“A face.” The psychic blinked. “It was just a face. Changing. Dissolving. Changing. Dissolving again. Over and over. Made me dizzy.” She rubbed her eyes.
“How many faces, Marie?” Gregor asked. “Five faces? Twenty faces? A thousand? Or all the same face?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t counting.”
This vision sounded very theatrical to Lacey. What did changing and dissolving faces have to do with the red dress? She didn’t have a chance to ask. Marie suddenly slumped in Gregor’s arms and fell fast asleep on his shoulder.
“We don’t know what this means,” Olga said. “Yet. But it means something. It is a good start, yes, Smithsonian?”
“More like a finish.” Lacey rose to her feet. “I have to go. Please take care of Marie.”
“Of course,” Olga said.
“We will take good care of her,” Gregor said, nodding goodbye.
The faces. Was it possible that Marie saw all the actresses who had worn the dress since the demise of Saige Russell? She was glad she hadn’t mentioned LaToya’s break-in and the oddly life-like presentation of her empty clothes. But why hadn’t Marie seen that? Why the faces?
Lacey exited, stage left, so to speak. It didn’t occur to her until later that Marie hadn’t given her the usual weather report. No doubt that meant no change, she decided, and the Washington summer would be blisteringly hot for the foreseeable future.
Maybe forever.
LACEY WALKED HOME FROM King Street alone. The sun dipped below the west wing of her apartment building, taking with it the scorching heat of the day. At home she changed into a casual cotton dress, moved to the balcony, and watched the boats on the river as the light faded.
Vic was busy this evening, with a surveillance and a client hand-holding session. He’d left a message on her phone. She wouldn’t have a chance that evening to look at the dress, wherever he’d taken it, but he assured her it was safe. As she sat on the balcony she polished her engagement ring and thought about the man she had promised to marry. It still felt unreal.
The ring had been on her finger for over a month and she still hadn’t told her family. It was complicated. She wanted Vic all to herself.
Mimi, what would you do? Lacey wondered.
Honey, put on your war paint and stick to your guns, she imagined her Aunt Mimi saying. It’s your life!
The balcony and the river were getting dark. Lacey went inside and put on some big band music. Mimi’s trunk was calling her.
Some relax after a stressful day by watching TV or surfing the Web. For Lacey, often it meant diving into her Great-aunt Mimi’s trunk of vintage clothing and other wonders. An ancient wooden steamer trunk banded in leather with tarnished brass buckles, it was filled with patterns and fabrics and half-finished clothes from the late 1930s and 1940s, old magazines and letters, clippings, photographs, mementos, memories. It was a trunk full of dreams.
It was Lacey’s personal treasure chest, and it always made her feel close to her favorite aunt, dead now for years. Mimi had left her trunk of dreams to Lacey, and it kept their connection alive, as if Mimi spoke to her through what it contained. She wondered what Mimi would think of Vic, of her engagement ring, of their potential wedding plans, of Lacey’s life and career in Washington, of everything. Unfortunately, it was a one-way conversation. The trunk was full of wonders, but there had been no guest appearances of Mimi’s ghost.
Mimi was the infamous rebel of the Smithsonian family, the one who had felt liberated in the East, the only one who had changed the family name back to the original Smith, of the Cockney Smiths of east London.
Mimi had moved from Denver to D.C. during World War II for all the right reasons: to do her part for her country and the war effort. And to get away from her clingy family. She landed a job with the wartime Office of Price Administration, which oversaw, among other things, price controls, rationing, and investigating black markets. Mimi always wanted to be where the action was, Lacey knew, and not where her family was. Letters took weeks to arrive back then, and long-distance phone calls were costly. Distances were, well, distant.
What do you think, Mimi? Yeah, Vic’s a doll. Satin or lace? And yes, a veil is a bit jejune. Oh, maybe dressing my hair with pearls? Yeah, I like that. And the dress? Of course it would have to be vintage, or a vintage pattern. Maybe a pattern out of your trunk...
