The Masque of the Red Dress

by Ellen Byerrum

  “Olga, you look wonderful,” Lacey said.

  “Is good, no? I am not a crime of fashion?”

  “Not at all.” Not tonight.

  “Is not too much—the makeup?”

  “It’s perfect.”

  “Good. I tell Marie I don’t want to look like a painted matryoshka doll.” They laughed together. Olga looked as pleased as Lacey had ever seen her. She rubbed her hands along the silk. “A long time since I have been to the theatre. In Moscow I used to go often.”

  Lacey tried to imagine that. But after all, Olga’s lookalike, Ayn Rand, attended the theatre, and even wrote plays.

  “I didn’t know you liked the theatre.”

  “Da. I love the dance and the plays, though I have not seen much of it for years. Perhaps I will start again. After all, we are here, in a Russian theatre.”

  “Not everyone here is Russian.”

  “No. But majority. And in America, majority rules.”

  “Perhaps Olga will buy our tickets next time,” Gregor said to his sister with a smile. He was wearing black jeans, cowboy boots, and a pink-and-orange Hawaiian shirt under his rather tight blue sports coat. He topped this sartorial splendor with a cowboy hat. Home-on-the-range-meets-Moscow-on-the-Potomac, Lacey thought with a smile. Gregor put his arm around Marie. “Here we are, Lacey and Victor, hanging out together. As I promised. And Victor—”

  Conversation swirled around her, but Lacey found it difficult to relax and “hang out” while those hollow Lenin medals were still in the hem of the red dress. And hanging over her head. Tension was coiling inside her like a snake waiting to strike. Whoever hid them, and stitched them out of sight, had a connection with this theatre. Was there another medal involved in Amy Keaton’s death? Another trophy for the dress’s hem? Or a memorial, as Marie had said? And did someone feel thwarted because he or she could no longer stitch that memorial into the red dress?

  “Don’t worry, I will give you my review of this show over vodka later,” Gregor was saying, shaking her out of her reverie. The others were laughing. The lobby crowd was in a state of high anticipation, and Lacey picked up a phrase here and there.

  “It’s supposed to be amazing—”

  “Well, I’ve read about it, but I’ve never actually read any Henry James—”

  “I read it in school. Can’t wait to see what Yuri’s done with it—”

  “I’ve seen every single Kinetic production since they did the Red Death in that little dump of a theatre—”

  Please! No More Red Death tonight! Lacey’s stomach growled. She eyed the snack counter and excused herself, with Vic following her.

  “Don’t look now,” he whispered. “But isn’t that one of your loony coworkers?”

  “That could describe any number of my coworkers.”

  “Do the initials H.W. mean anything to you?”

  “No! Not Wiedemeyer.” She tried to be subtle as she spun around in the direction of Vic’s gaze. “And Felicity. What are they doing here?”

  Honoring Amy Keaton, of course, she thought. And Wiedemeyer and his swing band had played in a Kinetic show or two.

  Harlan had dressed up for the theatre in his white dinner jacket and brown trousers, a brown-and-white striped shirt, and a brown bowtie. His brown-and-white saddle shoes looked spiffy, and well-polished. The old-fashioned outfit oddly suited his short, chubby frame. It was easy to imagine him crooning a Forties love song to his lady love.

  And his lady love, Felicity, was something out of a Day-Glo dream, beaming in a shocking pink dress topped by a sweater in neon shades of yellow, green and orange. The pattern looked like radioactive gumdrops. No doubt, Lacey speculated, from the pantry at Felicity’s gingerbread house in the forest where she fattened up bad little boys and girls. Felicity and Harlan made quite a colorful pair, and heads turned their way. Lacey and Vic slipped away to the snack counter.

  Vic bought a package of nuts to share and a couple of lemonades, and they moved to a tall round table as Harlan and Felicity disappeared from view. She opened the nuts just as someone appeared at her elbow and made her spill her cashews.

  “What’s our strategy, Smithsonian?” Wiedemeyer stage-whispered.

  Vic exchanged a look with Lacey. He was grinning behind Wiedemeyer’s back. She glared at the chubby intruder.

  “My strategy is to enjoy the show! And to forget you said that.”

