Veiled Revenge (10 page)

Chapter 12

Miguel was gone. Stella and Nigel were still locked together in front of the Arts Club in a steamy Hollywood-quality embrace.

Just where is that famous British reserve?
Lacey wondered.

“It’s all right. Pay no attention to me,” she said to no one in particular. “I’ll just be on my way.”

Yet she stood still. Lacey felt something, almost a tingling, as if she were being watched. The energy in the April air seemed to change, becoming charged with electricity—and it wasn’t the lovebirds kissing on the sidewalk. Something felt odd, out of place, foreboding. Terrible.

At the edge of her vision she noticed a black limousine approaching, westbound on Eye Street. That couldn’t be it. Black limousines were nothing out of the ordinary in Washington, D.C. Far from it. The city was lousy with limousines, black, gray, and dark blue, mostly Lincoln Town Cars. Like this one. Lacey stared at it and nearly turned away.

It crossed Twentieth Street, surged forward, jumped the curb, and rocketed down the sidewalk, picking up speed, deliberately heading straight for them. Pedestrians were diving out of the way in every direction.

Lacey heard someone screaming, but it sounded very far away. She knew without looking that Stella and Nigel had stopped kissing. They were right behind her. The car was hurtling at them faster and faster, yet time seemed to stop. In only a few seconds it would hit all of them. Lacey felt frozen to the sidewalk. There was no time to think. She had to move.

She squeaked out a scream as Nigel shoved her out of the car’s path and she landed in the flower garden in front of the Arts Club. Stella and Nigel both landed roughly on top of her and the crumpled boxwood hedge that had cushioned her landing. The boxwood was softer than the concrete sidewalk, but just barely. The trio just missed the large stone bearing a bronze plaque commemorating the mansion as the historic Monroe House.

Everyone jumped at the boom that immediately followed. When Lacey lifted her head to look, she saw the limo had crashed into the poles holding up the canvas awning at the Hotel Lombardy, next door to the Arts Club. The awning was sagging over the crumpled hood of the car and steam was pouring from the engine. Miraculously, no one on the sidewalk seemed to have been hit.

Lacey was alive but muddy, scratched up, in shock, and very angry. She knew she would be bruised and stiff tomorrow. She was also vaguely aware that Nigel had probably saved her life. It was unsettling. She uttered a thank-you, but she wasn’t sure he heard. He was helping Stella to her feet and brushing leaves and mud from their clothes. The aroma of broken boxwood leaves was overpowering. Lacey felt oddly exhilarated just to be alive.

“What the hell?” was the first thing out of her mouth when she recovered the last of her wits.

A great deal of foul language spewed forth from the happy couple as they tried to stand up. “Who is that freaking crazy maniac?” Stella screamed. “I’m going to freaking kill him!”

“Bloody hell! Bloody bastard!” That was Nigel. “Bloody, bloody, bloody hell!”

The driver’s door creaked open and someone struggled out. The doorman from the hotel attempted to help, but the driver pushed him away furiously and sprinted around the corner, turning north on Twenty-first Street.

“Hey, what’s going on? Are you okay?” someone shouted, but the driver disappeared, never breaking stride. It happened so fast that Lacey saw little more of the driver than a black-clad blur wearing a long scarf, huge sunglasses, and an orange and brown Rasta hat, the kind that often covered dreadlocks. Any of those accessories could be purchased on the run at a dozen or more street vendor carts in the District.

No one on the street ran after the driver or raised a hand to stop him, but a dozen passersby with briefcases immediately raised their cell phones to snap grainy photos.

That’s so Washington,
Lacey thought. “
Who me? Intervene? I just want pictures to put on Facebook!”
No one would be able to identify the driver of the limousine at that rate, not the stunned eyewitnesses or their cellphone pics.

Lacey struggled to her knees and staggered to her feet. Her hands were scraped and her knees were bloody and stinging. She shook leaves and dirt off her skirt, inspecting it for rips and tears. Scraping her palms was one thing, ripping a great vintage dress was something else entirely. She was shaking, however, her dress seemed to be dirty but intact.

“Stella, are you okay?” she asked. Stella was tightly wrapped in Nigel’s arms, the two of them leaning against the building. Lacey heard sirens approaching from more than one direction. “How is your leg?”

“It hurts. But it’s not broken,” Stella managed to say. Her eyes filled with tears as she rubbed her recently healed leg. “I think. Thank God.”

“She’s fine, isn’t that right, luv?” Nigel’s eyes blazed with anger. “You’re all right, aren’t you? Talk to me, Stella.”