Lacey put her family out of her mind and opened the trunk. She spotted a large scrap of re-embroidered lace in a beautiful claret color. It was clipped to a photograph of Mimi in a dress made with that same material, standing next to a handsome young man in a sharp tuxedo with a silly grin on his face. The dress featured a sweetheart neckline with satin piping. On the back, Mimi had written, “Valentine’s Formal 1940.” Nothing else.
Who’s the pretty boy with the grin? A big romance or just a random date?
The picture was black and white, which added to its glamour, but Lacey was seeing it in color. Mimi looked like Rita Hayworth and had a million-dollar smile, her auburn hair was pulled back behind one ear, where she wore a flower that matched the pink sweetheart roses in her corsage. Mimi’s date was handsome and wore a sheepishly proud look. It always struck Lacey that although Mimi was very young—in college at the time—she looked impossibly sophisticated in her old photographs, like a movie star caught by a candid camera. Like so many people in old photos from the Forties.
Times were different then. Courtships, and clothes, were formal. Must have been nice. Not the inequality of the times, the unspoken sexism, but the formality, the stability. The clothes. And Mimi never had to worry that her mother was reading about her exploits on the internet.
A song called “The Lady in Red” came on the radio. Serendipity. Lacey looked back at the red lace in her hand. The workmanship was beautiful. Something like that today would cost dearly.
What is it about a red dress? Lacey thought.
The color red attracts the male of the species, studies claimed. Red gets the blood flowing, red means passion, fire, life, love, lust. Lacey wished the red dress Mimi made from this lace had survived and ended up in the trunk. Even though it was gone, Mimi must have been sentimental about it: She saved the photo and this one remnant of lovely red lace.
Does every woman have one great red dress in her life? Many did, but Lacey did not. Her thoughts turned darker. For Saige Russell, a red dress presaged her demise and became part of her death story. It hardly mattered that she wasn’t wearing the costume when she died. Or did it?
Few people know the hour of their death. Did Saige have any inkling she was about to die? Or did she intend to die? Lacey wondered.
Out, out, brief candle.
Lacey Smithsonian’s FASHION BITES
What Is It About a Red Dress?
(Red Never Makes You Guess)
Every woman deserves a red dress.
A white dress may speak of purity, and a black dress may speak of power, especially in Washington, D.C. But no color announces your presence quite like a red dress. Nothing makes a man say, Well, HELLO, faster than a fire-engine red dress. Even in D.C., where they might say it in a whisper, or a sidelong glance. A red dress speaks of presence, passion, the very life force, POW! Red is a signal flare shot into the air. Red makes a statement, and it never makes you guess what that statement is.
Here I am, world! Red on arrival! Deal with it.
Yes, even you, you devotees of beige and gray, in your neutral leggings and hoodies. You who fear the bolder hues provided by nature or art, open your eyes to the possibilities of red. Wear it to wake up your boyfriend, husband, partner, yourself. Let him or her wonder what you’ve been up to—or what you’re plotting. Planning to paint the town red, beginning with your wardrobe? Let them wonder. Red has the power to unleash the real you, or at least the you you might want to be, once in a while.
It’s not just for the pale blondes, who think they look good in red. Far too many women say, Oh I can’t wear red! Really? Even Snow White looked fabulous
in red, as do women with darker skin tones. Women of every shade and hue were born to wear some shade of red. Never fear, there is an array of reds, from blue reds to orangey reds, from burgundy to ruby to cabernet to crimson. There is a red that will flatter your particular skin tone.
And redheads too! Don’t believe those jealous voices who would steal your crimson glory and convince you to never wear red. Redheads, from those with titian locks to curls of deepest auburn, can and should rock shades of red. Be brave, fire goddess, and shine on. But here are a few cautions.
Not every rosy shade is meant for everyone. Test different reds against your skin. Some will warm your skin tone, and others will chill it.
Be discriminating with your reds. Shades of “red” can be as different as pink and scarlet, cherry and crimson, innocence and experience
Be careful when you reveal skin in a red dress. Red turns up the volume, so a little goes a long way. You don’t have to look like a KarTrashian on a spree. A buttoned-up red dress can be just as sexy as a scarlet scrap of nearly nothing. And classier.
