Armed and Glamorous Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Praise for the Crime of Fashion Mysteries

  “Devilishly funny . . . Lacey is intelligent, insightful, and spunky . . . thoroughly likable.” —The Sun (Bremerton, WA)

  "Laced with wicked wit.” —SouthCoastToday.com

  “Byerrum spins a mystery out of (very luxurious) whole cloth with the best of them.” —Chick Lit Books

  “Ellen Byerrum has a hit series on her hands.”

  —The Best Reviews

  "Fun and witty . . . with a great female sleuth.” —Fresh Fiction

  “[A] very entertaining series.”

  —The Romance Reader’s Connection

  Grave Apparel

  “A truly intriguing mystery.” —Armchair Interviews

  “A fine whodunit . . . a humorous cozy.” —The Best Reviews

  “Fun and enjoyable . . . Lacey’s a likable, sassy and savvy heroine, and the Washington, D.C., setting is a plus.”

  —The Romance Reader’s Connection

  “Wonderful.” —Gumshoe

  Raiders of the Lost Corset

  “A hilarious crime caper. . . . Readers will find themselves laughing out loud. . . . Ellen Byerrum has a hit series on her hands with her latest tale.” —The Best Reviews

  “I love this series. Lacey is such a wonderful character . . . .The plot has many twists and turns to keep you turning the pages to discover the truth. I highly recommend this book and series.”

  —Spinetingler Magazine

  “Wow. A simplistic word, but one that describes this book perfectly. I loved it! I could not put it down! . . . Lacey is a scream, and she’s not nearly as wild and funny as some of her friends. The story line twists and turns, sending the reader from Washington, D.C., to France and finally to New Orleans. . . . I loved everything about the book from the characters to the plot to the fast-paced and witty writing.” —Roundtable Reviews

  "Lacey is back, and in fine form . . . .This is probably the most complex, most serious case that Lacey has taken on, but with her upbeat attitude and fine-tuned fashion sense, there’s no one better suited to the task. Traveling with Lacey is both entertaining and dicey, but you’ll be glad you made the trip.”

  —The Romance Reader’s Connection

  Hostile Makeover

  “Byerrum pulls another superlative Crime of Fashion out of her vintage cloche. . . . All these wonderful characters combine with Byerrum’s . . . clever plotting and snappy dialogue to fashion a . . . keep-’em-guessing-’til-the-end whodunit.”

  —Chick Lit Books

  “So much fun.” —The Romance Reader’s Connection

  “The read is as smooth as fine-grade cashmere.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Totally delightful . . . a fun and witty read.” —Fresh Fiction

  Designer Knockoff

  “Byerrum intersperses the book with witty excerpts from Lacey’s ‘Fashion Bites’ columns, such as ‘When Bad Clothes Happen to Good People’ and ‘Thank Heavens It’s Not Code Taupe.’ . . . Quirky . . . interesting plot twists.”

  —The Sun (Bremerton, WA)

  “Clever wordplay, snappy patter, and intriguing clues make this politics-meets-high-fashion whodunit a cut above the ordinary.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Compelling. . . . Lacey is a spunky heroine and is very self-assured as she carries off her vintage looks with much aplomb.”

  —The Mystery Reader

  “A very talented writer with an offbeat sense of humor and talent for creating quirky and eccentric characters that will have readers laughing at their antics.” —The Best Reviews

  Killer Hair

  “[A] rippling debut. Peppered with girlfriends you’d love to have, smoldering romance you can’t resist, and Beltway insider insights you’ve got to read, Killer Hair adds a crazy twist to the concept of ‘capital murder.’ ”

  —Sarah Strohmeyer, Agatha Award-winning author of

  The Sleeping Beauty Proposal

  “Ellen Byerrum tailors her debut mystery with a sharp murder plot, entertaining fashion commentary, and gutsy characters.”

  —Nancy J. Cohen, author of the Bad Hair Day Mysteries

  “Chock-full of colorful, often hilarious characters . . . Lacey herself has a delightfully catty wit. . . . A load of stylish fun.”

  —Scripps Howard News Service

  “Lacey slays and sashays thru Washington politics, scandal, and Fourth Estate slime, while uncovering whodunit, and dunit, and dunit again.” —Chloe Green, author of the Dallas O’Connor Fashion Mysteries

  “Killer Hair is a shear delight.”

