“So, any spies here at the props and costume sale?” Hansen raised his camera hopefully.
“Refreshing their disguises among the costume shops, no doubt,” Tamsin cracked.
“Ah, the critic speaks,” he said.
“And must be obeyed.”
“Spies in disguise would be a great story,” Lacey said. “But how would we know?”
“Your department, not mine,” Tamsin said.
“How about you, Tamsin? What are you looking for, picture-wise?” Hansen asked.
“Follow your muse,” she said grandly.
“Will do. Suggestions, anyone?”
“I saw some stuff from an Alice in Wonderland over on the other side,” Lacey said. “Huge hats from the Mad Hatter’s tea party. Colorful. Practically hallucinogenic.”
“Hallucinogenic hats. Got it.” Hansen strolled away into a sea of likely subjects.
Lacey left Tamsin in the shade of an umbrella with her coffee and headed toward the costumes, which ranged from the awful to the sublime, some from theatres with bare cupboards and consignment-store rags, some from theatres with lavish budgets underwritten by major corporate sponsors.
A rack of tuxedos from elegant shows like Private Lives was being swarmed by impoverished actors, looking to score formal wear in the event they were ever nominated for a Helen Hayes award. And a tuxedo was a smart addition to any man’s Washington wardrobe. There were so many formal events to attend, and for actors, the occasional restaurant or catering job that required the same look. Lacey personally believed that a tuxedo improved many a man.
She caught sight of Will Zephron, a young actor-slash-waiter, bearing a black shawl-collared number and a big grin. He saw her and waved his prize tuxedo in salute.
“Hey, Lacey! Look what I just bought! It’s perfect, it’s my size, and it was on stage in some Ayckbourn thing at Round House. Missing a button, but who isn’t? Hey, what’s up with you, anything bizarre happening today?” Will had once spilled a tray of champagne on a broadcast journalist at the White House Correspondents Dinner, and had feared he’d never work as a waiter—or an actor—again. No one wants a clumsy waiter.
“Nothing bizarre, except D.C. style in the summer,” she responded.
“Don’t I know it! Don’t let me get in the way of your fashion vibe. I keep my drama on the stage.”
As if. The actors she knew liked their drama all the time. “Good shopping?”
“Are you kidding? Snagged this great tuxedo, now I have to score some white tux shirts.” He pawed through a long rack of tuxedo shirts and pulled out a likely candidate. “Waiting tables, you know. Can’t have too many.”
“Mind if I quote you?”
“For publication?”
“Maybe.”
“As long as you identify me as an actor and not a waiter.”
“You got it. Are you going to try that shirt on?” She didn’t see a changing booth, but there were theatre curtains hung up for sale in the next aisle.
“Nah. It’ll fit.” Will measured the shirt against his body to show her, then charged back into the shopping fray, tuxedo tucked safely under his arm.
It’ll fit. Just like a man.
She looked for Hansen at the Alice in Wonderland costumes, but he’d moved on. She hoped he’d gotten something whimsical. Lacey was in the mood for whimsy. She watched a petite dark-haired woman trying on one of the enormous Mad Hatter hats, three feet tall in eye-popping yellow, pink, and green. She was squatting down to check it out in a short mirror. The chapeau dwarfed her, but she and her friend laughed, and she bought the hat.
Lacey showed her press pass and asked them, Why that hat? The woman said her name was Micki and she was an actress.
“The big hat? It’s just fun! And you know, Halloween.” Micki said it wasn’t nearly as heavy as it looked, being made of some kind of foam. She was concerned only with where to store it. “I live in Adams Morgan. I’m really limited on closet space.”
“But it’s like art. Pop art,” said her friend. “Don’t store it! Just display it. Hang it on the wall.” With such unassailable logic, they decided it was perfect. Micki’s friend bought one like it in red, blue, and purple.
Lacey wandered on. Shakespeare was well represented by props and costumes, likewise the witty George Bernard Shaw and the dreary Arthur Miller, and of course Tennessee Williams, with a trove of broken glass animals from The Glass Menagerie and a box of faux-dirty T-shirts from Streetcar.
