Hostile Makeover by Ellen Byerrum Page A

kill him?”
    “Your guess is as good as mine.”
    Lacey gathered up her things, feeling at a loss for something to write that wouldn’t sound like a bad episode of Days of Our Lives . Of course, there were always the clothes.
    “You won’t mention her crazy idea, will you, Amanda? I mean, that she’s going to die?”
    “I’ll certainly do a story on the clothes. But I try not to write about imaginary events that haven’t happened, tempting as it is. It’s not sensible reporting.”
    “Good. I knew you were a sensible reporter.” Powers smiled with relief, and Lacey felt her eyebrow shoot up again.
    Ha. He obviously doesn’t know me very well. Would a sensible Washington reporter be caught dead in my fabulous vintage suit? Then she remembered that being “sensible” was part of her new Lacey’s Love-life Makeover Plan. A little more sense and sensibility in her life wouldn’t kill her.
    Besides, Lacey thought, I promised Vic: No more dead bodies. At least not until Halloween.

Chapter 7
    She hoped that Turtledove would be willing to give her the bodyguard’s intimate perspective.
    Lacey didn’t have a chance to chat with him at Snazzy Jane’s, where his job was to keep the diva in one piece. And it would be difficult to ask him right in front of Amanda whether she was a complete lunatic or if there was some truth to her fears.
    However, Lacey hated the idea of calling the one person who would know how she could get ahold of the big guy. That would be his friend Damon Newhouse, editor of the dreaded Conspiracy Clearinghouse Web site, DeadFed dot com, who sensationalized everything and jumped to wacky conclusions at the drop of an e-mail. He was a cyberspace scribe, but he had the soul of a gonzo jazz-age journalist. Lacey visualized him with his press card in his porkpie hat shoved back on his hallucinating forehead. For DeadFed, it didn’t matter whether the story was true; what really mattered was the creepy way it turned your world upside down. Back at her desk, she sent him a brief e-mail. She got back an immediate phone call.
    “Smithsonian, what’s up? Must be serious if you’re calling me. Dodging any more errant doughnut signs? Lightning strikes, and Smithsonian is there. That’s why I admire you so.”
    “Can the flattery. About Turtledove’s phone number . . .”
    “I understand you took a ride with your office jinx, guy named Wiedemeyer? I hear trouble follows him like an angry ex-wife with a bounced alimony check.”
    “It hasn’t gotten him yet. And hello to you too, Damon. And before you publish that I’ve captured the beauty secrets of an alien bigfoot, let me state for the record that this call is nothing serious. Just fashion, fashion, fashion. Girly stuff.”
    “It’s never just fashion with you. I grant that it doesn’t always come with dead bodies, not daily, anyway. But there’s always sub-text. What is it now and how soon can I post it on my Web site?”
    Lacey groaned, put her head down on her desk, and smacked the phone three times before she protested into the receiver, “Really. It’s a fashion story, Damon.”
    “Okay, sure, fashion. If you say so. But I like the beautiful-alien-bigfoot angle.”
    “They’re shy because they just can’t do a thing with their fur. Trust me; there’s no story,” she said. “Just a crime of fashion.”
    “Everything is a crime of fashion in this town. Did you see my piece on DeadFed about tiny microchips they’re implanting in your clothes that tell the government where you shop—”
    Almost any idea, no matter how tame, could transport Damon Newhouse to a state of inspired delusion. Lacey would like to blow him off, but he was in love with her friend, Brooke Barton, also a devotee of the grand conspiracy theory. The love-struck duo knew every rumor of a conspiracy behind every bush, down every alley, and, of course, in any dimly lit parking garage in the District of Columbia. Lacey couldn’t fathom the appeal of this stuff,