Killer Hair (14 page)

“She? You think the thief is a woman?”

“Or he. But ninety percent of the employees are women.”

“Even at the warehouse? That’s where I heard the problem was.” Vic just sipped his coffee. “So, you haven’t caught her yet and the problem is bigger than the warehouse. More than shampoo? Is she stealing cash from the salons? Embezzling? Blackmail? Drugs?”

He laughed. “Keep those theories coming, Lacey. Maybe I could learn something. But I’ve got nothing else right now. Once I get all the surveillance cameras in, it’ll be a piece of cake.”

Lacey stood up and stretched. She gathered her trash and tossed it in a can. She had enough of death and its desolate aftermath. She ambled off to look at the perfect blossoms. Vic caught up with her and they walked in silence. The caffeine had kicked in and Lacey felt uncommonly awake for this ungodly hour. Dew-kissed buds delicately scented the air and the sun was warm on her face. A few early-morning joggers wearing headphones and sunglasses thumped past in their own world.

Vic and Lacey strolled around the Tidal Basin, something that few Washingtonians manage to do during D.C.’s brief, intoxicating spring fling with Mother Nature. They didn’t even argue. Lacey began to feel contrite for her irritation at his early-morning call.

“It’s very pretty and I do appreciate it, Vic.”

“Anytime, Lacey.”

“You should know, however, that I really hate surprises.”

“That’s what you say
now
.”

She was stumped. On the one hand, waking her at the crack of dawn seemed like a sweet gesture, even romantic. On the other hand, he just wanted information to make his own job easier.

After circling the Tidal Basin, Vic said he was beat and took her home. He dropped her at the front of her building, not even turning off the engine. She turned around at the front door and glanced back. With no other options, she decided to face the apparent truth. Maybe they were destined to be friends after all and that was all it would be. And maybe that would be okay.

The rest of the day was filled with errands, laundry, and shopping. Later she tried to take a nap, but the phone began ringing. She knew it was Brooke, but she picked it up anyway.

“Hey, did you forget about me?”

“Hi, Brooke.”

“How did you manage to ditch Stella the Spark Plug?”

“There was a little problem. . . .” Lacey recapped the previous day for Brooke’s benefit.

“Yikes. I know I said you should investigate, but this is sounding very freaky.”

“We didn’t find anything.”

“You wouldn’t. Evidence in this town disappears like dew in the morn. It gets shredded, torched, or buried in a deep, deep hole.” She paused. “Unless you’re fishing for a big book deal.”

“That’s cynical. Any suggestions?”

“Just one. Back off now before it gets dangerous. I hate to say it, Lacey. But you’d be safer if you worked for
The Washington Post
. Working for
The Eye
, which I personally think is a beacon of truth in a town full of media swill, isn’t going to stop these people.”

“Who are ‘these people’ you’re always talking about?”

“There are so many, they are legion.”

“You think it’s some kind of conspiracy, don’t you?” Lacey closed her eyes and listened. Attributing these tawdry little crimes to a massive Washington conspiracy gave it a wacky cosmic weight she appreciated. Brooke rattled on.

“Now, if we could just figure out what kind of conspiracy—government, big business, left wing, right wing or international terrorists—maybe we could determine whether you’re in a lot of danger. Of course, Marcia Robinson’s involvement pretty much assures it’s government, unless that porno Web site thing involved the Mob—”

“I gotta go, Brooke.”

“Better be careful. Someone could always tamper with your car.”

“If they did, they’d accidentally repair something. Besides, I’m still on foot.”

Lacey eventually hung up and took the Metro to Arlington to a final fitting at Alma’s. Her seamstress was stitching up a light wool crepe suit for Lacey from Mimi’s
Vogue
pattern, circa 1942. The wine-colored jacket would be accented with navy velvet trim around the lapels and pockets, which of course were mandatory. It was almost too late to wear it, but there would be a few cool days left before summer attacked the city.

Lacey gazed in the full-length mirror as Alma Lopez sat on the floor, mouth full of pins, marking where the hem would go.

“Turn. Stand up straight. That’s it,” Alma said. Lacey was always afraid that the best seamstress in Arlington would swallow a pin while talking and it would be Lacey’s fault. But, somehow, that never happened.