The yard sale was awash in color and dazzle and local theatre history. Some offerings were threadbare, having already been lent out or rented to local colleges and high schools and returned in less-than-pristine shape. There’s always Halloween. But down the aisle, Lacey found some intricate Elizabethan costumes from an old production of Romeo and Juliet at the Landsburgh. This smart theatre, one of the District’s best, included a typed history of the show, a description of the outfits, and the visiting celebrity actors who had worn them, many seasons ago. A big-name wearer seemed to raise the price considerably. Lacey looked at the tags. Not on my salary.
She was keeping her eye out for costumes from a long-ago production of The Women, by Clare Boothe Luce, and around one corner, there they were. The stage production was set in the late 1930s and the costumes had been a triumph. The famous 1939 film version had featured a wardrobe by the legendary designer Adrian, who exulted in very broad shoulders, very high hats, and a glossy Technicolor fashion show set in the middle of the black-and-white film. The stage costumes for the D.C. production were even more outrageous, with even more wildly exaggerated shapes and oversize shoulders in a spectrum of Crayola colors. And the price tags were exaggerated too.
While Lacey admired the imagination that went into them, they were definitely costumes, not clothes she could imagine wearing on the street, outside of Hollywood or Broadway. It was the difference between life and the theatre.
“Hey, Smithsonian,” a voice called.
LaToya was heading her way. Ready for a hot summer day in black cropped pants and a crisp white shirt, she wore large silver hoops in her ears and her shiny black hair was pulled back in a sleek French twist. LaToya had her own sort of style magic. She was statuesque and wore her clothes well, one of the few reporters at the paper who was not a fashion disaster.
“You’re up early,” Lacey said.
“Disappointing date last night. Got home early.”
“And I didn’t think a yard sale was your thing.”
“Never say never. I’m open to new experiences and I’m curious to see how you do that thing you do. Broadway says it’s your fashion voodoo.”
“Broadway” was Broadway Lamont, the homicide detective she had in her sights, but not her possession, not yet. Detective Lamont was a large and muscular black hunk of a man. His main talent seemed to be intimidating suspects, but LaToya intimidated him. Lacey could see the fear in his eyes whenever LaToya was on the hunt.
“It’s not voodoo,” Lacey said.
“ExtraFashionary Perception then. I hear that’s your specialty,” LaToya teased.
Lacey smiled. “How do these rumors get started?”
“No rumor. The message is in the clothes and you are the receiver.”
“Well, my EFP isn’t helping today. The things I love, I can’t afford, and the things I can afford, I don’t love. But maybe you’ll get lucky.”
“Moi?” LaToya fluttered her perfect red nails. “I have no intention of handling any old clothes worn by sweaty strangers under hot lights. Let alone wearing them.” She shuddered, surveying a rack of black dresses. She almost touched one, then daintily wiped her fingers on the air.
“But that’s where the magic lies,” Lacey answered. “Think of all the people who may have shared a bit of their soul with these things.”
“Their soul too? Now you’re just being creepy.” LaToya rolled her eyes. But then her gaze fell on a rack of formal gowns. “OMG. What is that?” She pointed a perfect red nail at one particular red dress.
&
nbsp; Lacey pulled it down off the rack and read the attached tag. “Ahem. This stunning ball gown was worn by Red Death in Kinetic Theatre’s production of Edgar Allan Poe’s The Masque of the Red Death.”
Neither one noticed that Tamsin had circled back to join them. She leaned over Lacey’s shoulder to peer at the dress.
“Oh that! Let me think. That show was years ago. Before I was a theatre critic. Officially, anyway. Something is gnawing at my memory.” Tamsin tapped an index finger on the side of her face as if drawing out the semi-forgotten file. “Red dress. Red mess. Aha. That is, I believe, a famous costume. Or should I say infamous. Is there a mask with it? There should be a mask.”
“Don’t think so. No.” Lacey riffled through the gown and shook her head. She imagined a jeweled red mask gracing a mirror in a dressing room somewhere. Purloined by some theatre person.
“Probably lost over the years.” Tamsin smiled. “That’s it, though.”
“That’s what?” LaToya asked. “Look at all these reds! These are so my color.” She took the long red dress from Lacey and hauled it over to a mirror at the end of the rack. LaToya held it in front of her and gazed at her reflection.
