The Masque of the Red Dress

by Ellen Byerrum

  In comparison, Lacey’s look was very “cream cheese,” according to Stella. Her light blue sleeveless-though-collared shirt was tied at the waist over a vintage white cotton skirt that flared at the hem. She hoped it would be retro enough for HonFest. Besides, it was comfortable as the temperature soared and the humidity spiked. To please Stella, Lacey wore a blue headband to hold her hair back. Her comfy white wedge sandals showed off bright red toenails from a new pedicure.

  Lacey had driven to HonFest rather than catch a ride with Stella, so she could make a quick exit if circumstances warranted. She was beginning to feel out of place and was reaching for her keys when Stella caught up with her.

  “Hi, Hon!” The queen of leopard and rhinestones herself, in a leopard-print bustier that cantilevered The Girls. Stella’s outfit was in the spirit of HonFest and also in the spirit of Stella.

  “Stel. I see you’re dressing the part.”

  “I totally scored yesterday at that theatre sale you tipped me off to.” Stella posed for effect. “Fabulous or what? You gotta see all the wigs I scored. And whaddaya think of my new gold lamé pants?”

  “Positively atomic,” Lacey admitted.

  “Totally.” She peered at Lacey over her rhinestone-embellished cat-eye sunglasses. “So fab. And can you believe my hair is finally long enough for a beehive?”

  Stella’s at-the-moment black hair with blond and pink highlights was beehived with the best of them, in black and blond stripes. Around her monumental ’do Stella had wound a leopard-print scarf accented with rhinestones. Her nails were long and dagger red.

  “You’re breathtaking, Stella.”

  “But you know what? I totally coulda gotten away with that Marie Antoinette wig I bought there. It’s like two feet tall!”

  “Next year,” Lacey said. “For sure.”

  “This is such fun, what,” Lady Gwendolyn said, making a threesome.

  Lacey spun around to witness more makeover magic. Happily, Gwendolyn’s HonFest look was not quite as startling. She was manicured and pedicured and once again, tweedless. In fact, with her restrained beehive and long fake lashes and simple pink sleeveless dress, Lacey had never seen Nigel Griffin’s mother looking more glamorous.

  “You look wonderful,” Lacey said.

  “You’re welcome,” Stella said, taking all the credit for this look.

  “I love getting to ‘go native,’ don’t you know?” Lady G said.

  God help us, Gwendolyn, if this is representative of the natives.

  “You didn’t bring the ambassador?” Lacey asked. He was retired from Her Majesty’s Diplomatic Service, but everyone still used the title.

  Gwendolyn laughed. “Oh dear. He’s a little stiff for this sort of event, you know. He simply wouldn’t appreciate this festive atmosphere.”

  Lacey had only met him at the wedding. The ambassador’s upper lip was stiff and the rest of him was ramrod straight. He seemed to have no sense of humor at all.

  “She left him alone with his stamp collection,” Stella said. “Fun times at Griffin Manor. But check out my Nigel.”

  Stella’s new trophy husband Nigel Griffin, whose everyday uniform consisted of anonymous khakis, plain blue oxford cloth shirts, and noncommittal blazers, was unexpectedly sporting a retro Fifties bad-boy look, tight black jeans with a big comb in the back pocket and high-top Converse tennis shoes. A pack of cigarettes was rolled up in his white T-shirt sleeves, which revealed skinny arms and a “tattoo” applied with mascara: MOM. His brown hair had been combed back on the sides and the top piled high with one big curl, like a young Elvis Presley, all courtesy of Stella.

  “Hello, Nigel,” Lacey said. “Nice curl.”

  “At your service, Smithsonian.”

  “Greasier than Grease. Don’t you love it?” Stella beamed at Nigel and he beamed back.

  “You look like something out of Rebel Without a Cause,” Lacey said.

  “Oh I have a cause, Smithsonian. Stella is my cause.” Lacey and Stella both laughed. “And what’s this I hear? Victor Donovan finally popped the question? Good God! Never thought that would happen. You can tell me, did he do it up right?” He grabbed her left hand to study her engagement ring.

  “You could say that.” Vic had proposed to her with bullets flying all around them, in a remote cabin in the middle of nowhere. It was certainly memorable.

