Killer Hair (35 page)

“Leo, you’re late and you’re a mess!” Stella whispered. Leo glanced blankly at Lacey. “Hey, what’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong? I’ve just spent four hours being interrogated by the goddamn cops!” His voice was piercing and several rows of mourners turned to look at him. “They think
I
did it. They think I killed Boyd!” Leonardo’s voice soared higher and louder. His diction had slipped back into his old neighborhood. This was no longer the smooth, professional Leonardo, star stylist, but a desperate Leonard Karpinski from Queens, New York. He had everyone’s attention, and people began to stand and crane their necks to get a better view.

“But why do they think that?” Claudette asked, forgetting her laryngitis.

“How the hell do I know? ’Cause the cops are idiots!”

Donovan crossed the room like a freight train. He locked an arm around Leo’s bicep and lifted him out of his loafers.

“You were told not to come.” Two plainclothes Arlington cops were right behind him, and two of Vic’s employees moved to screen Josephine.

“You can’t keep me out! I belong here.”

“Do you want everyone to know you were fired yesterday?” Vic’s voice was low and dangerous. A ripple of excitement pulsed through the crowd.

“Fired?” Stella blurted. “Leo, but why?”

“Leo knows why,” Vic said.

“I can explain about that shampoo warehouse shit. Josephine! I have to talk to Josephine. She knows what was going down there. Josephine, you gotta give me my job back!” Leo tried to escape Vic’s grasp, but Vic marched him out of the room in an armlock.

“This is insane. I’ll sue! You’ll be sorry. Josephine, you gotta tell them!” The Arlington cops pulled the chapel door shut behind them, but Leo had succeeded in stopping the proceedings in their tracks. Vic returned alone and the organ began again. It was too late. The crowd was on its feet. Nothing was going to get them back in their chairs now.

“So Leo was the shampoo bandit?” Lacey whispered to Stella through the excited buzz of the crowd. “Vic must have caught him and Radford fired him. But what’s Josephine got to do with it?”

“What
doesn’t
she have to do with? You think Leo killed Boyd for her?” Stella said. “Jeez, I never had Leo as Suspect Number One.”

The mysterious “George” had failed to appear, at least under that name. Stella had checked the signatures in the book at the door.
Could Leonardo be “George”?
Lacey wondered.
But why would Leonardo want to buy long hair? And what about the videotape?

As the service broke up prematurely, Lacey kept her eye on Vic and Josephine, who in turn had her big imploring eyes on Vic. Lacey could only guess what she was saying to him in that mellifluous French-accented voice. Something like: “You cannot leave me alone, you big handsome American man, I am so afraid. Make love to me.”

Sex is always the answer in French movies,
Lacey lamented. She lost sight of them as she and Stella drifted with the crowd out of the chapel into the lobby, which had doors leading to viewing rooms. The smell of flowers mingled with waxen death while large fans kept the air circulating.

“You coming to the reception, ‘Claudette’?” Stella asked. “You still up for it?”

“So far, so good. I’ll just get my car and meet you—”

“Could I see your invitation, ‘Claudette’?” From behind her, Vic clamped a hand on Lacey’s arm and very firmly steered her away from the others.

“Oh, man!” Stella squeaked. “Busted!”

Vic dragged Lacey into one of the Colonial viewing rooms. It was empty except for the lone occupant, an elderly man in his coffin. She shook Vic’s hand off and rubbed her arm.

“Oww. You bully. Save your armlocks for Leo.”

“I don’t believe you’d pull a stunt like this! After I expressly told you not to come, at the specific request of the family.”

“Ex-family. I’m sure she has lots of special requests for you, Vic. Just how many gatecrashers will you toss out?”

“As many as I have to, Lacey.”

“It’s ‘Claudette.’ ”

“Whatever your name is, you’re not welcome here.”

“Vic, is it true? Leo killed Radford? And what about Tammi and Angie? What about the scandal angle? Boyd was on the missing tape.”

“Lacey, stop playing detective. Please.”

“I’m not playing anything, Vic Donovan,” she snapped. “I am a reporter and my life was threatened.”

His eyes narrowed. He looked dangerous. “Unless you want to be threatened again, I suggest you stay away from that reception. It’s a private affair.”

Affair being the operative word.
“I bet.”

