Shot Through Velvet (25 page)

“Harlan.” Lacey interrupted his word association. “I hate to ask this, but do you think you might
possibly
cross Walt Pojack’s path?” It was a vain hope that Harlan’s celebrated jinx might somehow make Pojack suffer. But still, a hope.

“You’re referring to my dubious reputation as a Jonah? Consider it done, Smithsonian.” Wiedemeyer didn’t take offense. He laughed out loud. “We’ll wish a double whammy on him. He’s on my list.”

We all have a little list.
Although no one really quite believed Harlan Wiedemeyer was a jinx, he seemed to have a curious effect on people. Lacey was nearly crushed to death by a Krispy Kreme Doughnuts sign after Wiedemeyer had insisted on driving her home in a rainstorm. After Wiedemeyer developed feelings for Felicity Pickles, her minivan was blown to pieces right outside
The Eye
. Immediately following a confrontation with Wiedemeyer, Capitol Hill reporter Peter Johnson’s car was smashed by a D.C. Metro bus.
Coincidence?

It was also widely accepted around
The Eye
that once you experienced the Wiedemeyer Whammy, you were inoculated from further bad juju.
Reporters, not science majors.

Logic and sense told Lacey there was no such thing as a jinx. Nobody could really believe Wiedemeyer was a bringer of bad luck or a boomerang of ill intent. Could they? Not even her editor, Douglas MacArthur Jones. Still, many people at the paper, including Mac, steered clear when they saw Wiedemeyer coming.

“It would be really nice, Harlan,” Lacey said. “Very thoughtful of you. How about a triple whammy?”

He chuckled. “You know, I’ve never had the slightest interest in talking to that moron. But I’m going to hand that bastard today’s paper. Personally. And I’ll spit on it first. Maybe I’ll even clap him on the back. All for a good cause, you know. Maybe his car will explode. Or the toad himself. Spontaneous human combustion. If he were human.”

“All for a good cause.” She was laughing again. Wiedemeyer always made her feel better.
Who doesn’t appreciate a little death and dismemberment?

 

Someone cast a large shadow that darkened Lacey’s desk and hovered over her shoulder.

“Well, well, well. Lacey Smithsonian,” a voice boomed. “My favorite reporter.” Sarcasm was in the air. Like a fine shower of dust, it settled on her head.

Lacey glanced up at her visitor. A grin she recognized lit the face of the big African-American cop. “Fine day for a visit with my favorite reporter,” he said.

“Detective Broadway Lamont. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
This can’t be good,
she told herself.
He doesn’t have a favorite reporter. He hates us all.
It was hard enough to concentrate after Pojack’s bombshell, and now Broadway “the Bull” Lamont was dancing around her desk. What was up?

“I’m glad you consider me a pleasure. You must have a clear conscience,” Lamont said. “Many people do not.”

She raised her eyebrow at him. “Might have something to do with your being a homicide cop. And being so much larger than the average crook.”

His laughter boomed across the cubicles, alarming Felicity. She popped up over the divider with a tray of cherry almond tarts and smiled at him. “Oh! I’d love to know what you think of one of my tarts, Detective Lamont.”

He smiled broadly, like a shark. He ignored Lacey while he selected one of the tarts and took a bite, making a big show of it. “Mmmm. Mmmm.” He gave a thumbs-up to Felicity, who beamed.

“We had red velvet cupcakes yesterday,” Felicity said. “You missed them.”

Lacey drummed her fingers on her desk. Wiedemeyer was away, laying the whammy on Pojack instead of where he belonged, making goo-goo eyes at Felicity. If he were there he would be retaliating at Lamont by telling some gruesome anecdote about radioactive German wild boars, or something equally appetizing.

“What brings you here, Broadway?” Lacey asked. “Tarts?”

“Ms. Pickles’s tarts are a bonus. You got some coffee to wash this down with?”

“Follow me.” Lacey grabbed her empty cup and led him to the small newsroom kitchen, where a fresh pot of the bilious brew awaited the unsuspecting. “Don’t blame me if there are ill effects. Not everyone can handle fresh-brewed sludge.”

Broadway helped himself to black coffee, without the help of cream or sugar. He took a sip and smacked his lips. “Just the way I like it. Police-quality coffee.”

Lacey was dying to know what he wanted, but Broadway liked to draw out the suspense.

“I got to hand it to you, Smithsonian. No other reporter I know leads such an interesting life. But hey, we can’t all be fashion reporters in the Nation’s Capital, can we?”

