The Masque of the Red Dress

by Ellen Byerrum

  “The most basic,” Lacey agreed.

  “Every time Parsnips went up on a line, she’d blame me, or the script. It was never her fault. I wrote it all wrong, or the line doesn’t make sense, or nobody talks that way, or whatever. And I had to explain very carefully that even a slow child could learn these lines. They were easy, it was rhythmic, it was blank verse. The cadence was essential. She couldn’t do that. She’d simply stand there looking blanker than the verse.”

  “Sounds like you should have replaced her.”

  “I would have, but I wasn’t the director. Yuri Volkov said no. And Katya would have been great. Katya Pritchard. Understudy. She had the lines down cold. She was a better dancer. Unfortunately, Yuri said we were too far into rehearsals for that. Frankly, I don’t know what Parsnips had on him.” Lacey was about to ask a follow-up, but Cameron was just getting started. “Maybe she was sleeping with him too, as well as Nikolai. I don’t know. For God’s sake, she only had a handful of lines! I mean, really. She must have had a learning disability or something. And temperamental too.” Cameron’s kombucha must be kicking in. “There was this one time, she refused to go on because she didn’t have the right false eyelashes. False effing eyelashes! They had to hold curtain while someone ran to the drugstore to buy her more eyelashes, in five different sizes. For the love of God, she was wearing a mask! Nobody could even see her eyelashes! She simply shouldn’t have been an actor. I don’t know what she thought she was doing, but it wasn’t acting.”

  “I heard she was a dancer.”

  “Mediocre at best. She was a better dancer than an actor.”

  “She wasn’t either one for very long,” Lacey pointed out.

  “No. That’s true. The theatre world dodged that bullet.”

  That’s cold. But Saige was beginning to sound like a nightmare you wouldn’t want to wake up to. “Here’s another question, Gareth. Do you think Saige’s death was an accident?”

  He studied his kombucha. “I don’t know. I don’t actually care. You shouldn’t play the diva when you haven’t got the chops. You’re suggesting something else? Murder?” He looked interested in the dramatic potential of murder.

  “Just a question,” Lacey said. “She doesn’t seem to have had a lot of fans.”

  “I’ve never really thought about it.” That sounds like a lie, she thought. “If someone pushed her, at least whoever it was waited until the run of the show was over.”

  “What happened after the last performance? What do you remember after she was found on the stage floor?”

  “I didn’t find out until the next day. Of course the press went crazy. FINAL CURTAIN FOR ACTRESS WHO PLAYED DEATH, stuff like that. Her death took away any attention my play would have had. To be honest, it felt very unfair.”

  Life is so unfair to us wealthy graduates of Yale Drama: I went to Yale but I’m not on Broadway! I’m so old at thirty-five! A woman’s death inconvenienced me! Lacey wondered if she could hold back the tears: Yup, I can.

  “What about Amy Keaton’s death?”

  “Amy. The stage manager. Yes, that was terrible news.” He looked slightly distressed. “I heard it was an accident.”

  “Did you know her well?”

  “Not really. She was very efficient and kept things moving, and that is something I appreciate. I mostly stayed out of her way so she could get her work done.”

  “Was she ever temperamental?”

  “More bristly, like a brush. She could rub people the wrong way.’”

  “Worse than anyone else?”

  “This is the theatre we’re talking about, Lacey. Everyone can be—prickly. Amy Keaton would have to take her place in line.”

  “What’s the cast of this show like?”

  “Mostly young. Well, you’d have to be, the show is so physical. They’re eager, and good-looking, and they’re willing to learn their lines as written. Not as forgotten. Not as improvised, not ad-libbed. Not rewritten on the fly. I told Yuri that was my bottom line. Now, Anastasia is wonderful in the part, for example.”

  “And who is Anastasia?”

  “Our leading lady. A wonderful dancer. She had the script down cold the first week of rehearsal. Off-book, just like that.”

  “I can see how that would be attractive. How’s it going?”

  He preened, finally a dark cloud of gloom no more. “Not to be immodest, but it’s brilliant. Henry James, now that’s material you can sink your teeth into. And Yuri’s choreography is impeccable as usual.”

