The Masque of the Red Dress

by Ellen Byerrum

  Brooke and Damon made their way through the crowd to Lacey’s side.

  “No, my theatre is the courtroom,” he said, eyeing Brooke. “Hey, Brooke.”

  “And he’s not bad,” Brooke said. “Hello, Maksym.”

  “You know each other?” Lacey asked.

  “Of course,” Brooke said. “We’ve occasionally crossed paths. Even swords.”

  “She accuses me of working for the Evil Empire.”

  “Only because it’s true,” Brooke said.

  “She would,” Lacey said. She wondered which conspiracy theory in Brooke’s file drawer had Maksym Pushkin’s name on it.

  “How are you, Counselor?” Pushkin turned on his bright white smile again. He took Brooke’s hand and held it for a moment, until Brooke extracted it. Maksym Pushkin looked huge next to the smaller Damon Newhouse, who popped up between them.

  “I’m well, Maksym,” Brooke said. “I didn’t know you were a theatre lover.”

  “I have unsuspected depths.”

  “Oh, I suspect everyone.”

  Damon stuck out his hand. “I’m Damon Newhouse. Conspiracy Clearinghouse. DeadFed dot com.”

  A pause. There was an undercurrent to the conversation between Maksym and Brooke. Was there an attraction there? Was there more? Brooke had some explaining to do. Lunch would be in order.

  “Ah, of course. DeadFed.” Pushkin shook the smaller man’s hand. “A very popular site. How’s the wine here, by the way?” Without waiting for a review, he turned back to Brooke. “We will have to talk soon. Ms. Smithsonian, so nice to meet you.” He smiled at Brooke and backed away through the crowd before turning around.

  Brooke looked mildly annoyed. At whom, Lacey wondered. Damon or Maksym? And was Pushkin a DeadFed fan? She hoped he hadn’t read Damon’s crackpot “Romanov Revengers” articles. Half of them featured Lacey and the Romanov diamonds.

  “Who wants some wine?” Damon asked.

  “Vic’s getting me some coffee. I think.” Vic was still at the bar with Gregor. Brooke said she’d love some wine. After Damon left the table, she whispered to Lacey.

  “Tomorrow. Lunch. You and me. Debriefing.”

  “I agree,” Lacey said. “Where?”

  “Spy Museum. For inspiration. This little theatre is a gigantic hotbed of intrigue. Can’t you feel it?”

  Nothing lit Brooke up like a conspiracy and she was glowing like a nuclear reactor. And even better than mere conspiracies: spies! Lacey assumed Russian spies would be on the lunch menu.

  “Not everyone is a spy, Brooke.” Lacey tried to keep her face straight. “Only one in six Washingtonians, according to you.”

  “Probably five out of six here tonight. Listen.”

  Russian words were flying all around them, quickly, excitedly. Neither Lacey nor Brooke had any idea what was being said.

  “Okay, there are a lot of Russians here. Russian theatre, you know. They might be discussing the show,” Lacey said. “You just want everyone to be a spy.”

  “Not true. Did you hear that another healthy young reporter from Moscow who criticized government policies was found dead in a hotel room?”

  “Here or in Moscow?”

  “London this time. And did I mention the Russian who was thrown off a roof on election day, in Manhattan?”

  “I have to admit that’s disturbing. How did the reporter die?”

  “Right now, it’s all very hush-hush, and obviously, ‘natural causes’ are being blamed. But he is another in a long line of dead journalists,” Brooke said. “Journalists working on stories involving Russia.”

  Thanks a lot, Brooke. A tiny finger of fear danced down Lacey’s spine. In other countries, journalists risked their lives to report the news. American reporters believed they were protected in their craft by the Constitution, and because they dealt with the truth. But the truth was also subject to interpretation, and there were unpredictable loons out there. Now, unfortunately, the loons were in control, and truth was under attack on a daily basis. Even Lacey’s fashion beat had received death threats.

  “Don’t spook me,” Lacey said.

  “Exactly. Spooks. Spy Museum, tomorrow at noon.”

  She couldn’t help smiling as she watched Brooke glide off to join her boyfriend and fellow conspiracist. She spied Trujillo across the lobby, chatting up a blonde. There were always blondes for Tony. He seemed more interested in the woman than in joining the rest of Lacey’s inquisitors, for which she was grateful. She knew Tamsin was most likely still in her seat, as she didn’t care to mingle with the intermission crowds.