“Lucky me. What’s up?”

He drained his cup and poured another. “I got a call from the Virginia State Police. Agent name of Mordecai Caine wanted the lowdown on one Lacey Smithsonian. He Googled you. Seems my name popped up in some of your stories.”

“Google strikes again,” Lacey said. “Considering he didn’t bother to spend much time questioning me, I’m flattered to be Googled.”

“So, I asked what Lacey Smithsonian did to get on the radar of the Virginia troopers. I’m guessing it wasn’t a parking ticket.”

Lacey poured herself a cup of coffee and added plenty of cream and sugar. “What did he tell you?”

“Imagine my surprise! You, at the scene of a homicide. What are the odds? But this time, the stiff was blue.” He shook his head. “That true?”

“You didn’t read it in
The Eye
? Front page. My byline.”

“Hell, Smithsonian, you know I try not to read the newspapers unless I’m in them. And especially not then. But I had to make an exception.”

“What about Caine?”

“He must have read some of your stories. He thinks it’s peculiar you’ve written about murder so often, seeing as how you’re supposed to stick to hemlines and high heels. That sort of thing. Heck, even I think it’s funny.”

“Yeah, it’s hilarious.”

“Course, I think lots of strange things are funny. Caine asked me if you were trouble.” Broadway paused for effect.

“I’m listening, Detective.”

“I told him obviously you’re trouble—you’re a reporter—but for all that trouble, you were more interesting than most.” He drained his second cup of coffee. “You got photographs? I saw the one in
The Eye
, but details get lost in newsprint. Photos can be manipulated.”

“That photo was leaked to me by an unknown source. Really. Delivered anonymously and everything.”

“An anonymous source? That all you got?” She was silent. “Don’t play with me, Smithsonian. I’m not going to tell the troopers. I just want to view the hue of the dude. Between you and me, I got a bet running on this.”

“Come on.” She led him back to her desk and brought all the photos up on the screen. “I don’t know who sent me the pictures. I turned them over to my editor.”

Lamont leaned in for a closer view. “Whew. Smithsonian, that dude is really blue. You say he started out white? I’ve seen ’em a lot of colors here in D.C., black, white, brown, and every shade of café au lait. But I’ve never had a dark blue corpse. You mind printing that one out for me?”

“You going to win the bet?”

“Oh yeah, I’m gonna win that bet.” He chuckled while Lacey made copies for him, several different shots of Rod Gibbs, full-length and up close. “These are real nice. You got a big envelope for these?”

Lacey rooted around and came up with an eight-by-ten envelope. “Stop by anytime,” she said. “I’m a regular Fotomat.”

“Stay safe, Smithsonian. And keep this crazy-ass murderer across the river and way down south.”

“It’s not me! Why does everybody think it’s me?”

“You’re just the chosen one. The messenger. If that Velvet Avenger makes it up to D.C., you let me know.”

“What about the Virginia state cops?”

“What about ’em? Don’t speed more than ten miles over the limit on I-95 and you’ll be fine.” He took a few steps, then added, “And you might try staying out of his investigation. I don’t think Caine is as patient as I am. I am a saint. Did you hear?”

With that, Saint Broadway Lamont leaned over Felicity’s desk, scooped up another cherry almond tart, and left the premises.

“You’re a regular comedian, Broadway.” Lacey contemplated her coffee and sipped. Police quality, Lamont called it? It was dreck. And now it was cold dreck. But at least she had custody of her FASHION
BITES!
mug.

Chapter 23

It must be visiting day at the madhouse.

The guard at the front desk called Lacey: She had visitors. She wasn’t expecting anyone. He hung up before giving her a name. She supposed she should be grateful for the warning. She’d had no warning about Broadway Lamont.

Stella was waiting for her in the lobby with Lady Gwendolyn Griffin, the Gorgon herself, who was not actually breathing fire or crowned with writhing serpents.
Maybe later.

Gwendolyn Griffin looked perfectly normal, in a foreign-visitor way. She was standing next to Stella, who was showing off her now rhinestone-covered cast to the acclaim of all who saw it. The thing practically glowed. It was completely covered in valentine hearts, stars, swirls, and arrows. It must have weighed a ton. The cast almost competed with Stella’s cleavage, which was displayed to advantage by a tight leopard-print sweater. Stella’s Girls were entertaining the sports writers, a delivery man, and Tony Trujillo.