She gazed into his eyes. “I don’t know. Oh, my God, we nearly got killed! Right here, right now!” Stella was crying. She tentatively tried putting weight on her foot. She breathed hard. “I can walk. Good thing I landed on Lacey. But just let me hold on to you, Nigel. I feel so shaky.”

“That’s right, luv, lean on me. Take it easy. Damned crazy drunk driver. Smithsonian, you in one piece?”

“A drunk?!” Lacey blurted out. “Driving a limo, in the middle of the day in Foggy Bottom?”

This was no accident. The car’s trajectory was deliberate. The Rasta-capped driver who fled around the corner was lithe and quick. Missing the target and running into the awning poles,
that
was an accident; but this was an attempted murder.

Someone just tried to kill me. Or us
.

She was so buzzed from all the coffee she’d drunk at Marie’s and the encounter with the rogue limo that she felt dizzy and nauseous. She sat down on the sidewalk and managed to call Vic and leave a garbled message, just as two D.C. Metropolitan Police cars screamed up Eye Street to block traffic with their lights and sirens.

Stella was on both her feet now, and she grabbed Nigel by both hands. “This is crazy, Nigel. It’s the shawl. It’s after us. Like everything else, and it’s not going to stop till we’re dead. Now I know for sure we can’t go through with this. Maybe your mother can get her deposit back for the reception.”

“Stella! You’re talking crazy. Did you hit your head?” Nigel asked. “Let me see.”

“No.” She jerked her head away. “You don’t get it! We have bad luck! Bad things keep happening to us!”

“That’s life, you know. Like the song. Riding high in April, shot down—”

“It’s not life. It’s us. We’re cursed, you and me.” Stella started to cry again. “I don’t know why. Maybe we, like, burned down a building in a previous life. I know I love you and you saved me, Nigel. Again. And I want you to know that no matter what the shawl says, I do love you.”

“I love you too, luv. Don’t talk nonsense about the freaking shawl.”

“I’m not talking nonsense. And that’s why I can’t marry you, Nigel.”

He looked puzzled, as if he hadn’t heard her right. “Sorry? Maybe I hit
my
head.”

“I can’t marry you, Nigel. If I do, we’ll die. Tell him, Lacey.”

“Stella—” Lacey began.

“Don’t talk rubbish,” Nigel pleaded. “Either of you.”

“I’m not. We can’t get married. We’ll die.” Stella collapsed into Nigel’s arms, sobbing.

Nigel looked desperately to Lacey. “Do something, Smithsonian. She’s out of her mind.”

Lacey didn’t have time to try to help. An officer tapped her shoulder.

“Miss, I’d like to talk with you.”

 * * * 

Missed my deadline,
Lacey thought as she checked her watch.
Mac will not be pleased.

It was after five. It had taken all of Lacey’s remaining working brain cells to discuss the “accident” with the cop. The pungent smell of boxwood wafted from her hands and clothes. Boxwood after a rain smelled like cat pee, though where Lacey had last smelled cat urine she wasn’t sure. She’d never owned a cat. She longed to wash the smell and the dirt and blood off her scraped palms and knees and wondered idly how long before gangrene set in. The exhilaration of
not
being hit had worn off. Exhaustion set in.

She had described over and over to the police what she had seen and experienced, but not the peculiar vibration in the air just before the black limo attack. She suspected D.C. police officers were unsympathetic to reports of “peculiar vibrations.” Lacey’s description of the car’s driver was sketchy, and the patrolman wasn’t terribly impressed by her account of the Rasta hat, sunglasses, and scarf.

After giving their own statements to the young, bored, African-American cop, Stella and Nigel picked up the thread of their argument over whether there should or should not be a wedding. Stella finally marched off into the little park across the street, and Nigel followed. Lacey lacked the energy to referee. On her cell she found a couple of missed calls from Mac and called the office.

“Where the hell have you been, Smithsonian? It’s after deadline,” Mac barked without preamble. “You coming in?”

“Mac. I was nearly run over on Eye Street. Black limo.” She paused. “Missed me, in case you wondered.”

Mac was silent for a moment. Then, “Anything broken?”

“Only my spirit. I finished my Fashion Bite. It’s in the queue.”

There was another pause as Mac checked his editing queue online. She heard movement in the background. “Okay, got it. Magic clothes? Fine, whatever. You’ll be in tomorrow?”

“Barring disaster. And black limos.” Lacey crossed her fingers for luck.

Mac grunted and said, “Stay safe. And alive.” He hung up.