  “Ms. Lacey Smithsonian? I heard you have been looking for me,” a man’s barely Russian-accented voice said, and Lacey turned around. The speaker was about six feet tall with a tight, slender frame, wearing black slacks and a black shirt. Another theatre type. He was pleasant-looking with close-cropped light brown hair and even, unexceptional features. But he had bright blue eyes, a blazing shade of blue.

  Lacey realized he must be the costume designer for this show, as well as for the decade-old production of The Masque. The man who made the red dress.

  “I’m Lacey. Are you Nikolai Sokolov?”

  “Call me Nicky. All my friends do.” He smiled as if delighted to meet her.

  “Yuri must have pointed me out to you?”

  “And DeeDee as well. Forgive me for not getting back to you earlier. So much to do before press night. I was still adjusting costumes this afternoon.” He bowed slightly and took her hand in his. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Then you probably haven’t read my fashion columns,” she said with a smile.

  “But I have. Very insightful, as well as humorous.”

  “You’re flattering me.”

  “Why lie when the truth is flattering?”

  “Why indeed.” She smiled back. So many lies, so little time.

  Vic arrived with a beer in hand and a decaf for Lacey. He eyed the new arrival. Gregor Kepelov was close on Vic’s heels and Marie and Olga arrived from the ladies’ room. Lacey introduced Nikolai “Nicky” Sokolov to the others. He and Kepelov evaluated each other, exchanged a few words in Russian, and finally shook hands carefully, the handshake accompanied by wolfish smiles. What’s all that about, Lacey was wondering, when someone bumped her elbow and almost spilled her coffee.

  “Hey, watch it, buddy,” Vic said to the elbow-bumper.

  “I’ll kill her if she misses another cue,” the bumper said matter-of-factly to Vic. There was venom in his tone. Lacey recognized Gareth Cameron, the miserable-yet-superior playwright, in a froth over some actress—could it be Anastasia?—who had flubbed a cue. Wearing the same clothes he’d worn the other day, Cameron looked as if he hadn’t slept since then.

  Probably subsisting on kombucha. And hurt feelings.

  “Playwrights.” Sokolov chuckled. “Everyone knows it’s the director’s job to kill the actors! Playwrights must stand in line.” The group laughed.

  “Do you think he’s drunk already?” Lacey asked.

  “No, no, just press night.” Sokolov turned his head slightly, watching the playwright careen across the lobby. “Probably going to the men’s room to be sick. Our Gareth has a tender stomach.”

  Lacey thought he looked more like a man heading off to confront hungry lions in the Colosseum, and fight back.

  “Press night nerves?”

  “Exactly,” Sokolov said. “After all, if the show is a flop, everyone will blame the playwright. If it is a great success, everyone will applaud the director. And all is right in the kingdom.”

  “That’s cynical.”

  “That’s the theatre.”

  The lobby lights flashed three times to signal the second act would soon begin. “Nicky, I—”

  “You wanted to ask me about Death’s ruby-red costume, from The Masque of the Red Death.”

  “You anticipate me,” Lacey said.

  “Saves time. And Yuri told me. What can I tell you? In three minutes?”

&nb
sp; The others in the group stood by, and Lacey felt the tension increase at the mention of the dress. Vic put his hand on her shoulder.

  “I was at the sale when the dress was sold,.” Lacey began. “Amy Keaton tried to keep it. But now—”

  “I know. Tragic news. I wondered where she was on Monday. Not like her to miss work. I read about her unfortunate accident in the paper.” He dropped his voice. “Amy would have been right here tonight. She was very efficient. We will miss her.”

  “Very sad news,” Lacey agreed. “Amy told me it was a mistake that the costume was at the sale.”

  “These things happen.” He gestured as if swatting a fly away. “You met her there?”

  “Sort of.”

  “It was nice of you to remember her. Not many people connect the name with the woman. Poor Amy. She was very exacting. Made her a great stage manager. But she was seldom recognized for her work. As for the costume, I don’t know whether Death’s red dress was supposed to be in the sale or not. That show was so long ago.”

  “You aren’t concerned about it being sold, then?”

