“No.” LaToya pondered that. “She’s a hot mess.”
“As far as I can tell, this Amy Keaton only wears black. You live your life in Technicolor.”
“You got that right. But who else would do this? If the Keaton woman didn’t do this, she’s got a co-conspirator. Maybe the intern. And what about my red dress? You still got it?”
“It is safely in my temporary custody. Underline temporary.”
“Is it dancing around the room by itself? Stuffed with paper and sitting down to breakfast at your table?”
“Perfectly calm, last time I saw it. In my front closet. I don’t actually communicate psychically with clothes and fabrics, you know.”
“Can’t prove it by me, Miss Clothes Whisperer. The question is: What are you going to do about this, Smithsonian?”
“Me? I’m going to give that dress back to you as soon as possible.”
“Oh no you’re not, not with this closet freak on my ass. You promised to keep it till it’s psychically cleansed.”
“I promised no such thing.” The last thing Lacey wanted was to play a game of hot potato with the ruffled red gown. She squirmed on the windowsill. Five little birds gathered on LaToya’s window ledge behind them, sunning themselves. Lacey watched them fluff their wings. She was easily distracted this morning, she decided. At least she wanted to be distracted.
“You’ve got the fashion voodoo, not me.” It sounded like an accusation.
“I don’t have any voodoo, LaToya. Don’t jump to conclusions.”
“So what’s the plan, Smithsonian?”
Lacey wanted to sun herself like the birds on the windowsill and be free of all this craziness.
“If there is a connection, the first step for anyone—not necessarily me—would be finding out why Amy Keaton was so upset about the dress being sold. It’s not world peace. It’s just a costume. Clearly someone meant to sell it. It had a price tag.”
“Apparently it is not just a costume. It is a very special costume. To someone.”
True enough. “Besides the rogue intern theory, there must be some other reason the dress was at the sale in the first place.”
LaToya pressed her macchiato to her forehead and thought. “Maybe someone did it to antagonize that bee-yatch. Or blame her for it. Make her lose that job. I’d buy that reason.”
“Also, what do the police think about it? What did Lamont say? Have there been any other strange break-ins like this?” Was there a strange game of playing dress-up going on?
“He didn’t say much. I’ll have to tête-á-tête with Broadway later.”
“Didn’t he say anything?”
“He says at least no one’s dead. Yet.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh, damn, look at the time. I’ve got to get ready. If there’s anything left in my closet that didn’t get stuffed and mounted. I ain’t touching these things. But what about that woman and my dress?”
“LaToya, if your break-in has anything to do with the dress, and I am not saying it does, you should find out more about it and the actress who wore it. Why it’s so valuable. Such a theatre legend.”
“Me? I’m not the fashion reporter! This is not a LaToya-gotta-figure-out-how-to-do-it thing, this is a Smithsonian-already-knows-how-to-do-it thing. There is a dead actress involved. I don’t do theatre. Or death. Not my beat.”
“It’s not my beat either. Besides, I’m not sure the actress even died. Maybe the story never happened. Maybe the dress has nothing to do with anything. Maybe it’s the kind of story that starts in a glass of beer, then grows into a myth. For all we know, the actress might be alive and well. She might have tripped onstage, the dress got blamed, and the story grew into a long, tall tale.”
“You think so?” LaToya sounded hopeful.
“We need facts, not fiction. You’re a reporter, you know what useful things facts can be.”
“Then what about this freaky break-in?”
“I honestly don’t know. Get better locks on your doors, like Broadway said.” Lacey picked up her tote. “I have to get to work. You do too.”
They agreed to meet later at The Eye and compare notes, but Lacey wasn’t optimistic. Questions were always more plentiful than answers. And what about the dress? LaToya’s break-in would only embellish the dress’s notorious reputation, whether there was a connection or not. One thing was clear: That ruby-red confection would have to find a new hiding place. A place that was not Lacey’s apartment.
Outside in the green and leafy Logan Circle, she grabbed a bench near the statue of Civil War General John A. Logan forever sitting on a horse. She gave Vic a call.
