“I’m sorry you missed out on that. But at least you got to wear it for a fitting. So what was Saige Russell like?” Lacey sipped her coffee and took mental notes, not wanting to distract Katya with a notebook and pen.
“Saige? You wanted to talk about Saige?” Her face darkened. “I don’t know, really. After all, time slips by. Memories fade.”
Lacey doubted that. “You were friends?”
“Sure.” Katya had a lovely smile, though it was lit with a hint of malice. “Theatre friends. You know. Hugging, cheek-kissing, hello-darling kind of friends. For a few shows. And then, well, she died.”
“And you stopped doing theatre?”
“Life intrudes. You can’t make a living if you’re not Equity, and then sometimes you can’t make it even if you are Equity. You forget about the theatre and dancing and you grow up, get a real job.”
“Did you make Equity?”
Katya saw something in her memory. “Getting my Equity card was a peak moment. One of those moments you always remember. I was on my way.” Katya’s smile dimmed. “It didn’t work out. A lot of the little theatres aren’t Equity, so I lost those parts, and I couldn’t get cast often enough to survive. I taught acting and dance for a while, but I didn’t want to do that forever. You turn thirty, then thirty-five. Then—” She paused. “Being a paralegal for a big firm has its advantages, you know. Job security. Not to mention great health insurance.”
“Insurance is good.” Lacey hoped she would never look this sad to the world.
“It’s a good job. I wouldn’t trade my job for an early grave. I mean, Saige had her best role ever in The Masque. Great reviews, a hot show, she was on top of the world. She had Nikolai, and she was in love, and everything seemed to be going so brilliantly. And then she—fell off the platform. Fell off the stage. Fell off the edge of the world.” Katya was looking at something in the distance, something in her past.
“You said ‘she had Nikolai’? You mean Nikolai Sokolov?” Lacey asked. “The costume designer?”
“Nikolai.” Katya took her time sipping her latte. “He broke the bank on that red dress for Saige.” Something in her tone changed.
“So he was more than just her costume designer?’
“Oh yes. They had this big affair. I walked in on them a couple of times. Not quite in flagrante delicto. They ‘frolicked’ everywhere, in the dressing room, the costume shop, the theatre. The light booth.” She laughed. Gossip with a soupçon of glee was perking Katya up. “It just proves that you can have it all, but the next minute you’re dead. My life isn’t that glamorous, but I’m not dead.”
True. We’re not dead.
“Do you still act?”
“No. I don’t dance either. Not at this size. I could get parts, like comic parts, but...” The sentence trailed off and she looked away.
“Do you ever go to the theatre?”
“Once in a while. When I can get a comp. Who can afford theatre tickets?”
“What about Nikolai? Do you still see him around?”
“Around.” She nodded. “His home base is Kinetic though. He’s worked for a lot of theatres, the smaller ones. He’s so talented, he can do anything. Costumes, sets, lights, sound. He’s not a one-trick pony.”
“He’s making the costumes for Kinetic’s latest show.”
“Really.” Katya was tearing her brownie into tiny pieces. “He would be. He’s a great costumer. Nicky’s not super handsome, he’s good looking, but— Compelling. Dark hair. Intense. And those blue eyes. At least I think they’re blue.”
“You think?”
She made a face. “They seem to change. Contact lenses, probably. His eyes were extra blue back then. No one has eyes that color. Gave him a very intense look. Brooding. Romantic.”
“An actor too?”
“Isn’t everyone?”
“All the world’s a stage,” Lacey agreed.
“Nicky did some small parts. Like me. But acting wasn’t his main thing.”
“Theatre tech people don’t usually act, right?”
“Yeah, but he always said if he was on the stage with the other actors, he could get a better feel for the play, and what he wanted to do with the technical stuff.”
“Did you date him?”
Katya’s hand froze with a bit of brownie hovering near her mouth. “I wanted to, but Saige got there first. And afterward— Well, going after Nicky after she died seemed in bad taste.” She popped the brownie in her mouth. “Besides, the show was over. When the show closes, that one little family kind of breaks up. Things cool off.”
