Hansen whistled. “Must have cost him a bundle.”
“I don’t know what it cost,” Cecily smiled. “A small fortune. Whatever it was, the pearls cost even more.”
“The pearls?” Lacey said.
“The pearls Rita Hayworth wore in that famous photograph, you know. The Vuitton case included a hidden compartment made for the pearls. Round natural pearls. Very rare.” Cecily fingered the pearls around her throat. “Did you know that Rita’s real name was Margarita, which is from the Greek word for pearl? And once she modeled a dress made entirely from pearls. Can you imagine?”
I imagine she couldn’t sit down in it. Rita Hayworth was one of Lacey’s personal style icons as well. She tried not to let her voice squeak with excitement.
“And where is the makeup case now? Will it be in the Fashion Museum exhibit?”
“Where is it? I wish I knew.” Cecily shrugged sadly. “That maniac must’ve gotten it.” Lacey looked confused. “The burglary. I thought you knew. I thought reporters knew everything.”
“Sorry,” Lacey said. “I’m one of those reporters who doesn’t know everything.”
“Well, that’s a relief!” Cecily described the burglary. Only a few weeks earlier someone had stolen the case and the pearls, and a few other pieces with sentimental value. The security system hadn’t stopped the thief. There were no leads and no arrests.
“I know they’re only things,” she said sadly. “They’re insured, but still, I felt violated. I still do. I’m particularly sorry about losing Rita’s things. They always reminded me of happier times. Philip was so different then.” Cecily picked up an unframed photograph, all that was left on the shelf where the makeup case had lived: an autographed picture of Rita Hayworth, wearing a gold satin dress and a million-dollar smile. And the pearl necklace. Cecily sighed. “This picture is all I have left of his wedding gifts to me.”
“The thief took the frame and left the picture?” Lacey asked.
Cecily nodded and handed the photograph to Lacey. It reminded her of the movie star photos her Aunt Mimi had collected. This one was signed boldly across the front, “With Love, Rita Hayworth.” Lacey turned the photo over to see if it was dated. It was, in ink: 1942. There was also a small picture scrawled in pencil, almost a doodle. Some kind of exotic creature, perhaps a bird of some kind, with something like bars holding it captive in a cage.
“What an odd little drawing on the back,” Lacey said. “A bird in a cage? Do you know if Rita drew this herself?” In 1942, she recalled, the movie star was either still married to her first husband Edward Judson or freshly divorced and about to marry Orson Welles. Lacey knew Rita Hayworth’s life story pretty well, but she had too many husbands to keep track of.
“What drawing?” Cecily looked where Lacey pointed. “A bird in a cage? It does look like that. A little.” A caged animal might also be an apt metaphor for the wealthy but obviously not very happy Cecily Ashton, Lacey thought. “I never noticed the drawing before. The photo’s never been out of the frame. That was a pretty thing too. Antique silver filigree, set with gemstones.”
“So whoever broke in thought the frame was valuable enough to steal, but not the photograph?” Lacey asked. “Maybe there are still fingerprints on it. The thief must have handled it when they took it out.” Of course, now my prints are on it too, Lacey thought. Brilliant move. “Don’t you think you should show this to the police?”
Cecily took the picture back and held it gently. “The police have already been here and made an ungodly mess of things,” she said, gazing at Rita in her pearl necklace. “No, I’ve lost the other sentimental things, I’ll keep this for myself. Just as it is.”
Hansen had been working unobtrusively, photographing the rooms and the clothes. Now he snapped Cecily in profile holding the photograph. “Oh, another one, please,” she requested. “That one was too sad. With my Rita Hayworth smile this time.” Hansen complied and Cecily smiled winningly for the camera.
“Of all the rooms in this house, I’m really most comfortable in here,” Cecily told them, lounging on the sofa. “It’s a very secure room. I used to sleep in here sometimes, when I was feeling a little—you know, down. After my divorce. Not since the burglary though.” She touched a button and steel panels slid silently down in front of the doors. They slid up again at another touch. “No one can get in here. Or so I thought.” She smiled sadly. It gave Lacey the creeps.