  “I bet it was romantic,” Stella said.

  “We think so,” Lacey said. At the moment Vic had said the words, it was exhilarating to be alive, let alone in love.

  “Interesting stone, Smithsonian. Family heirloom?” Nigel was studying her ring intently. Though he was a reformed jewel thief, shiny baubles attracted him like a magpie. Lacey yanked her hand away.

  “Leave her alone! Enough about the ring, Nigel,” Stella said. “We gotta discuss your look, Lacey. Come with me, Miss Suzy Cream Cheese. The Glamour Tent awaits.”

  If you hadn’t come to HonFest with your hair already in a beehive, you could get beehived on the spot at the pink Glamour Tent. Stella and the other stylists stood ready to tease those tresses sky-high. Lacey was opposed to all that back-combing, which could tear the hair and create a mountain of split ends. But if a Baltimore gal was a true Hon at heart, a little thing like split ends wouldn’t stop her. The Glamour Tent was already full of fresh-faced young festivalgoers who looked adorable sporting updos wrapped in Rosie-the-Riveter-style kerchiefs.

  “I’m really not up for a beehive, Stella,” Lacey said. “A French twist is my limit.”

  “This is HonFest, hon, not the Grace Kelly Fest. But okay, maybe we’ll settle for a twist and revving up your makeup. You need to make a statement, you know!” Stella pulled Lacey deep into the tent and squeezed her into a tiny makeup station between two stylists busy building beehives.

  “What kind of a statement, Stel?”

  “A statement like, ‘I owe it all to Stella and I love it!’ Like that.” Stella began rimming Lacey’s eyes with kohl, while her assistant worked on Lacey’s hair. The makeup station was out of false eyelashes, so Stella rummaged through her corset-shaped purse.

  “You keep extra eyelashes in your purse?” Lacey asked.

  “Emergencies happen, you know.” Stella’s own lashes resembled two caterpillars that had landed on her eyelids. They were thick and long and black.

  “Aren’t we lucky Stella is here to save us,” Gwendolyn said, reappearing at their side.

  “Not over the top, Stella,” Lacey pleaded. “I want to recognize myself when you’re done. Please.”

  “Me? Over the top? What, are you kidding? My touch is as light as a feather.” Stella cocked her head, put away her makeup brushes, and handed her a mirror.

  “Stella! I look like a diva in an Italian film! A bad Italian film.” Lacey’s eyes were drawn into ferocious cat eyes, making her look like a feral panther woman, and her hair was pulled back and up into a very tall French twist, just a few bees short of a full hive. Lacey could hardly keep her eyes open under the weight of the false lashes and glue. She barely recognized herself, and she hoped no one else would either.

  “I know! Isn’t it great?”

  “Smashing. Very La Dolce Vita,” Lady Gwendolyn added. More like Fellini’s Satyricon, Lacey thought.

  “Not so prim and proper now, hey, Smithsonian?” Nigel said as they emerged from the Glamour Tent. “Donovan’s going to flip for you.”

  Or laugh himself sick. At least among the HonFest crowd, Lacey didn’t look as outrageous as she felt. She hoped to blend into the mob until she could escape.

  But someone had noticed her. Dodging behind a vendor’s booth was the woman Lacey had seen the day before at the theatre sale, tussling with LaToya. She peered out from behind the booth, dripping a green snow cone down her black Kinetic-logoed T-shirt, the same outfit Lacey last saw her in. Theatre people, at least the ones Lacey knew in the District, loved their black clothing. They lived in it.

  Stella tapped her on the shoulder. “Hey, Lace, isn’t t
hat the pudgy woman who was— You know, yesterday with the red dress—”

  “With LaToya? I think so.”

  “She’s following us! I saw her at the salon tent, and the hat booth, and then with the snow cones. She practically slopped one on Lady G.”

  “Oh, that one again,” Lady G said, poking her nose in. “Bit messy, what?”

  “Trying not to be obvious,” Lacey said. “In a very theatrical way.”

  “What does she want?” Stella said. “There’s no way she’s getting that dress back from LaToya, right?”

  “I’m going to find out,” Lacey said. Her own snow cone was cherry, and she held it carefully so it wouldn’t spill down her blouse.