The jacket’s strong shoulders and nipped-in waist and the long slightly flaring skirt said this was a suit that meant business, yet was all woman.
If I were investigating anything, this is definitely the look for it. Tough but seductive. Central casting sends in the lady detective. Yeah, right.
She made a mental note to remember to get ahold of the crime-scene cleaning crew. It seemed to be her only real lead in a hopeless case.

“What do you think, Alma?”

Alma shrugged. “
Vogue
says suits are out. No?”

“This is Washington. Suits will never be out.”

“
Vogue
says twin sets are in.”

“But do you think it’s pretty?” Lacey insisted.

“Oh,
sí
. Very pretty, but pretty isn’t in this year. Ugly is the new pretty. That’s what
Vogue
says.”

Chapter 10

Monday. The Sisyphean task that was “Crimes of Fashion” awaited her. The deadline was Wednesday afternoon for her column to appear in the Friday LifeStyle section. Lacey also had to write features on trends, the occasional brief what-to-wear tips she called “Fashion Bites,” seasonal style whims, and profiles of local fashion personalities. And now there was Angie’s death.
Where do I begin? Vic says it’s impossible anyway.

True to her word, Polly Parsons mailed a package of information on Stylettos’ role in the upcoming Sizzle in the City fashion show. Lacey tossed it aside and tried to do the same with Angie Woods, but her growing belief that Angie was murdered kept bumping into the rationalization that Lacey could do little about it.
I’ll just write the column and leave it up to the readers to decide.

On a normal day, if Lacey could get any message across in her column, it would be that women deserved to look attractive in spite of all the forces at work against them: the forces of out-of-control hairstylists, demented designers, indifferent department stores, and that great American equalizer, ready-to-wear. Women didn’t have to be left in the ragbag because they weren’t wealthy. They needed only to believe they deserved better.

Unfortunately, the subtext of an authentic Washington power look, for the second tier beneath the political and cultural leaders, is to look “serious.” To select a flattering color or cut on purpose marks you as frivolous and shames you as shallow.

This is why in Washington thick spectacles are favored over contact lenses. Why keeping your grad-school haircut for decades is not only acceptable, but lauded. Why so many women choose the dumpy jacket that dusts the knuckles, the oxford cloth shirt that camouflages your charms, the clunky short-heeled black pumps. Why thirty extra pounds declare you’re too busy and important to exercise (unless you’re the President), and your work is vital, even though you’re but a tiny cog in a forgotten machine.

Lacey tried to write “Crimes of Fashion” for the regular woman who deserved better than to look prematurely serious. But she also wrote it for snobs and people who got a lift from a cheap laugh. This week, however, the column would be for Angie. It was risky because levity would be inappropriate for the subject, and Mac demanded levity. Lacey planned to spring it on Mac at the last minute on Wednesday so he would have no recourse but to run it, humor impaired as he was.

“Crimes of Fashion” weighed heavily on Lacey, especially on spring days like this, when everyone else at
The Eye
was gloriously scandal-drunk over Marcia Robinson. Brooke Barton wasn’t the only person who loved the dish. The cyber-porn peccadilloes of the congressional staffers and White House interns sent delicious shock waves rippling through the newsroom. Rumors, factoids, and dirty jokes swirled around the newsroom in a heady whorefest, and Lacey was jealous. Each new turn in the contretemps was seasoned with mirth and derision. But Lacey was stuck with fashion. There had to be a way to weave the two together. After all, Marcia Robinson, the scandal ringleader, had been Angie’s ticket to stylist stardom. Lacey had already covered Marcia’s miraculous makeover.
How can I find a new angle?

After playing dodge ball with the special prosecutor for months, Marcia was scheduled to testify at the federal court on Tuesday. But Lacey wanted to know why she had canceled her appointment the day Angie died and when they had spoken last. Maybe it would lead somewhere. Lacey reached for the phone and discovered that Marcia wasn’t taking phone calls, and her lawyer had stopped taking phone calls. There was really only one way to reach her. Lacey would have to join the crowds of hard-news print reporters, broadcast journalists, and other media hangers-on perched like vultures outside the federal courthouse. “Marcia Beach,” they were calling it.

