little specialty, isn’t it?”
Lacey smiled at her. Why the defiantly plain Cassandra particularly liked to rain on Lacey’s parade was a mystery to her. There were other beats that were just as frivolous. “Why don’t you go harass the sports section, Cassandra? They’re big-time flippant.”
“At least organized sports help keep dangerous felons off the streets during games.”
“That’s true. Most of the dangerous felons are in the game.”
Cassandra took her storm cloud and her gingerbread man and left. The fashion pages apparently weren’t keeping anyone off the streets. They were just a waste of newsprint in Cassandra’s time of emergency.
Lacey looked down at her latest “Crimes of Fashion” column, clipped out neatly on her desk. It was entitled “What Were You Thinking?” and she wondered what on earth she was thinking. Not about her clothes, of course. Lacey was wearing a long emerald green skirt, matching blouse, and suede belt, an ensemble that complemented her expertly highlighted hair, her blue-green eyes, and her petite curves. She topped them with a green-speckled black wool jacket from the 1940s, with broad shoulders that meant business and a beautifully tailored waist that fit her own perfectly and combined business with pleasure. In the breast pocket, she wore an emerald green silk hanky secured with a vintage pearl pin.
She also wore black leather boots, not too high and not pointed.
No, her clothes were fine. She was thinking about her life.
There was a dead woman with a dream who had been a friend of hers, an unknown killer with unknown motives, mystery, and danger lurking all around this story, yet the thought of going to Paris to begin the search for the lost corset called to her like the Pied Piper luring children from the safety of their homes. She was mentally dancing down the street to the tune of “An American in Paris.” Unlike nearly everyone she knew, Lacey had never been to Europe, and she wanted to go there so badly she could taste it. Her quirky Washington version of a fashion beat had made many unexpected little adventures possible, but it would never send her to Paris if it weren’t for Magda’s story.
Her disappointment with Vic and the puzzling end to their promising romance somehow made it all the more important now that she go to Paris, that she must have a wonderful time. If she happened to stumble upon a lost corset full of Romanov jewels that had been the stuff of legend for nearly a century, well, that would just be a delightful bonus. But Lacey had to go to Paris. Or else she thought she might as well just say to hell with everything and eat every last one of Felicity’s gingerbread men until she exploded like one of Wiedemeyer’s toads.
Paris. I must have Paris.
Lacey Smithsonian’s
FASHION BITES
I
The Red Bra of Courage
Do you need a little something extra? Do you need the swagger of a sexy secret under your conservative suit? Do you need to tell the world, “There’s more to me than this boring uniform”—without telling them too much? Do you need a jolt of pure physical confidence that comes from within (or pretty close to it)? You need the Red Bra of Courage!
Your boss, your barista, that weasel in Accounting, that cute new guy in Sales, they won’t know why you suddenly have an extra bounce in your high-heeled step, why your mood is buoy-ant, your confidence unshakable. But you’ll know. You may not sing and dance in your underwear like Tom Cruise in Risky Business or Madonna, the woman who almost single-handedly revived the bustier and corset as oh-so-daring outerwear. But clad in the cozy secret of the right underwear, you might just want to sing hallelujah. (Under your breath, of course.) How does your underwear make you feel? Like running a 5K, putting on the Ritz, winning your case in court? Or like a five-pack of sturdy white cotton granny panties? Respectable enough to be caught wearing in case of a fatal accident, but about
Lacey smiled at her. Why the defiantly plain Cassandra particularly liked to rain on Lacey’s parade was a mystery to her. There were other beats that were just as frivolous. “Why don’t you go harass the sports section, Cassandra? They’re big-time flippant.”
“At least organized sports help keep dangerous felons off the streets during games.”
“That’s true. Most of the dangerous felons are in the game.”
Cassandra took her storm cloud and her gingerbread man and left. The fashion pages apparently weren’t keeping anyone off the streets. They were just a waste of newsprint in Cassandra’s time of emergency.
Lacey looked down at her latest “Crimes of Fashion” column, clipped out neatly on her desk. It was entitled “What Were You Thinking?” and she wondered what on earth she was thinking. Not about her clothes, of course. Lacey was wearing a long emerald green skirt, matching blouse, and suede belt, an ensemble that complemented her expertly highlighted hair, her blue-green eyes, and her petite curves. She topped them with a green-speckled black wool jacket from the 1940s, with broad shoulders that meant business and a beautifully tailored waist that fit her own perfectly and combined business with pleasure. In the breast pocket, she wore an emerald green silk hanky secured with a vintage pearl pin.
She also wore black leather boots, not too high and not pointed.
No, her clothes were fine. She was thinking about her life.
There was a dead woman with a dream who had been a friend of hers, an unknown killer with unknown motives, mystery, and danger lurking all around this story, yet the thought of going to Paris to begin the search for the lost corset called to her like the Pied Piper luring children from the safety of their homes. She was mentally dancing down the street to the tune of “An American in Paris.” Unlike nearly everyone she knew, Lacey had never been to Europe, and she wanted to go there so badly she could taste it. Her quirky Washington version of a fashion beat had made many unexpected little adventures possible, but it would never send her to Paris if it weren’t for Magda’s story.
Her disappointment with Vic and the puzzling end to their promising romance somehow made it all the more important now that she go to Paris, that she must have a wonderful time. If she happened to stumble upon a lost corset full of Romanov jewels that had been the stuff of legend for nearly a century, well, that would just be a delightful bonus. But Lacey had to go to Paris. Or else she thought she might as well just say to hell with everything and eat every last one of Felicity’s gingerbread men until she exploded like one of Wiedemeyer’s toads.
Paris. I must have Paris.
Lacey Smithsonian’s
FASHION BITES
I
The Red Bra of Courage
Do you need a little something extra? Do you need the swagger of a sexy secret under your conservative suit? Do you need to tell the world, “There’s more to me than this boring uniform”—without telling them too much? Do you need a jolt of pure physical confidence that comes from within (or pretty close to it)? You need the Red Bra of Courage!
Your boss, your barista, that weasel in Accounting, that cute new guy in Sales, they won’t know why you suddenly have an extra bounce in your high-heeled step, why your mood is buoy-ant, your confidence unshakable. But you’ll know. You may not sing and dance in your underwear like Tom Cruise in Risky Business or Madonna, the woman who almost single-handedly revived the bustier and corset as oh-so-daring outerwear. But clad in the cozy secret of the right underwear, you might just want to sing hallelujah. (Under your breath, of course.) How does your underwear make you feel? Like running a 5K, putting on the Ritz, winning your case in court? Or like a five-pack of sturdy white cotton granny panties? Respectable enough to be caught wearing in case of a fatal accident, but about
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