The Masque of the Red Dress

by Ellen Byerrum

  “Did you take a photo?” She showed him the pics on her phone and Vic laughed. “Nice. We’ll use it for blackmail.”

  “No use. Nigel has no shame.”

  “You’re right. He was born without.”

  “Handy for him. Also, no tact. He practically took my arm off gawking at my engagement ring.”

  “Uh oh. You sure he didn’t switch it out, with some jewel-thief sleight of hand? Replace it with a gumball machine ring?” Vic took her hand and kissed it. She noticed he also made sure the ring was still there.

  “He offered to appraise it for me.”

  “Of course he did. Which reminds me. When are you going to tell your family we’re engaged?”

  “Please! One thing at a time.” Lacey didn’t want to have that particular conversation with her mother and sister.

  “They’ll want to know. Sometime before the wedding.”

  “I’ll send them an invitation. I just don’t want to hear any crazy suggestions on how to do everything. They’ll want us to get married back in Denver, you know.”

  “Would that be so bad?”

  “Yes! They’ll want to help! Meaning they’ll want to run everything! And ruin everything! Let’s not even talk about my family.”

  “You got it. So how was HonFest?

  “Fun, but weird. I have no idea what to write about it. I love vintage, but not all vintage. I’m iffy about the Fifties, and wearing pink sponge rollers in your hair with cat-eye glasses in a cartoon of a house dress? And I’m pretty sure full-sleeve tattoos were rare on Fifties housewives.”

  “Nah, those gals were tough. Like Rosie the Riveter but with an anchor tattoo. We’ll get you one that says ‘Born to Rivet, Hon.’ ”

  “That better not be another smirk, Vic Donovan.”

  He drew her into a hug. “I like you just the way you are. But you’d be cute in a beehive. Poodle skirt. Saddle shoes.” He laughed and patted her hair. “Maybe for the wedding.”

  “In your dreams, buddy. How about those steaks?”

  She took the pins out of her hair and shook it free, combing her fingers through the matted tangles from Stella’s back-combing. Vic tossed the steaks and corn on the grill. Lacey enjoyed the sizzle. He moved behind her, putting his arms around her and resting his chin on her head. They stayed there a moment admiring the end of the day from her balcony above the river.

  The heat had moderated, and now it was pleasantly warm. The sky was soft, the river full of boats with white sails, bright against the water as the sun set. Gulls gathered on wooden posts at the river’s edge where the green trees grew thick. Lacey spied an osprey aloft, fishing, and shaded her eyes. Vic handed her his binoculars for a better look. Like a Boy Scout, always prepared. The shadows deepened and the twilight advanced. The steaks were ready. Lacey and Vic settled down to eat just as the moon rose, a bright gold disc over the river. She never tired of it.

  Leaning back in her white patio chair after dinner, Lacey felt full of steak and contentment. “I should go to Baltimore more often, if this is what happens when I get home.”

  “Don’t have to go to Baltimore for that.” He made her smile.

  “I’ll pencil you in.”

  “So, Nigel drooling over your ring was the highlight of HonFest?”

  “Oh, there were other highlights.” Unhappy Amy Keaton and her unhealthy red face came to mind. Lacey summarized the encounter for Vic.

  “Hold on!” He frowned. “You saw this woman yesterday and she turns up again today?”

  “Coincidence. You know what a small world D.C. is.”

  “You know I don’t like coincidences. I’m glad she’s LaToya’s problem. She is LaToya’s problem, right?”

  “Definitely. I’ll contact LaToya tomorrow and see when she can pick up the calamitous costume. I’m sure I can’t convince her to just give it back, but I’ll try that too.”

  “You could take it to work with you. Give it back to here there.”

  “It’s a lot to haul around on the Metro.”

  “You could drive.”

  “I could, but driving into D.C. on a Monday morning seems like an unnecessarily frantic way to start the week.” Besides, Lacey enjoyed walking to the King Street Station and reading on the ride to work.

  “Just get rid of the thing,” Vic said.

  “Making you nervous?”

  “Not me. I merely remember the last old dress you got involved with.”