  —Elaine Viets, national bestselling author of

  Murder Unleashed

  Other Crime of Fashion Mysteries by Ellen Byerrum

  Killer Hair

  Designer Knockoff

  Hostile Makeover

  Raiders of the Lost Corset

  Grave Apparel

  OBSIDIAN

  Published by New American Library, a division of

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  First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

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  First Printing, July 2008

  Copyright © Ellen Byerrum, 2008

  All rights reserved

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  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  eISBN : 978-1-4406-2992-1

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Some years ago, when I was happily laid off from a miserable job, I mentioned to a friend that I had always thought it would be fun to see what being a private investigator was all about. That free-spirited friend and fellow playwright, Barbara McConagha, dared me to do it and promised that if I found a course, she would take it with me. In the Commonwealth of Virginia, successfully completing a state-certified course is the basic requirement for becoming a PI. I located a school in Northern Virginia, and off Barbara and I went to study the art and craft of private investigation. We learned the federal and state laws, failed a vehicle surveillance exercise (and passed on the remedial exam), fired handguns at the range, listened attentively (and otherwise) in class, and, of course, gathered lots of material for later works of fiction. It was a great experience, and I’d like to thank Barbara publicly for making that dare and taking that class with me. A bit of that material might have made it into this book, as part of Lacey’s experiences in taking her PI course.

  Thanks also go to PI Howard Miller for his patience and information through the years and for letting me return again and again to take those in-service classes. Any errors in the art and craft of being a private investigator are, of course, my own.

  Many thanks go to my friend Lloyd Rose for listening to me throughout writing this book and assuring me yet again that I would live through it. Thanks also to my friend Jay Farrell, for reassuring me that the more arduous the book writing process, the better the book.

  I would also like to thank my editor, Anne Bohner, and Liza Schwartz, and my agents Donald Maass and Cameron McClure.

  Finally, there are not enough words to describe the love and loyalty that my husband Bob Williams has always shown during the process of writing my books. He is my best friend, my champion, my critic, my supporter. I am eternally grateful.

  Chapter 1

  NO LOADED WEAPONS IN THE CLASSROOM.

  The handwritten notice was the first thing that caught her attention as she strolled into class one blustery Saturday morning in January. Lacey Smithsonian, fashion reporter for The Eye Street Observer, took a seat at a table in the front row. The warning notice was taped to the classroom door, and it made her wonder. Were loaded weapons an everyday problem here? Was someone likely to draw a loaded pistol in the middle of a lecture and shoot himself in the foot? Or worse, her foot? Was taking this class such a good idea after all?

  “No loaded weapons? Is that sign really necessary?” Lacey pointed to the door.

  The instructor sat at the desk at the front of the room, reading The Washington Times, the District of Columbia’s only conservative daily newspaper. He took his time before looking up at Lacey. He put down his newspaper and sized her up. A big guy, Bud Hunt was rumpled, crumpled, and cranky, but he was a bona fide private investigator, and he was the class instructor.

  “Like this one?” He smoothly drew a large black pistol from the back of his waistband, dropped the clip to unload it, racked the slide and locked it open, and set it down on the desk in front of him.

  Lacey nodded. “Like that.”

  “Nah, y’all can bring your guns to class here.” There was general laughter from the other students taking their seats. “I just have to post the notice for liability. Insurance. Just don’t shoot anybody in my class, okay? You plan to shoot somebody, take it outside.” Hunt slipped the clip into his pocket, reholstered his now unloaded pistol, and stood up.

  “Everybody locked and loaded?” More laughter. “If you haven’t guessed already, I’m Bud Hunt. You’re whoever you are, so let’s get this show on the road.”

  So this is Bud Hunt, Lacey thought. Vic warned her the guy was a character. Hunt passed around an attendance sheet for them to sign. There were nearly a dozen students in this class of wannabe PIs, mostly men, a couple of women, one Lacey Smithsonian.

  The room was chilly, but Hunt didn’t seem to feel it. He wore a thin blue work shirt with the sleeves rolled up to display his well-muscled arms. On his wrist was a large watch with a round, complicated-looking face. He clipped his cell phone to his belt like a gun. When it buzzed he looked at it, pressed a button, and reholstered it like his pistol. Hunt proceeded to spell out the whys and wherefores of the first session.

  “Gumshoe 101,” he called it. His welcoming speech seemed designed to discourage them from ever coming back. They had signed up for sixty hours of class—every weekday evening for two weeks—plus all day for two Saturdays and another half day to wrap it all up. Hunt made it sound like boot camp. Someone behind Lacey tried to lighten the mood with another question. Was private investigation just like the movies, he asked, and would they have exotic clients?