There was no competing with Stella, and Lacey didn’t even try. Instead, she peered at Stella’s future mother-in-law. Nigel’s mother did indeed resemble a rather equine Eleanor Roosevelt, but not quite so much as her picture had suggested.

But why on earth were they there? Stella, no doubt, was planning some kind of diversion, and Lacey didn’t have time for that.

“Lacey, this is Nigel’s mom. Lady Gwendolyn.” Stella sent a pleading look to Lacey. “My best friend, Lacey Smithsonian.”

“Lady Gwendolyn. It’s so nice to meet you.” Lacey shook the offered hand.

“Just Gwendolyn, please.” She smiled with an alarming number of large, square teeth, and the woman hadn’t heard of tooth whitener.

Gwendolyn Griffin was taller than Stella by a good five inches, and she had a couple of inches on Lacey. She was dressed in browns and beiges, pants with pleats and an elastic waistband, and sensible shoes. Lady G had pale blue eyes, a frizzy mop of mousy, gray-brown hair piled on top of her head, and not a stitch of makeup. Next to her, Stella looked like a bird of paradise.
Stella must be itching to get her fingers on that hair,
Lacey thought. But why come here instead of Stylettos?

“This is a surprise, Stella. I didn’t expect you this morning.”

“Lady Gwendolyn wanted to meet you,” Stella said. “So I thought it would be a great idea to come here straight from the airport.”

“Really? How special.”
I’ll never write a story today at this rate. Mac will not be happy.
“I’m pleased to—”

“You’re
the
Lacey Smithsonian?” Gwendolyn spoke in plummy English tones, but she looked at Lacey with a discerning eye. It sounded like an accusation.

“Yes. Last I checked. But I thought Nigel would be showing you around, Mrs. Griffin. Or perhaps you would like to rest after such a long flight.”

“Oh no, I slept on the plane, and my son and my husband abandoned me at the first possible moment. But that’s quite all right. I wanted to see Stella’s world all by myself.”

“Isn’t that nice,” Lacey said. “Stella’s world is right next door to my world.”
Right next door, but around the bend.

Gwendolyn pulled her lips back into that frightening smile. “Now, tell me, dear. Is it true? Are you the one who’s been involved in all those murders?”

“I wouldn’t say I was involved, exactly. I’m just a reporter. I just report.”

“Lacey’s so modest,” Stella said. “But she’s got lots of great stories. And she’s tackled more than one killer. Literally. With all sorts of stuff. Like hairspray. And scissors.”

“How lovely,” Gwendolyn said. “Scissors can be so deadly.”

“I had help. Even Stella has been involved in—”

“Oh yes, Stella saved all your news clippings for me.”

“I’m sure she did.” Lacey glared at Stella behind Gwendolyn’s back.

“Turns out Lady G is a total mysteryholic, Lacey. Who knew?” Stella tried her
I’m so innocent
smile, but Lacey wasn’t buying it.

“Thrillers, actually,” Gwendolyn corrected. “I love the gritty realism of the hard-boiled, the noir, the seamy underbelly of society, if you like. The depths of human despair and depravity. That’s my world.”

“She likes those big fat books that are really bloody and gory,” Stella added, as if it weren’t completely clear.

“A really bloody thriller holds a mirror up to society, don’t you think?” Gwendolyn pressed. “They show what depraved savages we really are.” She had a frightening grin. People were starting to stare.

“Perhaps we should get some coffee. Or tea?” Lacey said, leading her visitors away from the lobby and the prying eyes of her coworkers. And especially coworkers like Harlan Wiedemeyer, the death and dismemberment specialist. Lady G would never let
him
get away.
And I will have jinxed Stella’s future mother-in-law.
“I’ll just collect my things.” Lacey found them a bench. She whispered to Stella, “You so owe me one.”

When Lacey returned, she found the women deep in conversation with Wiedemeyer.
Where did he come from?

“Yes, indeed, Lady Gwendolyn,” he was saying, “the world is full of scummy bastards! Why, I could tell you tales to make your ears bleed. Men turned into sausage, sliced to ribbons, drowned in chocolate. And just this week, a man stabbed to death with a rack of elk antlers! It’s a wonder we walk out of our doors in the morning, and survive to go home at night.”

Lady G was hooked. “And these ghastly accidents you’ve described, the sausage plant and the chocolate factory. Couldn’t they all be
murder
?”