The Masque of the Red Dress

by Ellen Byerrum

  “Like everything else,” Noelle added.

  “Why do you think Kinetic has let people borrow the dress?”

  “It keeps the legend alive,” Noelle said. “And Kinetic always gets mentioned when someone wears it, so it’s good publicity for them too. A little gruesome that it has to be about a dead woman, I guess, but press is press.”

  “How did it work? Borrowing the dress, I mean.”

  “Oh, you just go over to Kinetic on Sixteenth and put your name on the list,” Susannah said. “Not online, in person. You have to be exactly the right size and height, ’cause they don’t let you do any alterations, and you submit your headshot. And then Nicky chooses.”

  “Nicky?”

  “Nikolai Sokolov. The designer. The guy who made it for the Red Death show.”

  “Right, Nicky.”

  “He decides,” Noelle agreed. “But I mostly dealt with someone called DeeDee.” DeeDee Adler seemed to be the woman in the know. Lacey made a point to see her in person and not get shrugged off in another phone call. “She takes your headshot, she takes care of physically lending the dress out and collecting it afterwards,” Noelle continued. “But Nicky picks who wears it. And if you say a word about the dress to Yuri Volkov, he yells at you and goes storming out.”

  “I know!” Susannah started giggling. In a broad Russian accent she proclaimed, “Leaf me alone! I haff no time for stupid costumes! I am beezee man!”

  They all laughed. It was a pretty good impression of the artistic director Lacey had met the day before.

  “Did the dress come with a mask?” Lacey asked.

  “I never saw a mask,” Noelle said. “Besides, even if it did, it’s not a masked ball, it’s the Helen Hayes. You want your face to be seen there, even though it’s turned all big-corporate-money-ish.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It used to be this fabulous theatre evening, a great party for theatre people. Insiders get cheaper tickets, a little cheaper anyway, and actors who couldn’t afford a ticket, they knew they could always crash the after-party. You saw everyone from the other shows in town, people you’d been in shows with, all your friends, Broadway people on tour, directors you’ve been dying to meet. It really was a celebration for the community, the actors and directors and designers and writers, all the creative people. But now— Everything’s so controlled, major security, and it’s flooded with business types. All the money people, the sponsors and the Board of Directors types.” Noelle mock-shivered at the horror of it. “Boring.”

  “Yeah, the party has totally changed,” Susannah said. “But actually winning a Helen Hayes award? Wow. That would be something.”

  Time to change the subject, Lacey decided. “Did you know Amy Keaton?” They both looked blank. “The stage manager at Kinetic.” Neither one had known her, and they obviously hadn’t heard of her death. “Have you been in any Kinetic productions yourselves?”

  “I haven’t,” Susannah said, and Noelle shook her head too. “I’ve auditioned. They’re really all about dance. You have to be incredibly good. And impervious to pain. And then there’s Yuri.”

  “What about Yuri?”

  “She just means they’re very exacting,” Noelle added. “Kinetic is wonderful, their shows are amazing, they do incredible movement, they win Helen Hayes awards. But personally, I hate to cry every damn day in rehearsal, unless the part calls for it. And then I want to save it for the performance.”

  “Me too,” Susannah agreed. “Crying is pretty much a given with Yuri, I hear. He likes to break down your defenses. But personally? Ick.”

  They all agreed on that point.

  No one wants to cry at work.

  CHAPTER 17

  Back at the newsroom, a much more cheerful Felicity Pickles informed Lacey she was wanted in the conference room down the hall.

  “What’s up?” Lacey was wary of sudden meetings in the conference room in the middle of the day.

  “I don’t know. But Harlan came back! And he’s just like his old self.” Felicity was glowing.

  “Really? I wonder what could have happened. And who’s in the conference room?”

  “Mac.”

  “Just Mac? What’s so important he couldn’t tell me in his office?”

  Felicity shrugged and waltzed away with an empty platter, as if walking on air. Her moon pies were a big hit, and her Harlan was back.

  Lacey felt relieved, but a bit rumpled and crumpled by the weather and dumpled by the cheesy carbs she’d consumed. She detoured to the kitchen for a fresh cup of tea. It was always good to have something warm in her hands if the room was cold. The door of the conference room was closed, but the blinds were open and Lacey could see Mac, Trujillo, and Wiedemeyer. All three seemed to be having a fine time, laughing, joking, munching moon pies.