“Sweetheart. What’s up?” His voice was deep and warm, like honey down her spine.
“I am, and a little too early. And I have a mission for you, should you choose to accept it.”
“As long as it’s not impossible. Is this mission fun or dangerous? Or both?”
“You are so suspicious. Remember that dress of LaToya’s I brought home?”
“Aha. A dress. Dangerous, then.”
“I wouldn’t say that. I just think it needs to take up residence in another closet somewhere, for the time being. A closet in a galaxy far away.”
“And why would that be?”
“LaToya’s place was broken into last night.” Lacey heard Vic groan.
“And you think they were looking for the dress?”
“Maybe. I really need to take a closer look at it at a safe place and—”
“Share an intimate moment with the red dress?”
“You know me so well.” She gazed at people cutting across the Circle. They had cups of coffee, reminding her she was thirsty.
“The burglar was looking for that specific dress?”
“I don’t know what the burglar was looking for. But anything is possible.”
“Experienced Lacey Smithsonian viewers always suspect every possibility.”
“That’s a small possibility. The disturbing part—”
“There’s a disturbing part? God, I’d be so disappointed if there wasn’t one.” She could hear him tapping on a keyboard. Perhaps taking notes.
“LaToya was asleep while persons unknown were rifling through her things.”
“But the dress wasn’t there. So what did they take?”
“Nothing. They—he, she, whoever—removed outfits from her closet and set them up around her apartment.”
“Set them up? Like, strewn around?”
“No, not strewn. Placed with care, with the proper accessories, shoes, belts, that sort of thing, and stuffed with wrapping paper to give them shape. Sitting at the table. Lounging on the sofa. Like the Invisible Woman’s costume parade.”
“You’re right. That is disturbing. You have pictures?
“On my phone.”
“Send me some, when you have a chance. Sounds like bad performance art. Maybe the guy, because statistically it’s a guy, is obsessed with LaToya and not the dress, which is still currently in your possession. Does she have a stalker?”
“Eww. That would be worse. For LaToya. I wouldn’t want any stranger looking at me while I’m asleep.”
“Don’t worry, darling. That’s my job.”
LACEY HAD TAKEN AN Uber to LaToya’s apartment, but the office was just half an hour away, adding a stop for an iced coffee. In Farragut Square, birds perched on the head and shoulders of Admiral Farragut. Men and women lingered outside with cups of coffee, hot and iced, resisting the race to their daily grind. Flower sellers’ carts on the street corners were in full bloom. In an effort to ward off any more bad news, Lacey bought a bunch of blossoms. She wasn’t sure they would help, but they were pretty.
It wasn’t something she did every day, but today Lacey hoped that Felicity Pickles, The Eye Street Observer food editor, had something tasty on hand. Felicity was obsessive about tempting the staff with her recipes. She called it work. Lacey called it something else. More like coercion.
But Felicity’s food was a big draw for Broadway
Lamont. He was sweet on Felicity and her food and he wasn’t nearly as intimidating when he was oohing and ahhing over something jam-packed with calories.
If I’m going to have Broadway Lamont involved in this mess, I want him sinking his teeth into one of Felicity’s sticky buns. Not me.
CHAPTER 7
Detective Broadway Lamont made it to The Eye’s offices before Lacey did. He’d had a head start. Luckily, the smell of sizzling bacon and cheese was in the air as she arrived. Lacey spotted Lamont with a plateful of something that looked like quiche, deep in conversation with her editor.
“Smithsonian. My office. Now.” Douglas MacArthur Jones beckoned her with a finger. His dark balding head was shiny with humidity or possibly sweat. Lacey popped her small bouquet into an empty coffee mug, dropped her tote bag at her desk, and picked up a notebook and pen, just in case. She tried not to sigh, because Monday morning was too early in the week to start sighing.
