The Masque of the Red Dress

by Ellen Byerrum

  “But what exactly have I found? And what does it mean?”

  Another pause. I’m always stopping conversations tonight.

  “Marie, I just want to know, do you sense any danger for Lacey?” Vic finally asked. Lacey was surprised. Vic the Skeptic had come a long way in his opinion of their friend Marie. He might not completely believe in Marie’s powers, she knew, but he didn’t quite disbelieve either.

  “No, cher. I am quite blank right now.” Marie closed her eyes. “I don’t even know why the crimson ghost was part of the show.”

  “Don’t worry, Victor. She is Lacey Smithsonian,” Gregor said. “Danger walks by her side wherever she goes. And yet leaves her untouched.”

  “That’s not exactly comforting,” Lacey said. She took a sip from her cranberry and seltzer.

  “It’s not exactly news either,” Vic said.

  “Not every Russian émigré is dangerous, however.” Gregor paused. “I, for example, am paragon of American democratic values. Olga as well. However, there is cause for concern. You know of the Russian billionaire who was beaten to death in a Washington hotel?”

  “Yes.” Brooke had already filled Lacey in on that story, and DeadFed was running wild with it.

  “And the reporter in London? And the Russian who died on election day? And many more who handled a certain damaging dossier on a certain moron of a politician. They are dead, but the Kremlin is alive and well, here and in Moscow.”

  “We like to think the problems of the past do not follow us. But is not true,” Olga said. “Old Soviet Union may be dead, but still haunts us. Like the red ghost.”

  “What does all that have to do with the red dress, and LaToya’s break-in, and Amy Keaton’s death?” Lacey asked, exasperated.

  “I hate coincidences,” Vic said. “Coincidence is usually an illusion.”

  “Victor is right,” Gregor said. “There is a connection.”

  Marie snuggled against Gregor’s shoulder. Lacey had never seen her look so peaceful, and she was glad that her favorite psychic had taken the night off. And a Valium. Or there would be fainting now for sure.

  “Okay. By now, everyone in Washington knows I’ve been asking about the red dress,” Lacey pointed out. “At least everyone connected with Kinetic.”

  Marie opened her eyes. and addressed Lacey. “It was your destiny, cher. And this is as well. Remember you have friends who will do whatever they can to protect you.” She closed her eyes and promptly fell sound asleep. I hope that doesn’t count as fainting. Gregor adjusted her head gently on his shoulder.

  “Fear not, Lacey Smithsonian, we will discover who it is, who opened the Lenin medals, who delivered the poison needles,” Kepelov promised. “The Delivery Man.”

  “Or woman,” Lacey said.

  He nodded. “Or woman.”

  “What about the red dress?” Lacey asked. “What happens if the Delivery Man finds out where it is?”

  All eyes, except the sleeping Marie’s, were on Vic. He smiled. “On the theory that he or she, or they, were watching you during the show, sweetheart, I had the dress moved to a secondary location during The Screw.”

  “Turtledove?” She knew he was reliable. He’d had a hand in moving Aunt Mimi’s trunk out of her apartment when Lacey feared its contents were at risk. She trusted both men with her life.

  “Not mentioning any names. But it’s handled. I got a text at intermission.”

  “Smart move, Victor,” Gregor said. Olga nodded.

  “It’s as secure as it was in our offices. Possibly more. And if anyone does breach our security, they’ll get a surprise.”

  “What, you moved it to Fort Knox?” Gregor asked.

  “Almost. Company secret.”

  “Did Turtledove think it was silly to move it?” Lacey asked him.

  “No more than usual, sweetheart.”

  “Not to worry, Smithsonian,” Gregor assured her. “We have a plan.”

  Uh oh. “What kind of plan?”

  “To keep you safe. To be ready when the Delivery Man arrives, which he will, sooner or later.”

  Brooke would love all this spy stuff. Too bad I can’t tell her anything. And damn, Kepelov thinks I’m a target!

  “She has the ExtraFashionary Perception,” Gregor continued. “Whoever put the medals in the hem of that dress is no doubt aware of her interest in the dress, and her abilities.”

