Shot Through Velvet (43 page)

“Yes, but if I say the reporter was tied up by the killer during the interview, it might be, um, awkward.”
On beyond awkward!
“We don’t want to give our crazy sources any fresh ideas, do we?”

“The facts are the facts, Smithsonian. We’re fighting for circulation. And it’s a great story. You want me to get Kavanaugh to write it?”

“God forbid, Mac. But my predicament during the interview is not important to the reader, or to Hank Richards’s story. The facts should speak for themselves. I shouldn’t be part of the story, Mac. You’re always telling me that.”

“Ha. You
are
this story, Smithsonian. And you’re the wordsmith. Make it work.”

Lacey’s front page story, above the fold with its explanatory editor’s note, would be teamed with a note from
The Eye
’s publisher, running below the fold. Claudia penned her own statement about the events at the Torpedo Factory and the tragic deaths at Dominion Velvet and
The Eye Street Observer.
And there would be a photograph, thanks to
The Eye
’s “Long Lens” Hansen. A big one. Lacey prayed it wouldn’t be the one of Hank Richards snared in the web and her landing on her butt with her legs in the air. And yet that was the very one Mac selected.

“Best action shot of the bunch, Smithsonian,” Mac said later with a malicious gleam in his eye. “It’s visual. People like visuals.”

It surprised no one that Claudia Darnell returned to work at
The Eye
that afternoon. That was the job of a publisher. She arrived looking fabulous in a winter-white skirt suit that showed off her brilliant aquamarine eyes and knockout figure. It was the right public relations move for the staff. Claudia Darnell sent the message that she was still a force to be reckoned with.
The
force at
The Eye.

In an impromptu meeting with the entire staff, Claudia made all the appropriate statements about Walt Pojack: The newspaper regretted his death, and he had been an asset to the company. She reiterated that she and the paper’s remaining board members were still looking at ways to cut costs and grow revenue. Nevertheless, she expressed her fervent hopes and her commitment to
The Eye
’s future, and she overturned Pojack’s last and most unpopular announcement.
The Eye Street Observer
would not move to Crystal City after all.
The Eye
would stay on Eye Street in the District of Columbia.

 

None of these happy tidings was going to save Dominion Velvet in Black Martin, Virginia, or save the American velvet industry, or save Hank Richards from going to prison. But many people in Lacey’s life found their wishes coming true that sunny Tuesday in February.

Mac had an exclusive interview with a killer on his front page, and a great visual of his fashion reporter in action, helping to stop the killer from reaching his next victim. Mac was a happy editor. Wiedemeyer and Pickles had a wedding to plan, likewise Stella and Nigel, and they had their friends and family to torment with endless blissful weeks of wedding planning. Damon and Brooke had a new conspiracy to savor, the cyberspace fans and followers of the Velvet Avenger. Lady Gwendolyn had her priceless memories of the Blue Devil’s funeral, and her new best friend: Stella. The Blue Devil himself was now presumably enjoying the warm weather where blue devils go when they die, and it was no more than poetic justice. Kira Evans had a very smart attorney and high hopes for a prosecutorial deal that would let her go home to her daughter a free woman.

Lacey herself had multiple bruises and abrasions from her close encounter with the Velvet Avenger, but no bullet holes or broken bones. Or regrets. And on the plus side, she had a job, a fashion beat, a great suit, and Victor Donovan.

Tony Trujillo had a serious cocktail party to throw
.
The original party pretext, the celebrated passing of the late and unlamented Walter Pojack, had evaporated. It now looked like Tony’s party would turn into a massive celebration for the capture of the Velvet Avenger and
The Eye Street Observer
staying right where it belonged, on Eye Street.

The Eye
’s publisher, Claudia Darnell, had a broken dream catcher, thanks to Lacey Smithsonian. But not a broken dream. It was a pretty good day in the newspaper business.

And tomorrow was Valentine’s Day.

