Free Killer Hair by Ellen Byerrum Page B

That’s bad enough. Any more negative publicity will hurt Stylettos,” Boyd said. “And me.”
    “Well, maybe you’ve got something to hide. I don’t.” A stinging slap was heard from behind the screen. Lacey jumped back on Vic’s foot. “Sorry,” she whispered. He steadied her, then let go.
    A red-haired fireball stormed out and Boyd followed a moment later, rubbing the side of his face. He avoided Lacey’s eyes and plowed his way to the bar.
    Lacey pulled Stella to her side. “Stella? Are you okay?”
    “I’m fine, but that jackass has got something to worry about, once you start asking questions.” Stella was obviously energized by her little scene. “Lacey is going to investigate the hell out of Angie’s death. She’s the best damn fashion reporter in this sleazy town.”
    “I’m sure she is,” Vic said.
    “One thing about Lacey, she really understands nuance,” Stella confided.
    “Oh, she always did,” Vic said.
    Lacey had heard more than enough. She grabbed Stella’s arm in one hand, her purse in the other.
    Boyd Radford watched them steam toward the exit. He glared at Stella, still rubbing his jaw. “Now I suppose all our dirty laundry will be hung out to dry in that cheap rag of a paper. And she’s your friend, Stella. You can have a friend or a job. You decide.”
    Lacey turned at the door just in time to see Josephine approaching Boyd with an evil smile on her face and a full wine-glass in her hand. She looked him in the eye and threw it in his face.
    “It just isn’t an event without you causing a scene, is it, Boyd?”
    Damn, I wanted to do that, Lacey thought. Why is my glass always empty?
    Lacey Smithsonian’s
    FASHION BITES

    Show a Little Respect: It’s a Funeral,
Not a Cocktail Party.
    Stumped about what to wear to a funeral? You are not alone. Most of us would simply reach for something in black. For many women, that means the ubiquitous little black dress, the same one that got you through last night’s cocktail party, last weekend’s late-night clubbing, last month’s charity ball, and last year’s Christmas party. But a party dress is not appropriate for mourning. Unless, dingdong, the Wicked Witch is dead, and you’re invited to the parade.
    Give your little black dress a rest. Remember the black or navy or otherwise somber suit you had to buy for the job interview but you never wear because it is too depressing? That suit is suitable for a funeral. However, there are some people who are afraid to wear black to a funeral. Apparently they’re too busy wearing black to weddings and the theatre and a double latte at Starbucks. But whatever you decide, it should not be too tight, too short, too revealing, or too festive. Maybe you’re conflicted about your feelings for the deceased. Don’t let it show. Here are a few guidelines:
Veils covering one’s face imply inconsolable grief, so please restrict them to close family members, who have a good excuse.
It is inappropriate for mistresses to show up at the funeral wearing widow’s weeds. That is the purview of the widow, and if she’s smart, she’s barred all the unsavory mourners.
If you do choose that little black dress, please make sure it is not too bare, and consider pairing it with a silky cardigan or shapely jacket to add a serious note.
Tennis togs and other sporting apparel are not advised, nor are pastels, bright colors, Hawaiian shirts, halter tops, or strapless dresses.
    Of course these tips don’t cover the occasional wild and wacky send-off where the dearly departed has left instructions for everyone to party down till dawn and lift a cold one (or ten) in his or her name. In that case, you—and the little black dress—are on your own.

Chapter 6
    Some people have small rituals to help them find solace after a stressful week. A drink. A hot bath. A novel. A stranger in a two-bit dive.
    On Friday night, Lacey went straight to Great-aunt Mimi’s ancient steamer trunk.
    She had dragged her butt to the