Armed and Glamorous

by Ellen Byerrum

  Talk about a conspiracy, Lacey thought. This is a conspiracy worth considering. And the designers were in on it. When would this mania for exposing every shapeless arm on the planet end? She thought about her own arms; they could be better. Perhaps she could wrangle a “Fashion Bite” out of it for tomorrow and get Mac off her case for one more day. She opened her purse and dug around for her notebook and pen.

  Her cell phone rang. Leave me alone, she begged the universe. But she recognized the number and answered it anyway.

  “Hello, Brooke. What’s up?”

  “Where are you?” The voice was petulant. “I’m at your place. And you’re not.”

  “How dare I? You’re in Old Town?”

  “Evidently. I have something for you. Top secret.”

  Oh, no. That could mean anything. Lacey looked around to see who might be listening to her phone call. “It’s not a gun, is it?”

  “Don’t be silly, but it is important.” The lawyerly voice was insistent. “Meet you at the funny place. You know the one.”

  Brooke caught up with her in their favorite trendy furniture and interior furnishings store near the river. It featured housewares, glasses, candlesticks, dishes, and an eclectic and eccentric mix of overpriced, overstuffed, and overwhelming furniture. There was barely enough room inside to turn around. It set Lacey’s headache in motion.

  “You want to look around in here?” Brooke asked.

  Lacey fingered a lovely blue and gold plate, wondering where people had room to put all these things, unless they had closets like Cecily.

  “No. It’s pretty, but it makes me claustrophobic. I feel antsy, Brooke, I need to walk. Think. You can stay here if you want.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Brooke ducked under a funky chandelier with multicolored crystals, unlike anything in her own sleek, chic, ultramodern town house. She handed Lacey a manila envelope. “Don’t open it here. Put it in your purse.”

  “Top secret?”

  “Do not mock me. And yes, something like that.”

  “Do I need a security clearance?” Lacey tucked the envelope securely in her bag. Brooke grabbed her arm and led Lacey out to the sidewalk. They started walking toward the Potomac River.

  They cut left through the diagonal passage to the waterfront past the Torpedo Factory. Once an actual World War Two-era factory that built torpedoes for the Navy, the building had long since been converted into artists’ studios and galleries. The docks behind it were filled with plush power-boats, a few sailboats, and the usual flotilla of sightseeing and dinner cruise vessels, the Admiral Tilp, the Miss Christin, the Miss Mallory, swaying to the rhythm of the water and the wind. But Brooke didn’t let them stop until they reached the very end of the dock near the riverboat, the Cherry Blossom.

  “Okay, you can open it now.”

  Lacey ripped open the manila envelope. “What is this? A legal brief? Do I need a lawyer?”

  “It’s the Code.”

  “The Code?”

  “Our Code.”

  Lacey Smithsonian’s

  FASHION BITES

  A Call to Arms! Reprieve the Sleeve!

  Once again we women are the victims of a cruel impractical joke. It is the middle of winter, the Washington wind-chill makes exposed skin frostbite bait, and yet in dress stores all around The Nation’s Capital we see nothing but sleeveless dresses. Sleeveless dresses in January? Are you feeling a bit chilled by this news, or are you steamed from the sheer aggravation of it? Ah, now I’m getting warmer!

  What can we say of confronting the dreaded wintry mix of a Washington winter’s ice and sleet and snow in nothing but the ubiquitous sleeveless dress? It makes no sense, you say. And you are right! Designers would never do that to a man. Do guys walk into Men’s Wearhouse in January and see nothing but racks of Bermuda shorts and Speedos? No! Nor would menswear designers give men pointy-toed stilettos or clothes without pockets. Men would arm themselves with pitchforks and torches.

  The fad of sleeveless dresses in winter is in a class with other dopey designer trends, such as collars on bathing suits, strapless dresses in gray flannel pinstripe, business suits with ruffles, and the idiocy of baby doll dresses that make even a department store mannequin look fat.

  And if it makes the mannequins look fat, believe me, it ain’t gonna make you and me look thin.

