Armed and Glamorous Page 5

  Detective Tom Jance was tall and thin, but muscular, with sandy blond hair, sable brown eyes, and fuzzy eyelashes. In his early thirties, she guessed, about her own age. The boy next door who just happens to be a cop. Jance had an open face, but the circles under his eyes made him look tired. He wore khaki slacks, a yellow knit shirt, and a brown jacket. Lacey noticed his bare ring finger, but only as a practiced reflex. She wasn’t looking for a man.

  He’d been watching the game at home, Jance said. Lacey had no idea what game he was talking about. Football, perhaps. He certainly seemed sorry to have left it. She murmured something sympathetic.

  “I have just a few questions, Ms. Smithsonian.”

  “Shoot,” she said. Oops. That was insensitive. “Sorry.”

  He smiled. “No problem. I understand you’re a reporter? ” His nostrils flared. “I’d appreciate it if I don’t see this conversation played out in tomorrow’s paper.” Detective Jance was obviously not familiar with her byline, or her previous brushes with crime.

  “I’m a fashion reporter,” she said, and he relaxed. Lacey didn’t exactly promise not to write anything. She remembered again that she hadn’t alerted her own newsroom yet. There goes my scoop. So much for me getting off the fashion beat at The Eye.

  Lacey confirmed to the detective that she and the others, except for Hunt and Kepelov, had been in class all morning, that she hadn’t been outside since she arrived, that the Jaguar hadn’t been there when she parked, and that she knew nothing about the shooting. He wrote it all down. This is going well, she thought.

  “Did you know Cecily Ashton?” he asked, poised to tick one more item off his list. “Other than by her reputation, I mean.”

  “Actually, yes. I interviewed her last week.”

  Detective Jance sat up a little straighter in his high chair. He was suddenly a little more interested. His eyes narrowed and he looked a whole lot less friendly.

  Well, it was going well. She braced herself.

  “You interviewed her? What for?”

  “For my newspaper. The Eye Street Observer.”

  “What did you interview her about?” The detective scowled at her. He picked up a small blue stress ball from Hunt’s desk and tossed it from hand to hand.

  “Her clothes,” Lacey said. “You know, fashion reporter? Part of the job description.”

  “Her clothes?” He seemed dumbfounded. He glanced at his shirt and jacket and back to her. “Why?”

  There is no hope for the clothing clueless, she decided.

  “Cecily Ashton was famous for her wardrobe,” Lacey explained patiently. “Among other things. She has an incredible collection of haute couture from famous designers all over the world, and some amazing vintage pieces that are quite valuable. Museum quality stuff.” He still looked skeptical. “My interview will be in tomorrow’s paper. With photos. The big Sunday edition, you know.” You can read all about it in The Eye Street Observer.

  “Well, then, Ms. Smithsonian, can you tell me about her state of mind? From your fashion reporter’s point of view, of course.”

  Her state of mind? “You think it was suicide? Did you find the gun?”

  “Can’t say, ma’am. The crime scene guys are going over her car right now. But can you tell me if she was depressed? Despondent?”

  “Depressed?” Lacey shrugged. “She was unhappy about her divorce, but that was a while ago, and she just won a huge settlement. It was in all the papers. She was making plans to exhibit her collection, she was pretty excited about that.”

  “Did you hear the gunshot?”

  She shook her head. “No. The classroom doesn’t face the parking lot. The only thing I heard was the garbage truck. Very screechy.”

  “Could have masked the sound of gunshots.” He nodded. “Shooter uses the truck as noise cover, could have tossed the gun in it. Very neat.” He was taking notes. “Rich lady— motive could be robbery.”

  “It was murder?” Lacey pressed.

  “That hasn’t been determined. She’s just dead. I’m just thinking.”

  “Whoever it was left a fifty-thousand-dollar purse on the seat.”

  “Excuse me?” His expression left no doubt that he thought Lacey was crazy. He didn’t believe for a minute that a handbag could cost as much as a car. “Anything else?”

  “Cecily was still a little upset about the break-in.”

  “The break-in? What break-in?” This guy really wasn’t up to speed, Washington crime-wise. Detective Jance put the stress ball away and jotted down a note, but for all Lacey could tell he was writing a grocery list. More beer for the big game. “Please continue.”