“If I so much as suspect you are on the premises, I’ll find you, handcuff you, and throw you in the Jeep until Labor Day.”

Promises, promises.
Lacey backed up and nearly fell into the open casket, catching herself just in time to avoid the cold embrace of a very dead octogenarian. She glared at Vic. She noted the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not going. I hope you’re happy.”

He took one long look at her, lifted an eyebrow, turned on his heel, and left.

“I still want those photos, Donovan!”

He kept walking. She adjusted her beret and returned to the hall in time to see Vic lecturing a defiant Stella and a sullen Michelle. The crowd was thinning. Lacey noticed Beau standing in an alcove with his mother. Josephine reached out her hand to straighten a flyaway strand of her son’s hair. Beau slapped her hand and laughed. Josephine sighed and looked away.

Lacey had had enough of Vic, Josephine, Beau, and “Claudette.” She needed the safety of her Z. But first she had to make it past the line of photographers outside the funeral home. The media apparently had caught up with the connection between dead stylists and Boyd Radford. She spotted Todd Hansen, who had been sent by Mac. With sunglasses in place, she walked briskly past them. If only she could get away without anyone else unmasking her or ripping her wig off, or making her feel even smaller.

Too late. Trujillo caught up with her just outside the door. “Pretty good show, don’t you think? How do you like your friend Leonardo as a suspect? By the way, Mac told me you called in sick. You’re not fooling anyone.”

She strode past Radford’s silver Jaguar and wondered if Vic was chauffeuring Josephine in it now. She didn’t want to wait to see. Next to the Jag was Beau’s red Camaro, cluttered with air fresheners instead of dice. She watched four men climb into a van across the street, black with smoked windows. They had attended the service and all wore black suits and sunglasses.
Could that be Agent Thorn?
Marcia hadn’t shown up, but apparently the special prosecutor was still on the job.

Trujillo was at her heels. “So, what’s your angle?”

She whirled on him. “I’m researching what a story-stealing snake wears to a rat’s funeral.” She took in his choice of wardrobe. “Apparently the snake wears a charcoal-gray silk-blend suit with a black linen shirt and a black-and-turquoise silk tie.” She had to admit that Trujillo looked very hot. “And snakeskin boots, perfect for a snake.”

“Glad you like them.” He was not offended. “By the way, great disguise. Very exotic.”

“If it’s so great, how on earth did you know me?”

“I’ve seen those movie-star specs before. I’m your biggest fan. Can I have your autograph?”

Chapter 26

In her Z, she ditched the beret, wig, and black smock, leaving the black turtleneck underneath, which made her look, she thought, like an art student. Okay, an aging art student. It occurred to her that a real detective would go to the reception anyway and stake out the parking lot, but the thought of it made her feel like a stalker. Not in the mood to go home, Lacey wanted to be in a crowd that did not include any Donovans, Radfords, Trujillos, or killers.

Overlooking the Potomac, the Jefferson Memorial almost glittered. The air was crisp; the sky was blue. She turned off Fifteenth Street and circled the Tidal Basin. She felt restless.

Why not wander around that new exhibit she’d read about: “The Pursuit of Beauty in America”? Jamie, the stylist, had mentioned that the notorious permanent wave machine, “just like Medusa,” was on display. Perhaps she could pick up an idea for her column, now that she was officially off the dead-body beat. She headed back toward the Mall.
So Trujillo gets the story. Fine. Hope it bores him to death. Or maybe he’ll be mobbed by stylists. Or smothered by Polly Parsons.

In the National Museum of American History she was happily undisguised and anonymous. First she dropped in on her favorite display—the First Ladies’ gowns.

Low lights illuminated the display cases to protect the ancient gowns from further deterioration. Tiny mannequins represented the diminutive early grande dames of the Capital. Most of the older dresses were muted with age, rendered into barely discernable pastels.

Lacey admired the heroic Dolley Madison, First Lady from 1809 to 1817, and her simple Empire Period gown, delicately hand-embroidered with flowers, butterflies, and dragonflies. She paused briefly to gaze at the exquisite creations worn by Frances Folsom Cleveland, who reigned in the White House from 1885 to 1889. Judging from her laced and beaded confections from Paris and Baltimore, Frances was quite the clotheshorse.