 

Lacey stood on tiptoes to kiss a small dollop of pink raspberry frosting off Vic’s chin. She couldn’t quite remember how it had gotten there. But no matter. The cake was finished. He had helped her make it, bake it, and crate it.

She had been on pins and needles all day, waiting for her usual Valentine’s Day curse to strike without warning: the unexpected fight over nothing; the breakup she didn’t see coming; the party where she drops the cake in her boyfriend’s mother’s lap. By the time Vic arrived to help cart the cake to his mother’s bash, Lacey was a nervous wreck. Ominously, nothing bad had happened.
Yet.

Instead, Vic surprised her with a bouquet of perfect pink and white roses. “I wanted to avoid that old red-roses-mean-I’m-breaking-up-with-you thing,” he said. “Pink roses mean we’re going steady. Don’t they?”

“And the white roses?” Lacey prompted.

“Means I’m pure of heart. Knight in shining armor, at your service, ma’am.”

“And smart too, Vic Donovan.” She didn’t say,
for a man
. Lacey checked her watch. Just a few more hours to go and this Valentine’s Day would be over.
So far, so good.

“Still want to go to the party?” he asked. “Or shall we run away?”

“Oh sure, tease me now with lost chances. Do we have any choice?” What else could she do with this preposterous pink dessert she’d been intimidated into baking?

“Um. Not really.”

“Yeah, I was afraid of that.” Lacey frowned.

“You don’t have to look like you’re going to the guillotine, you know,” Vic said. “It’ll be fun. I promise.”

 

Hesitating for just a moment to steal a kiss, Lacey and Vic stood outside his parents’ home in the clean, crisp February air. They were all dressed up, per Nadine Donovan’s Valentine’s Day party precepts. (Pink and red for the women. Black tie for the men—pink or red optional.) Their fluffy, mile-high, carb bomb of a cake felt like it weighed a ton in Lacey’s trembling hands. It was beautiful and it was dangerous, and it was very pink.

The heavy oak door opened wide and Nadine swooped down on them, a wicked grin on her face. She peeked into the cake box and her eyes lit up.

“Why, Lacey, you shouldn’t have!” she said. “Even if I did practically make it a command performance.” Nadine handed the frosted monstrosity to one of the caterers, with instructions to give the rosy pink torte a place of honor at her table.

“As long as you know that’s all the holiday desserts I have in me,” Lacey said. “No more tricks up my sleeves.”

“Thank God,” Vic added.

“Well, there’s always our Fourth of July festivities,” Nadine said.

Lacey turned to Vic, her eyes wide with apprehension. He shook his head sadly. “You don’t want to know. Last year I had to carve a watermelon into a whale.”

She swallowed hard and changed the subject. “That’s a beautiful gown, Nadine.”

Vic’s mother was resplendent in a peony pink dress sparkling with rhinestones. It reminded Lacey of former First Lady Mamie Eisenhower’s famous “Mamie Pink” inaugural gown, once a favorite display at the Smithsonian Museum of American History. But the dress Nadine Donovan wore looked far better on her than on Mamie. Vic’s mother was tall and trim and a very well-preserved sixty-something.

“This old thing? Just a little something I had whipped up,” Nadine said. “The hostess must follow her own rules, you know. Now, let me see what our own fashion expert is wearing.”

Lacey hated being held up as an example. Style was such a personal statement. Vic took her coat and handed it off to an attendant stationed in the foyer.

“Why, what a lovely dress, Lacey,” Nadine said. “It is vintage, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Lacey smiled. “It was my aunt Mimi’s.” She smoothed her hands over the deep red silk velvet. It was a classic, bias-cut cocktail dress from the late 1930s, dipping low in the back and hugging every curve. There was no embellishment on the dress—no lace, no beads, no crystals—but its rich velvet texture didn’t need any adornment. Mimi had carefully stitched all the pattern pieces together, but she’d never worn it. She left it unhemmed—for Lacey to finish. The Valentine’s party was its grand debut.
Thank you, Mimi
.