  “Like the movies? Oh, yeah, it’s just like the movies.” Hunt laughed. “And your clients? Let me tell you something about the clients in this business. Most of them come to you because they have really screwed up their lives.” He looked his students in the eye, enjoying his well-practiced speech. “Give them half a chance and they will screw up your life too. Never trust the client. Some are okay, but some are lunatics, and you never know who’s who. And that’s the fun part.”

  Hunt paced the room right past Lacey, but he looked over her head and directed his remarks to the male students in class. That was all right with her. She wasn’t there to be the center of attention. Hunt had already had some fun at her expense. She knew that was all right too, for the moment. Always better to let them start by underestimating you. Her notebook was open, but the page was still blank. She was waiting for the good stuff.

  “I’ve had clients try to burn me, break my cover, just to see if they could do it,” Hunt continued with relish. “Idiots. They try to follow you on surveillance, try to show they can outsmart you, like they could do your job for you.” He allowed himself a small smile. “Then they want to be a big shot. They tell people how they ‘put a private eye on the case,’ people who should not even know there is a case. The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker. And maybe the drug dealer next door. Your clients share it with the world, somebody blows your cover, and then they say, ‘Well, I didn’t tell nobody!’ ” He shook his head. “You warn them if they want this investigation to be a secret, then they damn well better keep it a secret. And then you got other kinds of trouble.”

  Hunt was just getting warmed up. He rubbed his hands together. “Female trouble. Maybe the client is a woman. She’s screwed up her life, usually with a little help from a man or two. Or ten. Maybe she’s in a nasty divorce. She’s vulnerable to you, because you’re helping her. You’re vulnerable to her, because you’re a moron. She’s your damsel in distress, you’re her knight in shining armor. Instant romantic entanglement. She thinks she’s in love. She thinks it’s an old movie and she’s Lauren Bacall and you’re Bogart. But she is not Bacall—she’s big trouble. And take it from me, buddy, you’re no Bogey.”

  Lacey suppressed a smile. Bud Hunt was definitely no Bogey. He was an ex-cop and he looked like one. Lacey mused that Hunt
might be somewhere between his early forties or early fifties; it was hard to tell. He had muscular arms and broad shoulders—a hard guy gone a little soft around the middle and thinning on top, brown going on gray. He looked like he’d had a rough life, but he’d held his own. A man’s man.

  But something about him was compelling. His eyes were large and deep brown and seemed to hold some rough wisdom. His eyes, she decided, could make a woman look twice at him.

  Lacey Smithsonian was enrolled in private detective school at Hunt Country Security Specialists in Falls Church, Virginia. They offered state-certified training classes in private investigation, their Web site proclaimed, also training in corporate and personal security, personal protection and bodyguard services, civil process serving, and firearms and self-defense. Hunt Country Security seemed to be principally Bud Hunt. The classrooms were in Hunt’s offices on Little Falls Street just off West Broad Street, on the ground floor of a faux-colonial building, red brick with white wooden shutters and trim. Five steps down from the back door on the left side of the building, the small tasteful brass plaque read HUNT COUNTRY SECURITY SPECIALISTS, INC. A less tasteful handwritten sign inside the door said PI CLASS DOWN THE HALL, SECOND RIGHT.

  The place was small, but not cozy. Lacey glimpsed a reception area, a couple of offices, and a conference room. A tiny kitchenette squeezed in between the reception area and the first office. The décor, complete with dead and dying plants, might be called “gunpowder and testosterone.” The oatmeal-colored walls were plastered with the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, the Second Amendment to the Bill of Rights, well-used paper pistol targets, a large picture of Osama bin Laden drilled full of bullet holes, and class schedules. Lacey caught the faint aroma of gun oil and gunpowder on the air. The oatmeal and beige and brown blended into a bland any-office-anywhere-USA decor. Any office anywhere, Lacey thought. Plus bullets.

  Inside the classroom, battered metal and faux-wood tables made a lazy horseshoe facing Bud Hunt’s desk. Looking around, Lacey saw no fresh young, dewy-eyed college grads seeking a career as a private investigator. Instead, there were not quite a dozen tired-eyed midcareer working Joes and Janes, each seemingly looking for something new, a break, a change of pace and place.