The two-centuries-old red-brick building had clearly served many purposes. Once a church, later a warehouse and a nightclub, it had found its mission as a theatre for various troupes for at least the past half century. The edifice harmonized with the rest of the block’s old-fashioned apartment buildings and townhouses. Miraculously, it had not been scooped up by developers, scraped, or turned into a jutting high rise of overpriced condominiums. Lacey opened the door and felt a welcome blast of chilled air. Though the building was old, the renovated lobby had the smell of fresh wood and paint.
Yuri Volkov greeted her at the door, but he was busy, very busy, he said in a pronounced Russian accent, with his new show about to premiere. He gripped a large mug of coffee in his hand, but he didn’t offer her any.
Not my day for free coffee.
He had important things to do today, he complained, going over the score with the musicians, rethinking the choreography in the second act, overseeing the day-to-day business of the theatre, ensuring the water bill was paid and the electricity was working and the building inspector was happy. Unless she was there to write a positive story about the upcoming show, Volkov told her, he could only spare a few minutes. He left no doubt what a great concession he was making.
“I won’t take up much of your time,” she promised.
Volkov snorted. With a gesture and a dramatic sigh he allowed Lacey to follow him through the lobby and up the stairs to the light booth, where he checked the lighting plot, the placement of the stage lights, cue by cue. He sat at a long table in front of a laptop and a mass of cables and equipment, focusing intently. He clicked the mouse and the stage lit up, colored lights flashing on and off in sequence, casting shadows on his face. Bits and pieces of furniture and stage sets were spotlighted in turn as Volkov hit the keys. He worked in a fury. Taking a seat, Lacey studied him in silence.
The man was muscular and compactly built, and though he was still except for his hands and eyes, he seemed to vibrate with energy. His every controlled movement exuded passion for his work. His attention to each task was intense, yet he seemed weary. His dark hair was slicked straight back from his face, he had fine features and a straight nose, and his large round eyes were so dark they looked black in the dim light. He might almost be considered pretty, she thought, if not for his apparently permanent scowl and the deep vertical worry line between his eyes.
Lacey gazed down at the theatre below. The thrust stage was directly across from the booth, and the seats, laid out in a semicircle around it, were raked at a steep angle. The set was painted in shades of deep purple and moody blues. It featured multiple pieces that could fly in and out from above, including walls and windows and door frames and tables and chairs. White sheer curtains shifted with the lights into ghostly images.
Programs for the current show were scattered on the table, and Lacey picked one up. The upcoming Kinetic production was a song-and-dance extravaganza, a dark musical reimagining of The Turn of the Screw. Not quite the solemn Henry James original, she surmised.
They like their shows gothy and gloomy, don’t they? And with singing and dancing.
As she read on, she realized this show seemed to be a reunion of sorts for some of the Masque of the Red Death crew. She recognized a few names. Volkov had directed the Masque, and both the playwright Gareth Cameron and the costume designer Nikolai Sokolov were credited in this new show. Some of the original dancers were on hand as well. Lacey began to hope she might get a story yet out of the red dress and this hot day’s journey to the far side of Dupont Circle.
“So. You are here about that damn red dress?” Volkov finally turned around and stared at her.
“That ‘damn dress’ would be the one worn by Death in The Masque of the Red Death? Yes, I was at the big theatre garage sale on Saturday. You heard there was a conflict over the purchase?”
He shrugged elaborately in a way she assumed must be a theatrical specialty. “Yes, a conflict. So?”
“I understand there was a mix-up, and the red dress from The Masque might have been sold by mistake.”
“I’m not in charge of such things as selling old costumes! Let me tell you, one of the very few things here of which I am not in charge.”
“You don’t care that it was sold?”
“That stupid rag? Of course not.” Yuri Volkov drained his coffee and slammed the mug down on the table. “Nothing but trouble. Every year some actress comes begging to wear that thing. You would think they are auditioning for a part, with the pleading and the wheedling, and the Please I must have it or I will die.” He paused for breath. “Now it’s been sold. It is gone. Good riddance.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It is just a costume! A very clever one, it was good for the show, but people have romantic ideas. They think it means more. They think it means good luck. Or points for courage to dare such bad luck. Or whatever it is they think. Please. Actors! They give me a headache. Writers give me a headache too.”
