“Take your hands off me.”
“What did you hear?”
“What do you think I heard?”
“You answer me, or I swear to God I’ll—” But Powers didn’t finish. Somehow Turtledove had materialized behind her. He calmly removed Powers’s hand from Lacey’s arm and twisted it around behind the smaller man’s back, deftly sliding between them and slamming Powers face first against the wall. Powers looked tough and fit, but next to Turtledove he looked like a little boy with a shaved head.
“Or what?” Turtledove asked, and Powers closed his eyes, trying not to grimace in pain. Lacey realized his arm must be hurting where Turtledove was gripping it. Powers said nothing. “Right. Then why don’t we all take our seats for the service. Zoe’s about to speak.” He gave Powers his arm back. Powers opened his eyes and started breathing again. He was flushed right to the top of his bald head.
“Sorry, Ms. Smithsonian—Forrest. . . . We’re all a little on edge. I’m, um, I’m a little protective—about my wife. I guess I misunderstood. . . . Sorry.” He straightened his tie and left, shaking his arm.
Her heart thumping, Lacey willed it to slow down. “Wow, thanks. I didn’t know you were still on the payroll.”
“I’m not.”
“Then what are you doing here? Not that I’m complaining.”
A long, slow smile lit up his face. “Just keeping an eye on things for Damon. And watching over you.”
“Thanks, Turtledove. I’m glad you’re here.”
“My pleasure.” He escorted her back the way she came and left her at her row of seats. He gave Cherise a big wink and slipped back into the crowd. Several people stood so Lacey could reach her seat in the tightly packed row.
“Where have you been?” Rose asked. “And who was that big man?” Cherise also looked at her questioningly.
“I’ll tell you later,” she whispered, her heart still pounding. She was surprised to see that she knew the handsome rascal sitting next to her. FBI agent Gary Braddock, a well-known fashion plate in his own right, was cool and elegant, perfectly groomed, nothing remotely resembling Lacey’s image of a typical nerdy FBI guy in a rumpled tan suit and a bad tie. He was wearing a charcoal suit and a black turtleneck, which enhanced his piercing blue eyes.
Is it true he was once a model himself?
He acknowledged her. “We really must stop meeting this way. Nice outfit.”
“Agent Braddock. How’d you know I’d be sitting here?”
“Lucky guess.”
Liar,
Lacey thought.
How flattering that the FBI follows me around, looking for trouble.
“So the FBI is on the case now?”
“The Bureau is officially being asked to join the investigation as we speak. So have you uncovered any fashion clues, Lacey?”
Braddock was teasing her, her mother was staring at her, and Cherise was poking her in the ribs, trying to ask silently who this latest cute guy was. Lacey tried to Zen out, but she was struck by the irony of being surrounded by so many attractive men this weekend. Normally in Washington she found herself in the midst of a mob of bland, interchangeable, wonky men who wouldn’t even look at her. All this unusual male attention would give Cherise the wrong idea, not to mention her mother.
“You didn’t read
The Eye
today?” she asked Braddock.
“Your run-in with the Grim Reaper? I’ll keep my eyes open for that black robe and the scythe. Sounds scary. Of course, a scythe in your hands would be even scarier.”
“If you think that’s scary, have you met my family?” Lacey said quietly so that only Braddock could hear her. “They want to help me investigate a murder, whether I want to or not.”
He did not look amused. He was about to say something when the service started.
Amanda’s parents were conspicuously absent, apparently preferring to keep their grief private. Zoe had taken her place up front and looked far more composed than she had the other day, and Brad Powers had pulled himself together by her side. Lacey spotted the much-put-upon Fawn, her Burberry scarf in place, looking unexpectedly cheerful, as if the slaves had been freed at last. She saw Lacey and waved.
Yvette acted as the emcee for the event. There was no minister to lead the prayers because there were no prayers, and there were no hymns. However, there was a throbbing multimedia slide show of Amanda’s unusual and briefly dazzling career, set to driving runway fashion-show disco, all of it moderated by Yvette Powers with an awful lot of composure for being such a close friend of the deceased. And there were various testimonials from Amanda’s friends and colleagues, including some of the famous supermodels whom the crowds of the curious outside had come to ogle. Their remarks were called eulogies in the memorial program. Lacey thought they resembled real eulogies about as much as the woman they described resembled the real Amanda Manville. The supermodels read their parts like actresses reading scripts they had never seen before, some of them possibly in a foreign language. Yet there was a common theme. They all loved Amanda Manville.