  “There is no way to be sure of that, Gregor. Some of those medals could have been in there for years,” Vic pointed out. “Our so-called Delivery Man might be long gone.”

  “Despite that, it is true,” Olga said. “Lacey Smithsonian will be a target.”

  “You’re exaggerating my super-powers,” Lacey said tiredly. “All of you.”

  “You have a gift, Smithsonian.”

  “Or a curse.”

  “And me.” Vic lifted one beautiful dark eyebrow at her. He stood and reached out his hand for her, and she took it. It was time to go. He put money down to pay for their share of the bill.

  “Like Boy Scout, Smithsonian,” Gregor cautioned her at the door, “you must be prepared. You are the flame that draws the moth.”

  Normally statements of that kind would keep Lacey up all night. But she was too weary and this all felt too fantastic.

  “Don’t worry, Gregor. I have my own personal Boy Scout.”

  CHAPTER 29

  “You’re a little late, Smithsonian.”

  Mac greeted her on Thursday morning by pointedly looking at his watch. He was just lifting the last whatever-it-was from a platter on the food editor’s desk.

  Tell me something I don’t know. Lacey had overslept, but to her relief she’d had no nightmares. “Sorry. I was up late. And the Metro was dead on the tracks for a half hour. Blue Line.”

  The Blue Line train in front of hers was declared Out Of Service for unknown reasons and unloaded at Pentagon City. That trainload of passengers raced back to Lacey’s train, holding it up and packing it like proverbial sardines. Lacey was lucky to have snagged a seat before the crush, which spiked the ambient stress levels in the train car. She was trying to write a column, in between dodging elbows and knees and the occasional swinging backpack.

  She didn’t mind Mac’s sarcasm. Go ahead, fire me. Good luck getting someone else to work this beat. She took a second look at Felicity’s morning treat: some kind of frosted chocolate and vanilla marble cake. Tempting, but not enough to be worth the calories.

  Judging by today’s swirly delicacy, Felicity must have enjoyed the show a great deal the night before. She had already produced something fattening for the troops. Quite a feat for being out late on a school night, Lacey mused. Maybe she doesn’t need sleep, baking all night in that gingerbread house in the woods.

  “Excuses, excuses. What do you have for me today?”

  “Fashion Bite: Dressing Up or Dressing Down—A Matter of Respect. Or something like that. You’ll have it later this morning.” She had penned the first draft by hand in her notebook while the train was stalled, inspired by the attire of the theatre crowd the night before.

  “Sounds okay.” He scanned the half-empty newsroom. Many staff members were missing, and Lacey knew they weren’t occupied in government hearings. “Looks like half the office was on your train. Blue Line?”

  “Blue Line.”

  “It’s the worst.”

  “This week.” Lacey was just happy not to be a rumpled mess after escaping the packed train, and she was impressed with the material in her “new” vintage dress. Wrinkles just fell right out: the magic of vintage. Today’s outfit was a sleeveless pink “wiggle dress” dating from the 1950s, with a kick pleat, suitable for a garden party, as if anyone gave such an event these days.

  It’s a shame there’s never a garden party around. I’m ready!

  Lacey was breaking one of her own rules about pink with this dress. Pink sent a message, especially in Washington, and could be construed as weak or “girly.” She usually avoided pink at work, and sh
e didn’t know why today felt different. Maybe it was a reaction to the red dress, or all that Theatre Standard Black last night. This pink confection was a soft polished cotton with dots woven into the fabric, and a wide shawl-collared sweetheart neckline that dipped into a V in the front. Lacey wore it with a matching black bolero jacket with three-quarter length sleeves, her summer go-to jacket. Her hair was pulled back in a French twist, which went with the dress’s vibe, and her white wedge sandals were comfortable enough to see her through the workday and a quick trip through a museum.

  Her editor didn’t seem to notice the outfit. Mac rarely did, and he was also blind to his own fashion crimes. Lacey averted her eyes.

  “And Mac, I’d like to take this afternoon off.”

  “Does this have anything to do with LaToya’s crazy red dress and the story I don’t have?”

  “Possibly. And possibly related to me getting some sleep.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?” He took another bite of the marble cake.

  “Mac, I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

  “Nightlife getting to you?”