  At least he said “please.” “There was a burglary at her house a few weeks ago. It was in the papers too.” To be fair, it was a three-paragraph brief and it failed to mention football. “But that wasn’t what my story was about. I’m not the police reporter. I was there to see her clothes and house and closets and get her personal take on owning such a fabulous collection. The break-in was just a footnote.”

  The break-in was odd, however. Cecily told her there were only a few things stolen, the most unusual being a one-of-a-kind makeup case, a piece designed by Louis Vuitton for Rita Hayworth in the 1940s. It also featured a hidden compartment for a fabulously expensive pearl necklace that belonged to the movie star. The thief knew exactly what he was looking for. Why only those things, Lacey wondered, when one of Cecily’s couture ball gowns alone could cost $100,000 and a couture blouse $10,000, not to mention the array of Hermés bags? Yet none of her clothes had been taken.

  The detective jotted down a few more notes. Lacey thought about her meeting with Cecily Ashton. She tried to remember everything Cecily said to her, suitably filtered for this detective. She didn’t tell him Cecily wanted to join the class of big-moneyed, tough-minded, pearl-wearing women who directed the society agenda in Washington, D.C., women like Eye Street Observer publisher Claudia Darnell. Cecily planned to reenter Washington society, now that she had her big financial settlement. But Lacey thought there was something about Cecily that was too wounded and hesitant to allow her to really become one of them.

  Lacey also failed to mention to Detective Jance that she’d taped the interview. The tape was in her desk at the newsroom. Why bother this clueless detective with extraneous details? He obviously had no interest in fashion matters. Or fashion clues. Her stomach growled, and she wondered if she’d ever get to go to lunch. Are we through now?

  Detective Jance put down his notes. His boy-next-door face was assuming that hardened, skeptical-cop look she knew so well.

  “So you knew the deceased. What a coincidence. Why don’t you start from the beginning, Ms. Smithsonian?”

  Oh, who needs lunch anyway.

  Chapter 6

  It was Claudia’s idea. The feature story on Cecily Ashton’s wardrobe had been suggested to Lacey by Eye Street publisher Claudia Darnell. When Claudia suggested a topic, it was a suggestion in the same way Moses brought the “Ten Suggestions” down from the mountain carved in stone. Claudia’s suggestions were orders from on high, pleasantly issued and charmingly phrased, but orders nonetheless.

  Lacey didn’t need any persuading to interview Cecily Ashton. A scandal-plagued socialite with a fabulous house and legendary closets? Plus, it was a great excuse to get out of the office on a winter’s day.

  Although Lacey was sick and tired of the fashion beat, she would never pass up a chance to view sartorial bounty of such mythic proportions. With some two thousand outfits in Cecily Ashton’s capacious closets, the woman could get dressed for nearly two years, averaging three outfits per day, without repeating a look. It was a rarefied art collection, with unique pieces from all over the world, and to view them Lacey had only to travel to the lovely Foxhall Road in extreme Northwest Washington, D.C.

  Part of the appeal of the collection was its diversity. Cecily Ashton didn’t have a clearly defined style, like Jacqueline Kennedy’s, the clean simple lines and geometric shapes of t
he early 1960s, or Grace Kelly, whose elegant wardrobe, two parts glamour, one part fantasy, one hundred percent class, was fashioned by the best Hollywood designers. Cecily wasn’t quite a star, she was more like an ambitious Hollywood starlet—but with a big star’s budget. She wore whatever her stylist of the moment suggested, and like any starlet, she had made some fabulous missteps. Like the Versace minidress with far too much cleavage she barely wore to a formal dinner at the White House. Gossip columnists quipped that her dress was smaller than her dinner napkin.

  In addition to her vast array of tarty modern clothes, Cecily had a knockout collection of vintage Chanel, Christian Dior, and even, it was rumored, some items by Madame Grès, “The Sphinx,” the famed French designer of the Forties who made magic by draping and pleating her folds of material. There were Diors and Balmains, ball gowns by Balenciaga, dresses by Oscar de la Renta, Armani, and Marc Jacobs.

