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Authors: Ellen Byerrum
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really saved Cassandra, but Claudia turned back to the receiving line with a final in struction. “Let’s not cast a pall on this party for everyone else, shall we?”
Lacey was effectively dismissed. She broke from the receiv ing line to retrieve Vic, who’d been watching on the sidelines.
“Everything okay?” He put his arm around her waist. “I’m not supposed to ruin the party with my bad news.”
“Sounds like good advice,” Vic said. “You did what you could, sweetheart. You did good. You might have saved her life.” Lacey nodded and rested her head on his shoulder for a minute. “It’s out of your hands now, anyway, isn’t it?” She pulled away and gazed at him. Concern lit his jade green eyes. “Yes, and it’s not a murder case, so you can’t blame it on me and my alleged magnetformurder thing. Can you?” Vic just smiled. She grabbed his hand and led him in the direction of the open bar. “Come with me, you handsome thing. Who can I show you off to?”
The party rooms were beginning to fill up, but she immedi ately saw one of her least favorite people, Peter Johnson, who pointedly turned away. Johnson was a Capitol Hill reporter whose exalted political beat covering Congress barely con tained his inflated sense of selfimportance. He somehow thought being a Hill mole made him sexy, to Lacey’s mind a psychotic delusion. They had butted heads before.
A glance told her that Peter Johnson was being true to his dweeby Washingtonian fashion sense and dyedinthewool conformist nonconformism. To this formal blacktie event he had worn a brown corduroy jacket, rumpled and stained khaki slacks, a blue denim work shirt, and a violently purpleandred andblue Jerry Garcia tie. Not wearing a tux really sticks it to the Man, dude! And my tie totally rocks the power structure. He had begun wearing his thinning hair in a ponytail. Lacey thought it was a sure sign of an impending midlife crisis.
Johnson skipped the receiving line and strode to the bar right past Lacey and Vic, as if he were expecting someone. Lacey as sumed it was Cassandra Wentworth. She had seen the two of them exchange furtive longing glances, even though they both seemed to have grudges against the world and no idea what to do with any feeling warmer than contempt.
Johnson had always shunned the holiday party as a trivial frivolity, but this year Lacey guessed he was a man with a mis sion: Consume enough free liquor to actually talk to Cassandra. He apparently hoped against all reason she would deign to be there. He shot Lacey a dirty look. She briefly considered telling Johnson about Cassandra, but what was the use? Besides, Clau dia had said to keep it quiet.
“Who is that jerk?” Vic asked. “I don’t like the way he looks at you.”
“That’s sweet of you, darling.” Lacey smiled. “That jerk is Peter Johnson, our Hill reporter. He’s under the mistaken im pression that I’m forever trying to steal his beat. As if.”
“Shall I set him straight?”
She laughed at the thought of Johnson landing flat on his pride in the middle of the floor. “Tempting, but people might stare. And worse, write.”
“Hey, Lacey, Vic!” A loud voice hollered from behind them. She twirled around to see Harlan Wiedemeyer, The Eye ’s “death and dismemberment” reporter, looking like a jolly little elf in a tuxedo that strained across his chest and a bright red cummerbund around his substantial belly. He was carrying a huge candy cane. And on his head, not a Santa cap, but a pair of brown felt reindeer antlers. He pressed the tip of one antler and the ears lit up in a happy blinking antler dance to the tune of “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.” This was just the type of sartorial statement of seasonal cheer that Cassandra Wentworth had been trying to stamp out. If Cassandra weren’t already in the hospital, Lacey mused, Wiedemeyer’s musical antlers would send her there. She felt a stab of guilt. But she didn’t de serve what happened
Lacey was effectively dismissed. She broke from the receiv ing line to retrieve Vic, who’d been watching on the sidelines.
“Everything okay?” He put his arm around her waist. “I’m not supposed to ruin the party with my bad news.”
“Sounds like good advice,” Vic said. “You did what you could, sweetheart. You did good. You might have saved her life.” Lacey nodded and rested her head on his shoulder for a minute. “It’s out of your hands now, anyway, isn’t it?” She pulled away and gazed at him. Concern lit his jade green eyes. “Yes, and it’s not a murder case, so you can’t blame it on me and my alleged magnetformurder thing. Can you?” Vic just smiled. She grabbed his hand and led him in the direction of the open bar. “Come with me, you handsome thing. Who can I show you off to?”
The party rooms were beginning to fill up, but she immedi ately saw one of her least favorite people, Peter Johnson, who pointedly turned away. Johnson was a Capitol Hill reporter whose exalted political beat covering Congress barely con tained his inflated sense of selfimportance. He somehow thought being a Hill mole made him sexy, to Lacey’s mind a psychotic delusion. They had butted heads before.
A glance told her that Peter Johnson was being true to his dweeby Washingtonian fashion sense and dyedinthewool conformist nonconformism. To this formal blacktie event he had worn a brown corduroy jacket, rumpled and stained khaki slacks, a blue denim work shirt, and a violently purpleandred andblue Jerry Garcia tie. Not wearing a tux really sticks it to the Man, dude! And my tie totally rocks the power structure. He had begun wearing his thinning hair in a ponytail. Lacey thought it was a sure sign of an impending midlife crisis.
Johnson skipped the receiving line and strode to the bar right past Lacey and Vic, as if he were expecting someone. Lacey as sumed it was Cassandra Wentworth. She had seen the two of them exchange furtive longing glances, even though they both seemed to have grudges against the world and no idea what to do with any feeling warmer than contempt.
Johnson had always shunned the holiday party as a trivial frivolity, but this year Lacey guessed he was a man with a mis sion: Consume enough free liquor to actually talk to Cassandra. He apparently hoped against all reason she would deign to be there. He shot Lacey a dirty look. She briefly considered telling Johnson about Cassandra, but what was the use? Besides, Clau dia had said to keep it quiet.
“Who is that jerk?” Vic asked. “I don’t like the way he looks at you.”
“That’s sweet of you, darling.” Lacey smiled. “That jerk is Peter Johnson, our Hill reporter. He’s under the mistaken im pression that I’m forever trying to steal his beat. As if.”
“Shall I set him straight?”
She laughed at the thought of Johnson landing flat on his pride in the middle of the floor. “Tempting, but people might stare. And worse, write.”
“Hey, Lacey, Vic!” A loud voice hollered from behind them. She twirled around to see Harlan Wiedemeyer, The Eye ’s “death and dismemberment” reporter, looking like a jolly little elf in a tuxedo that strained across his chest and a bright red cummerbund around his substantial belly. He was carrying a huge candy cane. And on his head, not a Santa cap, but a pair of brown felt reindeer antlers. He pressed the tip of one antler and the ears lit up in a happy blinking antler dance to the tune of “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.” This was just the type of sartorial statement of seasonal cheer that Cassandra Wentworth had been trying to stamp out. If Cassandra weren’t already in the hospital, Lacey mused, Wiedemeyer’s musical antlers would send her there. She felt a stab of guilt. But she didn’t de serve what happened
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