  “Research. I was at Kinetic Theatre last night for The Turn of the Screw.”

  “Aha. The scene of the crime, theatre-wise?”

  “No, the show was great.”

  “Tamsin gave it a thumbs-up too.”

  Lacey hadn’t seen the review yet. She reached for The Eye’s morning edition, already on her desk. There it was, in the Entertainment section: Kinetic Dazzles in New Take on Classic GHOST STORY.

  “Is that the same theatre where the actress died?”

  “Same group, but not the same building. Kinetic was in a different space back then, off Fourteenth Street.”

  Mac’s fork dangled above his plate. “Police say Keaton’s death was an accident. What do you think?”

  “Nothing tangible yet, Mac.” Lacey’s gut—and a handful of hollow Lenin medals—said murder. But there was no evidence. She tossed the paper on her desk and grabbed an empty coffee mug.

  “But you’re not buying it,” Mac grumbled. “I suppose you won’t be happy until you have some maniac coming at you with a pair of scissors.”

  “Oh ye of little faith. Why does everybody assume that? It might not be scissors. It’s not always scissors. There could be a peaceful resolution.”

  “We can always hope. Yet if history is any indication—”

  “You make it sound like I plan these things.”

  Mac’s eyebrows narrowed in a way she wasn’t particularly fond of. They were their own editorial statement of gloom.

  “Hear me on this, Lacey. I know you’re going to pursue this. If you get that Spidey sense going on, you better have backup. I mean it, Smithsonian. No dress is worth dying over.”

  “Agreed.” She headed toward the newsroom’s kitchen.

  “Is there some more wacky backstory to that thing that you haven’t told me about?”

  “Undoubtedly. Exactly what, I’m not sure yet. Costumes tell stories, just like everyday clothes. Costumes are designed to tell stories. But so far it’s simply a dress that’s been worn by a lot of actresses, on stage and off. All but one still alive.” She raised one eyebrow. “Why don’t you ask Wiedemeyer what he thinks? He’s the death-and-dismemberment guy.”

  Mac gave her the eye, under a cloud of black eyebrows. “I’m not interested in science fiction. Besides, he’s got a personal ax to grind. He knew Amy Keaton.”

  “He wants part of this story, doesn’t he? It’s my story, Mac.”

  “He had his shot. That sob story I shoveled over to the op-ed section.”

  “He wants to horn in on my story.”

  Lacey didn’t want Harlan dogging her steps or meddling in her process. She also didn’t want him to get hurt. Wiedemeyer, for all his glee in the death-and-dismemberment beat, struck her as hopelessly naïve. She couldn’t trust the chubby little rascal not to throw himself headlong into danger. And losing Harlan, even temporarily, would affect Felicity’s baking. It might even shut down the cake-and-cookie train. Worse than shutting down the Metro.

  “I ordered him to back off. Whatever good that will do.” Mac finished his marble cake with a satisfied sigh.

  “About this afternoon,” she reminded him. “My time off?”

  “Fine. After I edit your piece. Get some rest.” He headed for his office. Over his shoulder he added, “And stay out of trouble!”

  Lacey retrieved Nikolai Sokolov’s business card. She didn’t want him to forget about his offer: a tour of the Kinetic costume shop. Still, she was surprised when he answered the phone, instead of letting it go to voice mail.

  “Lacey Smithsonian, I’ve been expecting your call.”

  She checked her watch. “Isn’t this early for theatre people?”

  “I don’t sleep as much as other people. And I like the quiet of the theatre this time of day. I finish more work when I’m alone.” They set a time for her to visit Kinetic on Friday, tomorrow.

  Lacey hung up as several of her coworkers finally arrived, complaining about the Metro breakdown of the day. Tony ambled her way, another late arriving victim of the subway. He usually drove his car, Mustang Sally, but she was in the shop for an oil change and minor maintenance.

  “What’s up, Brenda Starr? Looking very French today.”

  “Really? I’m not sure they wear much pink. And what’s up is I’m writing a Fashion Bite. Fashion never sleeps.”

  “I need a bite of food, not fashion.”