  Hoping to make up some lost ground in Washington society, Cecily was lending a portion of this collection to Washington’s new Bentley Museum of American Fashion. Some three hundred designer outfits and their accessories would be on exhibit for six months, beginning the first of February. After all her public faux pas, Cecily was notoriously skittish with the press, but she and Claudia Darnell were neighbors and ran in some of the same social circles. Claudia suggested doing a feature on her collection over cocktails at some gala or another, and Cecily eagerly agreed. Ms. Darnell, a master of post-scandal PR, promised to time the feature to publicize the museum exhibit.

  Lacey surmised that in some ways the two women, Darnell and Ashton, were kindred spirits. Claudia Darnell had once been a spurned Other Woman, the notorious blonde in a forgotten politician’s Capitol Hill sex scandal. She was publicly shamed and shunned, but she vowed she would be back. Claudia was smart and tenacious and burning with ambition, and she wrote a bestselling tell-all book. With some smart investments she made a lot of money, and she returned to the Capital City in triumph and bought herself a newspaper. The media: If you can’t beat ’em, buy ’em. Now everyone took her calls.

  Lacey’s interview fit neatly into Cecily’s new public relations strategy. Exhibiting her collection was a coup for the Fashion Museum, and the interview was a coup for The Eye. Not even the Washington Post had snagged a one-on-one interview with the now-elusive Cecily Ashton. But then The Post had made far too much of that notorious Versace miniskirt fiasco. That was before Lacey had even started at The Eye, or she might have made the same mistake.

  The feature article should be a piece of cake, a guided tour of the legendary closets, a peek at Ashton Hall, one of the most fabulous Foxhall mansions, which Cecily had won in her nasty divorce. Lacey hoped Cecily would dish: About her famous ex-husband, for example, or her notorious “bottom dance” on the hood of that Washington, D.C., police cruiser, and possibly her revolving-door, Euro-trash boyfriends. Girl talk.

  As Lacey peered into her own tiny dark closet that morning, all she could think about was the incredible luxury of having a closet the size of her entire apartment. She finally pulled out her best black wool slacks, her vintage Bentley jacket, the one with the jeweled button covers, and her black Ferragamo heels. Nobody expected a reporter to dress well for an interview, but Lacey liked to show respect for herself as well as her source. If you can’t dress up to see the best closets in Washington, you might as well stay in bed in your silk nightgown. It was time to dress up.

  But not for “Long-Lens” Hansen, her favorite staff photographer. Hansen wore his usual faded blue jeans and shabby navy sweater, countless press ID cards on a metal chain, and at least twenty pounds of cameras and lenses. No one made Hansen dress up.

  At Ashton Hall, the housekeeper swung open the carved wooden front doors to the immense French country-style house. She ushered them into a library off the main hall decorated in creamy yellow and pale blue. Lacey was admiring the Monet over the mantel when Cecily popped in to greet them warmly.

  She was deliberately casual in expensive blue jeans, bare feet, and an oversized gray cashmere sweater. She wore minimal makeup, and her luxurious dark hair was left long and loose. Around her neck she wore a spectacular choker of freshwater pearls. She was rarely photographed without pearls. In the right light she could pass for years younger than her official thirty-nine. While Lacey and Cecily chatted, tea and tiny sandwiches arrived on a tray. Lacey declined the sandwiches, but took the tea. Hansen wolfed down half a dozen sandwiches and asked for a Coke.

  “Only my closest friends have ever seen my closets,” Cecily was saying. She turned her dazzling smile on Hansen. “So let’s all be friends, shall we?” Hansen glanced at Lacey, eyes wide, as if to say, Don’t leave me alone with her, dude! Cecily struck her as a woman who instinctively seduced the nearest camera and whoever was behind it, but then most women responded to Hansen’s shaggy blond hair and easy-going surfer-boy charm. If Cecily opened up to The Eye’s long, tall photographer, Lacey was fine with that—as long as she was around to catch it on tape. Whoever charmed whom, Hansen’s photos from that day were unusually warm and intimate.

  Lacey and Hansen followed Cecily up the wide central stairway to the second floor’s master suite and the connected boudoir. They paused on the landing to admire the view of the wide wooden staircase, the colorful oriental runner, and the grand entry hall to the house.