It’s no surprise that here in the Nation’s Capital red is a power color, a particular choice of many strong women. This season, and every season, the red power suit will be on full display. It can be buttoned up, buttoned down, or a little more free and easy.
But you believe you’re too shy to wear red? You have my sympathies. So why not try a red shirt or a sweater? Okay, how about a shawl? A scarf? And there’s always red lipstick. Every woman should know how powerful red lips can be.
Start small with a splash of scarlet, an accent of crimson, and feel the energy of red. And someday you may just find yourself shopping for that perfect red dress for the perfect occasion.
And you’ll be the Lady in Red who lingers in everyone’s memory.
CHAPTER 14
Early Tuesday morning, Tamsin Kerr arrived at The Eye’s offices with a news tip for Lacey.
The theatre critic’s appearance at that hour was unusual, as startling as an apparition. During the day, the newsroom was barely controlled chaos, and Tamsin didn’t care for chaos unless it was on stage and neatly choreographed. Because she attended the theatre in the evening, Tamsin generally filed her reviews late at night, and she often filed from home. Occasionally, however, she found it soothing to visit The Eye after dark when the newsroom resembled a graveyard.
Before she came into view Tamsin’s long, tall shadow preceded her, stretching down the hallway toward the reporters’ cubicles. Her shadowed curls stretched into long fingers of amazement, reaching across the walls. As she emerged corporeally, Tamsin’s dark curly coiffure, exploding with the humidity, seemed even more fierce than usual. She wasn’t about to let an insignificant thing like the weather daunt her. Even in the D.C. heat she wore a perfectly tailored, deep burgundy Armani suit, contrasting dramatically with her pale skin. People stopped dead in their tracks to stare at Tamsin Kerr, proving Lacey’s theory about the authority of red. Tamsin paid no attention to them and focused on Lacey.
“Smithsonian, there you are! Did you find what you needed? The Masque reviews, the tragic death of ingénue Saige Russell, the fabled red dress?”
“I found what I found.” Lacey waved at her stack of copied articles about the Kinetic production. “What I don’t know is still a mystery. Saige did die on closing night. No one knows how or why. No foul play suspected, so far as I can tell. Nothing indicates she was wearing the red dress at the time, and Yuri Volkov, the director, says that’s just a stupid rumor. Still, that dress seems to have an awful aura about it.” Lacey flexed her fingers. “And how are you, Tamsin? Lovely to see you too. Have some hot coffee?”
The office A/C kicked on, blasting Lacey’s neck with an icy breeze. She shivered in her sleeveless lavender dress and grabbed her cream-colored felt jacket. In the breast pocket was a vintage violet lace hanky, which she had secured with a vintage pin of purple irises. She tugged the jacket on, happy she’d brought it with her. It felt as cozy as a hug.
Tamsin seemed to be immune to mere heat and cold. She commandeered the infamous Death Chair, which always seemed to roll its way back to Lacey’s cubicle, and sat. Either she didn’t know its reputation or, more likely, she didn’t care. She would consider the painted skulls droll. She leaned forward almost touching Lacey’s desk, her dark curls hanging down.
“So the rumors weren’t entirely wrong. A dramatic curtain scene for an actor, I suppose, though a trifle obvious.” She paused for effect. “I don’t want to be an alarmist, Smithsonian, but I have some alarming news.” She smiled, clearly not at all alarmed.
“About the red dress?”
“You be the judge. You remember that other woman, the one who got into the fight with LaToya over the dress on Saturday?”
“Yes.”
Tamsin paused for effect. “She’s dead.”
“Excuse me?” Lacey shook her head as if she didn’t hear. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh yes. The one who sparred with our dear LaToya and lost. Short, blowsy blonde? Dead. Mort, muerto, mortuus est. I have this information on excellent authority.”
Lacey sat bolt upright. “The woman from Kinetic? The Masque of the Red Death red dress?” A bolt of dread hit her in the pit of her stomach.
“The very one. Amy Keaton, I believe her name is. Was, rather.”
“What are you saying?” Lacey sounded stupid, even to herself.
“Didn’t I say? I thought I said it quite clearly. Amy Keaton is dead.”
