10 Lethal Black Dress by Ellen Byerrum Read Free Book Online

a long-haired brunette and not a blonde, Tony’s usual
specialty. She wore a tight black dress and Tony was stylish in a crisp black tuxedo.
    News editor Douglas MacArthur “Mac” Jones arrived next, with The
Eye ’s publisher Claudia Darnell at his side. The two of them had apparently
excused themselves from bringing sources. Mac looked slightly grumpier than
usual at being there. Although he was a mix of African-American and Caucasian,
Mac hailed from California and Lacey knew he still found Washington puzzling,
with its intricate strata of racial, political, and social classes. He would rather
be at home with his wife and daughters, he told her, than at this “dog-and-pony
show.” It was a sure bet he’d leave right after dinner and pass on the
post-event parties.
    On the other hand, Claudia Darnell would undoubtedly be
around for the entire evening. A woman of a certain age, which Lacey assumed
was late fifties or early sixties, Claudia had the money and the moxie to keep
the years away and the men close at hand. She looked ravishing, as usual. Her
pale silver blond hair was arranged in a French twist, and her sleek fitted
dress was bright red, a shade she favored. Another rebel in color. Diamond
studs adorned her ears, and around her throat she wore a jeweled choker of
rubies and diamonds, all real. She out-sparkled the jewels.
    Claudia Darnell had survived her own Washington scandal, and
like a phoenix, had risen from the ashes to spite the town that once turned on
her. She wouldn’t have missed making her annual appearance at the White House
Correspondents’ Dinner. However, Lacey thought she read in Claudia’s expression
dismay at the distant placement of The Eye ’s tables. It must have felt
like a slap in the face, being seated so far away from the dais and so close to
the door. They did, however, have a great view of the color guard.
    The paper’s other designated table included a few veteran staffers,
well-respected writers with terrible taste in clothes. These guys are
writers! Couldn’t they look up “black tie”? On the female side, a chubby
legislative reporter wore a stretchy black dress with sparkly flowers over an
apple-shaped figure that should not have been subjected to tight polyester. It clung
to her lovingly. As a fun fashion bonus, her dress left a trail of glitter
everywhere she went, much like the actress with her ostrich feathers. Another
female reporter wore a fuchsia dress in a shiny faux satin with a full skirt
and puff sleeves, from somewhere south of the Island of Lost Styles.
    Luckily, LaToya Crawford, the Metro reporter and one of the
few Eye scribes with a sense of style, showed up with her source guest,
a handsome D.C. city official. LaToya was black and beautiful. Her trademark
was her long jet-black pageboy with a patent leather sheen. Tonight she was
wearing a canary yellow satin sheath that hugged her bodacious curves. Her eyes
were made up like Cleopatra. LaToya always turned heads, but tonight her head
turned at the sight of Detective Broadway Lamont.
    He, in turn, resembled the proverbial deer in the headlights.
A giant buck deer, about to become a trophy. Lacey knew the detective was
afraid of nothing, except possibly LaToya. She took one look at her seat at The Eye ’s tables in Far Siberia and turned to Peter Johnson. She put her
hand on his shoulder, her purple nails digging in like daggers.
    “Johnson, you don’t want to sit here, do you? Why, you and
Smithsonian might kill each other, which would be embarrassing, considering
she’s here with a homicide detective. Want to switch? You do, don’t you?”
    He nodded helplessly. “Do you mind, Congressman? The other
table has the real writers.”
    “Musical chairs? Just like Congress.” Daggett appeared to be
used to being moved around. He grasped Lacey’s hand gallantly in parting. “Ms.
Smithsonian, I do hope we meet again soon. You can tell me all your secrets.”
    “You stole my line, Congressman,”