Hansen took more photographs, but Cecily asked them not to take pictures of the security system or the not-so-impenetrable panels. Lacey looked for another way in or out, but she didn’t see one.
“And yet there was a break-in. How was that possible?”
“Supposedly somebody forgot to reset the alarm system codes properly after a power failure or something. But that’s ridiculous. I know exactly who did it.”
“Who was it?”
“That bastard, Philip. My ex-husband. He knew all the codes. He knew what he wanted. Things he couldn’t win in court. Things he knew it would hurt me to lose.” Cecily leaned back against the velvet cushions and closed her eyes. “He’s the only one who knows about the important things, the sentimental things. Philip.”
“Why would he do that?” Hansen said.
“Why does Philip do anything?” She opened her eyes. “Power. Control. Or just to hurt me. He casts evil on everything he touches, including the grass, the trees, the air.”
Lacey felt the hair prickle on the back of her neck. “You’re accusing Philip Clark Ashton of a burglary.” A man who was worth a billion dollars and had very powerful friends.
“Of course. Not him personally, oh no, he doesn’t slip in like a cat burglar, not Philip. He hires people. He owns people. Breaking into a security system designed by his own architect? Not a problem. He’s behind all of it. All of it.” Cecily held her head and sat very still, as if listening to her thoughts.
Lacey never found out what Cecily meant by “all of it.” She didn’t mention any of that in her feature on Cecily and her lonely labyrinth full of beautiful things. It was the kind of thing people say after a bitter divorce, and Lacey had no corroborating sources, no evidence, just hearsay. She knew her editor Mac would have a stroke if she took on Philip Clark Ashton without a lot more than an ex-wife’s accusations.
After a moment’s silence, Cecily popped up brightly from the blue velvet sofa and led Lacey and Hansen down the hall into the next room. There were many rooms still to be seen in the guided tour of the closets of Ashton Hall.
“Now here! Oh this is a wonderful room! I love this room, and you must let me show you my Chanels and my Madame Grès . . . .”
Lacey Smithsonian’s
FASHION BITES
Pistols at Twenty Paces—or Pearls?
As everyone surely knows by now, diamonds are a girl’s best friend. And pearls are her perfect companion, whether you’re arguing a case in court, chasing a witness, running a corporation or a country, or dueling at twenty paces.
All across this Capital City of ours, there are Powerful Women In Pearls (PWIPs), past, present, and future, and they’re often the ones really running things behind the scenes in this town. How can you spot the PWIP? Look for the pearls, girls. Diamonds may dazzle the eye, but pearls are what really puts your polish on, whether cultured, natural, or even really good fakes (RGF). Even Jackie Kennedy wore RGF, and she was unmistakably a PWIP. Barbara Bush was never seen around Washington without her large signature pearls, and Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi owns a set of very impressive Tahitian pearls. As you may glimpse from these few examples, pearls are attractive, appropriate, bipartisan—and powerful.
That is the lesson learned by many a savvy style maven in Washington, D.C. (or as stylish as one can be in this town). The PWIP is strong, resourceful, stylish, well groomed, and in charge. She is a publisher, a congressman, a lawyer, an Indian chief. She might be your boss. Someday she might even be president. Do presidents wear pearls? Just wait and see.
The PWIP loo
ks soft and feminine, she wears heels and hose and classic couture with her strands of pearls, but never doubt that there is an iron fist in that velvet glove. You don’t cross these women, because they will thrash you soundly with those ropes of pearls and then sue you for damages.
Her classic clothing is a kind of calling card, as well as a camouflage. It says she is familiar and approachable, even if she isn’t. She knows who’s in charge here, and it’s her. Her heart is not hard, but she has a will of iron. How can you identify the PWIPs around you? Here are a few subtle fashion clues. Feel free to beg, borrow, or steal these tips for your own poised and polished and pearled look. The Powerful Woman in Pearls:• Does not fool around with fads. Or fishnet. Or sequins.
• Does not dye her hair blue, but she does hide the gray.
• Does not pierce anything but her ears. And your self-confidence.
• Does not tattoo, except the heel of her Manolo on your backside. If she does tattoo herself, you and I will never see it. And it will not say PROPERTY OF SNAKE.