Lacey nodded. Or Nikolai might not have been interested in Katya, she thought, even though she’d been young and lovely. Chemistry was fickle and mysterious. Her black coffee was wretched and lukewarm to boot, but she wanted to keep Katya remembering.
“What about Yuri Volkov? Is he as intense as he seems?”
Katya grinned. “Intense? Yuri? More. He is a perfectionist. That’s why he gets such strong performances. Geniuses are like that. He can make you cry.”
“Did he make you cry?”
“A couple times. It felt like he wasn’t satisfied until you broke down at least once. After that, you could be friends. Yuri is a little weird.”
“Sounds like. Was he interested in Saige? Romantically?”
“That’s the big mystery about Yuri. No one really knows if he’s interested in men or women, or if he’s even interested in sex at all. Not a clue. I think he just likes to keep that part of his life private. Really private. Whatever it is. Really, I think the theatre is his whole life.”
“What can you tell me about the leading man? The one who played Prince Prospero?”
“Maksym. Oh yes. Good looking in a real traditional matinee-idol way. He had beautiful thick hair. Sexy eyes. Taller than Saige, and me. I think that’s why he was cast. Not many of the male dancers were that tall. And Maksym was always in beautiful shape. Great dancer.”
“Is he still around?”
“Yeah.” Katya gazed at her drink again. “He went to law school, became a lawyer.” She caught Lacey’s lifted eyebrow. “No, not with my firm.”
“How well did you know him?”
“Pretty well.” Katya fluttered her hands almost as if she were trying to forget him. “We dated for a while. He was very—pretty. We made a pretty couple. Back then. But it’s kind of hard when you always have to wonder which one of you everyone is looking at, you know? And it was all about Maksym, all the time, never about me. He was one of those performers who just suck all the air out of a room. Now he performs in the courtroom. He’s good.”
“Does he still dance?’
“I think he teaches a few classes at Kinetic sometimes. But he basically quit the theatre after Saige died. Not everyone is meant for a life on the stage.” She picked up her latte.
Apparently that statement included at least three performers in The Masque of the Red Death: Katya Pritchard, Saige Russell, and Maksym Pushkin.
Katya sighed deeply. She and Lacey checked their watches simultaneously. Katya said she needed to get back to work and stood up. Lacey did too.
I have a psychic to call on.
CHAPTER 13
The little shop of Horus, the books and curiosities shop owned by psychic Marie Largesse, would be open for only another hour. Exiting the King Street Metro, Lacey knew she could be at Marie’s shop in fifteen minutes.
The tidy store off King Street in Alexandria near the river offered all sorts of books on the psychic world and New Age phenomena, and it always had a pungent aroma of rich herbs, scented candles, and incense. There were aisles of candles and sage for smudging. But no Ouija boards. Marie believed they opened the door to darkness, and she preferred the light.
It was a steamy stroll but Lacey was at Marie’s shop before she realized it, and the door tinkled its familiar chime. The place looked deserted, but a musical Southern voice called out from the back room.
“Hello, Lacey. I’ve got some iced
raspberry tea ready, cher.”
“You were expecting me?” Lacey said.
“You have to ask?” Marie laughed.
Lacey had debated about even calling on Marie. As a psychic, Marie was usually able only to foretell positive or neutral events. When she caught vibes of death or disaster, fear or foreboding, she tended to faint, and later she seldom remembered anything very useful. Today, however, Marie seemed perfectly upbeat. She bustled into the shop with two tall glasses filled with ice and sweet Southern raspberry tea, and she wore an ethereal white flowing blouse with angel wing sleeves and a long blue denim skirt which flattered her voluptuous figure. Marie would never wear grey or beige or something as mundanely professional as a mere suit. Her clients, she said, didn’t want to see their psychic looking like an aging Congressional staffer.
“Of course I knew you were on your way. Come in and sit down.”
“I didn’t call you,” Lacey said, teasing her.
“Not on the phone.” Marie handed her a glass of tea.
“You caught my vibes?” Lacey wasn’t really surprised, but Marie’s powers came and went and it was hard to predict whether they might be on or off.