  Oh yes. The “lethal black dress.” The fact that the black dress had dispatched a broadcast reporter to the Great Beyond was beside the point.

  “That one was black, not red. It was a beautiful dress, and I wasn’t dating it, Vic. I was simply the first one to realize what really happened. Are you staying over tonight? You want to keep me from getting too involved with the Red Dress?” She winked at him.

  “I’d love to, but I can’t. Duty calls. However, I can stay for a while.”

  “I’ll settle for a while. For now.”

  The setting sun threw a crimson glow over the Potomac River beneath the moon, but there was no one watching it from Lacey’s balcony.

  CHAPTER 6

  “Lacey Smithsonian! Are you there?”

  Lacey decided six a.m. on Monday morning was way too early to have a buzzing phone in her hand. It took her a moment to recognize the insistent voice and the attitude to match.

  “LaToya?” She sat up in bed and glanced at the illuminated numbers on her clock radio: robbed of at least another hour of sleep.

  “Who else would be calling you at this time of day?”

  Lacey could think of a variety of answers. Crawford wasn’t even on the list.

  “Nobody, I hope.”

  There should be a saying, Lacey thought. Like red sky at morning, sailors take warning? How about, Phone call at dawn, sleep be gone!

  She rubbed her eyes and peered into the gloom. Light was peeking around the perimeter of her dark drapes.

  “Someone broke into my place last night!”

  “What? You had a break-in?”

  “Yes, a break-in. A burglar. A thief. A thief in the night. In my home, my condominium, my personal space.” LaToya paused in her outrage to catch her breath. “I waited until you were up.”

  “I’m not up. But I guess I am now.” Lacey lurched into the kitchen and with one hand hit the power button on her coffee maker, filled with grounds and water the night before, while holding her phone to her ear with the other. “Are you okay? What did they take?”

  “Nothing, so far as I can tell.”

  “Nothing? How do you know? Did you call the police? And why are you calling me?”

  “Why do you think, Miss Fashion Reporter? I buy that Red Death dress and the next thing someone invades my privacy and rifles through my closet, desecrates my home. Broadway says whoever it was—”

  “Broadway Lamont is there?” Interesting. Lacey wondered if LaToya had finally gotten something going on with the big detective.

  “Who do you think I’d call first?”

  Of course she’d call Broadway. “But he’s homicide. Is someone dead?”

  “Not yet, but if I find the creep who did this there WILL be homicide! Broadway is just doing a favor for a friend.”

  The aroma of fresh coffee distracted her. Lacey retrieved one of her promotional Fashion BITES mugs and poured herself some liquid energy. Sunshine was already flooding her kitchen. The day would be hot, but the early morning was pleasant. Lacey’s weekend had had too much going on and not enough Victor Donovan to suit her. It was a shame she had to go to work today, she thought, and now there was LaToya on the phone with a Big Problem.

  “Are you listening to me?” LaToya demanded. “Who the hell would break into my place? Does this unsub have anything to do with the dress I bought?”

  “The what?” Unsub? Someone’s watching way too much television. “How would I know? Besides, your red dress isn’t even there, it’s—”

  The dress. Lacey’s apartment was quiet and
empty, apparently untouched. Vic had left a jacket on a chair. But what about the dress? Lacey raced to the front hall closet. The good-luck/bad-luck dress was still there, hanging in its zipper bag.

  “Your dress is fine, LaToya.”

  “Well, of course it is! I’m the one who got burgled! But what does your EFP tell you?”

  Run and hide, that’s what.

  “It doesn’t work that way, LaToya. I’m not psychic. The EFP thing is just, you know, one of those things people say. Besides, you live in D.C. Things happen.”

  “Not to me, they don’t. Besides, I live off Logan Circle. It’s safe here.”

  “No place is safe all the time. Is Broadway there now?”

  There was a pause, as if LaToya had to make sure. “Yes. He’s calming me down.”

  Not doing a great job of it, is he? “What does he say?”

  “That I need better locks on my door. And a better building security system. And not to buy crazy red dresses from some crazy-ass theatre.”

  That sounds like Broadway Lamont. Lacey heard grumbling in the background. “No valuables taken?”

