The Masque of the Red Dress

by Ellen Byerrum

  “Droll. Very droll.”

  Tamsin stood up and sniffed the air. “You said something about coffee. Is there any coffee around this hellhole?”

  “How strong is your stomach?”

  “Strong enough to go to the theatre every night and face the ever-present possibility of dreck or delight.”

  Lacey grabbed an extra Fashion BITES mug for Tamsin and gestured for her to follow her to the newsroom’s kitchen. As usual, the coffee was drained to the dregs and on the verge of burning. Lacey made another pot. As they watched the coffee maker expectantly, Lacey wondered how much to tell Tamsin about recent developments.

  “Unfortunate on many levels,” Tamsin was musing. “Sad that the Keaton woman is dead. Sad for Kinetic. Tomorrow is press night for their new show. Stage managers are utterly indispensable, so someone’s got to take over her duties and they may not be completely up to speed. Could be a disaster.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “No doubt there’s an assistant and lots of tech people because of the complexity of a Kinetic show, but still. The stage manager makes the trains run on time.”

  Tamsin’s beat seemed very exciting to Lacey, even glamorous, though it was a lot of late-night hours. There were days Lacey grew weary of the fashion slog. There were only so many ways to describe the latest and greatest look that could change one’s life or the newest “blue is the new black.”

  “Does it get old?” she asked. “The plays, I mean?”

  “Not really. Of course there are disasters, but on press night or opening night, there is always the possibility something magical will occur. You always hope for the best. Or the worst. And in a small theatre like Kinetic, the energy is completely different than the huge theatres, where they often present big fossilized warhorses of plays, like frozen dioramas. A small theatre with no money and no resources but passion and talent can sometimes build wondrous things out of hope and dreams.”

  “Illusion. Smoke and mirrors. Making something out of nothing.”

  “Yes. It’s a relief that the little theatres don’t have the money to land helicopters on stage just because they can. Or spray the audience with a stupid rainstorm. Just make us imagine that rainstorm, we’ll feel it.”

  “What if a play is bad?”

  “Better than boring! Passionately bad can be just as interesting as good, if everyone is committed to it. A strong but wrongheaded choice is still a strong choice. And then of course there are—disappointments.”

  “Have you seen work by Nikolai Sokolov? He designed the infamous Red Death.”

  “Did he? Before my time, but I’ve seen his work. At Kinetic and elsewhere. He’s very good. I’ve seen him create amazing sets and costumes with practically no money at all.”

  “And now Amy Keaton will miss all that.”

  “Yes,” Tamsin agreed. “She’ll miss all that.”

  “What’s a press night like?”

  “Just part of the job. When you’re the critic, you get stares from near and far, trying to decode your every little reaction. Does she like it, does she hate it? Is she falling asleep? Is she taking notes or looking at her phone? What did that little smile of hers mean? Exhausting.”

  “I never thought about it that way.” Lacey generally didn’t wonder how others reacted to her or her notebook and pen. But then, she was usually in the background, and she believed no one actually read her fashion columns. At least, she wanted to believe that.

  “I arrive at the last minute, I stay in my seat through intermission, if there is one, and I always leave as soon as the lights come up. I never want to be interrogated by actors, directors, friends of the actors, the understudy’s mother.”

  “Acting must be a very strange profession.”

  “Yes. Funny thing about theatre people. Actors. Actresses too. Though the women all want to be called actors now. They hang on to the dream of making it. And when they do, the few who do, when the money rolls in, they firmly believe the stuff that made them great were the bleak days, when it was creativity and alchemy that turned nothing into something.”

  “And people like Amy Keaton?”

  “People like Amy Keaton keep the theatre going, but they’re never seen and rarely thanked.”

  “Kinetic is about to open The Turn of the Screw.” Lacey rinsed out her coffee mug. “I never considered Henry James as an inspiration for music and dance.”

  “Who would?” Tamsin stared at the coffee pot. “And a strange show to do in the summer. Of course, they’re filling the gap between the big theatres’ seasons, and that’s part of their niche. I merely hope to be writing a rave and not an obituary. I write about the illusion of life and death on stage, not life and death. I’m not that important in the grand scheme of things. Critics are mere cogs in the show biz machine.”