“It’s really just a rumor,” Tamsin told her. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“What are you telling us?” Lacey asked. “Or rather, not telling us?”
“Didn’t I say?”
“No!” LaToya and Lacey said together.
“D.C. theatre lore. The actress who wore this gown supposedly died during the last show. Or right after it. Closing night. In this dress. Or maybe not in the dress? I don’t know, actually. But I can tell you, this dress has a reputation.”
“How did she die?” Lacey asked.
“Oh, she fell. Stumbled, fell from the stage, or a scaffold or a riser or something. I think it was an elaborate medieval castle sort of set, rising, falling, staircases, towers, moving platforms, that sort of thing. I’m so over those things.”
“What sort of thing?”
“Effects. Theatres love big effects. Half the time they do it just because they can, not because it’s necessary or serves the play. Simply because they have the money, or a sponsor to pay for it. A pool in the middle of the stage. A fountain that sprays the front row. A revolving castle. Why not? If the play is dull, throw in a turntable, a helicopter, a rocket ship, and maybe no one will notice the hole in the second act.”
LaToya was dancing with the red dress and her reflection in the mirror. Lacey wondered what had gotten into Miss No Icky Old Clothes!
“Tamsin, what are you talking about vis-à-vis the dress?”
“Merely this, Smithsonian. The ‘Red Dress of Doom’ over there sometimes comes up in conversation when grim theatre tales are told. I didn’t write the story. It happened a couple years before I even started writing for The Eye. And that was a dark day, believe me.” She tipped her coffee back with gusto.
“Freaky, I grant you that,” LaToya said over her shoulder. “But it’s not the dress’s fault. People die. Life goes on. And will you just look at this amazing dress? This thing was made for me!”
“Actors will tell you they want to die on stage doing what they love,” Tamsin added. “They’re lying. Now I remember. Her name was Saige. Saige Russell. The actress who died.”
“Could be just a story.” Lacey knew every story gained some embellishment in the telling. “If there’s anything to it, there should be clippings in The Eye’s archives.” She mentally filed away the name Saige Russell.
“And you’ll be checking it out for me, right?” LaToya’s hands trembled ever so slightly as she clutched the red dress. But she held on tight. “And then you’re reporting back to me, right? Just out of curiosity, I mean.”
“Now that I think about it, I’ve seen that dress in action,” Tamsin said. “Not the original production, of course. On actresses, wearing it to things like the Helen Hayes. It’s become sort of a good luck thing, or a spit-in-the-eye-of-bad-luck thing.” She snorted. “Actors.”
“A good luck, bad luck thing?” Lacey asked.
“Sure. By wearing it, you stare death in the face. And you survive, of course. What are the odds? So you win. At least that’s what I gather.”
“So this Saige Russell. First she plays Death. And then she meets her own death?”
“Ah, the stuff of theatre myth,” Tamsin said. “Or at least legend.”
“Do we know for sure that the actress died?” Lacey asked.
“I have no idea,” Tamsin said. “In the theatre, it’s all about the story. The emotional effect. The dramatic weight of the thing.”
“Just like journalism,” Lacey said with a laugh. “Except for those— Oh what do they call those things? Oh yeah! Facts.”
“Hey, this is Washington, guys,” LaToya said. “Death comes in many ways. This just sounds like some weird-ass accident to me. And she wasn’t wearing it at the time, right? And it’s probably all just a rumor. On the other hand—” LaToya hung it back on the rack and stared at it. Lacey and Tamsin watched as LaToya wavered, but the red dress won. “Okay. I’m going with the good luck angle. This dress has found a new home. Mine!”
LaToya and the Red Dress of Doom went in search of the cash register. Together.
CHAPTER 2
“Holy costume heaven, Lacey! This is fabulous. So where are the wigs? There have to be wigs, right?” Stella asked. “Like, you know, the woman in that play thing who killed herself with the snake, or the queen who was guillotined?”
“No idea, Stella,” Lacey said.
Even at a theatre yard sale full of actors who were prone to wearing gold lamé with high-top sneakers—bless their hearts—Lacey could have picked out Stella Lake Griffin. As much for her sheer presence as for her style. And then there was her distinctive New Jersey accent.