  This can’t be good.

  Mac saw her and gestured for her to enter. Lacey opened the door and there was a sudden silence.

  “Hello, boys. Get me rewrite,” Lacey greeted them. They didn’t get the joke. Mac spoke first.

  “I hear we’ve got a situation.”

  Oh, Wiedemeyer. You little tattletale, what did you tell them? She gave the round little man the Look.

  “I had to tell!” he whined. “This is bigger than you and me, Smithsonian. Some crazy bastard killed my Amy.”

  So much for promising to keep quiet.

  “It’s murder?” Lacey threw a look at Trujillo. “You found out something?”

  “The dead woman you’re so interested in? One Amy Keaton?”

  “Who do you think we’re talking about, Tony?” Lacey regretted the grilled cheese and fries she had at lunch. She blamed them for the queasiness she felt. “The cops think it’s murder too? Or just the little squealer here?”

  “Unknown. Could be some freak accident in her apartment. That’s where she was found. Right now, it’s still under investigation and the D.C. police aren’t saying much. But you’re involved, so—”

  Lacey slumped into a chair. It was going to be a long day. Mac was glaring at her.

  “Smithsonian. It seems you didn’t mention to me that this was yet another fatal and possibly felonious fashion story.”

  “Apparently that’s officially unknown, Mac. How did she die?”

  “M.E.’s report isn’t in yet, of course,” Trujillo said. “Off the record I was told it looks like a broken neck.”

  “No.” She put one hand on the table to keep steady.

  “Yes.” Trujillo was maddeningly calm.

  Mac cleared his throat. “The first woman who wore that red dress, Saige Russell, also died of a broken neck.” He tapped the stack of articles Lacey had so thoughtfully copied for him.

  “Who’d you talk to?” she asked Tony.

  “A source in the department. Not Broadway Lamont. So feel free to pump him for info if you want. Spill, Lacey. What’s really up?”

  “Yes, Smithsonian,” Mac stared at her and his eyebrows looked like fists. “Do tell us what’s going on.”

  “Our own Tamsin Kerr called me with the news. I started calling sources. Some people in the theatre world know she’s dead, but not everyone. Nobody seems to know any more than that.”

  “Poor little Amy,” Wiedemeyer put in. “Not many friends, a woman all alone, a sad little spinster—”

  “Enough, Wiedemeyer,” Mac said. “Write up what you know, and go easy on the adjectives. Fact is, we don’t even know if we’ve got a story yet.”

  “No story! Of course we have a story,” Harlan protested. “At least an obit!”

  “We can’t draw a line from that silly tussle over the dress to Amy’s death,” Lacey said. “All we have are a few incidents. No proven connections.”

  Trujillo sat back. “Lois Lane’s got a point, Mac. Besides, LaToya’s probably already put herself in Lamont’s custody. Or she’s about to. So she’s probably safe.”

  “We know she got into a fuss with this woman over the dress,” Mac pointed out, “and now the woma
n is dead. It’s always a dress.”

  “It’s not always a dress,” Lacey said. “There was a shawl. That one time.”

  “I heard LaToya was fierce,” Wiedemeyer mused. “I knew she had a fight with someone, but I didn’t know it was poor little Amy.”

  “If there is a story, it’s probably about Amy Keaton, not LaToya. I don’t know where the dress fits in,” Lacey said. “And she wasn’t poor little Amy that day. She was right up in LaToya’s face.”

  “Is that the EFP talking?” Wiedemeyer asked.

  Lacey glared at him. “Shut up, Harlan. LaToya’s apartment was broken into. Remember?”

  “Maybe LaToya staged it for you?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. No woman would go to that much work to fake some screwy message. You weren’t there. You didn’t see it.” The image of the stuffed clothes in LaToya’s apartment surfaced in Lacey’s imagination. All dressed up and nowhere to go.

  “What about LaToya, then?” Tony asked. “How is LaToya involved in this mess?” His voice carried well beyond the closed conference room.