  “Don’t underestimate yourself.”

  “I don’t. However, the critic is the first to go in a recession, and if newspapers survive in the future, who knows whether critics or reviewers will remain as well. I expect to get the ax every week. When The Eye cuts back, this theatre reviewer will be among the first to go.”

  “And the fashion beat too,” Lacey said.

  “Au contraire, Smithsonian. Not your beat, it’s sui generis, off the beaten path, what with all those fashion crimes. Torture and tulle, murder and mannequins.”

  “You sound like Wiedemeyer.”

  “Do I? Why is that coffee so slow?” The pot was only a quarter full.

  “Did you know LaToya’s apartment was broken into the other night?” Lacey asked. “Sunday night or early Monday morning.”

  “Burgled? Were they after the dress? Better and better. Not better for LaToya, of course. You understand what I mean. Better story value, more plot twists.”

  “I do. Nothing was taken, but there was a very strange—”

  “Curious, isn’t it?” Tamsin interrupted, looking pensive, yet somehow delighted. “A contretemps over a dress, a burglary, and now a death. The dramatic arc is provocative, suggestive yet inconclusive.”

  “That about sums it up.”

  Tamsin reached for the coffee pot before it finished and poured herself the first cup. She inhaled the fresh aroma and sipped, closing her eyes. A few drips sizzled on the burner, adding to the kitchenette’s distinct aroma.

  “You must need that pretty badly,” Lacey observed, filling her coffee mug.

  “Are you joking? I’m not usually up till the crack of noon. Coffee is my blood, my ink, my drink of choice. I leave my information about Keaton to you. Do with it as you please.”

  “Thanks for the heads up.”

  “Any time. After noon. Keep me posted.” Tamsin glanced at her watch. “I’m here so early, I might as well go torture my section editor. Cheers.” A nod of her head and Tamsin was gone.

  Lacey’s stomach was still unsettled and it wasn’t the coffee. The facts made her head spin. Unless by some chance Amy Keaton had died of natural causes, everything that had happened since the theatre sale on Saturday was connected: the tug of war over the scarlet costume, LaToya’s break-in, Keaton’s death.

  The battle between Amy and LaToya. Was that the thing that led to everything else? Lacey wondered. Or did something else happen before the sale? How did the dress wind up on the rack if it wasn’t supposed to be sold? And by the way, wasn’t there an actual mask to go with that dress? Where did the mask go?

  Too many unanswered questions. She peered into her coffee as if she could read the grounds. It wasn’t her particular talent. It occurred to her that the break-in at LaToya’s, particularly the way the dresses were staged, was terribly theatrical. This burglar was sending a dramatic message. The trouble was that Lacey didn’t know what the message was.

  Maybe: I’m just messing with your head? Playing dress-up with your things? Taking an inventory? Or, I know where you live, I know how you dress, and I know who you are! Or could it also mean, I know what you bought on Saturday and I want it BACK!

 
; Lacey returned to her cubicle where the air was freshly chilled. She kept both hands around her mug for warmth. Amy Keaton. While Lacey thought Keaton had looked unhappy and unhealthy, her gut told her that wasn’t the cause of death. But first she needed facts, even if facts were slippery. No doubt Damon Newhouse would soon be nipping at her heels with some mad conspiracy theory, and Brooke right beside him, demanding information.

  I need facts! Where to start?

  Should she call Detective Broadway Lamont and inquire about Keaton’s death? And get involved in an endless police interrogation? Call LaToya about Amy Keaton’s death? And freak her out completely without knowing what was going on? Later. Lacey made her first call to DeeDee Adler. And got nowhere.

  “Like I told Tamsin, she’s dead. That’s all I know,” the woman said on the phone, obviously in a hurry to hang up.

  “How did you find out?”

  “I got a call. It’s out there. The drums. The theatre grapevine.”

  “Do you know what happened?”

  “No, she’s just dead. But she’d been depressed,” Adler volunteered. “Always up or down. She was either hyper or the world was totally noir. Everything was important. Details drove her crazy.”

  “Suicide?” That hadn’t occurred to Lacey. It was a sad and lonely thought.