“Enjoy yourselves, darlings. I’m going to go taunt Vic’s aunt with this divine dessert,” Nadine said, disappearing into the pink-and-red throng.

A piano player was tinkling the ivories on a Steinway baby grand in the foyer as the guests arrived. Beyond the entryway, the great room spread out before them, sparkling with pink crystal chandeliers and pink shaded lamps and enough pink blossoms to make a florist green. Turtledove and his trumpet and his little jazz combo played Cole Porter tunes beneath a canopy of twinkling lights. Elegantly dressed men with roses in their lapels flirted with women in pink and red gowns.
This is the Valentine’s Day party the Great Gatsby would have thrown,
Lacey thought.

After the dining and dancing and dallying, Vic pulled Lacey aside, into the library, away from the noisy crowd. He slipped her a black velvet box that he’d kept hidden in one of those clever inside pockets men’s suits always have.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Lacey.”

Lacey was holding her breath. She relaxed a tiny bit when she realized the box was too large for a ring. Vic knew she wasn’t ready for that particular step in their relationship. Had she mentioned how ridiculous she thought it was to get engaged on Valentine’s Day? She was sure she had. Lacey cracked open the velvet box to find a chubby gold Cupid pendant on a gold chain. The happy little cherub had stubby wings of pavé diamonds and carried a ruby-tipped arrow in his golden bow.

A grin spread across her face. “Oh Vic! It’s beautiful. Where on earth did you get it? It looks like an antique.”

“It is an antique. It was my grandmother’s,” Vic said. He scowled. “But there’s a terrible curse attached to this pendant, Lacey. It’s a deep dark family secret. She got engaged on Valentine’s Day and—” He sighed and shook his head in sorrow. “Lived happily ever after.”

“Liar!” Lacey started to laugh.

“No, it’s true. Ask Nadine.”

Lacey put her arms around him and kissed him. “I think there’s an awful strain of romantic sentiment in the men in your family.”

“No! Couldn’t be! We’re all such heartless tough guys.”

Lacey held the charm up to the light. She could almost swear the round little imp winked at her.

“Vic, this Cupid looks just like Harlan Wiedemeyer!”

He took a closer look. “Hmm. So it does. Maybe Wiedemeyer really is Cupid after all.”

“You think so?” She raised her eyebrow at him. It was one of her talents.

“Sweetheart, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. And now that you have a Cupid of your very own, I’m going to break your Valentine curse once and for all.”

Vic kissed her again. Lacey helped. A lot. The clock in the library chimed twelve. Valentine’s Day was over, she’d survived, and she still had her boyfriend.

Lacey Smithsonian was out of the blue—and into the pink.

Killer Hair

An up-and-coming stylist, Angie Woods had a reputation for rescuing down-and-out looks—and careers—all with a pair of scissors. But when Angie is found with a drastic haircut and a razor in her hand, the police assume she committed suicide. Lacey knew the stylist and suspects something more sinister—that the story may lie with Angie’s star client, a White House staffer with a salacious website. With the help of a hunky ex-cop, Lacey must root out the truth...

 

 

Hostile Makeover

As makeover madness sweeps the nation’s capital, reporter Lacey Smithsonian interviews TV show makeover success story Amanda Manville. But with Amanda’s beauty comes a beast in the form of a stalker with vicious intentions—and Lacey may be the only one who can stop him.

 

Available wherever books are sold or at
penguin.com

 

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Designer Knockoff

A Crime of Fashion Mystery by Ellen Byerrum

When fashion columnist Lacey Smithsonian learns that a new fashion museum will soon grace decidedly unfashionable D.C., it’s more than a good story—it’s a chance to show off her vintage Hugh Bentley suit. And when the designer himself notices her at the opening, Lacey gets the scoop on his past—which includes a long-unsolved mystery about a missing employee. When a Washington intern disappears, Lacey gets suspicious and sets out to unravel the murderous details in a fabric of lies, greed, and (gasp!) very bad taste.

 

 

 

Available wherever books are sold or at
penguin.com

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