Who wrote this thing?
Lacey wondered.
It’s like a bad play at the Washington Theatre Festival.
It dragged on, riveting and tedious at the same time.
Yet Yvette proved to be a clever actress, who convinced many in the audience that she was devastated by Amanda’s loss. And she seemed to display a real concern for Zoe Manville, whose tribute to Amanda was saved for last. Zoe started to read a poem by Christina Rossetti, “When I Am Dead, My Dearest.” She said it was Amanda’s favorite. But she broke down, started again, and choked up and could not finish. She looked helplessly at Yvette. Yvette comforted Zoe and led her back to her seat. Yvette finished the sentimental little verse and wowed the crowd. Finally it ended. Tate Penfield was still shooting the crowd as they signed their names under a giant photo of Amanda.
“Yvette must’ve gotten an A in Oral Interp,” Lacey whispered to Cherise while Rose flashed them a disapproving look.
“With friends like that, Amanda didn’t need any enemies,” Rose said later. Suffice it to say, Rose found the poem in questionable taste, but it was the multimedia show that really stuck in her craw. “Someone could have offered a prayer for the poor thing, for heaven’s sake.”
Cherise loved every minute of it, and she supplied Lacey with a running commentary on the seamy scandals of the various models in attendance.
Lacey put her hand in her pocket to make sure that Penfield’s card with his invitation was still there. She was determined to go to that viewing of the rough cut of his documentary, whether she had to drag her family along or not. All the usual and unusual suspects would be there, up close and personal, and maybe the vodka Penfield mentioned would loosen a tongue or two.
At least I’ll get my family fed. And it’ll make a great story to tell Mrs. Dorfendraper back home.
The mood in the cramped Echo was subdued as Lacey drove Hansen to his photo studio. The warehouse neighborhood looked a little bleak in the fading October light, but Hansen swore it was fine. It was actually too deserted around there at night to be dangerous, he said, unfolding his long limbs as he exited the car.
“How are you getting to the Powerses’ party?” Lacey asked.
“I’ll catch a taxi. Or Tate will drop by here. He’s got his car today. No prob. You want to come in?” he offered, obviously proud of his little side business. “I’ll show you the studio.”
Rose and Cherise weren’t interested, but Lacey took the opportunity to ask to use the “ladies’ room,” and she was a little curious to get a quick glimpse of his and Penfield’s photography digs. Hansen was such a part of the furniture at
The Eye
that she was bemused to discover he had another life outside the office.
“I’ll be right back out,” she said, as her mother and Cherise locked all the doors and huddled suspiciously in the Echo.
She didn’t learn anything interesting. The space was sparse, decorated in what might be called comfort deprivation, with an attempt at civility in the tiny office. Lacey was in and out quickly.
“Back so soon?” her mother inquired as Cherise fiddled with the radio again, trying to find something halfway listenable.
Lacey jumped back in the car and turned up the heat. “It’s as warm in there as an outhouse in January.”
Chapter 28
Lacey found it hard to believe that with Amanda’s memorial barely over, the rough cut of Penfield’s documentary could possibly be in shape to be screened. But then, he’d been working on it for months. The memorial service had left her cold, she reflected. Perhaps this personal memorial to Amanda from her photographer would be a warmer event.
After a break at home to unwind and change out of their memorial-service clothes and into something vaguely resembling casual-dinner-party-in-Georgetown clothes, Lacey packed her family back in the Echo for the drive into the depths of swankiest Georgetown, the legendary abode of the Cave Dwellers, the District’s version of an old-fashioned social elite, now mostly just a memory.
Their destination, according to Penfield’s invitation, was several blocks distant from the congested restaurant and nightlife strips of M Street and Wisconsin Avenue. But as usual in Georgetown, even on a Sunday night, Lacey concluded there hadn’t been a vacant parking space since the Truman administration. She finally tucked the rental car into a barely legal scrap of a space near Georgetown University and led her little expedition the rest of the way on foot, as all Georgetown expeditions ultimately traveled.
