HostileMakeover







Chapter 21

Lacey exchanged her black sweater for an emerald-green cashmere that fit nicely and enhanced her blue-green eyes. But no matter what she wore nothing really seemed to fit right when her mother was around. Cherise freshened her pink lipstick and put on a baby-blue sweater and matching chandelier earrings. She let her blond hair down. Geronimo High girls: Ready to party!
The walk downtown to King Street was pleasant. The smell of wood smoke danced in the air, and Lacey took in big gulps of it, glad to be outdoors. She loved her apartment, but when it was full of visitors she felt as if she had wandered into some wonderland where it grew smaller and smaller. Cherise was happily gawking into the front windows of the elegant old town houses that fronted the sidewalks on the way to downtown Old Town. The beautifully appointed front rooms were kept uncurtained and well lit, often showcasing large oil paintings of distinguished Colonial (or faux Colonial) ancestors in lighted frames. But they were empty of humans, even on a Friday night, as if the aristocratic owners wished to show passersby that their taste and breeding were superior and as such, they had no desire to mingle. Vic liked to tell Lacey that they were all swilling gin and playing pinochle in their undershirts in the back room.
Velvet’s Blues lived up to its name, with its smoky-blue velvet settees and velvet drapes framing the tall windows overlooking King Street’s eighteenth-century buildings, only a block or two from the river. The lights were low and the ambience mellow. As the Smithsonian sisters arrived, the musicians were taking a break. The place was just filling up for the ten o’clock set.
Turtledove was nowhere in sight, so Lacey trailed Cherise to a table and ordered a ten-dollar gin and tonic that she planned to nurse until they left.
“Oh, I like this place, sis. It’s so jazzy.” Cherise smiled invitingly at Lacey. “So, tell me about this cute Victor Donovan of yours.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Ha! He brought you flowers. And he’s gorgeous. And I saw him looking at you with those big green eyes. You’re an item. You must be.”
“Not yet we’re not.” Lacey shrugged. “He was just showing off for you and Mom. What about you? You’re the popular one. Weren’t you dating some waterskiing dentist?” That would be the perfect match, Lacey thought, for Cherise’s big white smile. To be fair, most of the Smithsonians had good teeth. But Cherise seemed to display hers a little more ostentatiously. Like those illuminated oil paintings in Old Town.
“He’s history.” Cherise blew softly into the palm of her hand. “Gone with the wind. But there is someone new. And you know him. Remember Thomas Rutland from Geronimo High?”
“No way! Tommy Rutland? The quarterback you knocked out at the big game?” Lacey said as the drinks arrived at their table. “Wow. Kick me, Lethal Feet!”
Cherise wasn’t smiling now. “Why would you ever bring that up? It’s ancient history.” She took a long sip of her drink, something with a huge sprig of celery, for fiber, no doubt.
“No, I think it’s great. And you know what to do if he ever steps out of line.” Lacey playfully socked her sister in the arm. “Or needs a lucky break. In the jaw.”
“That’s not funny, Lacey. That was a total fluke. It would never happen again in a million years.”
“Come on. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how to knock a guy out with one kick? What about the Code of the Geronimo High cheerleaders? Go, Lethal Feet!”
“Lacey. Don’t go there.”
“Gimme a G, gimme an E, gimme an R, gimme an O—”
Cherise returned the sock in the arm, harder than was absolutely necessary. “I could probably remember how to do it,” she said in warning. “It could all come back to me in a rush.”
“Ouch. You’ve got a strong fist.”
“Geronimo.”
The musicians started settling in with their instruments—sax, piano, drums, stand-up bass—and to her relief, Lacey saw Turtledove step forward into the spotlight, cradling his trumpet. Cherise was instantly at full attention.
“Ooh, look at that guy. He’s beautiful. And big. Wow, I bet he played football.”
“Always the cheerleader.” Lacey caught his eye, and he gave her a slight wave and a lift of one eyebrow. Cherise’s mouth fell open.
“You know him? And that other babe too, Vic Donovan? No fair, big sister. Time to share.”
“I never share, and besides, you’ve got that old broken-down ex-quarterback of yours. What’s he doing now?”
“He’s in insurance.”
“Good career choice.” Lacey smiled as the music started, a low, slow blues she didn’t recognize. She sipped her gin and tonic. Though her nerves were thoroughly jangled, she closed her eyes and tried to get in tune with the music. Cherise would be ogling all the men and smiling too broadly, Lacey knew.