Mac’s office was in its usual state of chaos. Papers covered every surface, though she noticed a space had been cleared on his desk for a new framed photograph of Mac’s blended family. Mac was African-American, his wife Kim Japanese-American, and their soon-to-be adopted daughters Jasmine and Lily Rose were a blend of African-American and Chinese. All wore implausibly big grins, including Mac. Mac’s was a smile rarely on display in the newsroom, but he had changed since the girls had come into his life. He was a big teddy bear when it came to them. With reporters he was still just a bear, at least on the outside.
His new daughters were trying to make some stylish inroads into his wardrobe too, which was usually an explosive mix of colors and patterns. Today he looked almost coordinated, in khaki slacks with that unfortunate front pleating that did nothing good for his ample frame. His shirt was a bizarre plaid of orange, purple, and red, with just a sliver of khaki that almost looked like it was meant to go with the slacks. His psychedelic purple tie looked like an eleven-year-old picked it out. Lily Rose was eleven, Lacey remembered.
Above the purple tie, Mac was balding and fierce, but not nearly as imposing as the big African-American police detective standing there eating quiche. Lacey nodded to them.
“Morning, Mac, Broadway. How’s Felicity’s new quiche?”
“What is it with you, Smithsonian?” Mac favored Lacey with his beetle-browed expression of puzzled concern. His eyebrows were the most expressive part of his face, and today they predicted storm clouds.
“And you would be referring to what specifically?”
“Some kind of crazy dress connected to some kind of a break-in at LaToya’s place. Your specialty, I believe.”
“I assume you mean dresses, not break-ins. I was just over there. I understand nothing was taken. Has a connection been proven, then?”
Is everybody suddenly seeing fashion clues now, where they may not be? On one hand, people taking fashion seriously might be a positive thing. On the other, Lacey didn’t want anyone stepping on her beat. Or her process. Or her so-called ExtraFashionary Perception.
“Nothing that we know of,” Lamont said. “She’ll have to take a closer look at her closet, and right now she’s pretty spooked.”
“You’re usually working homicide, Broadway. Why were you there?”
“Um—” He swallowed a piece of quiche. “Favor for a friend.”
“LaToya called you? So she’s got your private number?”
My, my! So she’s ‘a friend’ now?
“I saw that look, Smithsonian. Don’t get cute with me. Tell me about the fight LaToya had with that woman at the theatre sale.”
“She already told you.”
“I want your take on it. She’s emotionally involved.”
No kidding. “What I saw looked like a tug of war over the dress, between LaToya and a woman from the theatre. Short, blond, pudgy,” Lacey said. “The theatre sold it to LaToya, but now this woman wanted it back. But you don’t know if the two incidents are related, neither do I, and neither one has anything to do with me.”
“I wouldn’t rule anything out.” Broadway glowered at her.
“Ditto.” Mac’s bushy eyebrows did a dance that Lacey interpreted as skeptical. And probably hungry.
“Felicity’s quiche smelled pretty yummy, Mac,” Lacey said. “Didn’t you get any?”
The first lesson of the newsroom was to keep editors happy and well-fed. Especially Mac Jones. And that didn’t seem to be happening today.
“Lamont got the last piece.” He looked grumpy. Broadway grinned.
“Poor Mac. So what do you want me to do?” she asked. “It’s not my story, you know, it’s really LaToya’s.”
“It’s fashion, so it’s your beat. Do what you always do,” Mac said. “Stay on the dress angle. Figure out what’s happening. Dig up its past. See if it’s cursed or something. Don’t get killed in the process.”
“You think the two are connected?” she asked Broadway.
“Normally, I wouldn’t. But you’re involved, so—”
“I’m not involved! I happened to be there when she bought the dress.”
“Exactly,” Mac put in. “Crawford buys some weird old dress, Smithsonian is on the scene, and the next thing you know Crawford’s apartment gets, well, whatever it got. It’s weird. It’s never happened before. You’re in the middle of it. So it’s connected.”
Lacey snorted. “She probably has some crazy stalker. Maybe the dress is innocent. Detective, you were at LaToya’s, what did you think of the crime scene?”