  Stella grabbed her arm. “Seriously? You gonna just ask her? Just like that?”

  “I’m a reporter, Stel. It’s what I do.”

  “Do report back to us, forthwith,” Lady Gwendolyn commanded.

  “Don’t worry, Lacey, you can take her,” Stella said. “She’s out of shape.”

  Lacey walked straight at the woman, slowly, and she hoped non-threateningly. “Excuse me, are you following me?” Lacey asked loudly. “Do you want to talk to me?”

  The woman dropped her snow cone and backed away. She looked stricken. She was perspiring and her face seemed permanently red. She didn’t look healthy or well cared for. With half a chance, Stella would take her scissors to that unruly mop.

  “No. Yes. Uh, I just—”

  “Yesterday, you fought with my friend. Over that costume from The Masque of the Red Death. You remember the red dress.”

  The woman backed up against a tent pole and stopped. “You’re Lacey Smithsonian, aren’t you? And she’s a friend of yours?”

  “Why are you stalking me?” Could this woman have known she would be here in Baltimore? Did she follow her here? That would be crazy.

  “I’m not stalking you, I’m helping out with the costumes here, and I— I recognized you from your column, and when I saw you here, I thought maybe—”

  “Maybe what?” The woman just shook her head, at a loss for words. “You apparently know who I am. Who are you?”

  “Amy Keaton. I work at Kinetic. I’m sort of the stage manager.”

  Sort of? “That’s a start. Why did you try to get the dress back?”

  “Because it was a mistake! It wasn’t supposed to be on sale.” Her face got even redder. “It’s just a terrible mistake!”

  “It was on the sale rack. They sold it to her, LaToya bought it. Fair’s fair.”

  “I know, but there was a mix-up. I don’t know what happened. It was some intern’s fault.”

  “Oh, I see. The intern did it,” Lacey said.

  The intern did it! One of the most popular excuses in Washington. An intern was responsible for a multimillion-dollar mistake in the budget. A congressional intern released the wrong information. A theatre intern put the wrong dress on the sale rack. It must be nice to have an intern to blame every time something goes wrong.

  “Yes, it was an intern,” she insisted. “Can’t you talk to that LaToya person? That dress is part of our history at Kinetic. It really belongs with the theatre.”

  “Why don’t you talk to her yourself?”

  “I tried. She wouldn’t listen. And she’s kind of scary.”

  Well, that’s true enough. LaToya could be intimidating. Even Homicide Detective Broadway Lamont was afraid of her. Especially Broadway.

  “I know. That’s a problem. Here’s the thing. You don’t want to back LaToya up against the wall. Now she wants that dress more than ever. What can you tell me about it? Is it true that an actress died after the last performance? Do you know whether she was wearing the dress at the time?”

  “Well, I can’t really— I don’t know, I— I wasn’t with Kinetic back then. I don’t know the whole story.” The woman looked away evasively, and Lacey concluded she was lying. About something. But which part? “I’ve only been with the theatre a couple of years, but I love working there— But if I don’t— If I can’t get it back— See, they are very serious people. They don’t like mistakes. They really don’t like them.”

  Sounded like a hostile work environment to Lacey. But she wasn’t about to tell Amy Keaton she had the dress in her custody. It’s not mine to give away.

  “Why is this dress so special?”

  “I don’t know! Really. But it was an important production. Their first big hit show. And there’s this tradition, they loan it out every year. Lots of actresses wear it to the Helen Hayes, and all that. People start lobbying to wear it years in advance. It’s a thing. Please, please, please, this was just a stupid mistake and we need it back! I’ll pay your friend whatever she paid for it. I’ll pay her double, or triple—”

  “Listen, Amy, I know mistakes happen, but I don’t think there’s anything you or I could say or do that would make LaToya Crawford part with that dress now.”

  Keaton covered her face with her hands. “That’s it, then. I’m going to get blamed for this.”

  Lacey was sure now that Keaton was responsible for the sales rack slip-up. She’s probably already gotten chewed out for the mythical intern’s mistake.

  “It’s just a dress. It’s not life or death.” Even as Lacey said that, she remembered the dead actress who wore the dress on stage. If the story is true. “They’ll understand.”