  “And the actors?”

  “They know their lines.”

  At least there’s no cause to murder anyone this time around, Lacey decided. Not yet, anyway. Could Gareth Cameron be a little too self-involved to be a murderer? Or is “too self-involved” the definition of a murderer?

  I really need to see this show, she thought. It might even be good. Lacey wondered if Tamsin Kerr might actually have an extra ticket to Kinetic’s press night preview this evening. Maybe I can slip quietly in at the back of the house with her.

  And the costumes for The Turn of the Screw might be to die for.

  CHAPTER 25

  With minutes to spare before deadline, Lacey’s “Fashion BITE” was finished and sent to Mac’s editing queue. Seersucker was the thing. So sayeth Smithsonian. She’d merged her two draft headlines into one: D.C. SUMMER STREET STYLE SIZZLES IN SEERSUCKER!

  Mac will just change it anyway.

  She waited for Mac to edit and approve the piece so she could leave for the day. In the meantime, Lacey’s head was spinning with style notes and theatrical gossip. Her perception of Saige Russell was evolving, like Saige’s multilayered crimson costume that morphed with each change of light, revealing the skull beneath the skin. It only served to complicate rather than clarify matters. Her cell phone rang. She hoped it was Tamsin Kerr returning her call about a free ticket or two, but she didn’t recognize the number.

  “Hello, Lacey Smithsonian,” the Russian-accented voice said. It was Kepelov, using an unfamiliar phone number. Lacey’s voice dropped and she looked around for eavesdroppers.

  “Have you found out anything about the medals?”

  “All in good time.”

  “Okay. Take your time and hurry, as they say.” She leaned back in her chair. “What’s up?”

  “We are going to hang out tonight.” His words weren’t making a lot of sense to her. “You and Donovan, and us.”

  “Hang out?”

  “I have tickets for the Kinetic Theatre show tonight. A preview, but still a chance for all of us to see the foxes in their den.”

  “Tonight?” She wouldn’t have to badger Tamsin for a ticket after all.

  “Da. I am assured it will be a packed house. You and Donovan will meet us, Marie and me, at the theatre. Doors open at seven thirty.”

  Lacey was taken aback. She wanted to see the show, but Kepelov’s invitation was practically a command performance. What if she’d had plans for the evening?

  “I don’t know if Vic is free tonight,” she said carefully.

  “Ha. For you he will make himself free.” One of Kepelov’s charms was his invincible confidence. “Will be fun. Olga is coming too.” He clicked off without a goodbye.

  Olga Kepelova at the theatre? Well, even Ayn Rand wrote plays.

  Lacey’s computer beeped. Mac approved her article and she was free to flee. She called Vic and relayed Kepelov’s command to meet at the theatre at seven-thirty. He greeted the invitation with laughter.

  “Could be interesting,” he said. “I’m in.”

  “Really, you want to come?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it. With the Kepelov siblings and our favorite psychic, the company is bound to be entertaining, no matter what the show is like. Bring smelling salts for Marie.”

  “You haven’t asked what the show is.”

  “Doesn’t matter, I’ll be with you.” His deep voice, with its slight Southern tinge, sent a wave of relaxation down her spine. She could hear him tappin
g on his laptop, consulting the Web for details. “Here it is: The Turn of the Screw.”

  “Appropriately enough,” Lacey said. “Ghost story, two naughty children, a half-mad nanny, and the truth is elusive. What could be better?”

  Change the characters to interfering coworkers and a half-mad reporter and you could be talking about ME, she thought. I’m being driven mad by the ghost of a story!

  “I promise you a drink afterward,” Vic said.

  “Deal. But no vodka. Bonus: Several people who worked on the production of The Masque will almost certainly be in attendance tonight. Director, costume designer, playwright, and a stage hand, now stage manager.”

  “Even better. Why do you suppose Gregor wants to go?” Vic asked. “Other than the pleasure of our company and sniffing after the Soviet medals?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? He’s taking an inventory of all the Russians in town. He’s peeved that I know a few he doesn’t.”

  They arranged to meet at Lacey’s place and said their goodbyes. Lacey’s desk phone lit up with another call, and this time she recognized the number.

