Killer Hair (23 page)
Lacey hung up and turned her thoughts back to simple tasks, like the mail. There were the obligatory press releases, items still addressed to Mariah, some fan mail, ranting hate mail. The usual stuff.
She absentmindedly opened a puffy business-sized envelope with the address printed in block letters to LACEY SMITHSONIAN, CRIMES OF FASHION. A thick lock of pale blond hair tumbled out on the desk like a furry critter, which she at first thought was a bug or a mouse. It bounced up at her, catching her off guard, and she shrieked. She held her breath and hoped no one noticed. She looked around. Everyone had noticed.
The newsroom was used to yelling, laughing, and cursing. That was merely environmental noise, but shrieking tended to stop traffic. She was acutely aware of the silence and people staring. Tony Trujillo, Dingo boots and all, was by her side in a flash. Mac nearly busted a gut running to Lacey’s desk, arriving right behind Trujillo, eyebrows in motion. “Now what the hell is going on?”
“Is that hair?” Trujillo peered at it.
“It’s nothing. Fan mail. Go away.” Lacey reached for the envelope to see if a note was also enclosed, but Trujillo stopped her hand.
“Hold it, Smithsonian. You got any tweezers?”
Her Swiss Army knife had a pair, which she handed over with a groan. He smiled at her. “You gotta love a woman who was in the Swiss army.” Trujillo carefully reached inside the envelope and extracted an anonymous-looking note, obviously from a laser printer. She read it, Mac and Trujillo at each elbow. “YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TO THE HAIR? HERE’S A SOUVENIR.” There was no signature. Trujillo held it up to the light.
“Are we to assume this is from one of your admirers, Smithsonian?”
“That would be my luck.” She stared at the note.
“I know. It’s tough being popular. Don’t touch that note.” Trujillo headed back to his desk and returned carrying a box of plastic Baggies.
It was pointless to tell the small crowd that gathered around to go away and mind their own business. They were, after all, reporters. Being a busybody was everybody’s business at
The Eye
. And a shriek in the corner was better than old news releases and an assignment editor’s list of boring press events to cover.
The Eye
. And a shriek in the corner was better than old news releases and an assignment editor’s list of boring press events to cover.
“Somebody’s idea of a sick joke,” Lacey said. “You know. After last week’s column. The hair thing.”
Trujillo carefully tweezed the hair off the desk. The small lock of hair, curled softly at the ends, was tied with a rubber band and a black ribbon. Some strands looked as if they had been yanked out by the roots. He dropped it in one plastic bag and carefully placed the note in another. It seemed very paranoid to Lacey. “Do this often, Tony?”
“Nope. You’re the psycho magnet. But if it was evidence, we don’t want to contaminate it. Now, does the hair look familiar?”
She was dumbstruck. Sure, it looked like Angie’s hair, but thousands of women—or men—could have hair like that. Besides, Lacey had described Angie’s hair in her column. Any crude jokester could be capable of this prank. “You watch too much television,” she said. But what if it was Angela’s hair and sent to her by the murderer? Tony arched one eyebrow; he obviously thought it was.
“No! That would be too stupid for words, Tony! Not to mention dangerous.”
“The beautiful thing about most criminals, Lacey, is that they are not smart,” Trujillo informed her. “Prisons are loaded with stupid people.”
“Okay, fine, smarty-pants. Why not find out for sure? Let’s get it tested for DNA,” she said.
“Cool.” Trujillo was all for it. Mac grumbled about the cost, but he agreed. Before the morning was over, Lacey had contacted Adrienne Woods in Atlanta to find out if she had a lock of Angie’s hair and was willing to part with it for comparison. Lacey had rightly guessed that Mrs. Woods was the type of mother who would save all kinds of mementos. Adrienne had saved curls from Angela’s baby hair and her first haircut, as well as from her grade-school braid. She assured Lacey she would send a clipping.
“If you’re so sure about this, what about the police? Are we going to tell them?” Lacey asked Tony.
“It’s a closed case. We don’t want to give away anything too soon, and the police wouldn’t want something to mess up a nice closed suicide.” He paused for a beat. “Why not call your pals at the FBI?”
“You’re right, no one needs to know.”
Mac concurred. “If it’s not her hair, no one’s embarrassed by jumping to conclusions. If it is, then we’ve got a scoop. Hot stuff, Smithsonian. Why would you ever want to give up the fashion beat?”