The police finally finished their investigation, and she and Stella were able to clean their scrapes in the ladies’ room of the Arts Club. The soap stung, but Lacey persevered. Looking in the mirror, she noticed a scratch on one cheek and wondered if it would be gone by the wedding day. If there was a wedding. Stella was all cried out and talked out. She had nothing more to say.
A first,
Lacey thought to herself. They hugged and parted at the front door.

“Call me later,” Lacey said, leaving her friend in Nigel’s hands. Stella just nodded.

After the day she’d had, Lacey was afraid if she got on the Metro someone would try to push her onto the tracks. She headed toward Dupont Circle, feeling the soreness starting in her knees, but instead of slowing down, she walked faster. She told herself she wasn’t having a post-traumatic meltdown.
I’m not in shock, I’m just hungry!
She realized she hadn’t eaten since half a cookie at the coffee shop that morning and too much coffee at Marie’s. That was why her hands were shaking, she told herself.

Suddenly she was starved, ravenous. She needed to eat something. She needed Vic. It would be good to have Vic be with her and be in love with her. Very good indeed. Although he was still in meetings with clients and probably had his phone on silent, she called again to leave another message, telling him where to find her, if he should come looking for her.

“If you give me a ride home after dinner,” she added, “you might just get lucky.”

Trio Restaurant at the corner of Seventeenth and Q Streets, east of Dupont Circle, was a classic D.C. hangout. It was always crowded, a good place to go for dinner before heading to the nearby theatres, or after the theatre for a drink. Lacey had already had enough people and more than enough drama for one day, but the busy restaurant seemed comforting to her, despite the noisy crowd. Or maybe because of it.

By the time Vic arrived, she had started on her turkey potpie. She gazed up at him.

“Sorry, I was starving.”

He hovered over her booth, searching her eyes. His green eyes looked troubled, but the rest of him looked delicious. “You do know it’s impossible to park in this neighborhood, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I know.” Lacey smiled. “It’s pretty hard to drive down the sidewalks too.”

“Are you all right?” She nodded and he leaned down and kissed her. He lightly touched the scratch on her face, as gently as he could. “Scoot over. I want to sit next to you. And tell me everything.”

Chapter 13

“Would you recognize the driver if you saw him again?” Vic asked the next morning. He was calmer than he’d been last night when Lacey related the tale about the runaway black limo. Much calmer. Deadly calm.

They stood across the Tidal Basin from the Jefferson Memorial to watch the dawn light playing through the white columns. The sun rose over the eastern horizon behind the Jefferson, illuminating the cherry trees in full bloom around the Tidal Basin and casting long shadows. There was a blizzard of white and pink blossoms. Overhead the sky was streaked pink and lavender, behind bars of dark silver-blue clouds, as if to complement the blossoms. A bright bubble of orange foretold the coming of the day. The scene was as pretty as a postcard, which it might soon be. Artists and photographers were waiting there with their easels, tripods, and cameras for the perfect Washington cherry blossom image.

“Well? The driver? The one who tried to kill you?” he repeated.

“Ah, you had to go and ruin the moment.” Lacey sipped her mocha latte. She wanted to savor this time before work with Vic. She didn’t want to think about yesterday.

“It really would have ruined the moment if that idiot had hit any of you.”

“True.” She nuzzled the face she loved.

Vic looked particularly handsome in the early morning light. He hadn’t shaved yet and the sun glinted off his sunglasses. He was delightfully clad in just-right, just-tight-enough jeans, black shirt, and black leather jacket.

Lacey’s eyes were still puffy from sleep, though also hidden by sunglasses. She’d barely had time to wash her face and swipe some mascara on her lashes. Vic didn’t seem to mind her face bare of makeup—he even seemed to like it, and he’d often told her that she “didn’t need that stuff.”

Well, he’s a man, what does he know?

She had dabbed on extra war paint in his Jeep and felt ready to face the day. Lacey was dressed more casually than usual, navy slacks to cover up the scabs over her knees, a bright green knit top, and a vintage navy check jacket, with her favorite red cardinal pin that had belonged to Aunt Mimi. The air was crisp, so she had grabbed a blue-and-green-paisley shawl and a pair of green gloves for warmth.

He had surprised her with coffee, muffins, and a trip to see the cherry blossoms early in the morning, before the hordes of tourists descended and made it difficult to even walk along the path. Lacey was loath to leave her warm bed, and her knees and elbows were stiff and sore from her fling with the boxwood in front of the Arts Club. Nevertheless, she thought it was a wonderfully romantic gesture on Vic’s part, a reprise of one of their first (unofficial) dates the previous year. And she was slowly waking up, with the rising sun.