  And maybe eat something before I die of starvation.

  “Sure, don’t tell me. The great Smithsonian can investigate anything she wants, but she doesn’t share.” Lacey gave him the Look. “Okay, I get it. Too many people listening.”

  “Sure I’ll share, Wiedemeyer. Have some cashews. And where’s Felicity?”

  “Getting us some wine.”

  Felicity arrived with two plastic glasses of overpriced red wine from a box. Her pink plastic purse dangled on one arm.

  “Hi, Lacey, isn’t this fun?” She craned her neck to take in the crowded lobby. A new voice chimed in and Lacey didn’t have to answer.

  “Harlan Wiedemeyer, is that really you? Wow, where are your High-Stepping Hipsters? Are you playing tonight?”

  Harlan spun around to bask in the attention of a music fan. He took one of the wine glasses and pulled Felicity along with him. DeeDee Adler pushed past them, steaming through the lobby from one side to the other. Armed with her digital tablet and headset, she seemed to be enjoying herself, turning to a friend here and there with a smile and a wave. Yuri Volkov was hot on her heels, muttering something about “picking up the light cues.” The new stage manager took it in stride.

  “Relax, Yuri, I got this,” DeeDee responded coolly, slipping through the theatre doors. The woman was in her element. DeeDee seemed very capable, and Lacey remembered how efficient she had been about disposing of the dead woman’s belongings. Had erasing Amy’s presence really been Yuri’s idea, or her own?

  Lacey briefly wondered how much of what DeeDee had told her was true. Maybe she’d secretly coveted Keaton’s job and wouldn’t stop at pushing someone out of the way. Or off a scaffold high above a stage right after the last show—

  Stop it! I’m imagining murderers everywhere! Just because DeeDee likes her job, that doesn’t mean she had anything to do with anybody’s death—

  “Having fun yet, sweetheart?” Vic asked.

  “You have no idea,” Lacey said. “As soon we’re in our seats and the lights go down.”

  “I promise you a steak after this is over.”

  The double doors to the theatre opened. Gregor Kepelov, who’d been surveying the crowd, gathered them together. Marie was floating on a Valium cloud and Olga seemed happy to be there. The five of them flowed with the rest of the audience through the entry into the theatre. The preshow music was playing, something that sounded vaguely Russian.

  An usher handed out programs and escorted them down the aisle to their seats, close to the stage in the center section. How did Kepelov get such great seats at the last minute? Maybe he does have connections. Vic went in first, then Lacey, followed by Olga and Marie, with Gregor on the aisle. Lacey settled into her cushioned seat, and her first deep breath turned into a yawn. She covered her mouth with her program, trying not to be too obvious.

  “Smithsonian!” Wiedemeyer’s voice somewhere off to her left jarred her. He was waving at her, Felicity too. People were staring. So much for slipping in unobserved. She peered around the theatre, hoping for no more surprises.

  Uh oh. Brooke had come up with tickets too, and she and Damon were just being seated, a few rows back on Lacey’s right. Brooke, fresh from the courtroom in a gray sleeveless dress, carried her briefcase in one hand and a white jacket in the other. She’d unbraided her hair, which cascaded in waves around her shoulders, a stark contrast to her standard lawyerly apparel, and her makeup was Full Evening for this outing to the theatre. She spied Lacey and smiled brightly, lifting her briefcase in salute.

  Damon waved at Lacey with his phone and grinned. Summer or win
ter, Damon Newhouse never varied his nouveau beatnik-hipster attire, basic black with the occasional shot of gray. Tonight that shot was a little gray hipster fedora trimmed with a black ribbon, which he took off when he sat down. He had delicate features that were almost pretty, but he tried to hide them with a goatee.

  The lights were dimming when Tamsin Kerr was ushered to her seat in the back just before the show started. Her stealthy last-minute arrival was deliberate, Lacey knew, to cut down on theatre insiders staring and pointing, warning their friends that the grand dame from The Eye Street Observer was in the house.