  “No. And that’s what makes it even creepier. Nothing taken at all. And whoever it was, they were here while I was sleeping. In my bedroom. Watching me sleep!” LaToya’s voice started rising again.

  “Nothing taken? Then how do you know someone was there?”

  “All my damn doors were wide open! And—” LaToya’s voice quavered. “They did things with my clothes—”

  Lacey felt a sudden chill in her sunny kitchen. “Did things? What kind of things? Let me talk to Broadway—”

  “We can’t talk about this on the phone. You have to come over here. You have to see this for yourself. Even Broadway says you got to see this. Now.”

  “Right now? Your place? Before work?”

  “You got to see this.” LaToya’s voice broke. “This is all kinds of stone crazy wacko voodoo. Please.”

  “Okay, I’ll be there soon.” Now that you said please.

  Lacey hung up and wondered what to wear. Between the summer heat, LaToya’s meltdown, and Broadway Lamont, of all people, looking for a fashion clue, she would need to keep her cool. Maybe a retro sleeveless summer dress in a breezy mint-green polished cotton? The skirt was flared for coolness and movability. She paired it with straw wedge sandals in case she had to run from a cranky editor.

  Or a big bear of a homicide detective.

  LATOYA LIVED IN A ONE-bedroom condo in a glorious Beaux Arts building a block and a half from Logan Circle, seven stories tall and apparently unimpregnable. LaToya was waiting for her in the lobby by the concierge’s desk, an enormous coffee in her hand. Not her usual put-together fashion plate self, she wore a pair of dark blue shorts, a white tank top, and athletic shoes. Without her makeup and all the eye-candy she usually wore, she looked younger, smaller, and less self-assured.

  “You look like you’re going running,” Lacey said.

  “I ran all the way to Starbucks after Broadway left. I didn’t feel like being alone.”

  “No coffee for me?”

  “I’m not the welcome wagon.”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Sorry. I’m just jangled, Smithsonian. I wasn’t thinking. I have a splitting headache. I never order an extra-mega-grande caramel macchiato frappuccino or whatever this is, and yet here it is in my hands.” She paused to consider it and took a long sip. “Good though. Want some?”

  “If I’m going to see your apartment, you better lead the way.”

  They rode the elevator in silence and stopped on the fifth floor. Her manicured hand shaking slightly, LaToya unlocked the door and opened it wide. She stood aside for Lacey.

  The pretty one-bedroom condo had been renovated and was sleekly decorated in black and white furniture, accented with blue pillows and blue rugs. One wall was cobalt blue, creating a striking contrast, and a white marble mantled fireplace made an elegant counterpoint. The windows looked out over a canopy of green trees. It was as smart and stylish as its owner. Lacey wondered how LaToya could afford this place in a grand old building with a concierge on a reporter’s salary. It was nothing like her own cozy little slum in the sky.

  As if LaToya read her mind, she said, “I had a little help from my parents. They hate the idea of throwing money away on rent. But that’s not the important thing.” Lacey tore her attention away from the décor and followed LaToya’s pointing finger. She gasped.

  “Oh my God.”

  On the phone, LaToya had said someone “did things” to her clothes. Lacey envisioned piles of clothes dumped on the floor, furniture overturned, pillows scattered, pictures smashed, lamps broken, the usual aftermath of a messy break-in. This was nothing like that.

  The scene was eerily neat and composed. LaToya’s clothes had been taken from her closet and placed carefully all around the room, on the sofa and chairs, and even at the petite dining room table, arranged in coordinated outfits. Everything was accessorized with scarves, belts, hats, purses. Matching shoes were ready for feet to slip into them. That was strange enough. But someone had also taken the time to neatly stuff each of LaToya’s dresses with wrapping paper or other clothes so that they took on a semi-lifelike appearance, as if they were being worn by invisible women. The outfits at the table sat before a tea set, cups and saucers ready for the clothes’ invisible occupants. LaToya’s wardrobe seemed to be having an improbable tea party without her.

  Lacey drew a deep breath.

  “Wow. Broadway was here?”

  LaToya nodded and sipped her coffee. “Took my report, had some cops take photos, checked for prints. Said it was weird. Said you should see it. I was going to call you anyway.”