“Big vibes. You wanted to ask me something?”
“It’s about a dress, a costume I’m researching.”
“Not your own dress?”
“No. A friend’s.”
“And it’s red, isn’t it? Red on red on red.”
Lacey nodded. “It’s at Vic’s. At least he took it somewhere for safekeeping.”
“Red is a powerful color, strong, sensuous. Too much of it can turn dark and overpowering.”
Lacey touched her hand. “I don’t want you to faint, Marie.”
“No, no, cher. I’m fine. Gregor’s sister, you know Olga, she’s been helping me with that. Deep breathing. Lots of deep breathing. And centering.”
“Why would Marie be fainting, Lacey Smithsonian?” The Russian-accented voice belonged to Olga Kepelova, who entered from the back room.
Olga was the sister of Marie’s fiancé, Gregor Kepelov. She was a perennial houseguest of the happy couple and one of Marie’s biggest fans. Olga had a shadowy background in the Russian intelligence services, and Lacey sometimes wondered if she had worked on psychic experiments with them. After emigrating to the U.S. she was now working as some kind of weapons expert, consulting with American law enforcement agencies.
There was a severe but wild-eyed quality about Olga. Her brown hair was cut in a razor-edged pageboy. Her brown eyes stared hard and seldom blinked. Lacey thought she vaguely resembled the Russian émigré writer Ayn Rand. She was too slender and wore pants and matching shirts in brown, black, or gray. Today, Olga was a monochromatic picture in brown, from her severe brown haircut to her booted feet. Lacey briefly imagined her as Ayn Rand working for the United Parcel Service, but Olga wouldn’t appreciate that whimsy. The woman rarely displayed even a shred of lightheartedness.
“I know she’s a tad frightening,” Marie whispered. “But Olga has a good heart. Under the hard angles. And Gregor’s here, too,” she said without looking.
Olga’s brother, Gregor Kepelov, appeared behind her, a former Russian spy whose American dream it was to own a ranch in Texas and could usually be found, like today, wearing blue jeans, a cowboy shirt, and cowboy boots. He had blue eyes and close-cropped hair and sharp features that always seemed a quarter-turn off to Lacey. Marie lit up at the sight of him. She always saw something no one else could.
“Hello, Kepelov,” Lacey said.
“Lacey Smithsonian. Marie said you would come by. And here you are. Let me see the ring.” He grabbed her left hand and studied her engagement ring.
“You’ve been talking to Nigel?”
“Of course. Jewels excite him. Ah! Is beautiful antique setting. Good-sized diamond. Very nice. A family heirloom?”
“The stone was in Vic’s family.”
“Family. Always a good sign,” Olga said. “Stability.”
Marie crowded in for a look. “I wondered when you were going to tell everyone, cher.”
“Some things I like to keep private,” Lacey said, pulling her hand back.
Kepelov laughed. “Trust me, with friends like your Stella and Nigel Griffin and my Marie, who knows all, privacy is a fantasy.”
“I didn’t want to press you for details,” Marie said, taking Lacey’s hand gently. “It was obvious from the start. The first time I met Victor Donovan I knew you would wind up together.”
Lacey grinned. “The first time you met Vic, you fainted.”
“Well, yes. At the warehouse, but not when I saw you two together. My, that is a lovely ring, it has such good energy! The setting and the diamond. Both have been much loved.”
Marie invited Lacey to take a seat in the cozy blue- and gold-starred psychic reading corner. After Gregor locked the front door of the shop and turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED, he and Olga squeezed in as well. There was barely room for the four of them.
Was this a Russian thing, Lacey wondered, from growing up in a once-Communist country where everything was constrained, intimate, crowded? Marie will never be lonely with these two around. Lacey took a deep breath and searched for the right words.
“I didn’t want to bother you, Marie. I’m not really sure why I came.”
“You came because you had to, sugar,” Marie said.
“You have some mystery, Lacey Smithsonian?” Gregor said. “Something of grave interest?”
“No diamonds this time, Kepelov.”