Bravado was her only choice in front of the newsroom, but it couldn’t stop her frenzied thoughts.
If the hair matches, the actual killer is contacting me. And what about Tammi White? The mysterious George? Marcia Robinson? The FBI? DeadFed? Oh God.
If the hair matches, the actual killer is contacting me. And what about Tammi White? The mysterious George? Marcia Robinson? The FBI? DeadFed? Oh God.
Suddenly nothing about Tammi’s George Something sounded right to Lacey. He wanted to lure Tammi away from the salon, arrange for a mysterious stylist, take an amateur video, and collect the hair. Had this George’s path ever crossed Angie’s? Maybe he had followed her to Washington. And now he’d found another stylist from Virginia Beach with long hair.
Way too melodramatic, Lacey. He’s probably just some wacko who stumbled into a weird coincidence.
But at the very least, if Lacey could talk to him, she could find out why he wanted the hair. She picked up the phone and called the Virginia Beach Stylettos.
But at the very least, if Lacey could talk to him, she could find out why he wanted the hair. She picked up the phone and called the Virginia Beach Stylettos.
“Tammi, I don’t think you should meet this George guy alone. Has he called back yet?”
“Not yet. Why?”
Lacey made a sudden decision. “Why don’t I drive down to Virginia Beach tomorrow? We could talk. You could tell me about Angie. After you get off work, we’ll meet this guy together.”
It sounded fine to Tammi, especially the part about the lunch that Lacey offered to buy. If she could be mentioned in “Crimes of Fashion,” even better.
Getting the next two days off from Mac was much easier than she expected. She left Tammi and George Something out of it; no sense borrowing ridicule if it turned out to be nothing. Lacey pleaded stress.
“Yours or mine?” Mac asked. “Stay out of trouble. Wait, what about your column? At least give me a ‘Fashion Bite.’ ”
Don’t tempt me.
“I’ll write you something tonight and e-mail it.” It was time to pull an idea from her fashion notebook, maybe that piece on packing. And the idea of getting away from Washington in the middle of the workweek sounded like heaven.
“I’ll write you something tonight and e-mail it.” It was time to pull an idea from her fashion notebook, maybe that piece on packing. And the idea of getting away from Washington in the middle of the workweek sounded like heaven.
Lacey had never been to Virginia Beach or anywhere in the southern part of the state. She thought about wandering around, taking in some sights, and strolling down an empty beach without a crowd of roasted and toasted sun worshipers. She’d probably have the whole afternoon to herself and she’d spend the night. Because it was still off-season, a cheap hotel room could be had. A place where no one—Stella or Vic or the FBI—could reach her.
Lacey had the rest of the day to plan her wardrobe. Mac walked by and found her deep in thought. “What are you working on, Lacey?”
“List of murder suspects.”
“Who’s on it?”
“Everybody. Now you’re on it too.”
“I like to see my reporters happy.”
Felicity offered Lacey a juicy apple tart. Lacey put Felicity on her unwritten suspect list on general principle. She realized that she couldn’t put everyone she hated on the list. Nevertheless, Felicity stayed on.
That night Lacey needed to pack and clean up the apartment before she left town. The last thing she wanted was to return to a dirty place. It was a holdover lesson from her childhood. Kill yourself cleaning before you leave home. God forbid burglars should find a dirty dish in the kitchen.
As soon as she let herself into the apartment, the phone started ringing. Brooke had a heavy schedule this week, so Lacey knew it wasn’t her.
It better not be Stella.
She picked the receiver up gingerly.
It better not be Stella.
She picked the receiver up gingerly.
“Hey, Lacey.” Stella, of course. “So what’s this about Virginia Beach? You talked to Tammi?”
“Obviously. You told her to call me. And obviously she called you.”
“Yeah, but I thought you’d call me with an update. You left me out of the loop. Thank God Tammi let me back in. Hey, it’s a long drive. Maybe I could go with you and help you investigate. Michelle could cover tomorrow—Wait. Leo’s out. I’m stuck.”
“I’ll be fine, Stella. And keep quiet about my trip, okay? I don’t want this on the Stella Broadcasting System.”
“Anything else, Your Majesty?”
“There are things people shouldn’t know.”
“Like who?”
“Like killers, Stella. Killers shouldn’t know.”