Summertime was long gone, but the band played the song by Gershwin, Turtledove soaring into the lead on his trumpet, and then moved into “Rhapsody in Blue” for an appreciative crowd. She opened her eyes and saw a different side to Turtledove, a man in complete concert with his instrument. He was smooth—she had assumed he would be—and somehow his horn had the same warm, rich tone as his voice. The blues eventually subsided to a whisper, and the band took a break. Turtledove made his way through his fans, including several stunning and very statuesque women, to the table where the Smithsonian sisters sat.
“Ladies.” He waited for his cue to sit down.
“Please join us,” Lacey said. He pulled an empty chair from another table and sat down. A waitress scurried over with a tall frosted glass of beer that Turtledove accepted gratefully.
Lacey and Cherise were both aware of the envious looks they were getting from the other women in Velvet’s Blues. Lacey made the introductions, using Turtledove’s “real” name, the one on his business card, earning her another one of his winks. She said, “I wanted to see how you were doing after the other night. Did you tangle with Broadway Lamont?”
He shook his head and took another long slug of cold beer. “Broadway’s a kick in the head, isn’t he? We go way back. That was a hell of a night. I go chasing after that little freak at just the moment the shooter picks to attack Miss Amanda. Not my best night, professionally speaking. My apologies, ladies, I don’t mean to sound cold. It’s a damn shame about Amanda.”
“You think the stalker was a setup, to get you away from her?” Lacey asked.
“The thought crossed my mind. But the cops shook him loose.”
“Are you talking about the model who was killed right in front of you?” Cherise asked. She had been listening wide-eyed.
“Don’t say a word to Mom,” Lacey warned.
“Of course not,” Cherise promised. “Golly.” This evening was exceeding her expectations.
Lacey turned to Turtledove. “You must feel terrible.”
“It doesn’t do much for my reputation, letting a client get whacked while I’m on duty.”
“Hey, even if you’d been with her, you know there’s nothing you could have done.”
“Nah, but I’d feel better if I took a bullet. It’s written in the code.”
“That’s just macho talk, Turtledove. I’m glad you didn’t.”
He looked at her and laughed. “I guess so. The little guy was pounding on Amanda’s trailer, throwing rocks at it, yelling at her to tell the truth about something. She told me to get rid of him. I said I wasn’t leaving her alone; I’d just call the police. But she said it was an order: Get rid of him; he was ruining her prep for the shoot.” He stopped for another half glass of beer. “I stepped outside and he ran. I gave chase. He’s a fast little bugger; I give him that.”
“I think anyone who had you chasing them would set his personal record,” Lacey said.
“Unless it was a woman,” Cherise opined. Now it was her turn to get the Turtledove wink.
“Anyway, I chased him for about two blocks before I caught up with him and persuaded him to accompany me. Meanwhile all hell breaks loose. Damn.”
“Really, Turtledove, there was nothing you could do.”
He focused on Lacey. “Did the bastard really steal your car for the shooting vehicle?”
Lacey nodded. “Looks that way.”
She turned to Cherise, but her sister said, “I know, I know, don’t tell Mom.”
“Then someone tries to whack the doctor,” Turtledove continued, “the guy Amanda was convinced wanted to kill her. Damon thinks it’s a government cover-up.”
“He thinks a cloudy day is a government cover-up,” Lacey protested, remembering her hissy fit reading DeadFed dot com that morning. “He’s not always on the same planet we’re on.”
“He’s not always wrong either. I just wish the whole mess hadn’t happened on my watch. So are you working on this, Lacey?”
She shrugged, not knowing what she could safely say in front of Cherise. “Just working on a story.”
“Uh-huh. You need protection on this, you call me. No charge, no limit,” he added gallantly. “The truth is always worth protecting.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything. I gotta reclaim my dignity. If you need help on this case, you can count on me.” He rose from the chair and emptied the rest of his glass. “Gotta get back to business. Ladies, it’s been a pleasure.” He made his way back to his trumpet. Cherise’s eyes followed him.
“Lacey, I had no idea your life was so interesting.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“You know what I mean. Writing fashion stories all day, I’d simply lose my mind. But who knew there would be all these stunning guys! And all this, you know, drama. Who knew journalism was about all this?”
“Indeed. Who knew?” Lacey sipped her gin and tonic. Turtledove began to play again, one of her favorite Gershwin songs, “Someone to Watch Over Me.” She felt a little chill go up the back of her neck. He was playing it just for her.
 
