Donovan?” Her mother sounded hopeful. “And his family?”
“Um, I really can’t say yet. Vic’s pretty busy these days.”
“Well,” her mother said, “I suppose we wouldn’t want to scare him off with one of our big family gatherings so soon. You two lovebirds need some time alone, don’t you? Have you tried my special meatloaf yet?”
Lacey couldn’t tell her mother she had already scared Vic off all by herself, without any help from her family. Or the special meatloaf. “Thanks for being so understanding.”
“It’s not too early to think about Christmas,” Rose said, in that way that all mothers have.
“You’ll have to take that up with my editor.”
“Oh. Mr. Jones? He seemed nice. Do you have his number?”
Lacey finally got her mother off the phone, then made a stab at packing. It was useless, she decided. The phone rang and Lacey picked it up, thinking her mother had forgotten something, some secret aphrodisiac to give the special meatloaf a little more zing.
“Hello,” she said. There was a pause, a clicking sound, then someone hung up. She noticed that her phone machine was blink-ing. Three hang-ups, no messages. Someone wants to know if I’m home , she thought. But they don’t want to talk to me.
Chapter 9
Analiza Zarina hosted the memorial for Magda Rousseau at their shop, Stays and Plays, where Magda had died. She had set the time for late morning on the following day. Once the body was released, there would be a funeral mass at the local Catholic church, but no one could predict when that would happen.
The obituary from The Eye was taped to a poster and hung on the street-level door that led up the stairs to the shop. When she saw it, Lacey was glad she had added some thoughts to the sparse facts supplied by Analiza. She even had managed to come up with a photograph of Magda for the obit. The paper’s head photographer, Todd “Long Lens” Hansen, had found in his files a shot of Magda fitting a local actress in a period costume, taken for a feature story on the theatre. The photo, which never ran in the newspaper, had neatly captured Magda’s gaze of intense concentration when she was involved in a project. It was a gaze Lacey remembered well. It was lucky, she thought, that Hansen kept voluminous photo files and had a near-photographic memory for his work.
Analiza’s handmade poster issued an invitation to all of Magda’s friends to attend the memorial. The small room was full when Lacey arrived. The racks of costumes had been pushed to the walls under the unseeing eyes of the wig heads, and five rows of folding chairs had been set up in the middle of the shop facing a tiny podium borrowed from a theatre. They weren’t enough; the crowd of clients, neighbors, and friends jammed the place shoulder to shoulder.
Lacey stood in the back, wearing her black Bentley suit from the 1940s, one of her most treasured vintage outfits from Aunt Mimi. Magda had admired the suit’s amazing lines and tailoring.
Lacey could not bring herself to wear the corset, not even underneath the suit, no matter what kind of guilt trip her corset-loving stylist tried to induce. She spied Stella across the room, wearing her idea of a compromise, a black leather jacket and skirt ensemble worn with a scarlet corset. She was flanked by Stylettos’ assistant manager, Michelle, and another stylist, both in similar get-ups.
More people arrived as a young woman Lacey didn’t recognize strummed a guitar and started to sing something she said was a Latvian folk hymn.
Magda would be pleased to see how many people showed up, Lacey thought, but she wondered what the deceased would make of her motley crew of mourners. Analiza was in black, wearing what looked suspiciously like a costume from the “what to wear to a funeral if you’re theatrical ” collection. Magda had often complained that Analiza “wore the inventory,” adding to the wear and tear on the costumes they rented and sold for a
“Um, I really can’t say yet. Vic’s pretty busy these days.”
“Well,” her mother said, “I suppose we wouldn’t want to scare him off with one of our big family gatherings so soon. You two lovebirds need some time alone, don’t you? Have you tried my special meatloaf yet?”
Lacey couldn’t tell her mother she had already scared Vic off all by herself, without any help from her family. Or the special meatloaf. “Thanks for being so understanding.”
“It’s not too early to think about Christmas,” Rose said, in that way that all mothers have.
“You’ll have to take that up with my editor.”
“Oh. Mr. Jones? He seemed nice. Do you have his number?”
Lacey finally got her mother off the phone, then made a stab at packing. It was useless, she decided. The phone rang and Lacey picked it up, thinking her mother had forgotten something, some secret aphrodisiac to give the special meatloaf a little more zing.
“Hello,” she said. There was a pause, a clicking sound, then someone hung up. She noticed that her phone machine was blink-ing. Three hang-ups, no messages. Someone wants to know if I’m home , she thought. But they don’t want to talk to me.
Chapter 9
Analiza Zarina hosted the memorial for Magda Rousseau at their shop, Stays and Plays, where Magda had died. She had set the time for late morning on the following day. Once the body was released, there would be a funeral mass at the local Catholic church, but no one could predict when that would happen.
The obituary from The Eye was taped to a poster and hung on the street-level door that led up the stairs to the shop. When she saw it, Lacey was glad she had added some thoughts to the sparse facts supplied by Analiza. She even had managed to come up with a photograph of Magda for the obit. The paper’s head photographer, Todd “Long Lens” Hansen, had found in his files a shot of Magda fitting a local actress in a period costume, taken for a feature story on the theatre. The photo, which never ran in the newspaper, had neatly captured Magda’s gaze of intense concentration when she was involved in a project. It was a gaze Lacey remembered well. It was lucky, she thought, that Hansen kept voluminous photo files and had a near-photographic memory for his work.
Analiza’s handmade poster issued an invitation to all of Magda’s friends to attend the memorial. The small room was full when Lacey arrived. The racks of costumes had been pushed to the walls under the unseeing eyes of the wig heads, and five rows of folding chairs had been set up in the middle of the shop facing a tiny podium borrowed from a theatre. They weren’t enough; the crowd of clients, neighbors, and friends jammed the place shoulder to shoulder.
Lacey stood in the back, wearing her black Bentley suit from the 1940s, one of her most treasured vintage outfits from Aunt Mimi. Magda had admired the suit’s amazing lines and tailoring.
Lacey could not bring herself to wear the corset, not even underneath the suit, no matter what kind of guilt trip her corset-loving stylist tried to induce. She spied Stella across the room, wearing her idea of a compromise, a black leather jacket and skirt ensemble worn with a scarlet corset. She was flanked by Stylettos’ assistant manager, Michelle, and another stylist, both in similar get-ups.
More people arrived as a young woman Lacey didn’t recognize strummed a guitar and started to sing something she said was a Latvian folk hymn.
Magda would be pleased to see how many people showed up, Lacey thought, but she wondered what the deceased would make of her motley crew of mourners. Analiza was in black, wearing what looked suspiciously like a costume from the “what to wear to a funeral if you’re theatrical ” collection. Magda had often complained that Analiza “wore the inventory,” adding to the wear and tear on the costumes they rented and sold for a
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