Hostile Makeover (Crime of Fashion Series #3)

Hostile Makeover (Crime of Fashion Series #3)

4.4 9
by Ellen Byerrum
     
 

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As makeover madness sweeps the nation's capital, reporter Lacey Smithsonian interviews TV show makeover success story Amanda Manville.  But with Amanda's beauty comes a beast in the form of a stalker with vicious intentions—and Lacey may be the only one who can stop him.See more details below

Overview

As makeover madness sweeps the nation's capital, reporter Lacey Smithsonian interviews TV show makeover success story Amanda Manville.  But with Amanda's beauty comes a beast in the form of a stalker with vicious intentions—and Lacey may be the only one who can stop him.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
What if a radical plastic surgery makeover changed its subject's personality for the worse? Byerrum asks in her playful third Crime of Fashion mystery. Street-smart D.C. fashion reporter Lacey Smithsonian meets uber diva Amanda Manville (a former ugly duckling whose appearance on TV's The Chrysalis Factor made her a supermodel overnight), while covering Amanda's new clothing line for the Eye Street Observer. Amanda's tendencies to slap assistants and take credit for her sister Zoe's designs are no big sin compared to the death threats Amanda receives daily-and she asks Lacey to investigate. After a murder occurs, Lacey's sheltered mother and sister drop in, putting the brakes on Lacey's romantic weekend with protective cop Vic Donovan and making the case a family affair. A revolving door of quirky characters like donut-scarfing "death-and-dismemberment" reporter Harlan Wiedemeyer keep the plot skipping happily along, and inside jokes about Burberry accessories in Washington are snicker-worthy. The unsurprising conclusion is a bit silly, but the read is as smooth as fine-grade cashmere on an autumn day in the Federal City. Agent, Donald Maass. (Aug.) Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780451216168
Publisher:
Penguin Publishing Group
Publication date:
08/28/2005
Series:
Crime of Fashion Series, #3
Pages:
288
Sales rank:
1,007,558
Product dimensions:
4.25(w) x 6.75(h) x 0.75(d)
Age Range:
18 Years

Meet the Author

Ellen Byerrum is a journalist in Washington, D.C., and a produced and published playwright. She holds a Virginia private investigator’s registration. A Colorado native, she lives in Virginia with her husband. Visit her Web site at www.ellenbyerrum.com.

Read an Excerpt

Lacey Smithsonian wasn’t sure what it meant. Her thoughts weremomentarily blocked by soul-shattering thunder. And the lightning boltthat struck the neon Krispy Kreme doughnut sign had also knocked herflat on her butt. From the rain-soaked ground, she watched in horror asthe steel-girded doughnut monolith wavered to and fro before crashingdown on Harlan Wiedemeyer’s brand new Volvo. The Volvo she had steppedout of less than one minute ago.

I ask for a sign and what do I get? A giant neon sign of doom.

Trujillo’s words came back to her: “Watch out. Bad things happenwhenyou hang out with that guy.”

The “guy” in question was Harlan Wiedemeyer himself, who hadinsistedon giving Lacey a ride home from her office to Old Town Alexandria, andthen abruptly detoured on a whim to the Krispy Kreme doughnut capitalof Northern Virginia.

Wiedemeyer? A jinx? But surely he couldn’t be blamed for the stormthatbrought the lightning that struck the sign that stood on Route 1 thatfell on top of the car that Harlan drove? Could he? she wondered. Shewiped the dripping curtain of hair out of her face, struggled to herfeet, and turned her attention to Wiedemeyer, just emerging from anoily mud puddle.

The little man shook his fist at the sky and shouted, “Missed me!”Histhinning brown hair stuck to his head, perspiration mixing with theraindrops. His round belly gave evidence of his love of doughnuts. Somethirty-odd calorie-packed years of doughnuts, Lacey guessed. He lookedas if misery hugged his shoulders like a well-worn sweater. He turnedto Lacey. Out of his thunderstruck agony, Lacey glimpsed a sliver oftriumph.

“Missed me again! Hey, Smithsonian! Did you see that?” A maniacalgrinlit his face in the next flash of lightning. “Why, that sign would havetaken our heads clean off if we’d been one minute later! How many poorbastards, do you suppose, die just like that? It’s a sign. That’s whatit is. We’re the lucky bastards today! Let’s go get some doughnuts.”

Lacey could see shapes swarming behind the shop’s steamy windows,facespressed against the glass, staring in shock at their beloved HOTDOUGHNUTS NOW sign, which was now balanced upside down on the crunchedroof of the Volvo. The lightning strike had darkened all the lights inthe parking lot, but had somehow missed the shop itself. It was stillbright and cheery. Lacey shook the excess water off her trench coat. Itdidn’t help. She was sore and soaked to the skin. But hot coffee and ahot glazed puff of calorie heaven were calling to her. She thought shehad never needed a doughnut more in her entire life.

“You know, Wiedemeyer, most people would take this as a sign to stopeating doughnuts,” Lacey said.

“Stop eating doughnuts? Why, that would just be crazy.” He held thedoor for her. A wave of doughnut aroma washed over them.

Harlan Wiedemeyer was a new Eye Street Observer reporter who coveredwhat Lacey’s newsroom called the “death-and-dismemberment” beat. Herelished telling the world every day how some “poor bastard” died in afreak accident or grotesque workplace disaster. Untold poor bastardsdrowned in vats of chocolate, were ground up in the gears of heavymachinery, were turned into sausage. So when he escaped the blind wrathof the wayward Krispy Kreme doughnut sign, Harlan Wiedemeyer knew onething: He was one hell of a lucky bastard.