Lacey loved the cherry blossoms in the early morning in the early spring. The delicate blossoms appeared—as Stella knew—for only a brief window in time each year. A windstorm or a heavy rain could blow them all away overnight. This year, however, they simply had to last until Saturday for the wedding. If not Stella’s wedding, then someone else’s. Cherry blossom time in Washington was zero hour for so many weddings.

“To answer your question, no. I couldn’t identify him, or her. He was wearing that Rasta hat and those giant sunglasses and the scarf. The thing that bothers me is—I don’t know if that black limo was meant for me, for one of us, or all of us. Or for someone else on the same stretch of sidewalk. But it was deliberate.”

“I’d prefer to think the hit was meant for Nigel, but none of that matters if you and Stella were collateral damage.”

Lacey kissed him. “I love that you care.”

“I’m not kidding, Lacey. And Stella’s hairstylist buddy who died? Leonardo? That and this non-accident are beginning
not
to be a coincidence. As if there was any such thing as a coincidence.”

“Leonardo was poisoned. Maybe. And we were nearly killed by a car. What’s the connection?”

“I don’t know. It’s weird.” He held her close. “Poison is the kind of thing a woman would be more likely to use. Don’t look at me like that, Lacey. I’m not ruling out a man. Statistically, however, death by poison says the killer is a woman, a speeding car says a man. Though again, I’m not ruling out anything. Could have been a woman behind the wheel wearing that Rasta hat.”

“Maybe it’s one of each. In cahoots. Or, how about a Russian shawl, on the rampage?” Lacey offered half seriously. “That’s what Stella thinks.”

“There’s a peculiar kind of insanity that attacks brides, I’ve heard,” Vic said.

“If she
is
a bride this morning. Yesterday she called off the wedding.”

Vic leaned in closer and put an arm around her shoulder. “I don’t want to talk about her wedding. I’d rather talk about
our
wedding. Of course, I’ll be turning the reins over to
you
on that.” She looked at him in alarm. “But I’ll hold off on that subject for a little while longer. I have something for you.”

“Pepper spray? Stun gun? A new Taser, perhaps?”

He reached into an inner pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a small, beautifully wrapped package, silver foil with a blue ribbon. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

“I thought breakfast at the Tidal Basin was my present!”

In fact, Lacey had almost forgotten she was another year older. She had been trying not to publicize the happy event. Ever since she arrived in D.C., she had always tried to walk around the Tidal Basin on her birthday and see the cherry blossoms, as a gift to herself. She hadn’t known how she’d manage to sneak that treat in this year. She was so busy trying to get work squared away and deal with Stella’s wedding.

“How did you know it was my birthday?”

“It’s one of those keen investigative skills of mine. Aren’t you going to open it?”

The ribbon and paper gave way and Lacey gasped at the Movado box. She opened it and found a delicate gold watch with an elegant black face.

“Oh, Vic. It’s beautiful. But it’s too much! I don’t know what to say. Other than it’s way more impressive than my workaday Timex.” She kissed him. “Thank you.”

“Do you like it?”

“I love it.” She held it up to the light.

“I wanted to give you
time
, Lacey. As hard as it is for me. You told me time was what you wanted.”

Time.
She hugged him hard, whispering, “That’s the best thing you could possibly have given me.”

“Maybe not. With all this craziness going on.” He took off his sunglasses. “I know how goosey you are about proposals and weddings. It’s taking all I’ve got not to press you for a date. I want to marry you while we still have time, you know?”

She kissed him and held tight. “I do too. I’m not running away from you, Vic. I just have to get through this week before I can think about anything else.”

“Fair enough. Would you like to try it on?”

“Yes.” She laughed and stuck out her wrist. He opened the watch and buckled the strap. She admired it.

“No pressure about the ring. Well, not a lot of pressure.” He pulled something out of an inner pocket and put it in her hand. “This is from Nadine.”

She opened her hand. “A Saint Christopher medal? From your mother?” It was on a thin gold chain.

“She figures if anyone needs safe traveling, it’s you.”

“That’s very sweet.” She fastened it around her neck. “I’m relieved it wasn’t a handgun.”

“That’ll be her wedding present.”

“Did you tell her about our secret engagement?”

“No, it’s a secret, but you know how suspicious Nadine is. She knows something’s up. Darn it all, Lacey, you’ve danced in and out of danger ever since I came back to Virginia. And before then, you danced in and out of my life.”

Lacey leaned her head on his shoulder. “At least I have a dance partner.”

“Meet me for lunch. I have another surprise for you.”