Hostile Makeover by Ellen Byerrum

find me.’ ”
    “That’s it?”
    “He never did like writing.”
    “His body hasn’t been found,” Lacey pointed out.
    “Don’t be an idiot,” Amanda cried, tired of the subject. “Of course he’s dead, somewhere in the mountains of West Virginia. He said we’d never find him.”
    There’s a location at any rate, Lacey thought. If his bones haven’t been picked clean. She needed a breath of fresh air. “Where in the mountains?” Amanda merely stared at Lacey and crossed her arms. “Has anyone searched for him? Who has the note? Do you have a copy of it?”
    “I’m not talking about him anymore. Caleb is dead and I’m alive. This is about me. ”
    “But there’s no chance that he’s alive?” Lacey pressed.
    “I told you! What kind of dumb-ass reporter are you? I’m offering you a great story, a story that could make your career and what do you do? Dwell on the past and unimportant details.” An ugly expression crossed her face. “So what are you going to do? Are you going to help me?”
    Lacey wondered if she should tell Amanda what she really thought, but she was fed up with the Frankendiva’s nonsense. “Let’s see. You’ve sneered at my clothes, scoffed at my newspaper, called me an idiot, and demanded my help to solve a murder that hasn’t happened yet. It simply doesn’t bode well for a long-term relationship, Ms. Manville.”
    Amanda seemed to be, for a moment at a loss for words. Zoe looked stricken.
    “Oh, and you don’t care if I write a story about your designs, only your paranoia,” Lacey continued. “So I think we’re done here.”
    She heard snickers from Yvette and a booming laugh from Tate Penfield.
    “What! Lacey Smithsonian! You’re worse than all the rest of them. They’re just incompetent. You of all people could help me, and you just quibble over trivialities.” She turned and swept regally toward the door, leaving Lacey to calmly close her notebook. Amanda turned around to make a parting shot from the doorway. “Reporters! I hate you all!” Then she was gone.
    Lacey reached for her mug of tea. It was cold. I guess there’s no point in asking Fawn for a warm-up.
    Zoe exchanged a look with Yvette. “Do you want to go after her?”
    “Why should I? The whore slept with my husband. Not that she had to force herself on him.” She clicked off on her stilettos in the opposite direction. So it was up to Zoe, once again, to smooth things over for Amanda. It seemed to be Zoe’s main job, besides designing the collection. She tossed a look at Lacey and said, “That really wasn’t necessary.”
    “It really was,” Lacey said. “I’ve had my fill of insults today.”
    Lacey caught Tate Penfield’s eye. He smiled and started packing up his cameras. Lacey picked up a petit four. No use letting this go to waste, she thought, closing her eyes and popping a small piece of nirvana in her mouth. She opened her eyes to see Brad Powers sitting opposite her on the ghastly gray chair that Amanda had abandoned.
    “She’s been under a lot of strain lately,” he said.
    Lacey could feel her eyebrow lift of its own accord. “Yvette or Amanda?”
    He colored slightly and turned his baby blues on her. “Both, actually. They’re old friends with a big misunderstanding.”
    “They seem to understand each other perfectly.” He’s worrying about what I’ll write, Lacey thought, and looked at her fountain pen. Such a small yet interesting weapon.
    “Let’s just say Amanda’s fears are a little hyper, and my wife is a little too eager to listen to idle gossip.”
    Lacey had seen Powers exchange a guilty look with Amanda.
    “So no one wants to kill Amanda? Why on earth not?”
    He laughed, then sobered quickly. “No, no one really wants to kill her, that I know of. But she has a real talent for cranking up the tension.”
    “Is this stalker any threat?”
    Powers shrugged. “She’s got bodyguards around the clock.”
    “And do you think Collingwood is dead? Did she