The upside of waiting for Marcia was the possibility of ducking into a show of French Impressionists at the National Gallery of Art—
yes, a Smithsonian Institution
—right across the street. Lacey had been wanting to see the Monets and Renoirs.

The only problem was how to sell the story to Mac. She glanced over at his glassed-in office. He looked grumpy, but then Mac always looked grumpy. She made up her cover story as she approached his desk. She assumed he basically wouldn’t care. He didn’t understand what she wrote. He understood column inches and circulation numbers, and Lacey was good for both.

Marcia’s appearance was good for a column, she told Mac. He glanced at her under the twin caterpillars he called eyebrows. Lacey always refrained from telling him to trim the eyebrows, because, after all, they were very distinctive. They were as bushy as his mustache.

“You already did the other thing, the fashion thing, the whatchamacallit.”

“The makeover, right. But now I’ve got a new angle, Mac.” It would be a good sign if he nodded. Marcia’s makeover was a pretty good story, and scandal fever was still hot. Mac lived for scandal. And Lacey’s column on the former First Lady had gotten everybody riled up.

“What are you thinking?”

“Well, I could write this column like a sports story, as if I were judging a skating competition, just as an example.” Lacey didn’t have a clue how they were judged, but she thought it sounded good. She reasoned that men like sports.
Sports good. Fashion like sports? Fashion good.
“Headline something like ‘Robinson Wows Judges: Scores 8.2 on Style at Federal Court.’ ” Mac was nodding.
Just say yes and let me go.

“See, if she arrives in a limo instead of a cab, she gets extra points. Exiting from the limo gracefully without her skirt riding up is a bonus. More points. If she hasn’t stuck to her diet, that’s a penalty. Lose points. Makeup, hair, clothes, the usual things all carry points. If she smiles at the press, two bonus points. If she waves, even better. If she scowls, we dock her.” Mac’s eyebrows did a jig. He was interested.
Uh-oh. Don’t be too interested.

“We’ll need photos! Maybe a series, run them each a column wide across the top of the page. Top half, front page of the Sunday Style section.”

“But Mac, wait, this is just a column.”
I just want to ask about Angie, not write an epic.
“I didn’t plan on—”

“You’ll pull it together. You always do. Great idea. This takes care of Sunday for me.” He favored her with a happy smile. “Get Hansen for the photos. He’s a sports guy. He’ll get it.”

At least she’d have a shot at talking to Marcia.
But damn! A huge spread for Sunday? What have I done? I still have to write Friday’s column about Angie.

“Oh, and don’t step on Johnson’s toes.” Peter Johnson was one of the Capitol Hill reporters. The Marcia Robinson story was his. He wouldn’t take kindly to the lowly LifeStyle reporter getting in the way. Lacey thought the preening self-important Johnson was an idiot.

“Peter Johnson, the king of Capitol Hill, doesn’t even know I exist. I could puke on his shoes and he wouldn’t know it was me.” Mac shrugged. She was dismissed.

“Just concentrate on your job, Lacey. And the photos. We need great photos.”

Lacey Smithsonian had never asked to be shut away in the LifeStyle ghetto of the paper. She was relatively happy working on a city beat under her byline, “L. B. Smithsonian,” when Mariah “The Pariah” Morgan, the late
Observer
fashion editor, dropped dead of heart failure at the office. Mariah simply petered out at her keyboard while dithering away on a story about Washington “style setters.”
Bored herself to death,
Lacey thought.

Dead at fifty-eight, Mariah was discovered slumped over her desk, her signature black beret slipping off her silver pageboy. When it came to her own look, Mariah was a copycat. Her hair was smooth, parted on the side, and cut to the jawbone, the favorite of broadcast newswomen everywhere. Yet another version of the Washington Helmet Head.

But Mariah was a trouper. She finished the last sentence and typed
The End,
a weird little quirk of hers, before everything faded to black, though it was several hours before anyone got close enough to notice she wasn’t napping. Rigor mortis had set in, and Mariah had to be wheeled out in her chair under a sheet. At
The Eye
, this passed for going out in style.

To his credit, Mac exhibited genuine human feelings as the corpse was escorted from her corner of the newsroom. “Damn it all, Mariah, we’ve got a fashion supplement to get out!” Mariah thoughtlessly did not respond.