  Then there is one of my personal favorites, the sleeveless turtleneck. The sleeveless turtleneck! For those times of year when your throat is too cold and your arms are too hot? Which season is that exactly? And on which planet does it occur? Are sleeveless dressmakers in league with the cardigan sweater coalition, with a plan to hang a button-down sweater on the back of every office chair in America to compensate for the preposterous sleeveless turtleneck’s shortcomings?

  Just when are designers going to remember the poor forgotten sleeve? Yes, that low-tech invention of infinitely variable length and size and cut that cleverly employs a variety of fabrics to cover and protect the arm. Women have arms too—why don’t we have sleeves to cover them? Despite the time-honored utility of the sleeve, unflattering skimpy sleeveless dresses in unforgiving fabrics continue to run rampant through the fashion world. In January! But how can we laugh up our sleeves at the folly of fashion—if we have no sleeves? You may think I’m wearing my heart on my sleeve here. I assure you I am not. I have no sleeve to wear it on.

  It’s one thing to design a sleeveless dress for fabulously toned women with fabulously toned arms to wear in the fabulous Washington summer when the humidity is beastly. But what of the rest of us, those women whose arms are not toned and not ready for prime time and are covered with goose bumps in the freezing Washington winter?

  Save the endangered sleeve! Please, designers, have mercy on those of us with imperfect arms and who live on planets with intermittently cold climates. Please put a sleeve in it, in our dresses and in our shirts. Give us a choice. Give us back our sleeves! They can be short sleeves, long sleeves, three-quarter sleeves, full sleeves, tight sleeves, or even mutton chop sleeves, for heaven’s sake. Just please give us a sleeve. Free the sleeves!

  I alone cannot effect this vital change, but you, women of America, or just the women of the Washington, D.C., metropolitan area, you can do something about this. Demand some sartorial sanity. Boycott the sleeveless scourge. Draw up petitions and solicit signatures for our cause. Write them on your sleeves, if you have them. Call your congressman and demand hearings, call the designers to testify and demand their heads—and a sleeve.

  Remember our battle cry: Put a sleeve in it!

  Chapter 15

  “Our code, the Pink Collar Code. Or if you prefer, the PCC.” Brooke thought about it. “Wait, that sounds like some sort of commerce commission. Or an illegal drug.”

  Lacey pulled out the document, but before she got a good look, Brooke grabbed it away from her. She opened the black leatherette binder and traced her fingers on the document lovingly.

  “I expect you to read this and learn it, Lacey,” Brooke advised. “And hide the code in a secure place, please.”

  “In a lockbox?” Lacey deadpanned. “Or a vault? Should I get an armed guard?”

  “Funny. Very funny. The point is, you don’t want people to think it’s valuable. Stick it under the bed between a stack of dusty women’s magazines and last summer’s bathing suits or something. Or just memorize it and destroy it.”

  “Come on, Brooke, why all the precautions? How many spies do we know?”

  “Gregor Kepelov, for one.”

  “He’s a lunatic. Really Ms. Barton, I think you’re laboring under an intense Nancy Drew fantasy and it’s getting worse.”

  “Ha! We may know lots of spies, Lacey. That’s the thing about spies, they don’t tell you they’re spying on you.” Brooke warmed her nose with her gloved hands. “It’s really getting cold out here. And just for the record, I want to state that Ms. Nancy Drew had a lot going for her. A keen intellect.”

  “A rich daddy,” Lacey cou
ntered.

  “A blue roadster.”

  “Poor little rich girl always solves the mystery and gets the cute guy.”

  “Even rich girls need love.” Brooke handed the folder back. “The code might be important, Lacey, especially at the rate you collect dead bodies. Can we go inside now and warm up?” Brooke was wearing a light navy jacket over a gray turtleneck. The deceptively sunny weather looked warmer than it was.

  “To set the record straight, counselor, I am not now and never have been a collector of dead bodies. You’ve seen my apartment. Where would I put them?” Lacey returned the Code to the envelope and stuffed it in her bag.

  “Good grief, Lacey, I was being metaphorical or something. Objection sustained.”

  “I need a walk.” Lacey strode toward the dock master’s office to admire the Cherry Blossom, a handsome yellow and white double-decker paddleboat with fancy iron railings, popular for wedding cruises and graduation parties. “You can go on home if you want. My head is too full of thoughts, all of them colliding. I must evaporate them with physical exertion. Or else food, and exertion is more slimming.”