“You are among friends,” Olga assured her.
“True.” Sort of. Lacey was slowly warming to Gregor Kepelov, but his sister was another story. She imagined Olga hitting her over the head with a copy of Atlas Shrugged.
Lacey described the events of the weekend, the theatre garage sale, the tug of war over the red dress, LaToya’s victory, and the break-in. She gave them the big-print version, not the fine details. She held back the bizarre costume parade the burglar had staged with LaToya’s wardrobe.
Let’s see if Marie picks up on that.
“That red dress is very valuable to someone,” Marie said. “As valuable as a memory. Tell me more about the dress.”
“It was a theatrical costume,” Lacey said. “Made for a production of The Masque of the Red Death.”
“Ah, Edgar Allan Poe. Famous American depressive.” Gregor nodded. “Continue, please.”
“It was a Kinetic Theatre production, more than a decade ago,” Lacey said.
“Kinetic? What is this Kinetic?” Gregor asked.
“Kinetic is a theatre company in the District, run by performers from the former Soviet Union. Mostly Russians, I think.”
“They are Russians?” Olga and Gregor shared a look. Gregor clearly felt affronted not to know every single Russian in the D.C. area. “How do I not know of this group of Russians?”
“I don’t know. Maybe they’re not KGB spies.”
“You are so funny, Lacey Smithsonian,” Gregor said. “Tell me what you know about this theatre.”
“They’ve been around for a dozen years or more, and they have a playhouse on Sixteenth Street near the Circle. It’s a small theatre, but they’ve won some big awards,” Lacey said. “Like the Helen Hayes.”
“But not a big theatre, like Kennedy Center or Arena Stage?”
“No, much smaller, even smaller than, say, Source or Woolly Mammoth or Studio. Apparently they have this unique style combining acting and dance, a very muscular type of movement, and they tell stories through choreography, dance, music, and a minimum of dialogue. I haven’t seen their shows, but I’ve read about them.”
“Ah, dancers! Russians are the best dancers in the world,” Gregor said.
“They learn to dance in Russia,” Olga added.
“I’m trying to run down a story about this costume and whether there is a connection to LaToya Crawford’s break-in. It seems far-fetched.”
“You specialize in the far-fetched, sugar,”
Marie said. “And so do I. The only thing I feel sure about is that theatre woman, the one who fought with your friend LaToya, is not going to get back to you.”
“Figures,” Lacey said. “You’d be surprised how many people never call me back.”
“You are a reporter,” Olga said. “The enemy.”
“I’m not the enemy, I just ask questions. And I write about fashion, not the theatre or backstage intrigue. It hardly puts me in the enemy camp.” Lacey put the iced tea glass to her warm forehead. “Maybe she’s just embarrassed about how she behaved, making a scene and all.”
Marie frowned. “Tell me more about the dress. I see it as a deep red, many shades of red, dark, layered, long, flowing—”
“And very beautiful. It was worn by the character of Death in the play. And the young actress who wore it, Saige Russell, died right after the last show.”
“Oh, cher, I was afraid of that.”
“Supposedly she was not wearing the dress at the time. As far as I know.”
“Did you touch this dress?”
“I had to. LaToya practically threw it at me. The story spooked her.”
“Take my hand and visualize it,” Marie said. “Send me a picture.”
“I’ll try.” Lacey closed her eyes. She could see the layers of fabric, the tulle, the taffeta, the silk and satin. The blood-red splash of lace at the throat. She could see the substance of it and almost feel its weight, feel the way it would swing and sweep as you wore it, as you turned and stalked and spun across the stage—
Marie’s eyes rolled back and her head started to wobble. Gregor grabbed her before she hit the table and held her up. She shook her head, conscious but woozy.
“Oh my God. Marie, I’m so sorry,” Lacey said.
“You have done it again, Smithsonian.” Gregor smiled grimly. “Someone is dead.”
“Yes, of course, I told you, the actress is dead! The one who wore the dress. A dozen years ago.”
“What did you see?” Olga demanded of Marie.
The Masque of the Red Dress Page 10