Poor Mamie Eisenhower had been relegated to the distant past. Her famous “Mamie pink” dress was missing, replaced by a claret-red gown of silk damask in a classic Fifties style, cinched-in waist and full skirt.

The last glass case held the gowns of the recent first wives, from Jackie Kennedy on. This display was Lacey’s favorite, because the viewing public seemed to feel free to comment as if they were all intimate friends.

“Oh here’s Barbara, in royal-blue velvet and taffeta. I just love her,” Lacey overheard one woman say. “She wore Scaasi, you know.” Women who could never dream of a designer gown of their own were surprisingly familiar with the artists who had fashioned garments for the women of the White House. And all without the help of the notes provided by the museum.

“James Galanos designed that for Nancy Reagan,” one woman wearing cat-eye glasses and a bright yellow jogging suit commented. “I didn’t like her politics, but I love that white beaded dress.” Her companion nodded. “But can you see me in a one-shoulder gown?”

Some fashion statements become untranslatable. Jackie Kennedy’s white inaugural gown with its sheer overblouse clearly stumped one teenager in enormous blue jeans and a fringed leather jacket. “What’s up with that?” Her friend with a nose ring grimaced. “Clueless. I’m totally clueless.” A fiftyish woman gazed at the turquoise dress and full-length overvest of Rosalynn Carter. “She was very frugal, you know,” she said to no one in particular. “She wore that dress everywhere.”

Laura Bush’s sparkling red gown was on display upstairs, in another exhibit on “The American Presidency.” Lacey thought maybe she’d catch that later.

Two sturdy Midwestern matrons, one in a baby-pink running suit, the other in baby blue, were dissecting Hillary Clinton’s deep violet beaded inaugural gown.

“I can’t believe her waist is really that small,” Pink said.

“I know. She’s got those stumpy legs and she’s tried every hairstyle in the book,” Blue said. “And have you seen her lately? Good heavens.”

“It must be harder than hell to get a good haircut in Washington,” Pink said.

“If you only knew,” Lacey muttered. Whether it was the hard museum floor or her failure to connect the dots on the Stylettos murders or the debacle at the memorial service, she felt weighed down as by an anchor. She sought out the museum café. She hunched over a cup of coffee, breathing in its aromatic steam.

You let yourself down. You let Stella down.
Stella had such faith in fashion clues, style nuances, and the “brilliant” Lacey Smithsonian. Misplaced faith, Lacey concluded. She was no closer to collaring the killer than when she first saw Angela’s horrible haircut.

But were there two killers? If Boyd killed the stylists, who was the vigilante who stopped him? Or did he know who the real killer was and get killed for it? Then who killed Radford?
Good God, who wouldn’t?

Lacey tossed her empty cup in a trash can and headed to “The Pursuit of Beauty in America in the Twentieth Century and Beyond.” As the exhibit would demonstrate, from Gibson Girls and flappers to hippies, punks, the MTV Generation, and Generations X, Y, and Z, American women had found myriad ways to be attractive and self-confident.

At the entrance, a black-and-white film clip greeted visitors. Suffragettes marched for women’s right to vote. Flappers danced the Charleston. And Rosie the Riveter was taking a break at the airplane factory to apply fresh lipstick. Tucking her compact and lipstick back in her overalls, she lowered her goggles and proceeded to rivet those B-29 wings with a smile on her face. At the end of the exhibit, a mirrored wall reflected the viewer’s own pursuit of beauty into the twenty-first century. The displays combined both humor and pathos, hitting the highlights and the lengths (short and long) to which women were willing to go to achieve an ever-evolving ideal of beauty.

In the early years of the twentieth century, according to the first display, American beauties relied only on rose water and glycerine and the lightest touch of rouge to help them in their quest. The next display was a replica vintage beauty salon where a Twenties’ flapper was defiantly bobbing her hair. The mannequin was happily appraising her new look in a hand mirror. Next to her stood the famous permanent-wave machine, Medusa’s sister.

Lacey’s view was blocked by a young mother and a chubby little blond boy in the throes of his terrible twos, grabbing at his mother’s hair. Lacey heard the exasperated woman say, “Leave Mommy’s hair alone.” As the woman secured it in a ponytail, she sighed. “I’m just going to have to cut it all off.” She scolded and he laughed. She smoothed his hair and he slapped her hands away, giggling.