  To everyone’s surprise, LaToya Crawford opened the door and stomped in on her four-inch heels. She looked as fierce as ever, from her shiny patent-leather black bob to her dangerous stilettos. Her bright purple sheath dress was drawn in at the waist with a narrow pink belt, and a rose-colored scarf was looped around her neck. Her nail polish and lipstick were glossy and violet, like hard candy. It was a look that said, Here I am! I will stomp you with my high heels. I will gouge out your lungs with my nails. I will tap dance on your heart. Bring it on!

  “What about LaToya?” she repeated, with her fiercest glare. “My ears are burning! And I’ve got a city council story to file, so talk to me quick, people.”

  “Better come on in.” Mac didn’t look happy to see her.

  “I’m already in!” LaToya gazed from one face to another. “I’ve rarely seen a motleyer crew. What the hell is up?”

  “We were discussing the Red Dress of Doom that you fought over, and won,” Wiedemeyer said. “From poor little Amy Keaton.”

  “I bought that dress, Wiedemeyer! She tried to take it away from me. I’ve got a receipt for that dress.” The receipt was clearly a point of honor for her. “And for your information, your poor little what’s-her-name is a mean little thing. Not so little, either.”

  “LaToya,” Lacey said. “Amy Keaton is dead. She died sometime in the last couple of days.”

  “What?” LaToya shook her head as if she didn’t hear it right.

  “She’s dead,” Mac repeated.

  “Oh no, she didn’t! That beeyatch is not dead! No, she did not, that pale frizzy piece of— Dead? I don’t believe it.” They were brave words, but LaToya was shaken. She pulled out a chair and sat down. “How did she die?”

  “No determination yet,” Trujillo said. “There is a slight chance it could be a freak accident.”

  “Freak accident. Sure. These things happen all the time in this town.”

  “They do, but when there is an unusual old dress and two of my reporters involved, I have questions,” Mac said. “So far, we have interesting incidents, but not a through line. And we won’t have it until we know what happened to Amy Keaton and why.”

  “This is ridiculous! My condo, my sacred home turf, was broken into. My security was breached. That crazy woman was my number one suspect. And you’re telling me she’s dead?” She put her hands flat on the table. “What’s going on, Smithsonian? Is it the damn dress? Are you telling me I’m in some kind of danger?”

  “All I have are questions too,” Lacey said.

  Was LaToya in danger? Only if the dress was hiding a secret. But all clothing hides secrets. That’s what it’s for.

  “What are you going to do?” Wiedemeyer asked LaToya.

  LaToya rubbed her bare arms. “I can’t write one word about this. I’ve got a conflict of interest. I’m calling Detective Broadway Lamont. I’m pretty sure he’s going to want to protect a citizen of the District.”

  And if Lacey wasn’t mistaken, LaToya had a gleam in her eye. A gleam called Broadway Lamont. “LaToya, tell me what you think about Amy Keaton.”

  “Hell if I know.” She took a deep breath. “I thought she had something to do with my apartment break-in. Now I don’t know.”

  “When do you want the dress back from me?”

  “You out of your mind, Smithsonian? Never! At least not till I’m sure it’s free of bad juju. And even then—” She shivered. “I’ll let you know.”

  So I’m stuck with it. For now. Better take a closer look at it. Wherever it is. She needed to call Vic, she remembered. Is this really a killer dress? Or is someone pulling the threads for reasons that have nothing to do with the dress?

  “Um, Mac—” Lacey began.

  “No, Smithsonian, I’m not giving you another beat. After wreaking havoc on fashion, you think I’d unleash you on something else?”

  “I didn’t do this. I’m not responsible.”

  “You never are! But you’re like a magnet for weird fashion mayhem. I don’t know how you do it, but you do. Now go write me a story about the red dress.”

  She stood up. I’ll never get off this beat. Maybe it’s just as well. Lacey was developing a unique expertise on The Eye’s strange version of a fashion beat. Fashion was a language she spoke fluently. She found fashion fascinating. Although there were times she wondered why she worked so hard. A little less sweat and no one would know. All she really needed to do was to turn her copy by deadline; she could churn the same phrases over and over and no one would be the wiser. Like the sportswriters.