• Does not accept your challenge to duel with pistols at twenty paces—unless she knows she’s the better shot. And she is.
So take a fashion cue from Washington’s own Powerful Women In Pearls. When you pack your personal arsenal of style, remember this rule: Diamonds are for girls who dazzle, but pearls are for the ladies with the power.
Chapter 7
Lacey looked up. Detective Jance was staring at her.
“She accused her husband of the burglary?” He whistled and put his pen down. “Philip Clark Ashton? The old football team billionaire?” Detective Jance didn’t look pleased.
“Ex-husband.” She stared back at him.
An ambulance crawled slowly past the window, gravel crunching under its tires, a sadly appropriate accompaniment to this gray day. Lacey felt a weight settle on her shoulders. “Cecily?”
“Yes, they’re taking the body away.” He had one last question for her. “And your story, when exactly does it appear in print?”
“In tomorrow’s Eye Street Observer,” she said. “But it won’t help you much, it’s all about fashion.”
Jance swore under his breath.
By the time Lacey exited her interview with the detective, she was starving. She felt as if she’d been trapped in that room for hours. She checked her watch: half an hour. Impossible.
Most of the PI students were still there, milling around. Lacey’s interview had taken the longest; most had been over in five minutes or less. They were free to go, but no one seemed to know if their instructor would hold the afternoon class session or not. Willow Raynor and Snake Goldstein were gone. Kepelov was nowhere to be seen. Bud Hunt had made another pot of coffee and was parceling out the remaining doughnuts in lieu of lunch.
Detective Jance called Hunt back into the office and left the remaining students to their own devices. The caffeine and sugar kept everyone chattering. The ex-cops and ex-military guys all seemed to be buddies now, arguing about sports, women, cars. Edwina Plimpton poured herself another cup of coffee and brought one for Lacey.
“I can’t believe this is happening.” Edwina’s eye makeup was starting to run. When she made her bridge club bet she hadn’t bargained for a brush with death. But she’d have something new to talk about over cocktails.
“You knew her pretty well?” Lacey asked.
“Yes, but we’d lost touch.”
“Why is that?” Lacey asked, although she suspected she knew the answer.
“Lacey, no one wants to be on the bad side of Philip. Socially. Business. Politics and all that. But no one deserves to die like this, in some dirty little parking lot. She must have been miserable.”
Lacey sipped her coffee and wondered if Cecily could really have killed herself.
“This is all so horrible.” Edwina warmed her hands on her coffee cup. “I called my husband. He’s meeting me for lunch, if we ever get out of here. Or cocktails. And is that young detective cute or what? He certainly kept you in there for a long time!”
Lacey had no doubt Edwina’s bridge club would get an earful. Her adventures in private eye school would certainly beat her scuba-diving bridge buddy. Her rival would need a close encounter with Moby Dick and the ghost of Jacques Cousteau to top Edwina now.
“Smithsonian, we need to debrief.” Damon Newhouse butted right in, as usual.
“No, we don’t.”
“We have to get our stories straight.” Newhouse pulled his BlackBerry from his black leather jacket.
“My story is straight.” Lacey gave him The Eyebrow. “Why, are you a suspect? Call your lawyer. Say hi for me.”
“We could all be suspects. You, me, all of us.” He seemed excited about this, no doubt planning a first-person exposé on his brutal interrogation as a murder suspect.
“Damon, when she died we were all sitting in class watching Kepelov do his spy shtick. We make lousy suspects. Do you really think you need a lawyer?”
“Hadley makes it a seventy-thirty probability the government did it,” Damon said. “I call it ninety-ten. So to make the investigation look good, the government will be hauling in innocent people and calling them suspects. Like us.”
“She was murdered, you know.” Martin Hadley was suddenly next to them. His lips were a tight line. “She was one of us.”
“One of you?” Lacey put her coffee down. “One of who?”
“One of the tortured,” Hadley said. “One of the damned.”
“Cecily Ashton was a victim of mind control? Your ‘psychotic terror’?”
“Psychotropic. They got to her.” Hadley stared off into the gray January sky. “They killed her. Whether they pulled the trigger, or made her do it herself, they killed her.”