Lacey Smithsonian, on the other hand, didn’t feel quite so graced.TonyTrujillo, her buddy on the cops beat, had warned her not to ride homewith Wiedemeyer because he was a Jonas, a jinx, a bringer of bad luck,and if she accepted his offer, woe betide her. She told Trujillo it wasa malicious lie, a superstition, a remnant of Dark Ages thinking. Andnot an hour later she had barely escaped the Krispy Kreme doughnut signof doom. Wiedemeyer strikes again, people would say.

“Pretty damn lucky, huh?” Wiedemeyer elbowed her in the side as thecrowd milled around them.

“I’d hold your horses, if I were you, Harlan.” Lacey was wonderinghowshe would get home. If Wiedemeyer hadn’t insisted on being chivalrous,she would have taken the Metro and been home already, warm and dry anddoughnut-free. “I’m not feeling that fortunate right now.”

“Yeah, damned lucky, I’d say. Lucky we weren’t inside my car. Luckyweweren’t squashed like bugs, lucky to be alive,” he said with relish.“We should get a couple of dozen doughnuts just to celebrate.” Herubbed his hands in anticipation.

“We could have been killed.” Thank you very much, she addedsilently,you Jonah, you.

“We escape death on a daily basis, Smithsonian. A daily basis, ifnotan hourly one.” His weird mix of fatalism and optimism grated on herlast nerve. “Some other poor bastard’s number was up today.”

She felt a chill that had nothing to do with the storm. Up untilnow,the October weather had been deliciously warm, but the day had turnedcold in a matter of hours. She gave up trying to talk to Wiedemeyer andordered that cup of coffee and a doughnut, breaking her vow to eathealthier. “Nothing like a little caffeine and sugar to steady yournerves,” she said. The sarcasm didn’t faze him.

“Good idea, and I’ll need a tow truck. You got a cell phone? Mine’sinthe car. Of course, it may be a while before they lift that sign off myVolvo. Every safety feature known to Swedish science, and look at it.It’s totaled for sure. Poor bastard. Ready to be cubed.” He observedthe damage, clicking his tongue on his teeth before calling hisinsurance adjuster, with whom he was on a first-name basis. Laceyfigured they had a long history.

A Fox Television network van slammed on its brakes outside. Abroadcastreporter ran out of the van and through the rain into the Krispy Kremestore, demanding to know whose car lay smashed beneath the doughnutsign. “We were just cruising back from a story to get some hotdoughnuts! Pretty lucky, huh?”

“We’re all pretty damn lucky tonight,” Lacey murmured. Shevisualized aheadline: “Fashion Reporter’s Brush with Death—and Doughnuts!” Shetried to clean away a streak of mud from her raincoat with a napkin,but succeeded only in adding a streak of doughnut glaze.

A small Asian woman at the counter waved her hand for the Foxnewsmanlike the star pupil. “I saw it. I saw everything. You put me ontelevision?”

The reporter trundled Wiedemeyer and the counter lady outside for alive news bulletin, while Lacey called for a taxi on her cell phone.The dispatcher told her to sit tight, that it would take a whilebecause of the storm. As she hung up, it jingled. That had better notbe Yellow Cab telling me I’m out of luck, she thought.

“I don’t care!” she snapped without even checking the number on herphone’s display. “I still need a taxi!”

“Smithsonian? Are you okay? You took a ride from that lunatic! Itoldyou not to do it, Lacey. Now bad luck is going to follow you like aboomerang until you shake him off.”

“And a good evening to you, too, Trujillo.”

“I guess you’re still alive, in spite of the Wiedemeyer Effect. Soyouweren’t in the car when it happened?”   

“How do you know what happened?” Lacey demanded.

“It’s on the news right now. How does Fox do that?” She heard Tonysnort into his phone. “It’s always something with that guy. A lightningbolt heads straight for Wiedemeyer, misses him, but gets everythingaround him. Why did he want to take you home anyway?”

“Maybe he’s a nice guy,” she said, but she knew that wasn’t theanswer.

“Yeah, sure. The real reason.”

“He was pumping me for information about Felicity.” She grimaced toherself at the very thought of Felicity Pickles, The Eye’s food editorand part-time copy editor. Lacey’s least favorite person in thenewsroom had just returned to work after a short leave of absence,following the well-publicized demise of her minivan in an explosionoutside The Eye Street Observer—an explosion meant for Smithsonian.Everyone had known Felicity was back by the aroma of freshly bakedbrownies and the crowd of hungry reporters swarming around her desk.Felicity Pickles used food as a weapon and a lure, but her ultimategoal, Lacey was certain, was to fatten up everyone in the newsroomuntil they all looked like Felicity Pickles. With her long, straightauburn hair, round china-blue eyes, and creamy complexion, Felicity hada strange doll-like look. A chubby child’s doll with a hidden evilside, like something out of a bad horror movie.

“No kidding? Felicity?” Lacey could almost hear the gears turn inTrujillo’s head. “I remember Wiedemeyer was starting to hang around herjust around the time her van blew up.”

“You’re blaming Harlan for the minivan explosion?” That cheered herup,since she’d blamed herself for that.   

“Well, no, everyone still blames you, Lacey. But I put my money ontheWiedemeyer Effect as a contributing factor. Wait till everyone hearshow he got Krispy Kremed!”

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