  “Hello, Brooke.”

  “How could you not tell me that Amy Keaton is dead?” she accused. “Murdered in her own apartment?”

  “What? It doesn’t exactly say she was murdered.” Lacey glanced at Wiedemeyer’s article, still on her desk: TRAGIC MISHAP OR SOMETHING MORE SINISTER?

  “Not in so many words. I can read between the lines. What’s up, Lacey?”

  “The article says it was probably an accident. And you know Wiedemeyer. He gets all excited. Um, sort of like you.”

  “Murder is implied. And that crazy blond woman who was fighting with LaToya is dead. And one more thing, why is he writing this story and not you?”

  “As you can see, Brooke, Harlan knew Keaton. They had a relationship once. He’s overwrought. That is why this is a personal piece and running on the op-ed page, not in the news section. Also because Mac thought it was too purple.”

  “Well, it is purple. But what about you? Are you ignoring this story?”

  “Are you my guest editor today, Brooke?

  “I should be.” Brooke sniffed in disdain.

  “I’m looking into it. You know I don’t want to put out a half-baked story. Especially one that could so easily be misconstrued by Conspiracy Clearinghouse and Damon’s DeadFed gang. This story is still baking.”

  Holding her phone with one hand, Lacey gathered her things together with the other and gauged how long it would take her to get home and change clothes.

  “That implies there is a lot more to this story.”

  “There is a little more. I’ve been interviewing people who knew her.”

  “And the dress? What’s the through line?”

  “There is no proof of a connection yet.”

  “Yet! I knew it,” Brooke snapped.

  “I’m not saying there is anything to it or not. Fact is, I don’t know.”

  Lacey wondered if she should cross her fingers behind her back. Brooke was her friend, but Damon Newhouse complicated everything. Brooke was often torn between her loyalties to Lacey and to her all-things-conspiracy boyfriend.

  “But why didn’t you tell me? I’m hurt.”

  Brooke wasn’t hurt, Lacey knew. It was a courtroom ploy to get Lacey to spill her guts.

  “Listen, Brooke, I’m sorry. I have to leave now. Vic and I are going to the theatre.”

  “On a school night?”

  The District of Columbia: not a late-night town. Many denizens of the District preferred to be safely tucked in by TV news time, for very Washingtonian reasons. They were due at seven a.m. the next morning in a staff meeting on the Hill, or in court, or at the office, or with their legal team. Or they were up working till all hours on documents, briefs, press releases, congressional testimony, or plausible denials. Or they were hoping to catch a glimpse of themselves on the ten p.m. news.

  Or they’re hoping not to.

  “I know, but Kepelov got us tickets. And listen, I have to run, I need to change before Vic picks me up.”

  “Where is the show?”

  “Kinetic.”

  “Aha! I knew something was up. This Keaton woman worked in that nest of ex-pat Russians, didn’t she? I’ll see if I can still get tickets for Damon and me. Bet I can. See you there.” Brooke hung up.

  This story was turning into a farce, but not the kind Gareth Cameron would write in blank verse. Then again, he didn’t seem like the type to write comedy. Lacey grabbed her purse and ran for the door.

  CHAPTER 26

  Had Lacey known a trip to the theatre was in the offing, she’d have worn something different to the office. Something that would go from day to night, so she wouldn’t have to rush. It wasn’t going to be easy to race back to Old Town Alexandria, hop in the shower to wash off the heat and humidity, and race back to D.C. with Vic. She hailed a cab from the Metro station instead of walking home.

  Vic was already in her apartment, looking dashing and semi-dressed up, in khakis and an emerald green polo shirt that highlighted his eyes and weakened her knees. His navy blazer was at the ready. His hair was combed back and she had the urge to loosen the one adorable dark curl that tended to droop over his forehead. He was calmly perusing The Washington Post and sipping iced tea. Vic and her blue velvet sofa, and his grin when he saw her, looked very inviting.

  But it was nearly show time. She kissed him and hurried through a quick shower, changing into a basic little black dress that had enough stretch to be comfortable and enough fit to show off her shape. She stepped into black patent leather high-heeled sandals. The black-on-black effect seemed a bit severe, so she added a sparkly crystal necklace and a matching bracelet.