  “Jumbled thoughts. I love that sort of thing. We’ll organize them. Let’s walk,” Brooke said. “But pick up the pace so I can get warm! And start talking.”

  Lacey marched them up the Alexandria waterfront, past the Torpedo Factory and the Chart House restaurant toward Founders’ Park.

  “Good choice, Smithsonian,” Brooke commented. “No one to hear us out here, and the lapping waves will muffle our conversation on recording devices.”

  Lacey hoped her friend was kidding. “Life is more interesting on your planet, isn’t it?”

  “It’s more suspenseful at any rate,” Brooke returned. “You’re really too trustful of people, Lacey. Despite your sunny optimism, there are monsters and evildoers out there. And close at hand. Don’t forget Kepelov. Funny he should pop up now.”

  “I’m not Little Mary Sunshine, Brooke, I hardly trust a soul. I simply can’t believe you actually wrote down all that stuff you two came up with over margaritas. I know I said to be nice to Stella, but this is above and beyond the call of duty.”

  “Stuff? You mean the Code? And I have produced, written, organized, and now distributed the Code. I’ll update it, too, as it evolves. Now, I gave you an extra copy for Stella when you see her next. She’s waiting for it. I’d e-mail it, but unencrypted e-mail is so not secure.”

  “Right. Stella.” They stopped near the empty volleyball court. “That reminds me, Brooke. We have to do something about Stella. We have to save her.”

  “From Nigel Griffin, you mean? Of course we will. Now pay close attention to the Code, when you read it. I think you’ll be impressed with its simplicity and elegance.”

  Lacey opened the leatherette folder. “And I’m impressed with the complexity of your thought processes.” Brooke looked very pleased. “In fact, I’m dazzled.”

  “Not to be immodest, but I think there is some genius in its simplicity,” Brooke said. “I credit Stella too. This is our own little secret code, a simple word substitution in the context of hair salon language. Easy to learn, and we can use it to create innocent-sounding conversations that will have a deeper meaning.”

  Lacey closed her eyes for a moment and tried not to laugh. “I know what a code is, Brooke. So many of your conversations have a deeper, not to mention wackier, meaning.”

  Brooke ignored her dig. “We could have used a much more complicated cipher, but complex codes sound like codes. Ours doesn’t have to be complicated because it doesn’t sound like a code, and men won’t understand it anyway. And men are generally the people women want to keep secrets from, right?”

  “You sure you haven’t shared this with Damon, your alleged soul mate?”

  “It killed me not to, Lacey, because he is my soul mate and I want to share everything with him, but I must honor the Sisterhood of the Code. You don’t plan to share this with Vic Donovan, do you?”

  “Are you kidding? Vic would find it far too hilarious. Believe me, I would never tell a guy about this.” She leafed through the pages. “Do we have code names?”

  “Do we have code names! What do you take me for?” Brooke grinned. “You’re Girl Friday, you Rosalind Russell, you. Stella is Shagalicious.”

  “Oh, brother. Why not Stellariffic?”

  “Too many people read her blog.”

  “Of course they do.” Lacey was afraid to read Stella’s blog. “And you?”

  “Blonde Ammunition. Pretty good, huh?”

  Lacey was grateful they hadn’t called her something awful, like Helmet Head. “Now if we had our Secret Pink Decoder rings, life would be rosy.”

  “I’m beginning to think you aren’t taking this seriously.” Brooke cocked one eyebrow over her blue eyes.

  “Don’t be silly! By the way, your lips are turning blue to match your eyes. How about something hot to drink? Race you to Starbucks! Winner gets the fireplace!”

  The coffee shop was on the ground floor of an eighteenth-century building on Union Street. It had evolved from a George Washington-era shipping warehouse into a seafood restaurant and now a cozy coffee shop with exposed stone walls. They ordered peppermint hot chocolates with whipped cream and took the table near the gas fireplace.

  Lacey licked whipped cream off the top. Her pounding headache had disappeared somewhere along the river and she sipped her hot chocolate gratefully. Brooke checked her messages and reported that Damon had a rendezvous with someone from the PI class.