  “Thanks. It is weird.”

  “Weirder than weird. Scares me to death.”

  “LaToya, not to pry, but are you a sleep-walker by any chance?” LaToya shook her head firmly. “Okay. Heavy sleeper?” Another shake.

  “Not me. I’m up and down all night. Not last night though.”

  “And you didn’t hear anything?”

  “Not a sound.”

  LaToya was still trembling. Lacey wondered if she was in shock. Anyone might be if some intruder had breached her security and played with her garments like they were a doll’s dresses. It was hard to take it in.

  “Do you mind if I take photos?” She didn’t think she would forget this strange scenario, but she might want proof. She took her phone out of her purse.

  “Be my guest. You won’t be the first.” Either the grande caramel macchiato thingy was kicking in, or LaToya was getting her spirit back. “Unbelievable! Some freak places my clothes all around my apartment. In my chairs! On the sofa! Round the table! My dresses, coordinated with my shoes, my belts, my scarves, my hats. Like some ghosts or something were gonna float around the room in them. And what’s with all my wrapping paper stuffed inside of them? Somebody playing dolls with my clothes, in my house? If this was supposed to freak me out, it’s sure as hell working! This is an invasion of my privacy. An invasion of my soul. I should never have gone to that costume sale.”

  “This may have nothing to do with the red dress.” Lacey didn’t believe it even as she said it. She took more pictures of the table set for tea with its invisible guests.

  “Or everything to do with it! Fashion voodoo. I’d ask you to sit down, but all the seats are taken. It’s that damned red dress. I know it is. That’s what they were after. All this is ’cause they didn’t find it here, I bet.”

  She slumped against a windowsill and Lacey joined her. She had to credit LaToya with tenacity. Once she got hold of an idea, she wouldn’t let go. It made her a good reporter. And a pigheaded one at that. She’s a lot like me.

  “It’s a theory. And your suspect?” Lacey asked.

  “Who do you think? Who else but that pasty-faced woman who said the red dress wasn’t for sale. After I already bought it, I might add.”

  “What’s the intended message?” Lacey wondered aloud.


  “The message?” LaToya was quiet for a moment.

  “Was this person saying, ‘I know how you wear your things’? Or maybe, ‘This is how you ought to wear them’?”

  “You mean like my yellow dress, sitting on the sofa with my yellow wedges and the yellow and red belt? Maybe. Anybody would put those together though. Wouldn’t they?”

  Maybe someone was just getting a picture of LaToya through her clothes. Why? To learn something about her? Simply to freak her out? To teach her a lesson? But what’s the lesson?

  “You didn’t wake up at all?”

  “No. And that is extremely weird, Smithsonian, because I am a very light sleeper. Practically lighter than air. I wake up when my neighbor down the hall snores. How did that woman get in my bedroom without me hearing it?”

  “You don’t know that it was that woman.”

  “She is the most likely suspect. That theatre woman got up in my face.”

  “You got in her face.”

  “She grabbed my dress! A defense was required. That, that woman—”

  “Her name is Amy Keaton.”

  “How do you know that?!”

  “I encountered her at HonFest yesterday.”

  “Hon what? What is that?”

  “This street festival in Baltimore. Stella made me go. Hard to explain in ten seconds.”

  “She followed you up to Baltimore? What the hell?”

  “Probably just a coincidence. She claimed she was helping out in the costume booths. She asked me to ask you to please reconsider giving the dress back. She said selling it was a big mistake, she would get the blame, her job was on the line. She went on and on.”

  “She blamed an intern, didn’t she?”

  “You’ve been in D.C. too long. Yes, she blamed an intern.”

  “Ha. I knew it. Better she follows you, the Clothes Whisperer, than me. I’m not sure I’d even recognize her, all pasty-faced, ratty-haired, dressed like a homeless—” LaToya paused for breath. She had a pretty detailed image of this woman she wouldn’t recognize, Lacey thought.

  “But why would she place your outfits around a room?” Lacey said. “Like set dressing, or a wardrobe test for a show? She said she’s a stage manager. She doesn’t seem the type to even know what goes with which dress.”