“My pleasure. Was it a mistake for it to be on the sale rack?”
“As I said, I was not in charge of the sale.”
“Was Amy Keaton in charge?”
“Keaton? Maybe. Yes, I think so. I washed my hands of it. We needed to make space, get rid of clutter, all the old junk. We all decide to sell these things, but then no, the Keaton has to change her mind, start a big fight. So now there is one thing for which I am not personally responsible, one thing, and you see the problems I have when that happens?” He rubbed his head and smoothed his hair. “It never stops. And now I have a reporter asking me irrelevant questions. Not about my new show! No, about a show a dozen years ago that will not bring people into my theatre. I cannot sell tickets to a dead show. Thank you very much, Amy Keaton. Talk to her if you must. I will tell you this, that woman drives me crazy. A good stage manager, yes, but the complaining, the bitching, the moaning.”
She’s got nothing on you, Yuri Volkov. “I’d love to. Is she here?”
“Who knows. I haven’t seen her today. As far as I know, she has not come in yet. I am here, I work my ass off, but I am alone. Do you see what I mean?”
“What can you tell me about Nikolai Sokolov?”
Volkov looked surprised. “Nicky? He is our resident costume designer. What do you want to know? Some people like him, some hate him. He is a perfectionist. Pain in the neck, but no one better at what he does. That is why I let him do this show. He is the best.” Volkov didn’t look very happy about it.
“Sokolov had a small part in your Masque. Is he an actor too?”
“Used to be. Technically perfect,” Volkov said. “The movement, the action, the expressions, all perfect. You see this in some actors, they lead with their head, all brains. Not their guts. All head, that’s Nicky. The best actors have both, brains and guts, but the very best, they lead with their heart.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Very smart man. At times it seems, maybe Nicky is too smart to be an actor, you know? Acting is a physical thing, especially our Kinetic acting. Big movement, big dancing, music never stops, very deep, very sexual, in your gut. Not Nicky. But in a pinch, Nikolai is your man. For small roles, cerebral roles.”
“Would he care that the red dress was sold?”
Volkov finally laughed, his first. “Nicky? Why on earth would he care? He has designed hundreds and hundreds of costumes. The costume he cares about is the one he is working on right now. Like me. Always a new show. Opening night. Nothing else matters.”
Lacey was getting nowhere fast. “Could you tell me about the production of The Masque of the Red Death?”
Volkov slapped his forehead. “The Masque. Always people think of Kinetic, they think Masque. Why? It was a million years ago.” He turned away from her to tap on the laptop.
“What about the actor who played Prospero?”
Volkov wrinkled his nose. “Don’t remember.”
“Maksym Pushkin was the name in our archives.”
“
Pushkin. That’s right. Good dancer. The ladies loved him. Hasn’t worked onstage here in years. But he still teaches dance class now and then.”
“Russian?”
“Many in our company are Russian. Most. Not all of course. We let others audition if they are able to dance our way. They must be in top shape, athletic, fearless, head, heart and guts. Perfect.” He squinted at Lacey as if looking at her for the first time. “Smithsonian? Lacey Smithsonian? Not the museum. How do I know that name? Wait. Tamsin Kerr! She wrote a review about you. Yes?”
“It was supposed to be a news story. She just couldn’t help herself.”
“Ha. Once a critic, always a critic.”
Tamsin was supposed to write a hard news story that happened to involve Lacey, a lethal black dress, a killer, and a confrontation to which Tamsin was an eyewitness. Instead, she had penned it as if it were a theatre review, and she featured Lacey prominently as the leading lady. Lacey tried to get the interview back on track.
“Right. Saige Russell. She died after the final curtain of The Masque. Tell me about her.”