  Trujillo was a fashion plate in his own way, and his clothes always had a personal stamp. He was looking fine today in a navy western shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his tanned arms, crisp dark jeans and the inevitable boots. Trujillo would never be one of those guys who wore Hawaiian shirts in the summer, like so many men in D.C. who declared the entire summer luau season, especially Casual Fridays. Spotting the marble cake, he lifted a big slice, took a bite, and closed his eyes.

  “Yum.”

  “Hey, I saw you at the show last night.”

  “Yeah. Saw you and Vic, too. I figured it was worth a look, and Tamsin had an extra ticket. That’s the theatre that’s been in the news, right?”

  “News? You’re talking about Wiedemeyer’s piece?”

  “That sob story. That and your forthcoming piece about Amy Keaton’s death. You’ve got LaToya all in a twist, a dead actress from long ago, and a brand-new corpse. Well done.”

  “You’ve been busy too. Reading the archives?”

  “Listen, Lois Lane, if there’s a hot story here with bizarre encounters and your signature loony sources, I want in.”

  “You think there’s more to it?” She was enjoying toying with him, and she still hadn’t had her coffee.

  “There’s always more to it with you, Lois.”

  “Why not team up with Harlan? He wants in on this story too. And let me caution you, it isn’t necessarily a story yet. Not everything I write is a big crime drama, you know. Usually it’s just clothes.”

  “You find enough drama. Here’s the deal. I help. Double byline.”

  “If you really want to be part of this story, Tony, shake down the M.E. for a cause and manner of death for Amy Keaton. And if we go in together, we go alphabetical. Smithsonian before Trujillo.” She picked up her empty mug again.

  “Damned alphabet.” Trujillo groaned. “But I’ll take it. I’ll see what I can do.” He finished the cake and tossed his crumpled napkin into her wastebasket. She headed in the direction of the coffee. He followed her.

  “What did you think of the show last night?” she asked him.

  “It was, um, different. I was more interested in everyone else who was there. Let’s see: You and Donovan, the lovely Brooke and her boy toy, that screwball Russian spy of yours, and your Marie, our favorite psychic. I didn’t recognize the other woman, but she looks like some dead writer, I can’t remember the name.”

  “Kepelov’s sister, Olga Kepelova. I think she looks like Ayn Rand.”
r />   “Ayn Rand! That’s the one. Intense. Crazy eyes.” In the kitchenette Lacey checked the coffee pot. It was half full and didn’t quite qualify as a toxic spill yet. “There are really two Kepelovs? Brother and sister? The mind reels.” Tony took the pot and poured coffee into their mugs. Evaluating the thickness of the brew, Tony added a healthy heap of sugar and non-dairy creamer to his and stirred.

  “Anything else?” she asked. “About the show.”

  “Saw Wiedemeyer in his glad rags, with Felicity of course. What a couple. It was old home week. Tamsin. Me. I didn’t see Mac or Claudia or the sportswriters there, but either we have an unsuspected hotbed of theatre lovers at The Eye Street Observer or something is afoot.”

  “Something is always afoot, Tony.” Lacey sipped the coffee: Could be worse. “I’m sure you have a medical examiner to shake down.”

  “I’m sure I do. Double byline.” Winking, he spun on his heel and strutted back to the newsroom ahead of her.

  Lacey avoided the last crumbs of the marble cake and finished keying in her hand-written notes from this morning’s commute for her “Fashion Bites” column, bumpily penned on the Metro. Her head was down as she reread her article.

  “Smithsonian. What’s the scoop on my red dress?”

  The clicking of LaToya’s shiny black patent heels could be heard several desks away. Lacey glanced up from her screen. LaToya looked crisp and professional in a black and white sheath dress, dangling a black linen jacket in one hand. It must be new. After all, LaToya had a good excuse to buy new clothes that hadn’t been handled by an unknown burglar.

  “Not yet,” she said carefully. I can’t talk about the Lenin medals. “Any news about your break-in?”

  “Not yet.” LaToya looked disgusted. “I mean, what’s taking everybody so long?”

  “Don’t know. Amazingly enough, this story isn’t just jumping into my lap. However, it is giving me a headache.”

  “It’s been that kind of week. I sympathize.”

  There was a moment of silence between them. Finally Lacey spoke.