Although Penfield had personally invited Lacey and told her to bring her mother and her sister along to the small gathering at the home of Yvette and Brad Powers, the female half of the couple seemed less than thrilled when they arrived en masse at the front door. Lacey was prepared to flash Penfield’s card, but Yvette rose to the occasion and graciously ushered them into the front hall of her Georgetown manse on P Street Northwest.
“Lovely of you to join us,” Yvette said. “Please go on into the theater, and there are some refreshments set up in the parlors. Find a waiter if you need anything. Do have some champagne, and we’ll be seeing Tate’s film in”—checking the wall clock—“oh, a few minutes or so.”
Brad swept up behind Yvette and put a protective hand on her shoulder. He acted as if the ugly little scene behind the scenes had never happened. “Tate said you’d be joining us tonight. He’s been wanting a fresh perspective on his work.” He forced a bland smile and stared at them until Yvette cleared her throat. Lacey did not care for his emotionless blue-eyed gaze, which was as cold as his wife’s.
The Powerses scurried off to attend to more important people coming through the door. Though left in the lurch, the Smithsonians, one and all, found the house to be its own ample form of entertainment. Her mother and sister were thrilled to be part of this particular event, partly because they assumed the murderer might be here, though they hadn’t a clue as to who it was. Even better was being able to ogle the inside of a beautiful Georgetown home, an unexpected treat. The whole weekend was turning into a giant scavenger hunt for them. As a bonus, her mother hadn’t mentioned the new-car-for-poor-Lacey problem all day. Lacey was perfectly content to let Rose and Cherise enjoy their own version of events. And the killer would be there in Penfield’s footage, Lacey was sure.
Somewhere.
On their circuitous way to the living room, Rose forged ahead, determined to take in the decor of the ultra-well-to-do. She even poked her head into the kitchen past the catering help and the solicitous waiters, followed by Cherise, who was happily on the hunt for the lifestyles of the rich and famous, and Lacey, who longed to be inconspicuous in the crowd. Cherise jabbed Lacey in the ribs and loudly whispered, “Would you look at that! They have locks on all the kitchen cabinets and drawers! What is up with that?”
“The rich are definitely different. Come on.” Lacey prodded her mother and dragged her sister out of the kitchen.
“But we haven’t seen everything,” Cherise complained, craning her neck to look up the oak staircase, which was richly carpeted with an Oriental rug.
“We have to behave, Cherise, and all the good seats will be taken,” Lacey said. She guided them back through the living room, the dining room, the parlor with the piano, and another parlor without a piano, into the home theater, splendid in black velvet drapes, vintage movie posters, and deeply cushioned chairs. The very idea of a home theater silenced Rose and Cherise. They were agog at the opulence and indulgence of it all. Lacey, meanwhile, was interested in all the folks who got to sit in the good seats. She was glad she and her family had changed into slacks and sweaters for the event. Lacey had assured her mother and sister their wardrobes would be okay, though she told her mother to keep the scarf and gave her sister a pearl necklace for that preppy look. She noticed Cherise fingering it happily as they took their seats. Pearls were in abundance.
Cordelia Westgate earned a place of honor as the one name model, though slightly less than super now, who had shown up. She looked right through Lacey. Zoe, who seemed fatigued, was in the center seat. Hansen, who must have gotten a ride in with Penfield, also snagged one of the deep, cushioned chairs, as did, of course, the host and hostess. The Smithsonians sat on extra folding chairs that had been set up for the less important. The crowd seemed somewhat subdued, even for old-money Georgetown. All had earlier been at the memorial service, which was more like an endless infomercial than a remembrance of a beloved friend and colleague. And now this. It had been a long day.
Penfield appeared refreshed. He seemed to have caught a second wind, now that he was in the final stretch of his project. “It’s still rough, and there is a lot of editing to do,” he explained, “but I just wanted to share this much with you, as my tribute to our own dear Amanda.” The cut they would see had no credits, no musical score, little narration, and the final scenes were still to come, but Penfield welcomed their comments on this work in progress. “And now without further ado,” he said, and he started the video on the enormous plasma-screen television.