at the Mud Hut. So, catch me up.” She grabbed a chair and sat down.

Stella and Brooke eyed each other doubtfully. Lacey introduced them. “So you’re the famous Stella of the highlights. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Stella looked none too pleased, but Brooke ignored her. She got right to the point: conspiracy, as usual.

“Did Marcia Robinson show up at the funeral?” Lacey shook her head. “Too bad. Maybe it’s not true that murderers go to the funerals of their victims.”

Stella was horrified. “You think Marcia killed Angie?”

“My number-one suspect.”

“You are so wrong. Why would she kill Angie? She owed Angie for that miraculous makeover.”