Lacey took a deep breath before opening her door. It was just as she had expected. Her mother was still awake, and the room was completely different. Again. She had to control her face to keep from expressing any shock, and she reminded herself she could put it all back the way she liked it. After they leave.
“Hello, girls. Did you have fun?”
“Oh, fun’s not even the word for it,” Lacey said. “And it looks like you’ve been busy.”
“Mom, it looks great,” Cherise said. “I never would have thought of putting the dining room table up against the wall like that.”
“Neither would I,” Lacey said.
Rose beamed. “You see, dear, you have so much more room now in that teensy little dining nook of yours. Dining rooms are really a thing of the past. We’ll find you some nice TV trays, so much more practical. And Lacey, if we have any extra time tomorrow after the museums, let’s stop by the Home Depot—you do have a Home Depot here?—and pick up some paint swatches. And maybe some wallpaper? Wall-to-wall carpeting would be nice; these old wood floors of yours must be so time-consuming to keep properly polished. And you know, we could always re-cover that old sofa of yours. . . .”



Lacey Smithsonian’s



FASHION BITES





Clothes That Bite—and Ties That Bind

In a perfect world your underwear would not attack you. In a perfect world your clothes would support you, comfort you, protect you. And in a perfect world you would not still hear those whispering voices in your head every time you go shopping or get dressed, those little voices telling you that color is too bright, that fabric is too cheap, the price is too high, the style is too young, too old, too whatever, or it’s really just not you, dear! Who do you think you are, anyway?
But this is not a perfect world. This is a world where the underwire in your bra stabs you, your skinny straps fall down, your designer label gouges the back of your neck, your panty hose dig into your waist, and your shoes? Don’t get me started on shoes! Fashion isn’t for sissies, is it?
Do we want too much? Clothes that fit, fabrics that feel good and are easy to care for? And outfits that help us look our best, that make us feel . . . well, smarter and prettier than we would feel if we were naked? Is it too much to ask for?
Quit whining! Other centuries have had real backbone, or whalebone, in their garments. You think your outfit du jour bites? Wear a Victorian corset every day. Underwire attack? Imagine underwire running the length of your torso. Corseting requires real fashion fortitude, not to mention someone to pull those laces really tight. Remember to exhale, ladies! You say your stylish sky-high stilettos are instruments of torture—and the innocent victim is you? Fashion history has two words for you: Foot binding. Walk a mile in that ancient Chinese beauty’s fashionable shoes? Not this barefoot girl.
And gentlemen, bow before the sartorial torment of the well-dressed sixteenth-century dandy. Henry VIII’s manly tights, the even more manly codpiece, the doublet and jerkin, the manly ruff around the neck—I take that back; I’m not sure manly is the right word for a ruff. And you complain about tying that torturous four-in-hand knot in your silk necktie?
As the antiquated torment of getting dressed has diminished, the small remaining torments loom larger. We have become wimps about what we wear, here in the twenty-first century, the Casual Friday of centuries, where we’re all in a huff because there’s a wrinkle in our permanent press. Denizens of previous centuries didn’t need Mom’s little voice in their heads; they had something worse: sumptuary laws, which criminalized your fashion choices. No silk or purple or jewels for poor little you, you commoner. Maybe this isn’t such a bad world now, after all.
Yet still we hear those little voices of family, friends, and the Mean Girls from seventh grade who create our own sumptuary laws, tailored lovingly to our own peculiar dysfunctions. Do these voices sound familiar?

“You’re not really wearing that, are you?” (No one criticizes better than Mom.)
“That’s not exactly slimming, is it, dear? And doesn’t your sister look nice?”
“Why can’t you just dress like everyone else, for a change?”
“No. I like it, really. It’s just . . . well . . . you know.”

So what’s a Stylish Reader to do? Get dressed and go shopping without your critics. Leave the invisible voices home. We’re grown-ups; we can handle an occasional underwire attack, and those beautiful shoes aren’t going to kill you (just don’t fall off them). Rise above the petty annoyances of fashion. And remember one thing: Grown-ups do not have to dress for their mothers.