Shot Through Velvet (23 page)

“But how do I know she’ll go for it? I mean, maybe she’ll want to wear a horse blanket, or tweed knickers or something. Oh, my God! Tweed!” Stella slapped her hands to her face. “And one of those hats that’s as big as a garbage can lid. The English are funny about their hats, you know.”

“But you are so good with mothers, Stella. You wrapped my mom around your little finger,” Lacey pointed out.

“Your mom is a doll, Lacey. His mother is a Gorgonzilla.”

“That’s only fitting for the mother of a Griffin.”

“You know, we’ve never met
your
mother, Stella,” Brooke said.

“You’re not missing anything,” Stella replied.

“You are inviting her, aren’t you?” Brooke asked.

“Yeah, but at the last minute, so she doesn’t have time to plan anything. Like coming! And ruining my wedding! A drama queen, that one.”

It is going to be a very long seven and a half weeks,
Lacey thought.

“Maybe we should talk about something else,” Marie suggested. She hefted her glue gun and started pasting more rhinestones on Stella’s cast. “I think Stella’s aura is a little overloaded.”

“I think my aura is starving. We need real food,” Lacey said.

“Pizza,” Stella agreed. “We need pizza.”

Pizza.
Close enough to real food. Brooke dialed the pizza delivery number written in ink on the wall by the phone. On top of all that chocolate and amaretto, it was going to be a calorie-bomb kind of night. Stella leaned back onto the sofa and breathed deeply.

“I’m feeling a little better. Thanks, everybody.”

“Brooke, how is that young man of yours? I heard he’s been ill,” Marie said. “That’s why you’ve been thinking about gray and black. Little storm clouds have been following you around.”

“You’re right, Marie. I’ve been in a gray mood. And Damon’s better, thanks. He’s looking into why D.C. has more cryptosexuals than any other place in the country.”

“Cryptosexuals?” Lacey felt her eyebrows rise.
Involuntary, I swear.

“You’ve seen them. We all have. They’re a gender-orientation enigma. They aren’t gay. They aren’t straight or bi. They aren’t metrosexual or retrosexual, or even asexual or nonsexual.” Brooke stood as if addressing a jury. “Maybe they’re postsexual. No one knows. They might not know themselves. They don’t give you any sexual signals at all, or else too many conflicting signals. They’re
crypto-sexual
. The District is full of them. It’s a mystery on a whole other level. No one has anything against cryptosexuals. What we’re asking is, Why are they
here
, in Washington? Does something about D.C. attract them? Or were they recruited here for some reason? Is there a national security issue? Is there a conspiracy? How do they reproduce? Damon’s all over it.”

“I can’t wait to read that one,” Stella said. “It’s like science fiction. With sex. Or not.”

“But don’t worry. Damon’s also on the Velvet Avenger story for tomorrow’s edition of Conspiracy Clearinghouse.” Brooke sighed with satisfaction.

“Please tell me he’s not calling it that!”
I never should have used that quote from that good old boy Sykes.

“How could he not? He’s just following your lead, Lacey.”

“I can’t believe I missed that, Lace,” Stella said. “What’s a Velvet Avenger? Some kind of a new drink?”

“Don’t worry, Stella, sugar. I got a feeling y’all’re about to catch up,” Marie said.

Brooke was dumbfounded. “You don’t know? You didn’t read
The Eye
today? Good God. Lacey discovered another body.”

“No way!” Stella jumped up and knocked over a whole jar of rhinestones.

“Not exactly,” Lacey said. “There were multiple witnesses. I was just a face in the crowd.”

“The dead man was completely blue,” Marie said. “Lacey’s aura today is surrounded by blue velvet. It’s a lovely but heavy burden. Velvet auras can be suffocating.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Stella was stunned. “You got a velvet aura
and
a Velvet Avenger?!”

“You were busy! I was busy! It was in the paper,” Lacey said. “I’ve been a little preoccupied. You too.”

“That’s no excuse for not telling me,” Stella pouted. “I always tell you when I find dead bodies. Jeez, I can’t believe you did it again, Lace.”

“It wasn’t just another body,” Brooke said. “This is big, very big.”

