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French Fashion Legion. Maybe I could join up too.
    “Hop in, Lacey!” They tore off at top speed. “One great thing about this car is that cops don’t actually believe it can go fast. It’s not even on their radar screen.” Stella floored it and made it to the funeral home in twenty-five minutes. “What did I tell you? We’re invisible!”
    “In a red-and-white Mini with a flag on the roof? I don’t think so.”
     
    Angela Woods’ memorial service was the featured ten o’clock attraction at Evergreens, so named for the impressive trees surrounding the building in its Northwest Washington neighborhood. The casket had been moved and was now centrally located in the main chapel, accented by pastel flower arrangements.
    Angie appeared serene after Stella’s ministrations. The blond wig resembled her original hair, although it was considerably shorter. Angie’s mother and two younger sisters were in the front row, dabbing at their red eyes and sniffling. Theirs was a family of women. The missing father occupied a spot in the family plot in Atlanta that Angie would soon join.
    The bewildered Woods family was from the Deep South and apparently did not consider black a staple of their sunny wardrobes. They wore shades of blue, which were as somber as they could summon from their optimistic closets. Neither sister was as pretty as Angie, but the glorious hair was a family trademark, though not quite as glorious as Angie’s. The sisters wore theirs pulled into long tails cascading down their backs, caught at the nape with blue velvet ribbons. Angie’s mother wore a navy blue suit with pearls and a broad-brimmed navy hat that shadowed her light blond waves. The suit was summer and the hat was winter, but no one cared.
    The stylists from the Dupont Circle salon were scrubbed clean in deference to Angie’s family. How sweet. They’ve left their usual pledge-night-at-the-coven look at home. Lacey noticed several black cocktail dresses in attendance, looking a little too festive for the occasion and a little too bare for the weather.
    Lacey and Stella were seated in the third row of the chapel, which accommodated about two hundred people and was nearly full. The entire Stylettos empire seemed to be present, all twenty-five salons. Lacey recognized a few other customers from the Dupont Circle salon, no doubt some of Angie’s regulars. She scanned the room for the notorious Marcia Robinson, but the sullied congressional staffer failed to present her new glossy chestnut hairdo. Lacey realized that was a long shot. Marcia was being dogged by the media until she made her appearance before the special prosecutor to testify, presumably not in pink. Her attorney was keeping her under wraps. And so far, the mainstream press had not made the connection between the dead stylist and Ms. Robinson. If they had, it apparently didn’t carry a large enough news hook.
    Lacey leaned in to Stella and asked, “When was Marcia Robinson’s last appointment with Angie?”
    “A couple weeks ago. Marcia needed a blow-dry for some court appearance. Then she was supposed to see Angie last week, but she canceled.”
    “What day was that?”
    “Saturday, I think.”
    “The day Angie died?”
    “Yeah, I guess so.”
    “Why did she cancel?”
    “I don’t know. I didn’t take the call. Is it important?” With the thought that it might be, Stella was now on full quivering alert.
    An obviously distressed woman walked by. Stella made a face. “That’s Sherri Gold,” she whispered. “She was Angie’s last client, Saturday night. She’s a trip.”
    “You mean, right before . . . ?”
    “She’s a total psycho. Wanna meet her?” She waved Sherri over. “Sherri, I want you to meet Lacey Smithsonian from The Observer .”
    “ The Eye Street Observer ? I never read it,” Ms. Gold lied. The woman’s lips curled with disdain. “I read The Post .”
    “Nice outfit.”
    “It’s designer.”
    An inmate in a nineteenth-century women’s