  But this was press night, and the critic watch would be in effect for all the reviewers, not just Tamsin. Lacey knew theatre critics for The Washington Post, the City Paper, the Blade, the smaller papers, and all the suburban dailies and weeklies were probably somewhere in the house, or would be slipping in just as the lights went down. Tamsin seemed to be alone, but then Lacey caught a glimpse of Tony Trujillo, who apparently caught Tamsin’s extra ticket tonight.

  I’m surrounded.

  At least she didn’t see Broadway Lamont or LaToya Crawford, a small relief. But Brooke and Damon, Felicity and Harlan, and Trujillo and Tamsin all knew there were two deaths connected to this theatre and the red dress. Lacey consoled herself that they were all ignorant of the Russian medals sewn into the hem. But someone knew about them, besides Lacey’s little theatre party. Is that someone also here tonight?

  A voice came over the music, asking for all electronic devices to be silenced, first in English and then in what Lacey assumed was Russian. She opened her program. One loose slip of paper fell out, black with white type.

  This production is dedicated to the memory of Kinetic Theatre’s late stage manager Amy Keaton.

  The date of her death followed, and then apparently the same message in Russian. Nothing else.

  The house lights faded to black. The music grew louder and the stage lights came up for Act One.

  CHAPTER 27

  Filing out of the theatre at intermission as the applause died away, Lacey overheard a few snippets of other theatregoers’ conversations.

  “Weirdest show I’ve ever seen! Sexy as hell though. How did they do that thing with the—”

  “That was amazing! Do they still sell soundtrack CDs?”

  “Is this thing running through Halloween?”

  Lacey thought Kinetic’s interpretation of The Turn of the Screw was thrilling and strange. Heavy on dance and music, and light on Henry James’s words, it was a moody and enigmatic exploration of a moody psychological ghost story. The dancers’ own bodies became walls and tables, candles and apparitions that sailed through the air. Lithe bodies writhed in tangled bedsheets, danced with pure light on staircases, and crept like shadows. Stagecraft that seemed more like stage magic made actors suddenly appear and vanish, and then reappear in two places at once. A dizzying collage of shifting lighting effects through windows and mirrors illuminated corners of the set, and the story, that were dark and foreboding. The ceaseless music veered wildly, from horror movies and Russian folk into mournful blues and jazz, and something the program notes described as “gypsy cabaret noir.” The script by Gareth Cameron was sparse and poetic, and the spare dialogue effective.

  Played by the amazing Anastasia “who learned all her lines,” the nameless governess seemed lonely and timid, trapped by her surroundings, and bewildered by the children she was supposed to care for, pretty Miles and Flora. She felt the walls press in on her, the children taunted her, and the phantoms of the doomed lovers who appeared on the periphery of her vision tormented her. She became convinced the children were likewise haunted, by the evil ghosts of Miss Jessel and Peter Quint. But soon the timid governess and wicked Miss Jessel seemed to have traded places. Both women were vying with fierce little Flora to seduce the elusive Quint, and who was making violent love with whom in the tower room? Do ghosts really have sex?

  And that was only Act One. Whatever Kinetic was doing, Lacey thought, they were doing it well. She wondered if The Masque of the Red Death had been a similar extravaganza. With Yuri Volkov at the helm and most of the same Kinetic creative team, it probably had the same kind of theatrical signatures, she decided. She sat back and let the story take over, and there was no more yawning.

  Blinking in the lights of the lobby, Marie and Olga headed for the ladies’ room and Gregor and Vic headed for the bar. Lacey was happy to linger by one of the tall tables, waiting for Vic. Someone opened the front doors for fresh air and a few people gravitated outside, some for a smoke break. Theatre people still smoke, she noted with dismay. The breeze felt lovely.

  Yuri Volkov approached Lacey with something like a smile on his face. He was either much more relaxed now that the show had opened, or he’d been indulging at the wine bar. Or maybe this was his “press night” face. He was followed by another man.

  “Ms. Smithsonian. Don’t say I never did anything for you,” Volkov said.

  “Okay, I won’t,” Lacey said.

  “This is Maksym Pushkin. He used to be a fabulous dancer for us until he abandoned the theatre for the law.”

  “Yuri is too kind. I was just okay as a dancer. And the law pays better,” Pushkin said. “So pleased to meet you, Ms. Smithsonian.”