  “Why?” He lifted his shoulders and let them fall. “A rag from so many years ago.”

  “Kinetic let many actresses wear the dress, for example to the Helen Hayes awards. But I heard you always had to approve them personally.”

  “You have been busy, Ms. Smithsonian.” He laughed with appreciation. He seemed very different from Yuri Volkov and Maksym Pushkin. But why would I think all Russians were alike? “Yes, I always approved the actresses who wore the costume. Kinetic, that is, Yuri, always wanted the red gown to be presented at its best. For both the actress and the theatre. We have exacting standards. Also, it had to be a perfect fit for the wearer. We didn’t want to have to tailor it every time, or let someone else butcher it.”

  “But now you have no costume.”

  “No costume?” Sokolov found that amusing. “Kinetic Theatre has many wonderful costumes. Hundreds, even thousands. Perhaps we will start a new tradition with another outfit.” He gestured at the dozens of posters lining the lobby walls. “Perhaps we could loan out the Lady Macbeth? Such a dress! Gold and black damask, very impressive. Have you seen it?”

  “I’d love to see it.”

  “I will be happy to show you.”

  “That would be lovely. I have so many questions.”

  Sokolov glanced at Vic and then back to Lacey. “I must go now. I would be delighted to offer you a tour of my costume shop. To show you how I put together the concept for a show’s wardrobe. But maybe you’re not so very interested in theatrical costumes?”

  Not interested? The offer was pure sucker bait for Lacey, and he knew it. “Of course I’m interested. When?’

  “May I call you tomorrow?”

  “So soon. You love your work.”

  “I have a talent. Or so it seems.” He picked up her hand again for the briefest moment, leaving a card in her palm before he disappeared into the crowd streaming into the theatre. The lights flashed again and this time a set of melodic chimes sounded.

  I didn’t have a chance to ask him about Saige Russell. Parsnips. She glanced at Nicky Sokolov’s business card in her hand. Next time.

  Vic took her other hand. “Come with me. Act Two.”

  CHAPTER 28

  “A muscular show” was Gregor Kepelov’s considered opinion after it was all over. “Very powerful. Obviously the second act was a metaphor for mind control.”

  Lacey didn’t think that was the subject of the play. However, she granted that Kepelov’s interpretation had merit. According to Gregor, the ghosts on stage represented deception, illusion, and confusion, what he said was called in Russian maskirovka, a deliberate masquerade of misinformation, so that in the end, the governess didn’t know if she was crazy or being haunted, under attack from within or without. And neither did the audience. It was up to each of us, he said, to discover the truth.

  As they walked, Gregor was practically shouting over the storm, which had finally broken and was pouring down sheets of rain. The heat and humidity tangled head-to-head and scattered thunder and lightning across the city. The wind blew umbrellas inside out and skirts upside down. Lacey didn’t mind, the wind was soothing in its fury. It felt good after the heat.

  Gregor had insisted they needed to share their reactions after the show, and Vic was up for it. They agreed on the bar at the Tabard Inn, not far from the theatre. It was only four or five blocks away, and as usual in D.C., once the cars were safely parked, everyone agreed it was foolish to move them. And also as usual in D.C., everyone had an umbrella. Or a cowboy hat. What was one little rainstorm?

  The five dropped their umbrellas inside the door and tucked into a snug corner at the Tabard, decorated with dark wood and sofas. The Tabard was a classic D.C. establishment, comprised of three old townhouses, creating a warren of interesting spaces. If only I can keep my eyes open.

  “It’s lovely, no?” Olga said without irony. She wiped raindrops off her face with a napkin. “A brisk walk in the rain after a hot day. Reminds me of Moscow. And no one followed us. I was on guard.”

  Vic and Gregor ordered the meat-and-cheese board for them to share. Marie gathered her soaked curls and wrung them out over her shoulder. Lacey twisted her rain-frizzed hair into a knot and pinned it out of her face. She leaned her damp head on Vic’s shoulder. What a day.

  “What I like most about the play are the ghosts,” Olga was saying as they settled in. “Like life. Life is full of ghosts.”

  Marie sat close to Gregor and hugged his arm. She looked sleepy too. “I loved the ghosts too! So exciting and strange, yet so familiar. But there was that one ghost in a red shroud, remember her? Toward the end? I’m not sure what she was doing there. Has anyone read the story? Who was she? She seemed so sad and lost.”