  “I don’t really know. Gotta go.” Adler hung up. Lacey didn’t have a chance to ask Adler about the theatre sale, her part in it, and what she might have known about the red dress.

  The Web and social media were another dead end. Amy Keaton had a surprisingly small footprint on the internet, though her name appeared on the odd theatre program. No one was setting up any memorial pages for her yet.

  Lacey left a message on the Kinetic Theatre’s voice mail for artistic director Yuri Volkov. He would have to know something about her death. She was his stage manager, an essential role, and he’d been annoyed at her the day before. Volkov seemed the type to resent someone’s untimely death if it interrupted his show schedule.

  Next up: Tony Trujillo. If Keaton’s demise was due to a car accident or something criminal, The Eye’s police reporter would know something by now. Lacey was about to call Tony’s cell when she looked down the hall and saw his cowboy boots strutting her way. Today’s boots were black cowhide with proud gold longhorns on the toes, a flashy contrast to his black jeans and black shirt, gussied up with a bolo tie anchored by a large turquoise.

  “Hey, Tony.” He didn’t even glance at her. He strutted with a purpose toward Felicity’s cubby of caloric delights.

  “Tony!” Lacey waved, but he danced across the aisle to Felicity, who was waving a plate of fresh homemade chocolate-iced moon pies. The aroma almost made Lacey weaken her resolve not to fall prey to Felicity’s master plan.

  “Moon pies, Tony,” Felicity said. “My own recipe.”

  “You are my angel, Felicidad,” Tony said, lifting one moon pie. “If you ever leave Harlan, let me know.”

  At the mention of Harlan’s name, Felicity’s lips trembled, but she caught herself and smiled bravely. Harlan was mad about moon pies, yet he was nowhere to be seen. It was troubling. Without saying a word, Felicity was broadcasting her despair in today’s outfit, a dreary gray purple sack of a dress. A shabby gray sweater hung on the back of her chair. She might as well have worn a neon sign: the world is crushing my spirit. Have a moon pie.

  Poor Felicity. Lacey found herself wishing for another of Felicity’s bright dresses and garish sweaters, trimmed in eye-popping felt flowers in colors unknown to nature, created by some mad knitter in the online shopping universe. At least it would signal Felicity’s happiness and optimism.

  “You’ll have to get in line behind Broadway Lamont, Tony,” Lacey said.

  “Oh, hey Lacey. What’s up, Brenda Starr? Black orchids? Mystery man?” Tony grabbed another moon pie for later.

  “Too many mystery men to mention.”

  “Heard you witnessed a smack down with LaToya and some woman at some theatre yard sale. Over a dress.” He grinned. His teeth were big and white, his wolf smile.

  “What can I say? This fashion beat is a gift that keeps on giving.”

  “Word has it LaToya’s pretty fierce.”

  “Very fierce. I should take lessons.”

  “More fierceness is the last thing you need, Lacey. Trust me. So what’s up?”

  “A woman named Amy Keaton died. Probably accident or natural causes. But as you are the crime newshound—”

  “And Lacey Smithsonian wants to rule out foul play. Why do you want to know? I’ll bite.” He did, into the nearest moon pie. “Who is Amy Keaton?”

  “Don’t be difficult, Tony.”

  “Don’t be evasive.”

  “She’s just a name for now.”

  “Call Lamont.” He savored another bite. “You know, these are exceptionally light and fluffy. The chocolate is just right.”

  “So you haven’t heard her name? You’re the police reporter.”

  “Glad you acknowledge that point. She died recently?”

  “Yesterday maybe, or the day before. I don’t have an exact TOD.” Amy was missing in action on Monday. Today was Tuesday. Someone probably knew when she died, but Lacey did not.

  “Unless she died in a hospital, it’s unlikely that a cause of death has been ruled yet.”

  “But you can find out if it’s reached the attention of the boys and girls in blue, or whether it hints at suspicious causes.”

  “Also true. Is this a hot story?” He narrowed his eyes at her.

  “I have no idea.” She looked away. She didn’t want that chocolate moon pie in his hand taunting her.

  “Liar. If it turns out to be a story, you have to share.”

  “Don’t I always?”

  “No. You don’t.” He flashed his smile again.