“So, was he, like,
totally
blue?” Stella demanded. “Like, what kind of blue? Baby blue? Turquoise? Larkspur? Aqua?”

“No, dead blue. Deep blue,” Lacey said. She knew Stella would keep at it until she was satisfied. “Awful blue.”

“If you need our help, invoke the Code.” Stella was referring to the Pink Collar Code, which bonded them together like a secret cadre of Nancy Drew fans. “We will be there.”

“Yeah, you with your cast.”

“It’s a walking cast. Just watch me kick ass with this baby.”

“I know all about your Code,” Marie said, tapping her head. “And if I am needed, I will come. But if I faint, consider it a warning.” She smiled, and they all laughed.

“Lacey, this could be the answer to my prayers!” All the women turned to stare at Stella.

“What? The Code?”

“No, the Velvet Avenger.”

“I thought we were talking about Nigel’s mom and the wedding. Wait—please don’t tell me you want to get married in a blue velvet dress—”

“No, no, no, Lace. Nigel told me his mom is a total mystery hound. Maybe I could get her going on this thing and take her mind off me. Nigel says she loves it all, dead bodies, corpses, cadavers, stiffs. It’s a win-win, Lacey.”

“No, Stella. Not for me. And you don’t want to be involved with this story. Neither do I. I’m leaving this one alone.”
Right after the funeral.

A loud knock at the door startled them all. “Pizza guy,” Stella sang out.
And just in time,
Lacey thought. She beat Stella to the door and opened it wide to take delivery of their pizza. But it wasn’t the pizza guy.

“Kepelov,” Lacey said.
It just gets better and better
. “You’re the pizza guy? So where is our pizza coming from? Moscow?”

Chapter 21

Gregor Nikolai Kepelov was beefy and muscular. His bald head, handlebar mustache, and cool blue eyes added to his formidable appearance. He was once a KGB agent, or so he said, and his Russian accent seemed to be genuine, if a little unpredictable. He scowled at Lacey, but he smiled down at Marie, his zaftig Gypsy fortune-teller. Marie jumped up and squealed at the sight of him. She grabbed him for a big hug and a kiss.

Marie, who said she could see into his soul, clearly adored the man. Lacey thought it proved love was not only blind, but the product of a heaven with a peculiar sense of humor. Kepelov’s expression of ardor was that of any man in love. While Lacey didn’t trust the ex-spy, he was growing on her.

“Ah, Smithsonian, still you give me evil eye.” His smile turned into a wide grin.

“I do not. It’s more of a calculating reporter’s eye.”

His chuckle came from deep in his gut. “I forgive you, because you are Marie’s good friend. And mine.”

Kepelov and Stella hugged next. “Gregor, you guys want to stay for pizza? It’s on the way.”

“Another time,” he said. “We have jambalaya in crock-pot at home. One of Marie’s New Orleans specialties.”

Kepelov and Brooke hugged each other as warily as two bears. Brooke said nothing, but she observed everything. Lacey knew her friend didn’t know how much to trust the big Russian either. They had all been there in the storm the day Nigel and Stella were on the cliff, Marie bringing them blankets in the snow, looking like something out of a Russian fairy tale, a spot of bright color in the white landscape. The experience had bonded the little group together in some way, yet Brooke always hesitated before offering her friendship. Lacey thought she was also probably hoping Kepelov would spill some dark, ancient, Soviet-era secret to her for Damon to report to the free world. Lacey was next in line for a Russian bear hug.

“Lacey Smithsonian, how long are you going to test me?”

He sounded like Griffin. Was it true? Was she such a tough grader? Did her friends’ men have to jump through hoops to reassure her? Even her own man?

“Until I am sure you really love my friend Marie and aren’t just using her psychic powers to find you Fabergé eggs. Or other lost treasures of the Romanovs. Or something.”

Lacey was still half-afraid Kepelov might be trying to use Marie in some strange way for her dubious psychic powers. Marie was a dear and she seemed to have genuine flashes of ESP, but her abilities were sketchy. They came and went as the moon waxed and waned. Marie’s psychic vibrations that famously tapped the Eyes of Horus on her shoulders, though often provocative, were not terribly useful. Except when it came to the weather. For predicting rain and storms, she was the cat’s pajamas.