“I mean wigs would be terrific to use to decorate the salon. Elaborate wigs. Sort of like: Don’t Lose Your Head, Just Your Old Hairstyle.” Stella had a gleam in her eye. Lacey had seen it before.
“I thought you had to work today, Stel.”
“Schedules can be adjusted, especially when I’m the manager. And when I read about this theatre sale thing in The Eye—it wasn’t even your story—how could I resist. I mean, look at this stuff!”
Lacey’s BFF, hairstylist, and personal critic, Stella, was not wearing her signature short, tight dress. Instead, each black-and-gold-legging-clad thigh featured the face and headpiece of Tutankhamun. Her King Tut leggings were paired with a daring gold bustier, showing off her recently acquired honeymoon tan. A long black-and-gold scarf dotted with pyramids graced her neck. On her feet were gravity-defying yellow high-heeled tennis shoes, which she claimed were “super comfortable.” Lacey had her doubts. In the same shoes, she would have been flat on her face. But Stella liked her clothes with a dangerous edge.
“Nice leggings.” Lacey indicated one skin-tight King Tut.
“So comfortable, you wouldn’t believe. You should pick up a pair, though these babies are sold out. Limited edition.”
“A shame. But I can’t really see me in them.”
“You never know till you try, Lace. Maybe the Van Gogh irises are more your style.” Though Stella had changed her look numerous times throughout the past year, she was always in tune with her inner spirit and her outer stylist. At the moment, her hair was parted in the middle with two bright pink streaks on either side. It reached her shoulders. “What do think of my hair? I’m trying to grow it out. It’s killing me.”
“And yet, no one’s really ever been murdered by their hair,” Lacey said.
“Good thing, huh? Now, murdered for their hair, that’s another story, right, Lace?”
Lacey nodded. They had shared parts of that particular story. But Stella wasn’t dwelling on the past, she was back from her honeymoon and she had her very English mother-in-law, Lady Gwendolyn Griffin, in tow. Much to everyone’s surprise, and her son Nigel’s utter bafflement, “Lady G” and Stella adored each other.
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br /> “When Stella suggested we both come today, well, it was just the thing, don’t you know,” Lady Gwendolyn said to Lacey. “We’ll take tea later, after we peruse the theatrical goods. You’ll join us, won’t you?”
The heat that morning had led Lady G to abandon her beloved tweeds. She opted instead for a pale linen dress, no doubt picked out by her new daughter-in-law. It was part of an evolutionary makeover Stella had undertaken.
“I knew Lady G would totally dig this,” Stella said.
“Quite. I love the theatre. Almost as much as Agatha Christie. And when the play’s a mystery, well, that’s the very thing you want, isn’t it?”
“The play’s the thing in which I’ll catch the conscience of the king,” another voice quoted. “But which king, I wonder? Now that was a conspiracy. Shakespeare knew his stuff.”
They all turned to see Brooke Barton, Esquire, their fourth member. Only the young blond lawyer could pull off this strapless gray pinstripe dress, an outfit that was both whimsical and preposterous. And yet somehow formal. Brooke wore oversize sunglasses and a pink bag slung over her shoulder. Her long blond hair was collected in a single braid down her back.
“I know I shouldn’t have told you about that dress,” Lacey teased her.
“Are you kidding? What else would I wear on a fine summer day off.”
“And what are those?” Lacey was momentarily stumped by the pink suede wingtip athletic shoes on Brooke’s feet.
“Aren’t they great?”
“Do those come in high heels?” Stella chimed in. “I could really rock a pair of those.”
Lacey kept her mouth shut. She actually didn’t know how she felt about Brooke’s absurd shoes. They certainly were conversation starters.
“I bought two pair,” Brooke said. “In the pink. I also got a pair in blue.”
Wingtip tennis shoes. Casual wear that wasn’t really casual, Lacey thought, such an obvious choice for the athletic Washington professional, particularly rising young lawyers. Perhaps someone should design pinstripe jogging outfits? No, on second thought, definitely no. Brooke would buy them all.
The Masque of the Red Dress Page 2