  Cecily stopped for a moment in the hall at a double door with crystal doorknobs. The wood gleamed and the knobs twinkled. She explained that her closets could be entered through either the master bedroom or the long hallway. She had worked with the contractors and architects to achieve the proper look, “elegant, but comfortable, and definitely not stuffy.” She turned to smile at them slyly, and then she threw the doors open wide with a flourish. They entered a wonder-land, an adult woman’s dress-up playground.

  Just like my closet, Lacey thought. Times a million. Cecily’s closets were a luxurious labyrinth, full of couture dresses and designer skirts and pants and hats and bags and shoes and thousands of vintage accessories. The so-called closets were as large as bedrooms, which they were before the renovation. Closet was not even the right word, Lacey decided. They were fully furnished dressing rooms that happened to be lined wall to wall and floor to ceiling with fabulous clothes and full-length mirrors.

  The first dressing room was casual. Cashmere and silk sweaters neatly folded on shelves took up one entire wall, enough to stock a boutique. It led to another connected room and then another, each dedicated to a season or time of day, each with its own color scheme and theme. Several were reserved for evening wear, sorted by period, by designer, and by the occasion on which the dress or outfit had been worn. Usually only once.

  “I don’t want people to think I’m crazy,” Cecily was saying. “Really, this is an art collection. My personal wearable art collection, with so many wonderful one-of-a-kind pieces. I feel sometimes as if I’m just their curator, not their owner.” Lacey was enthralled. Judging from the expression on Hansen’s face, he’d stopped listening at the word crazy.

  The largest dressing room was nearly as large as Lacey’s living room. It smelled sweetly of lavender and linen. Cream-colored walls with peach accents behind the mirrors created a flattering backdrop for the clothes. Cecily proudly demonstrated the special lighting system. With a flip of a switch, she could see her chosen outfit in an approximation of bright or cloudy daylight, or various indoor lighting schemes for evening. A floor-to-ceiling three-way mirror filled one corner.

  It was exactly the closet Lacey would have herself, she thought, if she were Queen of the Universe. Sadly, when last she checked, she was not. Aside from the many racks of clothes, custom-fitted cabinets, and specialized shelves and drawers to accommodate every manner of accessory, Lacey was dazzled by an enormous crystal chandelier that hung from the ceiling. She had seen one very similar to it in the Russell Senate Office Building, in a hearing presided over by Senator Ted Kennedy. The hearing had been so dull she’d spent part of the afternoon admiring t
he chandelier, and this could have been its little sister. Light from the Swarovski crystals was reflected in the gold-framed mirrors on every wall. Angels might change their robes in such a room, Lacey thought.

  In the center of the room, beneath the chandelier, was a soft blue velvet sofa with generous padded seats. It invited you to sit down and breathe in the pure scent of unadulterated luxury. A deep pile cream-colored Chinese rug covered much of the floor, with a border of flowers that picked up the accent colors. Lacey imagined herself luxuriating there to ponder life’s most vexing problem: What will I wear tomorrow?

  An armchair in a white silk striped fabric was angled near it, obviously for one’s best friend or stylist to offer expert advice. Lacey found it almost impossible to imagine a man, at least any straight man of her acquaintance, in this setting. Hansen was gaping open-mouthed like a fish out of water.

  Cecily perched perfectly at ease on the edge of the sofa and demonstrated the sound system. Speakers were mounted invisibly in the walls behind the clothes racks, and the electronics were hidden behind double-door cabinets. She pressed a button on a remote and Vivaldi’s Four Seasons began to play softly. She pressed another and a closet within a closet clicked open like a safe. It held Cecily’s priceless jewelry collection and her most valuable accessories.

  “That’s where Rita’s makeup case was stored,” Cecily said wistfully. Apparently she was on a first-name basis with the late movie star, Ms. Hayworth. Cecily pointed to a recessed shelf inside the inner closet. It had been built to display the famous makeup case Louis Vuitton had made especially for Rita.

  “Philip gave me the Vuitton makeup case when we were first married,” Cecily said. “I don’t know where he found it. He said my smile was like Rita Hayworth’s. He was so sweet to me back then. And because Philip thought he looked like the younger Orson Welles and had more money than Prince Aly Khan—those were two of Rita’s husbands, you know—he said I deserved something just as special as Rita Hayworth did. It was charming and romantic and silly of him, but it was very sweet. It was such a beautiful thing. Of course, I never thought he looked like Orson Welles.”