When Marie fainted because her visions were so frightening, her friends were alert to danger. But Lacey suspected Kepelov was still a jewel thief at heart, like his sometime partner Griffin—two would-be soldiers of fortune.

Kepelov found Lacey a little too amusing. “Can I not have both love and treasure? After all, Marie is my real treasure, I assure you. If she also leads me to the Czar’s missing Fabergé eggs, why not?”

“Can you really have both, Kepelov, if you use one to get the other?”

“Smithsonian! You wound me.”

“Don’t squabble, you two,” Marie said. She held on to Kepelov’s arm and winked at Lacey. “My sweet Gregor knows my car is in the shop again and he just wants to see me home safely.”

“You think a psychic would know an old Gremlin is a terrible car,” Kepelov said. He helped her into her coat.

Marie laughed and placed her hand gently on the side of his face. She touched an old, faded scar from an ancient battle or a drunken brawl. “But I love my purple Gremlin, Gregor. It has all the right vibes.”

“My darling Marie, those vibrations are telling you, ‘Get new shock absorbers!’ ”

“I think he’s right, Marie,” Lacey said.

He suddenly turned to Lacey, and his smile was gone. “Smithsonian, I must tell you something. You must be on your toes, all ten. I read your paper. This new killer you have discovered? Very dangerous.”

“Has Marie fainted?” Lacey asked, tongue in cheek.

“Not yet. The blue dye? It is showy, but obscure. A message, but what does it say? No one understands. So. This killer must send yet
another
message. There is the danger.”

Lacey felt like a claw had grabbed her neck. “What kind of message?”

“How would I know that? KGB used subtler methods. Poison on tip of needle on umbrella. Simple shove over bridge railing. Car accident. Most effective is when victim disappears and no one ever knows. But this blue? In this factory? Looks like maybe political statement.”

Brooke was on her feet. “Exactly what kind of political statement?” She blocked Kepelov’s exit. The big Russian was smiling again.

“You always make me smile, Brooke Barton. You figure it out and tell me. Your friend Damon can break this exclusive story. It should be most entertaining.” He turned to Lacey. “Be careful, my friend.”

“Why, Kepelov, I didn’t know you cared.”
And how creepy is it that he understands the minds of other killers?

“But of course I care. What would I do without you for amusement? And your fashion clues? Lead us to more diamonds. Who doesn’t like diamonds?”

“Gee, I feel special,” Lacey said. “And what about that time you knocked me out in the basement?” She still held a bit of a grudge.

“Lacey, sugar, Gregor didn’t know you then,” Marie said. “And he tends to be a little leery of strangers, what with his spy history and all.”

“That’s a perfect reason to knock someone unconscious,” Lacey said.

“As I have said before, I did not kill you, though I could have, and look at what good friends we have become. And there seems to be no brain damage.”

Lacey wasn’t sure about the “no brain damage.” After all, what else could possibly explain why she was listening to Kepelov at all?

Kepelov was wrapping an intricate embroidered shawl over Marie’s coat and tucking it around her with tender regard. The shawl’s multicolored roses and leaves on a black background seemed to shimmer in the light. It caught Lacey’s eye.

“Marie, that’s beautiful.” Lacey reached out to touch it.

“It is, isn’t it? Gregor gave it to me. It’s quite old. Full of stories.”

“Really?” Lacey was intrigued. “What kind of stories?”

“I see your interest grows, Lacey Smithsonian. Romanov diamonds you care nothing about, but clothes and stories? Yes. Someday I will tell you about Marie’s shawl.” He winked. “It is a magic Russian shawl.”

Right
. “And someday we’ll have barbecue at your mythical ranch in Texas.”

“It is my American dream, Smithsonian. Have you applied for private investigator’s registration yet? You would make a very unique private eye.” Kepelov had taken over teaching a few of her PI classes from the regular instructor, Bud Hunt, after the events of last month.

“Um, I’ve got the paperwork. I’m thinking about it.”

“Good. Be a PI. I think you will amuse me even more. You will be very dangerous as a PI.” He put his arm around Marie and they left, laughing.

Lacey turned to Stella and Brooke. “I think that Bolshevik just insulted me.”