“Yes, but why is she dead? And when did it happen, and how, and who told you, how do you know this?”
“Aren’t you a good little journalist, all those W questions! Who, what, when, where, why!” Lacey glared. “Really, Smithsonian, it’s very impressive, and just when we hear journalism is dead.”
“Some answers, Tamsin. Please.”
“DeeDee Adler. She’s always around Kinetic. A stagehand or something. She witnessed the titanic tug of war last Saturday. Apparently she worked the event and saw me there. Called me this morning at the ungodly hour of nine a.m.” Tamsin’s expression made it clear that this was unacceptably early. “She thought I’d want to know. And I suppose I do, though I don’t cover death. Unless it’s on stage. Or the head of a theatre, an artistic director, an acting legend, someone like that. The requisite retrospective, cultural context, artistic legacy, et cetera. But I didn’t know this Keaton person. A backstage type. What was she, a stage manager?”
“Who is DeeDee Adler? How does she know Amy Keaton is dead?”
“Those W questions again.” Tamsin wagged her finger. “I suppose they were friends. Worked together. After all, DeeDee was the first to know. Adler has been wardrobe mistress or—oh God, I suppose that term’s been changed to something like wardrobe master now or wardrobe wrangler or something—at Kinetic, and she had something to do with the yard sale. What exactly, I don’t know. I saw her there. And that is all I know.”
Lacey was still trying to wrap her head around the news. “Dead? Tamsin, are you sure? Absolutely sure? She was alive just the other day.”
“That’s how it happens, doesn’t it? Here today, gone tomorrow.” Marie’s words came back to Lacey. That woman is not going to return your call. “DeeDee seemed quite certain,” Tamsin said.
“I didn’t know you saw the fight over the dress.”
When Tamsin smiled, as she did now, she looked impish. “It rather made up for having to go to that sale in the first place Saturday. These early mornings are going to kill me.”
“What did you think? About the tug of war?”
“Very convincing. One thing you have to say about LaToya Crawford is that she commits.”
“Commits? What, murder?”
“No, she commits to the action. To the moment, the emotion. Fully. Without restraint. Very impressive. Maybe it was something about that dress. Or maybe LaToya. She could be a great performer. You have to commit.”
It wasn’t surprising that Tamsin gave the critic’
s-eye view of the action. After all, she once wrote up an attack in the newsroom as if it were opening night of a new play. She gave it five stars. That article raised Mac’s ire to a dangerous level, but there was nothing he could do, it was already in print. According to the paper’s algorithms, it turned out to be popular with the readership, the most read article that week, beating out a presidential news conference by a mile.
“Okay. Keaton’s death. Accident?” Lacey asked, trying to get back on track. “Foul play? How was her health? Is there a police report? A medical examiner’s determination of cause and manner of death?’
“Good lord, Smithsonian! I have no idea. Do you suppose it was murder? Never mind, of course you do, murder is your thing.” Tamsin leaned back, hands behind her head. “It doesn’t matter, vis-à-vis the dress. Its reputation will only grow. An unearthly object of unhealthy curiosity. That is your bailiwick, isn’t it, Smithsonian? And dumped right in your lap. Fashion and death and grim tidings. Lucky you.”
“Yeah, lucky me. And lucky for the red dress. Assuming it likes publicity, and notoriety, and being associated with death.”
“Well, it is the Red Death dress, the so-called Red Dress of Doom. It ought to be used to it by now. A monstrous myth, helped along with theatrical superstition. I’m surprised it isn’t the subject of a bad new play already,” she mused. “Or worse, an opera. The Masque of the Red Dress. What do you think?”
“God forbid. Somehow it’s become a talisman of good luck-bad luck. But people must believe in the good luck, or else all those actresses wouldn’t want to wear it to the Helen Hayes awards.”
“Two deaths now,” Tamsin pointed out. “Possibly more. Who knows what the tally really is? What’s it been up to all these years?”
“Tamsin, you’re suggesting a connection where there may be none. There’s a decade between these two deaths. You’re being dramatic.”
“God, I hope so. Drama is my job. To cover it, of course, not to live it.”
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