Remember that,” Radford said, turning away. Apparently he’d used up all his charm. And Lacey’s patience.
She marched decisively toward the door. Unfortunately, Polly Parsons, Stylettos’ promotion coordinator, blocked her way. Polly called Lacey at least once a week with some new promotional pitch and always spoke in a breathless rush. For example: “Have you heard? Short bobs with frosted highlights are in style! Isn’t that great?” Today she was blathering on about some fashion show. “Lacey, have you heard? Stylettos is doing the hair for the Sizzle in the City fashion show! Isn’t that great?”
Stella had reported that Polly was currently sleeping with Ratboy. Stella was also spreading the rumor that Polly was a charter member of the Condom of the Month Club. “They send a case of assorted rubbers in different sizes, shapes, and colors every month. I swear!”
Lacey edged around the towering woman: Six feet and thirty-one years of aggressively self-involved female. Polly had a great figure, but a weirdly androgynous face. She dressed in thigh-high skirts to keep attention focused on her legs. She was exquisitely lacquered, perfumed, and hair sprayed. However, in spite of all her efforts at exaggerated femininity, Polly managed to look like a man in drag.
“Send me a press release, Polly. Gotta go.”
“It’s a great cause, Lacey. The proceeds go to . . . umm, something to do with kids, but it’s fantastic and totally politically correct, so you don’t have to worry about anything. I mean, there’s no fur in the show or child labor or sweatshops or anything like that. Nothing depressing. I don’t think. I’m pretty sure.”
“That’s so interesting, Polly.” Lacey was looking for an out. The hulking promo maven was crowding her against the wall.
“Lacey, I really want to know what you think of my hair. Should I cut it?” It would have been curious that Polly did not even allude to the deceased at the funeral reception, but Polly always managed to turn the conversation to her favorite subject: herself. She was busy flipping her locks hither and yon. She wore a long bob, a variation of the Washington Frosted Helmet Head, medium brown with silvery blond highlights. Lacey thought it was standard D.C. issue, although it looked thick and healthy.
“Do you think I should change it? Because I just don’t know. And you are such an expert! I never know what to do with it.” She asked Lacey the same thing every time she saw her. Thankfully, Stella arrived, carrying a refilled plate.
“It gives you so much grief, Polly, I think you should just shave your head,” Stella said. Polly opened her eyes all the way. “Yeah, bald as a billiard ball. I’d be happy to wield the razor. My treat.”
“Well, Stella, I guess you’d be the expert on bald heads, wouldn’t you?” They glared at each other, Polly towering over the petite but pugnacious Stella. Lacey interrupted them.
“Polly, did you know Angie Woods? What do you think happened that night?”
“Happened? To Angie?” Polly seemed stumped. “When?”
“The night she died.”
“Died? Oh, wow, I better talk to Boyd.” Polly promised to send Lacey information on the fashion show and stomped off in her enormous red patent leather high heels. Stella guided Lacey back to the table.
“That bitch. I swear I’ll deck her someday.”
“Don’t forget your slingshot, little David. Can we go now?” Lacey asked.
But they were joined by Jamie Towers, one of Stella’s coworkers at the Dupont Circle salon. Jamie was all bouncy curls and perky personality, which couldn’t be masked by too much black eyeliner and purple nails. She bubbled in spite of herself and seemed younger than her twenty-four years. It could have been the multicolored hair, light brown striped with shades of bright orange and clown red.
“Stella, you were so fabulous! It’s like you think someone killed Angie and she so didn’t do it to herself, but like the cops
She marched decisively toward the door. Unfortunately, Polly Parsons, Stylettos’ promotion coordinator, blocked her way. Polly called Lacey at least once a week with some new promotional pitch and always spoke in a breathless rush. For example: “Have you heard? Short bobs with frosted highlights are in style! Isn’t that great?” Today she was blathering on about some fashion show. “Lacey, have you heard? Stylettos is doing the hair for the Sizzle in the City fashion show! Isn’t that great?”
Stella had reported that Polly was currently sleeping with Ratboy. Stella was also spreading the rumor that Polly was a charter member of the Condom of the Month Club. “They send a case of assorted rubbers in different sizes, shapes, and colors every month. I swear!”
Lacey edged around the towering woman: Six feet and thirty-one years of aggressively self-involved female. Polly had a great figure, but a weirdly androgynous face. She dressed in thigh-high skirts to keep attention focused on her legs. She was exquisitely lacquered, perfumed, and hair sprayed. However, in spite of all her efforts at exaggerated femininity, Polly managed to look like a man in drag.
“Send me a press release, Polly. Gotta go.”
“It’s a great cause, Lacey. The proceeds go to . . . umm, something to do with kids, but it’s fantastic and totally politically correct, so you don’t have to worry about anything. I mean, there’s no fur in the show or child labor or sweatshops or anything like that. Nothing depressing. I don’t think. I’m pretty sure.”
“That’s so interesting, Polly.” Lacey was looking for an out. The hulking promo maven was crowding her against the wall.
“Lacey, I really want to know what you think of my hair. Should I cut it?” It would have been curious that Polly did not even allude to the deceased at the funeral reception, but Polly always managed to turn the conversation to her favorite subject: herself. She was busy flipping her locks hither and yon. She wore a long bob, a variation of the Washington Frosted Helmet Head, medium brown with silvery blond highlights. Lacey thought it was standard D.C. issue, although it looked thick and healthy.
“Do you think I should change it? Because I just don’t know. And you are such an expert! I never know what to do with it.” She asked Lacey the same thing every time she saw her. Thankfully, Stella arrived, carrying a refilled plate.
“It gives you so much grief, Polly, I think you should just shave your head,” Stella said. Polly opened her eyes all the way. “Yeah, bald as a billiard ball. I’d be happy to wield the razor. My treat.”
“Well, Stella, I guess you’d be the expert on bald heads, wouldn’t you?” They glared at each other, Polly towering over the petite but pugnacious Stella. Lacey interrupted them.
“Polly, did you know Angie Woods? What do you think happened that night?”
“Happened? To Angie?” Polly seemed stumped. “When?”
“The night she died.”
“Died? Oh, wow, I better talk to Boyd.” Polly promised to send Lacey information on the fashion show and stomped off in her enormous red patent leather high heels. Stella guided Lacey back to the table.
“That bitch. I swear I’ll deck her someday.”
“Don’t forget your slingshot, little David. Can we go now?” Lacey asked.
But they were joined by Jamie Towers, one of Stella’s coworkers at the Dupont Circle salon. Jamie was all bouncy curls and perky personality, which couldn’t be masked by too much black eyeliner and purple nails. She bubbled in spite of herself and seemed younger than her twenty-four years. It could have been the multicolored hair, light brown striped with shades of bright orange and clown red.
“Stella, you were so fabulous! It’s like you think someone killed Angie and she so didn’t do it to herself, but like the cops
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