  But she couldn’t help herself. Lacey took pride in her beat and the stories it threw in her path. There were always threads that somehow came together. Lacey didn’t know what thread connected the red dress and a long-dead actress and the lonely death of Amy Keaton. There must be one, and she was going to find it. It was her curse.

  Let’s begin with a young actress who danced her way to the top. And then fell.

  Saige Russell had just scored the biggest success of her career, and it lifted her up like a pair of wings. And then it let her drop. Why? Saige would never know that young actresses kept her memory alive by wearing that infamous gown, if only within theatre circles, in their attempt to defy death and flirt with fame and fortune. They saw something in Saige’s last costume, a totem in red taffeta. Wearing it gave it power, if only the power of superstition. And in the end, the crimson gown seemed to have taken on a life of its own.

  “Anything else, Mac?” Lacey asked.

  “Stay on this story, Smithsonian. Stay safe,” Mac said. “And get out of here, everyone, we’re on deadline!”

  CHAPTER 18

  Mac, Tony, Wiedemeyer, and LaToya! Lacey’s potential story was becoming a circus. She wanted out of the lion’s den. The article wasn’t even written, she already felt exhausted, and yet she had nothing to write. A woman was dead, it was murder or it wasn’t, and an old dress was involved, or it wasn’t.

  She’d already turned in a “Fashion Bite” and some news briefs that morning. Therefore she declared herself at liberty to flee the scene of the “Crimes of Fashion.” Besides, it was five o’clock. She grabbed her bag and loped out of the newsroom, making a break for freedom.

  Vic wasn’t expected at Lacey’s office on this Tuesday afternoon, but there he was, waiting for her downstairs in the lobby. At the sight of him she felt her lips lift into a smile and her face light up. The weight of that heavy red dress slipped right off her shoulders. She concentrated instead, and gazed with satisfaction, on Vic Donovan. He was looking splendid in khakis, a light blue shirt paired with a dark blue tie, and a Brooks Brothers blue blazer slung over one shoulder. Lacey decided he must have had a business meeting with a client.

  Or a photo shoot with Brooks Brothers.

  He returned her smile. He reached for her hand and kissed her with conviction, before the moment turned serious.

  “I understand the wom
an who tangled with your LaToya is dead.”

  “Word travels fast,” Lacey said. “And hello to you too, darling.”

  “Sorry.” He drew her into a tight hug and whispered. “Hello, sweetheart. So tell me about this other fine mess we’re into.”

  “We? Vic, how sweet. You used to warn me off things you thought might be dangerous. Now you want to jump right into the swamp with me.”

  “I have found out, like most reasonable men, that resistance is futile.”

  “Careful, darling. You’re sounding mighty romantic. However, we don’t know if this is dangerous. We don’t actually know anything, in fact.”

  As he opened the lobby door for her, he put up his hand and started counting fingers. “Let’s see. We’ve got two women in a tangle over a dress, your basic apartment break-in with your not-so-basic freaky dress display, and one newly dead woman, maybe an accident, maybe not. What do they have in common, class? Oh, wait, I know! One ridiculous red dress. With a killer backstory.”

  “When you put it that way, it does sound dangerous,” Lacey said. “Do you have the killer dress?”

  “I do. And I checked out your apartment, just to make sure no one else has.”

  “You don’t trust all those fancy locks and alarms you installed?”

  “Trust, but verify. They’re doing their job. Your shabby little abode above the river is secure.”

  They strolled to his Jeep through Farragut Square, where he’d snagged a rare parking space.

  “Do you have dinner plans?” she asked.

  “I do. I have a date. With a lady. Could I interest you in being the lady?”

  “You certainly could. And I have an idea about afterwards.”

  “Afterwards? What could top a date with my lady?”

  CHAPTER 19

  A date with a red dress.

  As promised, the red dress was in a secure location under lock and key. That location was currently at the Donovans’ private security firm in Arlington, Virginia. Vic’s offices occupied an entire upper floor of a steel-and-glass building in the Rosslyn neighborhood, across the river from the District. He and Lacey signed in with the security guard (one of Vic’s employees) and rode the elevator up. It was quiet and most of the building occupants had emptied out. Cleaning crews were on the premises, but Vic mentioned that they were never allowed on his floor, for security reasons. The Donovans had their own personally vetted crew.