  “Martin Hadley, no doubt,” Lacey said.

  “Shhh, I’m not through.” She listened and then tucked her BlackBerry away.

  “What else are you up to?” Lacey savored the rich chocolate and its healing qualities. “Aside from authoring top-secret code documents?”

  “What do you think?” Brooke slid her sunglasses up like a headband.

  “Don’t know, could be anything. You’re wearing your Grand Inquisitor look that I’ve come to dread.”

  “Good, I’m perfecting it. We need to debrief on Cecily Ashton.” Brooke sipped her hot chocolate. “According to our Mr. Hadley—”

  “Our Mr. Hadley?”

  “Yes, the man who hears voices. And yes, he is quite sane. Well, reasonably sane. What he’s going through would drive anyone crazy. Damon and I had brunch with him, before I came to see you.”

  “So you and Damon are interviewing possible witnesses? I should have known. Planning on solving this murder?” Lacey had to stop herself from laughing out loud. “Sorry. Be my guest, you and your Mr. Hadley and his chorus of voices. I’ll check DeadFed for updates.”

  “We’re not trying to take this case away from you and play detective, Lacey, we just want to help you.”

  “You don’t have to help me, because I’m not a detective.”

  “Skip the ‘I’m only a fashion reporter’ riff. I’ve heard it.” Brooke’s smug look went so well with her navy and gray attorney’s wardrobe. “In fact, I’ve memorized it.”

  “You don’t believe Hadley’s voices-shouting-in-my-head story, do you?” Brooke and Damon were clones in so many ways, Lacey thought. Maybe they were the real mind control conspiracy.

  “I don’t know if there are external forces involved.” Brooke paused. “He says he hears voices, but he does not present the usual symptoms of, well, you know, nuttiness. You saw him. The point is that the fix is in, he says. He’s convinced he will be arrested for the murder of Cecily Ashton.”

  “Martin Hadley?” Why were people like Hadley and Griffin insisting on being suspects? “You expect to defend him?”

  “You know I’m not a criminal attorney, oxymoron as it is, but I’d be willing to consult with one. He didn’t kill her, if that’s what you’re thinking. But he’s a suspect.”

  “Everyone’s a suspect at this point, except me. I don’t know if the police have fixed the time of death yet, but we were in class together all morning.”

  “But you all took a brea
k at some point,” Brooke prompted. Lacey nodded. “Cecily’s Jaguar was not in the parking lot when you arrived around eight-thirty. So someone killed her while class was in session? Or drove the car there with the body in it? Hadley knew Cecily, so that’s one place for the police to start. Her known associates.”

  Like Bud Hunt. And Edwina Plimpton. Did everyone in class know Cecily Ashton? I’ll ask Snake Goldstein if he knew her too, Lacey decided. The heat from the fireplace felt delicious. Brooke pulled a notebook from her purse.

  “Aren’t you going to take any notes?”

  “I am,” Lacey said. “Mental notes.”

  She didn’t want to argue with Brooke about the correct way to take notes. They had once gotten into a serious tiff over it. Brooke’s notes were organized. They were neatly printed in proper outline form, with Roman and Arabic numerals and small block letters, capital and lowercase.

  Lacey’s written notes were dashed off quickly, as they struck her, the way her mind organized them, not the way a lawyer (or a sixth-grade teacher) would organize them. Her ear was always listening for the good quote, the illuminating turn of phrase, and she wrote fast, trying to catch it all. Lacey dotted asterisks over the parts she thought would be good material for the lede in a story. She wrote in between the lines, and up and down the margins, and she sincerely hoped her scribblings would never be subpoenaed. She couldn’t possibly decipher them for the judge, and she would go to jail for contempt of court. But mental notes couldn’t be subpoenaed, and so far, her notes on the Cecily Ashton affair had no asterisks, merely question marks.

  “As I was saying,” Brooke said, “Hadley knew her.”

  “Lots of people did. Not a reason to be arrested for murder. What’s his rationale about ‘the fix’ being in?”

  “The voices are telling him he’s being set up. Government agents are going to frame him as the killer. The knock on the door is just a matter of time.”