  There was a pregnant silence. They all looked at Marie. Lacey caught the eyes of everyone around the table before she broke the silence.

  “Marie, we didn’t see anyone in red,” Lacey said quietly.

  “Perhaps you saw something else,” Olga suggested. “There were so many shadows, all those effects with light and—”

  “No, I saw her. Why, she was just as plain as day. Oh dear. I didn’t realize she was a ghost. I don’t generally see them, you know.”

  “She was wearing red?” Gregor asked.

  “Yes. But it’s not what you’re thinking, sugar, she wasn’t wearing that red gown, the costume with the medals, and she didn’t wear a mask. Just red cloth, like a shroud. What did you say her name was, cher? The dead actress?”

  “Saige Russell,” Lacey said. “Her real name was Patience Russell. Although they called her Parsnips behind her back.”

  “If there was a ghost,” Vic said, always the sceptic, “and I am not saying there was, we don’t know it was Saige Russell. Aren’t theatres always supposed to be haunted? I mean, look at Ford’s, with the ghost of Abraham Lincoln.” His lifted eyebrow told Lacey he thought this apparition was the ghost of Marie’s Valium.

  “Or else Saige is a ghost who loves red.” Lacey liked that image. “If that was Saige, I guess a woman’s favorite color survives the grave.”

  “I really thought she was part of the show,” Marie said sadly. “Perhaps she was merely smoke, an afterimage, the last wisps of a lost soul. She seemed to be looking for someone, but it wasn’t me. She had nothing to tell me. Sorry.” Marie looked even more exhausted now.

  “Ha. What do ghosts know anyway?” Olga asked briskly. “They are dead. And not reliable.”

  “But beautiful,” Lacey put in. “At least on stage.”

  “I thought the on-stage ghosts were exceptional,” Vic agreed.

  “Dancing ghosts,” Lacey said. “Ghosts having sex on the staircase.”

  “Spies and mind control,” Gregor asserted. “Though I wish I could have seen your ghost in red, Marie.” There was another pause.

  “Have you found out anything about the Lenins?” Lacey asked Kepelov, speaking v
ery softly. Their corner was secluded, but in Washington, even walls had ears.

  “In a word, no,” Gregor said. “You think I go around asking obvious questions? No. I carefully assess situation. Tonight was advance reconnaissance.”

  “And what did it tell you?”

  “Not as much as my gut. Gut says caution. There are secrets in that theatre that are not in the plays, not on the stage.”

  Olga dismissed him with a wave. “Gregor. You are merely being Russian, and it is Russian theatre. Of course there are secrets.”

  “What are you saying, Olga? Putin is growling like bear. Agents are everywhere. Spies and ex-spies are dropping like flies.”

  “You’re sure Kinetic is a hot bed of spies?” Vic asked.

  “Yes,” Gregor said. The waiter arrived with their appetizers, and they fell silent until they were alone again. “Audience too. Many Russians.”

  “So you overheard something in Russian?” Vic pressed.

  “I overheard many things. All very innocent,” Gregor said. “This is how I know things are not so innocent.”

  “I hate it when Brooke is right,” Lacey said.

  Olga seemed unimpressed by her brother’s gloomy assessment of Kinetic. She lifted a glass of vodka to Lacey in salute.

  “You were big success tonight, Smithsonian. Everyone is fascinated by Lacey Smithsonian. To you!”

  “Me? No way. I’m more adrift on this story than ever.” Lacey was not the type to think that people whispering—especially in a foreign language—were discussing her. It startled her when people quoted her column. She picked up a cracker and some cheese and popped it in her mouth.

  “You missed all the looks in your direction, all the talk?” Olga asked her.

  “To be fair, Olga,” Gregor pointed out, “the talk was in Russian.”

  “Apologies.” Olga didn’t look apologetic. “I am spontaneous translator in five languages. I forget not everyone is.”

  “The diamonds, Smithsonian. The Romanov gems in the corset. Your discovery of the gems was in the air tonight. You have an ability, the EFP,” Gregor said. “You beat even Gregor Kepelov to that treasure. I salute you, like Olga. And now with the Lenin medals, you have done it again.” He lifted his glass to her.