  In case the theatre was cold, she grabbed a vintage black cashmere bolero jacket, a sassy wrap from the early 1950s. It was lined in white crepe and trimmed in braiding and white-and-black felt leaves.

  She quickly touched up her makeup, adding bright red lipstick. She brushed out her hair and took one last look in the mirror before sprinting into the living room. Vic whistled in appreciation. She laughed and did a spin for him.

  Sometimes the effort is worth it.

  ON THE WAY TO THE THEATRE, the wind started to blow. The sky grew dark with charcoal storm clouds, and the temperature dropped ten degrees by the time Vic parked the Jeep, not far from the theatre. The wind rearranged Lacey’s tresses, but she felt better than she had all day. The relief from the heat was welcome but short-lived: The curtain would be rising soon.

  Marie and the Kepelov siblings were waiting outside the front doors of the theatre. Marie hugged them both, Gregor and Olga did not, and Gregor gave his name at the ticket counter. The lobby was decorated with red-and-orange flower arrangements that brightened the blank walls, and of course actors’ headshots were prominently placed on easels. The bar was open for business in one corner.

  There was an air of promise to the show, like every show before the critics get their hands on it. Lacey realized she was looking forward to the play almost as much as figuring out what the Lenin medals meant. The thought of sitting quietly in a theatre for a couple of hours while others entertained her was, in itself, delicious. She hoped she wouldn’t fall asleep.

  Around their little group, the lobby began to fill up. Some theatregoers were well dressed, well groomed, even creative. Others had arrived from mowing the lawn or cleaning the garage, Lacey thought, or perhaps they were tourists. Or perhaps they had no idea that dressing for an event was about an exchange of mutual respect.

  For heaven’s sakes, actors dress for their parts, why can’t the rest of us?

  Lacey ruminated gloomily on the fall of Western Civilization. But as she could do little to avert that fall, she took mental notes for a possible “Fashion Bite.” Her own theatre party was a mixed message: Vic looked perfect, Gregor had come as himself, Olga was another story entirely, and Marie was dazzling, as sparkling as the sequins that decorated her multicolored shawl, b
eneath which she wore a long dress in a swirl of greens and blues. Her dark curls flowed down her back and her red lips matched her red nails. She was a beautiful and zaftig picture of happiness.

  “Did you suggest this outing to Gregor?” Lacey asked Marie.

  “Oh no, this was all his idea, cher. I’m just excited to be out on a date with my man.”

  “Don’t you two go out much?”

  “Not often. Gregor doesn’t like to be in crowds much these days. Since the shooting. With so many Russians around D.C. and so many recent troubles, so many of his countrymen recently dead, he doesn’t know who’s a friend or a foe. You remember he switched his loyalties to our side long ago.”

  “Do you think he’s a target?”

  “Anyone who gets in the crosshairs of Russian interests could be a target.”

  “Can you help him out? Any feelings, speaking psychic-wise?”

  Just don’t faint, Marie. Please.

  “Not tonight. When I’m with Gregor, I feel so safe it sort of keeps the vibrations at bay. Though I suspect Olga would like it better if I manned the psychic hotline twenty-four-seven.” She chuckled. “Gregor wants me to enjoy tonight. I took a tiny bit of Valium, which also blocks any nasty impressions I might have. I don’t do it often, only when that other world threatens to become too intense. And with all these Russians around and that red dress all tied together somehow, a Valium was the way to go.”

  “I had no idea,” Lacey said. “And you do deserve a break.”

  “We all agreed, Marie needs rest,” Olga said, popping in between them. “Tonight, Gregor and I keep watch.”

  Olga made no apologies for eavesdropping, and her outfit was very un-Olga, or so Lacey thought. She wore a brilliant blue silk swing jacket decorated with gold embroidered birds over her simple black slacks and shell blouse. The peacock color did wonders for her sallow complexion. Olga’s dark hair was still severe but shiny and clean, and someone, presumably Marie, had persuaded her to add a hint of makeup and a dash of color on her lips. Her eyebrows were still an untouched forest, but the Venus de Milo wasn’t sculpted in a day.