Volkov looked supremely irritated. “Idiot! Foolishly climbing all over the set after the show. In the dark. All alone. I have no idea why. There was nothing wrong with that set, let me tell you. We should have struck it after closing curtain, maybe she would be alive. But we didn’t strike the set that night, because of a children’s show the next day. Our children’s theatre, very popular.”
“So I’ve heard. Were you there when it happened?”
He stopped tapping on his laptop as if remembering. “No. We were all at the cast party. Wondering where Saige Russell was. Drinking. Dancing. Big party. I didn’t hear about the accident till the next day.”
“Was she wearing the costume when she died, the red dress?”
“The Red Death costume?” He shook his head furiously. “Of course not! Always that stupid rumor! No, she took it off. Costumes go back to wardrobe after the show, always, then later to the cleaners.”
“Do you remember her? Saige Russell?”
He shrugged. “So many actresses. They come and go.” Volkov lifted his hand in a dismissive gesture. “I remember she was beautiful, in a tragic way.”
“Why do you say that?
Another shrug. “Because she died so young. Maybe she wasn’t really so pretty, but you say that because it is expected. Because it is sad.” Suddenly, he seemed to think of something, but it wasn’t about the late actress, beautiful and tragic. He snapped his fingers. “You! Smithsonian! Now I remember! I read about you! You found the Romanov jewels! Diamonds and rubies, the lost corset!”
Lacey’s turn to sigh. “Yeah. That has nothing to do with this story.”
“Perhaps not. But every Russian knows about the Romanovs, wants to know more. It is a national curiosity.” He narrowed her eyes at her. “Tell me. How did you do it?”
She had found the lost corset of one of the Romanov princesses and written about her adventure. How was she supposed to explain that ultimately it came down to a hunch, a feeling, a last possible resort? Lacey shook her head.
“I explained it all in my stories. In the newspaper.”
“Bah. Trade secrets. I respect that. You are smart to keep secrets. A little theatrics, a little detective work, a little intuition. Perhaps you will tell me someday.” He glanced at his watch. “You will find no jewels here. And the red costume is gone. I have work to do.”
“I’m still interested in the story. Nikolai Sokolov created the costumes for this new show, The Turn of the Screw, as well as the Masque. Is he around right now?”
“He keeps his own hours. Geniuses make me insane. But the theatre is nothing without them. I am one too, so I know.”
“Will you tell him I would like to speak with him?”
“Do I look like a secretary, Smithsonian? When I see him, if I see him, and there is no guarantee of that, I will tell him a reporter was asking about him. You want to see Nikolai, come see the show. You want to know about the long-ago production of The Masque, ask— Ah, who to ask? Ask Katya. She’s a secretary now, paralegal, something like that.” He named a law firm on K Street. “She was here back then. She has a long memory.”
“Katya. Does she have a last name?”
“Pritchard. Katya Pritchard.”
“Ah yes, Saige’s understudy.” Her name was in The Eye’s old articles.
“And you know what they say about understudies.” She didn’t, but he waved her away and turned back to his lighting plot. Yuri Volkov had had enough Smithsonian for one day.
Lacey showed herself out. She still had no idea what they said about understudies. I’ll ask Tamsin. Except of course for the cut-throat understudy in the movie All About Eve, an understudy of whom to beware. Was this Katya capable of pushing a leading lady off a platform to her death?
Should I watch my back around the understudy?
CHAPTER 12
As it turned out, Katya Pritchard wasn’t hard to find. Her law firm was well-known and well-placed on K Street and she was in the office and willing to talk. But puzzled.
“The Masque? That was ages ago! After all these years, you want to know about The Masque?” Pritchard said on the phone. “Why would anyone want to know about that ancient production?”
“Could I buy you coffee?” Lacey asked.
Coffee at Lacey’s expense would be fine, according to Katya. Of course it would. At the Starbucks on K Street near her office, Katya ordered a complicated grande latte with about a thousand calories and a gooey caramel brownie to go with it. It looked wonderful. Despite her own deep desire for something chocolate, Lacey stuck with her plain black decaf coffee and a small package of mixed nuts. It didn’t begin to fill the ache for something sweet.