“No way, man! You think the Feds are there?
“There are Feds everywhere.”
“But this Virginia Beach guy wants to buy hair.”
“Right, and somebody wanted Angela’s hair. Only she paid the price.”
“You think this is really dangerous?”
“Probably not. If we keep our mouths shut.”
“And what if Victor Donovan comes by?”
Lacey did not like the way Stella purred when she said Vic’s name. “Don’t mention my name. What Vic doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
“He likes you.”
“Shows what you know. He’s just trying to suck information out of me. And you. Believe me, Stella, it takes one to know one. Besides, Virginia Beach probably won’t lead anywhere. I’ll call you when I get back.”
As she hung up, she noticed the answering machine was blinking. Lacey sank down on the sofa and hit the Message button. “Lacey, this is Marie Largesse.” Lacey tried to place the name. “You know, darlin’, your friendly neighborhood psychic? Little Shop of Horus? I got your number from Stella.”
Lacey had a clear picture now. She started to rub her temples at the headache that was beginning. Marie continued. “I just called to let y’all know a couple things before y’all head down to Virginia Beach.”
Only Stella would consult a psychic about my business.
“Don’t be too hard on Stella,” the message continued. “She’s a little nosy, but she’s a good friend. First, I have to warn you, it’s going to be a little frustrating. Psychic congestion. I’m feeling that very clearly. Just relax and go with the flow. If y’all just give in and let things take their natural course, things’ll go better.”
At least the weather’s supposed to be nice,
Lacey thought.
Lacey thought.
“Oh, and take a warm raincoat. I don’t care what the weatherman says, it’s going to rain like Katzenjammers.”
A second message was from Vic Donovan, asking her to call. She hesitated for a moment, then lifted the receiver. She put the receiver back.
My own psychic hotline and do I get advice about the guy? The tall, dark, handsome man? No, I get: Take a raincoat.
Lacey Smithsonian’s
FASHION BITES
The Getaway: Packing in a Hurry
You need a quick vacation getaway. Or simply to escape those rather large men in dark suits with earpieces who always seem to be crossing your path. So run away. Simply jump in the car and go. Wait! First you have to pack. But if you just toss things in a brown paper bag the way they do in the movies, you won’t emerge in the next scene glamorously clad for your hideout on the Riviera. You’ll look like a fugitive from reality, or worse, a tourist. That’s right. You’ll be wearing the plaid shorts, the striped top, the neon T-shirt, and some hideous flowered thing you don’t remember buying. And if you can’t look like a romantic fugitive from justice, why bother? Here are a few tips on how to avoid that thrown-together-in-a-suitcase-just-ahead-of-the-federal-1-marshals look.
- Keep your luggage handy. Remember that a wheeled bag is so much easier to run with.
- Bring something comfortable to wear while hiding out in the hotel room, perhaps a cotton shirt and shorts or leggings. However, your choice should also be presentable for those awkward times when you leave to retrieve a bucket of ice and return to your room to find that the magnetic key card no longer works and you’re nearly naked and have to call security and wait outside your room like the world’s most incompetent cat burglar. It happens.
- Nothing screams “on the run” like a pair of clunky running shoes with flashing reflectors that say “chase me” as they hurdle chain-link fences in back alleys on a reality cop show. Instead, choose chic leather flats, which will allow you to outpace Interpol in style. Carry a sleek leather bag large enough to stash the essentials: a clean wrinkle-free top and an elegant scarf for an instant change of look—or climate.
- Keep a small bag of toiletries ready. It cuts down on the panic when you find you’ve forgotten your contact lens case and solution and your guidebook doesn’t have the French word for toothpaste. And while many nicer hotels provide shampoo, conditioner, and lotion, some motels, the kind where you might find yourself hiding out until the scandal blows over, have only those cheap little chips of soap that make your skin itch like you have a guilty secret.
- If you’re going economy, remember that hair dryers and full-size towels are rare on the run. And do you need that special pillow, sentimental teddy bear, or other security-blanket items you can’t sleep without? Pack them.
- And do remember to pack a pair of tailored black slacks or skirt and an attractive blouse or sweater for that unexpected dinner out at an exclusive restaurant. Who knows? Maybe your lawyer will call, the charges have been dropped, all is forgiven, and you’re a celebrity! The champagne is on the house, and when the paparazzi arrive, you’ll look fabulous.
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