“Bizarre.” The big man rubbed his face. “I’ve seen all kinds of crazy-ass things. This wasn’t messy, wasn’t bloody, nobody got hurt, but it raised the hairs on the back of my neck. Course that could have been LaToya Crawford shrieking in my ear.” He shook himself. “One thing, Smithsonian. I don’t like perps who send a message, like this one did.”
“And that message is?”
“How do I know? But it’s some kind of message. Do I look like I speak fashion clues?”
“Perhaps not,” Lacey said. He looked fierce, with his biceps straining the sleeves of his navy polo shirt and his black pistol peeking out of his shoulder holster. “But you do speak homicide. And the dress has a history. No recent deaths though, as far as I know.”
“What do you mean ‘no recent deaths’?” Mac thundered, his eyebrows arching in alarm. Surely LaToya told Broadway about the actress’s alleged death in the red dress? Lamont didn’t betray any sign of it. Neither did Mac.
“It’s a rumor, Mac. And it was years ago. I’d have to research it.”
“Research it,” Mac ordered. “Where’s the dress now?”
“I’m not sure. It was in my car trunk, then as of this morning it was in my closet.” Lacey checked her watch. “Right now it may be in transit.”
“In transit?”
“I asked Vic to move it. Just a precaution.”
“So you’re spooked too,” Broadway said with a smirk.
“I wouldn’t say spooked. But there is that story.” She recapped the tale of the red dress and the actress who had supposedly died onstage in it during Kinetic Theatre’s The Masque of the Red Death.
“Great. A dead woman’s dress. Now we’re all spooked,” Mac said. “Stay on it. And let me know what you’re going to have for me this week.”
The big detective pointed a finger at her. “And you get any hoodoo-voodoo fashion clues, you call me.”
That almost sounded like an offer of help, but Lacey suspected Lamont just wanted to be done with the whole break-in and ease LaToya out of his life. If anyone here was spooked, it was him, and LaToya was the fear factor. Mac waved her away. Broadway Lamont balled up a napkin and tossed it in the trash. Lacey was dismissed.
She’d written a draft of her theatre yard sale piece, and jotted down a few notes for a “Fashion BITE” about HonFest, and now she was being ordered to explore the legend of the Crimson Dress of Doom. It looked like a busy week. She wondered whether she could wrangle some time off, because technically sh
e’d worked all weekend too.
Could be worse. At least the fashion beat seems to be permanent job security.
Lacey returned to her cubicle and felt a chill suddenly racing down her neck. It had nothing to do with her chilling assignments. It was the air vent above her head. Another scorching day outside and the newsroom was freezing.
Typical. The newsroom’s air conditioning, like most offices, was set for the comfort of men in suits and ties, not for women in their summer dresses. Like employees in offices everywhere, Lacey would have to surreptitiously crack open the window near her desk to let in some warm air. In fact, she considered it a small miracle that the windows in the building could still be opened. There was an edict that no one was to touch them, but it was roundly violated. Even editors were guilty of opening a window for some fresh air and a little warmth.
Frozen Offices Defy Summer Fashion! Women Shiver While Men Swelter! Perhaps a headline for one of her “Crimes of Fashion” columns, she thought. Luckily, she was prepared. She grabbed her navy linen jacket and readjusted the scarf that went with her summer dress. Another small surprise was waiting for her as she rubbed her chilled fingers. In the middle of her desk was an envelope and a note from The Eye’s photographer, Todd Hansen.
“With my compliments,” it read.
Inside was a photograph from HonFest, capturing Lacey in her serious cat-eye makeup and caterpillar-thick lashes, courtesy of Stella. She was standing face-to-face with Amy Keaton, who looked frazzled, frizzled, and frumpy in the Baltimore heat. Both were gesturing dramatically, like an outtake from a bad movie. In the background, engrossed in the action, stood the impressively coiffed Stella, Lady Gwendolyn, and Nigel, leering like a bad boy in a Fifties biker flick. Surely a rumble was mere moments away.
Lacey put her head down on her desk. As long as this photo didn’t make its way into the paper, ever, she’d survive. She placed the picture face down, then reconsidered and turned it face up, contemplating the other woman.
The Masque of the Red Dress Page 6