ways.”
Lacey ordered a very expensive dessert, very chocolate, very bad. She knew she’d pay for it later with extra exercise. Vic could pay now. He didn’t order his own dessert, but he picked up his fork and dug into hers.
They drove back in silence, listening to some sweet country swing music. Vic walked her to the door of her building and made sure she was safely in. It crossed her mind he might kiss her good night. But of course he didn’t. She was relieved, puzzled, and irritated.
It was gone, she was convinced. Whatever she used to have that attracted men to her was gone. Washington—and time—had taken it away.
Chapter 7
Arguing with her stylist was only slightly less pointless than bashing her head against a wall, Lacey decided.
“Stella, I don’t like being told what to do. Do you get that? Do you understand?”
Stella was unperturbed. “I told you to get highlights and you did.”
“Highlights! Do I really have to point out that getting highlights and investigating murder are two different things?”
“The highlights look great, and now you’re investigating a murder.”
“If I’m going to look into Angie’s death, I’m doing it my way. As a reporter, not a detective. Anything I do has got to end up in a story I can sell my editor. Are we agreed?”
“Absolutely.”
Lacey had agreed to meet Stella for coffee Saturday morning. As usual, it was a matter of life and death. So Lacey had insisted on the Mud Hut, a shabby but sweet little coffee shop just off King Street in Old Town, full of writers tapping on lap-tops. She had a habit of popping in on Saturday mornings, and she acknowledged a few other people she recognized.
The Mud Hut’s shabbiness was refreshing. Old Town Alexandria generally is aggressively Colonial, heavy on Virginia’s Founding Fathers and all things George Washington. Many Old Town homes of distinction keep their front drapes open so people walking by may gaze in reverence at the genuine period furnishings and illuminated portraits of illustrious Colonial ancestors.
Stella might raise eyebrows in the snooty part of town, but here no one would look twice at her crew cut, double-digit earrings, and leather-lass look. Today she was wearing a purple leather halter dress that laced up her cleavage to a dramatic swelling, like a Valkyrie’s Wagnerian WunderBra. Stella paired it with a cropped black jacket with gold leather lightning bolts stitched on the back and down the sleeves.
Lacey was wearing high-waisted, loose-fitting khaki slacks with a light blue fitted blouse. Her clothes were comfortable and attractive, but lacked the one-two punch that Stella mastered.
“Where do you get your clothes?” Lacey asked.
Stella beamed down at her purple laced bust. “Great dress, huh? Picked it up at this leather shop in Georgetown. I’m kind of a regular, so they call me when they get something special in my size. You should come with me sometime.”
The brave, noble Stella of last night’s discussion with Vic was once again Lacey’s personal pain in the neck. Featuring Angie’s death in “Crimes of Fashion” was only the beginning of Stella’s plan. But Stella didn’t count on extra help, which appeared in the shape of Brooke Barton.
The blond intruder, looking fresh in jogging shorts and a hooded navy sweatshirt even though she’d been out on a run, padded into the shop and spotted Lacey. “Aha! I thought I’d catch you here,” she said.
Lacey was confused. “Did we have plans, Brooke?”
“No, it’s just that you’re a creature of habit and if it’s ten a.m. on a Saturday morning, you’re swilling down a mocha latte at the Mud Hut. So, catch me up.” She grabbed a chair and sat down.
Stella and Brooke eyed each other doubtfully. Lacey introduced them. “So you’re the famous Stella of the highlights. Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.” Stella looked none too pleased, but Brooke ignored her. She got right to the point: conspiracy, as
Lacey ordered a very expensive dessert, very chocolate, very bad. She knew she’d pay for it later with extra exercise. Vic could pay now. He didn’t order his own dessert, but he picked up his fork and dug into hers.
They drove back in silence, listening to some sweet country swing music. Vic walked her to the door of her building and made sure she was safely in. It crossed her mind he might kiss her good night. But of course he didn’t. She was relieved, puzzled, and irritated.
It was gone, she was convinced. Whatever she used to have that attracted men to her was gone. Washington—and time—had taken it away.
Chapter 7
Arguing with her stylist was only slightly less pointless than bashing her head against a wall, Lacey decided.
“Stella, I don’t like being told what to do. Do you get that? Do you understand?”
Stella was unperturbed. “I told you to get highlights and you did.”
“Highlights! Do I really have to point out that getting highlights and investigating murder are two different things?”
“The highlights look great, and now you’re investigating a murder.”
“If I’m going to look into Angie’s death, I’m doing it my way. As a reporter, not a detective. Anything I do has got to end up in a story I can sell my editor. Are we agreed?”
“Absolutely.”
Lacey had agreed to meet Stella for coffee Saturday morning. As usual, it was a matter of life and death. So Lacey had insisted on the Mud Hut, a shabby but sweet little coffee shop just off King Street in Old Town, full of writers tapping on lap-tops. She had a habit of popping in on Saturday mornings, and she acknowledged a few other people she recognized.
The Mud Hut’s shabbiness was refreshing. Old Town Alexandria generally is aggressively Colonial, heavy on Virginia’s Founding Fathers and all things George Washington. Many Old Town homes of distinction keep their front drapes open so people walking by may gaze in reverence at the genuine period furnishings and illuminated portraits of illustrious Colonial ancestors.
Stella might raise eyebrows in the snooty part of town, but here no one would look twice at her crew cut, double-digit earrings, and leather-lass look. Today she was wearing a purple leather halter dress that laced up her cleavage to a dramatic swelling, like a Valkyrie’s Wagnerian WunderBra. Stella paired it with a cropped black jacket with gold leather lightning bolts stitched on the back and down the sleeves.
Lacey was wearing high-waisted, loose-fitting khaki slacks with a light blue fitted blouse. Her clothes were comfortable and attractive, but lacked the one-two punch that Stella mastered.
“Where do you get your clothes?” Lacey asked.
Stella beamed down at her purple laced bust. “Great dress, huh? Picked it up at this leather shop in Georgetown. I’m kind of a regular, so they call me when they get something special in my size. You should come with me sometime.”
The brave, noble Stella of last night’s discussion with Vic was once again Lacey’s personal pain in the neck. Featuring Angie’s death in “Crimes of Fashion” was only the beginning of Stella’s plan. But Stella didn’t count on extra help, which appeared in the shape of Brooke Barton.
The blond intruder, looking fresh in jogging shorts and a hooded navy sweatshirt even though she’d been out on a run, padded into the shop and spotted Lacey. “Aha! I thought I’d catch you here,” she said.
Lacey was confused. “Did we have plans, Brooke?”
“No, it’s just that you’re a creature of habit and if it’s ten a.m. on a Saturday morning, you’re swilling down a mocha latte at the Mud Hut. So, catch me up.” She grabbed a chair and sat down.
Stella and Brooke eyed each other doubtfully. Lacey introduced them. “So you’re the famous Stella of the highlights. Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.” Stella looked none too pleased, but Brooke ignored her. She got right to the point: conspiracy, as
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