Free Grave Apparel by Ellen Byerrum

was getting lots of practice tonight.
    “Hey, Lacey.” Tony loosened his collar with his index finger. “I don’t know where she got that stuff.”
    “Really?” Lacey gave in to a grin. “I do. By the way, she looks a little chilly. Is that the whole dress, or is there more to it?” It was even skimpier than Meg Chong’s little silver number. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep her warm.” Tony winked at Vic and watched his date walk away with an appreciative leer. Lacey rolled her eyes.
    “How soon can I whisk you away from here?” Vic whis pered to Lacey.
    Tony stuck his face in between them. “You guys can’t go yet, everyone’s got to stick around for the festivities.”
    “What is he talking about?” Vic asked Lacey.
    She had forgotten to mention the “entertainment” portion of the evening to Vic. On purpose. “Claudia Darnell always makes some announcement, usually patting us on the back for our hard work, blah blah blah. It’s considered rude to leave before then.” “And the skits, Lois Lane,” Tony prompted. “Tell him about the skits.”
    “We can skip the skits and head for the bar.” Vic looked from her to Tony and back again, expecting an explanation. “Some jokers on the staff think they’re the equal of the Capitol Steps comedy troupe,” Lacey said. “They are not.”
    “The skits are killer, man,” Tony picked up. “Inside newspa per humor. Satire about politics, journalists, scandals, current events, whatever. Like the year Lacey got the fashion beat, you know, when the former writer died in her chair? Classic skit. Hilarious. Haunting. Dead editors on stage. The Death Chair. Practically Shakespeare.”
    “More like the Three Stooges, with an extra stooge or two,” Lacey said. “Tasteless. Rude, crude, and socially unacceptable. Songs, dances. It’s a stretch to call it satire, Vic, or even funny. But the good news is we can slip out as soon as the lights go down.”
    “Aw, come on, Lacey, it’s hilarious, man. Unless you’re one of the victims.”
    “Got it,” Vic said. “Any victims we know tonight?”
    “No telling, but Lois Lane here is a pretty good candidate. In fact, with her track record this year, it’s for certain. There have been more bodies, you know.”
    Lacey rolled her eyes. She took Vic’s arm and was about to steer him to the buffet, but Kim Jones, Mac’s petite Japanese American wife, appeared in a break through the crowds and took Lacey’s elbow. Always tasteful, Kim wore a dark plum silk dress, her hair gathered in a low bun wrapped with a silk rib bon. She was afire with curiosity. Mac was trailing behind her with a buffet plate full of chicken wings, his Santa cap slipping. “Lacey! What did I hear about a child witnessing the attack tonight?” Kim asked. “And how on earth did the boy get ahold of you?”
    Lacey gave her an abbreviated version. “I couldn’t get many details out of the kid,” she said. “But if it weren’t for him being in the alley—”
    “But that’s terrible! Where were his parents?”
    “Like I said, my little shepherd was stingy with personal information.”
    Mac listened and munched another wing, standing atten tively by his wife. Kim looked especially petite next to Mac’s bulk. She seemed to have a calming effect on him.
    “And in an alley?” Kim shook her head.
    “Boys like to explore all kinds of dirty places,” Vic said.
    Lacey felt her eyebrow rise. She tried to control it.
    “Maybe,” Kim said, “but behind The Eye Street Observer is no kind of neighborhood for kids.” Kim accepted a glass of wine from her husband. “Mac and I love kids.”
    “Kim thinks every kid should have organized activities,” Mac teased. “She’d give them all little DayTimers.”
    “Ha, they already have Palm Pilots and cell phones,” Kim said, placing a gentle hand on Mac’s arm and gazing fondly at him. Love is a funny thing, Lacey thought. “Mac is terrific with children,” his wife continued. “He coaches