The complex coffee ordering process gave Lacey a chance to observe this former actress and dancer. She would never have guessed the woman had been on stage: The day job had taken over. She was tall, but her dancer’s body was now padded in fat, fed by Starbucks lattes and brownies. Katya wore all-black, fitting not merely for a former theatre person or a K Street grunt, but as a denizen of the Capital City. Clad in some sort of clingy stretchy fabric, she looked overheated. Her knit top had an unflattering round neckline and long sleeves that squeezed her ample arms. Pants in the same black stretchy fabric covered the woman’s ample posterior.
Did Katya work in an office with a Felicity Pickles? Lacey wondered. Or was she their Felicity Pickles?
Katya was too young, Lacey thought, to wear pants with an elastic waistband. Stretch pants were a sign of giving up, in Lacey’s opinion. Katya’s face behind square black-framed glasses was soft and layered in plump folds, her skin pale and freckled and free of makeup. Her black hair was long and luxurious, obviously recently dyed, but she wore it in a severe and unflattering version of one of D.C.’s most popular hairstyles: pulled off the face and clipped up in back. She combed the bangs sideways to expose her ears, making her head look flat. Katya looked like a woman who had given up every vanity, except for her hair color. For that alone, Lacey silently applauded her.
“Thanks for the coffee.” She settled into a chair opposite Lacey and set her drink and gooey brownie on the table. “Isn’t this nice.”
“Yes, it’s beastly hot out there.”
The sun’s glare through the coffee shop window lit the disappointment that had settled into the lines of Katya’s face. It was increasingly hard to believe that she was once in the cast of The Masque of the Red Death. Although her part was small, understudying the lead dance role must have been physically demanding.
“Katya is a pretty name.”
“Thank you. It’s Russian. Like my mother. My father was English. We wound up here.”
“Yuri Volkov said it’s not necessary to be Russian to dance for Kinetic.”
“Maybe not, but it helps. That discipline is in the blood. I took dance classes since I was little. My mother insisted. So what are you writing about?” Katya apparently didn’t know L
acey was a fashion reporter. “Something about that Kinetic production I was in?”
“I’m looking into the costume worn by the character of the Red Death in The Masque. The role you understudied? I saw it at the theatre yard sale on Saturday. Someone bought it.”
Katya gasped. “They sold the red dress?” Her eyes were wide. “No!”
“Apparently it was sort of a mistake. But they did.”
She surprised Lacey by laughing. “Oh my God. Generations of actresses will be denied their chance to wear that thing to the Helen Hayes. I was fitted for it myself, you know. I even wore it at dress rehearsal, for like five minutes. Saige and I were almost exactly the same size.” She picked up her latte. “Yeah, I know it’s hard to believe that now. Don’t quote me.”
She brushed crumbs off her top and looked away. Ah yes. I was waiting for the obligatory ‘don’t quote me.’
“Hey,” Katya said suddenly, “do you want to see a picture of me in the red dress?”
Really? What are the odds of that?
“Do you have one with you?”
“Sure. On my phone.” She dug it out of her purse. “I keep it on here to give me some inspiration for my diet.” Katya looked ruefully at her brownie. “The spirit is willing, but you know.”
“Wow.” Lacey tried not to reveal the shock she felt looking at the picture. Young Katya in the tightly fitted crimson gown was beautiful and soulful-looking and very fit. “You look fabulous.”
“Thanks. That was at dress rehearsal. I was actually a little thinner than Saige that day,” she said with pride. “I wish I could have worn that dress in the show. It was a lovely creation. All those layers of reds, the mask, the headpiece. The colors just blended together like magic. It rustled when you walked, the way taffeta does, but it didn’t make you feel fragile. It fell just right, and it had weight, a real swing to it. It made you feel strong and powerful, in control. That’s the power of a great costume, you know. You sort of climb into it and just drive it. I didn’t get to wear it for more than a few minutes at a time, because I never had a chance to take over the role. Saige never missed a performance. The gown, however, was amazing.”
The Masque of the Red Dress Page 9