  She shook his offered hand, and the name clicked into place. He was tall for a male dancer, as Katya Pritchard had told her, and still very fit. He smiled, revealing large immaculate white teeth. His eyes were brown and his dark hair was beautifully styled. Height was always an advantage in the courtroom, according to Brooke, and he was very handsome. Lacey detected no trace of a Russian accent.

  “You played Prince Prospero in The Masque of the Red Death,” Lacey said, trying to picture the photos from the old news stories. He seemed surprised she’d heard of him.

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “This one is a nosy reporter,” Volkov said, referring to Lacey. “Not even a theatre critic, who could do us some good.” Volkov met Lacey’s eyes and winked. “I had to let her in though, someone bought her a ticket. So what do you think of my show, Ms. Smithsonian?”

  “It’s wonderful. But then I’m not a theatre critic.”

  He laughed. “Then you can stay. I leave you now.” Yuri backed away and was swallowed up by a throng of well-wishers.

  “You’re a reporter?” Pushkin asked. “Your name is familiar.”

  “Fashion reporter,” she explained. “With The Eye Street—”

  He snapped his fingers. “That’s it. You’re the one who found the Romanov diamonds.” His smile grew even wider.

  “You read about that?” She wasn’t exactly surprised, but the whole adventure seemed very long ago to her.

  “Everybody read about that. A coup for your newspaper, as well as for you. Not to mention, exciting reading for any Russian. Sad and bizarre. Where are the diamonds now?”

  “Still tied up between the State Department and the Russian government, as far as I know.”

  “They’ll be tied up for some time, then. However, I predict they will eventually come to some agreement. A timetable for the U.S. to turn them over.”

  “To somebody,” Lacey agreed. “But to whom? The Romanov heirs want them back.”

  “Yes. But the Russian government might get there first. They have a history.”

  “It’s a blood-soaked history,” she said. She refrained from making a further crack about Russia and its history, and its current activities. Annexing Crimea, for example. What would stop Russia from annexing the diamonds if they saw their chance? “And those diamonds are a blood-soaked treasure.”

  Bloodstains marked the small corset in which a Romanov princess died. Bullets and bayonets had torn the delicate fabric, revealing the diamonds in their hiding place. There were rubies too, but most people remembered only the diamonds.

  “It will be years,” Pushkin said. “I predict many lawsuits and finally a grand exhibit. Somewhere.”

  “In Washington, at the Smithsonian,
I hope.”

  “And a venue very appropriately named, for their discoverer,” he laughed. “I’ll be the first in line. And what are you working on now?”

  “Not diamonds. I’m interested in the costume worn by Saige Russell when she played the character of Death. Opposite you. The dress was sold at the big theatre garage sale last weekend.”

  “Yuri really sold it?” He reacted with the slightest lift of his brows. “Well. Don’t expect to find a Romanov treasure in that dress.”

  “Do you remember anything about the red dress?”

  “Not much. Except it was very dramatic. Very red. Parsnips loved it. She gloried in it.”

  “You called her Parsnips too?”

  “Not to her face. It was the crew’s name for her, but it suited Saige. Poor Saige. Anyway, she didn’t really have to dance, not like the rest of us. So athletically, I mean. So her costume was much more elaborate than the rest. It was big and it was every color of red. Now, if you ask me about my costume, it was velvet, in seven different colors, for the seven rooms in the castle. That’s all I remember. No, I remember it was hot. Even hotter under the stage lights. And like Prospero, I was ready to die by the final scene. Covered in sweat every night.”

  “Do you still dance?”

  “Only the tango.” She realized he was probably flirting with her now. So unusual in D.C.! Or maybe it’s me, maybe I just don’t recognize flirting anymore. Except from Vic. “We came from Russia when I was a child,” he continued. “I wanted to play football like an American boy. My mother insisted that I dance. She had big plans for me. Ballet. Now I play touch football with my friends on the weekends.”

  “How old were you when you came to America?”

  “A toddler. My family emigrated when I was three. I don’t remember much about Russia.”

  “Is your family related to the famous Boris Godunov Pushkin?”

  “I wish we were. My mother tells everyone we are.”

  “And you don’t dance. Except the tango. Do you still act?”