Cecily Ashton heard voices in her head that told her to kill herself? Lacey tried to make this image fit the Cecily she’d met. It seemed ridiculous. What kind of game was Hadley playing? Was he trying to use Damon Newhouse to spread this wild conspiracy theory? Damon was certainly willing to be used.
People like Cecily Ashton didn’t fit Lacey’s image of people involved in crazy fringe groups. Cecily’s group was the Washington high society she craved. It was like saying the ritziest neighborhoods in Georgetown had been invaded by big-eyed aliens beamed down from the mother ship. But then, people like Cecily didn’t fit the image of a woman dying by a gunshot in her own Jaguar in some random parking lot.
“You’re saying the government did this?” Edwina said. “What on earth are you talking about?” Edwina was not the type to browse Conspiracy Clearinghouse at DeadFed dot com. Poor deprived woman. Lacey envied her innocence. “Do you mean Congress? Because we have a neighbor who’s a congressman and he’s the most harmless little—”
“A secret rogue agency within the government with far-reaching powers to invade our privacy and infringe our rights,” Damon said blithely. “Like MK-Ultra, Majestic-Twelve, Area Fifty-One, men in black. You know.”
Edwina clearly did not know, but she said nothing. Kepelov had reappeared among them, wearing a faux fur-lined jean jacket and his big black cowboy hat. He seemed very calm. He slipped silently to Lacey’s side.
“The dead body, the suspicious circumstances. This is always where Lacey Smithsonian comes in, isn’t it?”
“Suspicious circumstances?” She glared at the big smug Russian. “Isn’t that your specialty, Kepelov? You’re the most suspicious character here. Where were you when Cecily Ashton was shot? And what are you calling yourself these days?”
“Call me Greg.” He smiled. “Interesting, this mind control. Don’t you think?”
“Interesting, but impossible.” Lacey crossed her arms and hugged her shawl tighter. “I presume you do have an alibi. So, what is it?”
“Excellent alibi, Smithsonian.” Kepelov’s blue eyes twinkled. “Visiting old friends at the police station across the street before class. They let me park there. Go ask for yourself. Tell them Greg sent you.”
“If you were really KGB,” Had
ley said, “then you know mind control is possible, don’t you?”
“Many things are possible,” the ex-spy said cagily. “Smithsonian, you do not believe in mind control? Ha! You never see Manchurian Candidate? Soviet Union was heavily involved in mind control experiments. Drugs, sensory deprivation, electromagnetic, psychics, many different tactics. KGB, full-service spy shop. Successful?” He shrugged. “Depends who you ask. Still going on? Depends who you ask.”
Hadley smiled. “That’s more than I could get the U.S. government to admit to.”
“But did the Soviets figure out how to do it?” Lacey smirked at Kepelov. “And if you did, why didn’t you save the Soviet Union with your mind control rays? Tell me that!”
“Who knows? Maybe budget problems. Lack of rubles. Not my department. Another time and place. Evil Empire is history now, right?” He had the nerve to find her amusing. “But I am not so evil, Smithsonian.”
“Jury’s still out on that. And I still think mind control is science fiction.”
“Let’s continue this debate at lunch,” Damon suggested.
Hadley recommended a nearby Mexican restaurant, where he said he found the voices harder to hear. “Let’s go.”
Lacey thought of the one thing that could distract Newhouse. “What does Brooke think of it?”
“Brooke?” His eyes widened. “Oh my God, I haven’t had a chance to talk with her. She should be back from her run by now.” He tapped on his BlackBerry to call his girlfriend and brief her, or "debrief ” her, whatever he might mean by that. “Thanks for reminding me, Lacey. You might need a lawyer too, you know. I’m serious.”
Lacey reached for her own phone and moved out of earshot. She had her own much-delayed call to make to her newspaper. The weekend editor, Shirley, hadn’t heard a thing about the violent demise of Cecily Ashton. But she found the news “energizing” and promised to call Mac Jones at home for her. It would be too late to change Lacey’s feature story to reflect Cecily’s death. The Sunday supplement was already in print. But she assured Lacey a link directing readers to her article would be boxed on the front page of tomorrow’s edition.
Armed and Glamorous Page 6