  “You might not even be interested. You, know. Fashion. Girly stuff.”

  “I love girly stuff. Okay, some girly stuff. And the more you protest, the more interested I get.” He munched on a moon pie and winked. “Double byline.”

  “Maybe.” Later. After I have a few facts.

  “I’ll look into it. You owe me.”

  Lacey cocked one eyebrow at Tony and turned her attention to her desk, the usual piles of papers to sort, and what little she recollected about Amy Keaton.

  Could the Red Dress of Death, that lovely crimson costume, possibly be something Keaton personally cared about? Unlikely, Lacey decided. It wasn’t hers, it wasn’t her size, and from Kinetic’s point of view it was ancient history. Another point: Amy Keaton looked like any number of women in the District of Columbia who’d given up on their appearance and escaped to the comfort of stretch pants. Katya Pritchard, the once-lithe dancer and Saige Russell’s understudy, was another.

  When Lacey had seen her, Amy Keaton’s frizzy blond curls were pony-tailed in a black scrunchy. With her white lashes and eyebrows, paler than her hair, she looked like a plump rabbit ready to run. Tight black pants, a black T-shirt with the Kinetic Theatre logo, and black canvas sneakers. Where did the long ruby dress fit into that picture?

  Maybe Amy was afraid she’d lose her job somehow because of the mix-up. Was Yuri Volkov so unforgiving? He’d bitched to Lacey about everyone around him, but they’d all worked for him for years, and he said he didn’t care about the dress. Perhaps it was the last in a series of Keaton mistakes? Some people had a knack for screwing up. Maybe she was always getting blamed for something. Maybe she had no hopes for ever getting another job.

  Like Harlan Wiedemeyer.

  Harlan wasn’t causing catastrophes all around him, Lacey was certain, but he certainly took the fall for them. Lacey turned around, suddenly expecting to see him hanging around. He wasn’t there. But Lacey heard a sniffle and a stifled sob from the next cubicle.

  Felicity sat in front of her screen, miserable and blocked. The fluffy food copy she could usually toss like a salad wasn’t flowing. No “luscious clouds of whipped cream,” or “layers of ange
l food cake lighter than air,” or “dark and sinfully delightful and delicious chocolate.”

  Before Lacey could think of something to say, Mac arrived in his usual sartorial conglomeration, a short sleeve plaid shirt in yellow and lime green over bright purple slacks that belonged on a golf course. His girls must have slept late this summer day and left him to dress himself, but they would have approved of his footwear: He proudly wore the cowboy boots he had picked up in Steamboat Springs, Colorado, where he also bought boots for them. He lifted a moon pie and observed Felicity staring blankly at her computer screen.

  “I don’t know what’s up with you, Pickles, but get it together. We’re on deadline here. And you didn’t tell me there were moon pies.”

  Felicity whimpered loudly and hit a key at random. Mac bit into the moon pie, briefly closing his eyes in bliss.

  “You’re not helping, Mac,” Lacey said pointedly. “Can’t you see she’s got troubles?”

  “Who does?” Mac looked at her blankly.

  “Men!” Lacey realized she had to find a way to make things right in the office, or she’d never get any work done. On the other hand, if Harlan and Felicity didn’t get married, Lacey wouldn’t have to wear a hideous bridesmaid’s gown. How does that stack up against an eternity of sighs in the cubicle next door? She couldn’t take it any longer. She stood and grabbed her bag. “I have to get out of here.”

  “Where are you going?” Mac asked.

  “Lunch.”

  “It’s eleven o’clock, Smithsonian.”

  “I’m hungry, and I have an interview.”

  “With whom?”

  “Two women who wore the dress, if you must know. The dress, Mac. The Red Dress of Death, the crimson costume, the fatal frock. The ruby gown of ill renown.”

  Mac’s eyebrows rose in interest. “That crazy LaToya dress?”

  “Bingo.”

  “Okay. Go. Just don’t bring any bad fashion voodoo back here. We got enough weird stuff going on.” His eyebrows indicated the downhearted Felicity.

  “You and Broadway Lamont are hilarious. You know that?”

  Lacey left Mac staring at his moon pie and Felicity staring at her blank monitor.