  Amy Keaton shook her head. “I’m going to have to find a new job.” The woman was clearly devastated. She turned and walked away into the HonFest crowd, her shoulders slumped in defeat.

  Stella was instantly at Lacey’s side. “What’s the dish?”

  “Her name is Amy Keaton. Works at the theatre. Claims the dress was sold by mistake. An intern did it.”

  “An intern? Yeah, right. So this Amy Keaton screwed up big-time.” Stella’s tongue was purple from her snow cone. “Screw-ups happen.”

  “Looks like it.”

  “She looks pretty bummed. Hey, I could offer to do her makeup for her. Maybe get some more dirt out of her for you? Get my fingers on that haystack on her head? What do you think? I’ll go run her down and drag her into the Glamour Tent, if you think it’ll help, Lace.”

  The image of Amy Keaton in a beehive made Lacey laugh. “I don’t think that’s going to help. Come on, we have beehives to ogle.”

  “And don’t forget ‘Baltimore’s Best Hon’ contest. It’s coming right up!” Stella took Lacey’s arm, and Lady G took the other. “Over there on the big stage. I love this stuff, Lace. And you know what their motto is here at HonFest? ‘The higher the hair, the closer to God!’ ”

  Lacey let herself be pulled along. “Isn’t that your motto too, Stel?”

  CHAPTER 5

  Exhausted and over-stimulated from the sights and sounds of HonFest, all Lacey wanted was to plunge into her apartment building’s pool. She needed to swim away the day and the sour memory of her encounter with Amy Keaton. The pool overlooked the banks of the Potomac River and was the saving grace of many a summer day. Lacey loved to lounge by the pool, watching the egrets pose like lovely ladies and the eagles and osprey soar and dive into the river. And after dark, millions of fireflies would come out to play.

  But when she opened her apartment door, Lacey smelled charcoal wafting from the grill out on her balcony. That aroma could mean only one thing: Victor Donovan was practicing the manly art of barbequing.

  I can swim some other time.

  “Hello? Vic?” Lacey inquired from the open door.

  “Out here. Hope you’re hungry for steak.” Vic grinned at her through the screen door of the balcony.

  “Always.”

  “Charcoal’s almost ready.”

  “I can smell it! What a surprise. There in a minute.”

  Lacey was suddenly even more glad to be home. Vic and steaks and home! The apartment building might have been a little shabby, but her million-dollar balcony view of the Potomac River could not be denied. And it was always cooler by the river, especially after a blisteringly hot Hon
Fest day.

  She threw her tote bag on the sofa and checked the closet where the red dress was hanging in its borrowed garment bag. She unzipped it: It looked innocent enough, in all its crimson glory. She zipped it back up. Kicking off her shoes, she padded through the living room and the French doors and onto the balcony to greet Vic with a kiss. He held her at arm’s length and peered at her quizzically.

  “Whoa, who’s this mystery woman? Very exotic! But listen, I have a fiancée, lady. She’ll be here any minute.”

  Lacey laughed. She had completely forgotten about her HonFest look.

  “Sorry. Stella insisted. It was either let her do this or a beehive hairdo. Or this and a beehive. What do you think?”

  “I feel like I’m talking to a whole different woman.”

  “Shall I scrub it off?”

  “No, no. You look great. Like Gina Lollobrigida or something.” Great, another Italian movie diva. He wound one arm around her waist. “I’m always discovering a new side of you, darling.”

  She admired the small café table that he had set. He’d prepared salad from a bag and added avocado, tomatoes, and onion. Corn on the cob was ready for the grill, along with a couple of beautiful steaks.

  “This is fabulous. What’s the occasion?”

  “You. I thought you might have a long hot day in Baltimore. I’m surprised you didn’t emerge from the time warp in a poodle skirt and cat-eye glasses.”

  “If Stella had her way, I would have. You should have seen poor Nigel.”

  “He was there? Shame I missed that.” Vic had a low opinion of the Brit, having known him for years through Nigel’s jewel-thief days.

  “In tight jeans and a cigarettes-rolled-up T-shirt, his hair all poufed up. Early Elvis.”