“I do believe your scarlet costume has a distinctly tangled history.”
“I knew it. It’s too damn beautiful.” LaToya leaned against Lacey’s desk. “To tell the truth, I’m not sure I should have bought it. But that red demon called out to me like some unearthly thing and grabbed ahold of me. Some damn costume voodoo. I got caught up in it. And that particular shade of red looks fabulous on my skin. However, between you and me, I’m not sure I’d ever wear it.”
“There’s always the odd formal event,” Lacey suggested. As long as she doesn’t know about the skulls that glow in the dark, and the strange secret sewn into the hem. “You know, LaToya, you really could just give it back. Or I bet they’d buy it back from you. I could handle it for you. How much did you pay for it, anyway?”
“It’s not the money. It’s mine. I won’t give it up without a fight. I already fought for it once.” LaToya’s face was grim with determination.
“Give it up? You don’t even have it.”
LaToya suddenly laughed out loud and fluttered her fingers at Smithsonian. “That’s right. You have custody till it’s clear of evil spirits. Evil spirits and the weird women who covet it. You are the committee to free my dress from doom and disaster. Let me know.”
I tried. “You bet.”
“Any ETA on arrival?”
“Nope, but it can’t be too soon for me. Aside from my troubles, LaToya, how are things with Detective Broadway Lamont?”
“He can run, but he cannot hide.”
“How long are you going to chase him?” Lacey leaned back in her chair and stretched.
“As long as it takes. I got it bad for that handsome hunk of man.” Broadway is doomed. “By the way, exactly where is my dress, Smithsonian?”
“A secure undisclosed location. Under lock and key.”
“Sounds like CIA stuff.”
“Safer. The best part is, even I don’t know where it is.” Lacey always appreciated Vic, but even more so when he pulled off a surprise like this one. “Vic hid it away.”
“Just as well. I can’t stop thinking about my apartment, some stranger breaking in and touching my things. And I didn’t even wake up! Gives me the creeps. And doing what he did, leaving my clothes dancing like phantoms around my rooms.”
A perceptible shudder passed through her. Lacey could almost feel it herself. She had never seen anything quite like the scene at LaToya’s.
“Are you staying there?”
“I’m staying with my folks. Until the new locks and security system are in.”
“I thought your building looked pretty safe.”
“Me too. Till this thing. One more reason to get Broadway to comfort me in my time of distress.”
It’s just a matter of time before the big man caves. Boom.
LaToya winked. She gathered her things and clicked away on fearsome patent leather heels.
Lacey sent her “Fashion Bite” to Mac’s reading cue. She tapped her fingers on her desk and sipped her bad coffee, waiting. Waiting and thinking. Thinking about Russian theatres. Russian red dresses. Russian medals.
Russians. Aside from LaToya, and the creepy burglar and Keaton’s possible killer—perhaps the same person—who did she know who might have some conceivable interest in Death’s Red Dress, a dress from a Russian theatre? A dress full of secret KGB medals that once held secret Russian murder weapons? Could that person possibly be Gregor Kepelov? Gregor had wanted to hide the dress himself and hang onto the medals. He yielded gracefully when Vic put his foot down, but was he secretly dreaming of, say, brokering its sale to some Russian collector? Or even to the Spy Museum, for example? The very place where Lacey was due to meet Brooke in less than an hour.
Mac poked his head out of his office and gave Lacey the good-to-go sign. She ditched the last of her coffee and made her escape, making sure no one saw her slip out.
Nothing but freedom awaited her for the rest of the day.
Lacey Smithsonian’s FASHION BITES
Dressing Down Meets Dressing Up
Or, Come As You Are!
One of the most misunderstood invitations is the fashion conundrum known as Come As You Are. Your sister’s wedding? Grandma’s funeral? The company’s Big Formal Event? Just come as you are, dude! Oh, you’re practically naked, because you were washing the dog? Well, whatever. Just be you!
Sadly, hordes of Americans have taken the freedom to “come as you are” to heart. Come-As-You-Are-Ism can be an invitation to sartorial anarchy, on the assumption that it’s somehow liberating to be dressed inappropriately. Well, it’s not liberating if they won’t let you in, or they throw you out, or look at you “funny” all evening. I’d call that limiting, not liberating. James Bond wears that great tux because it liberates him to go anywhere he wants to in Monte Carlo, not because it limits him.
But determined Come-As-You-Are-Ists have laid waste to perfectly reasonable dress codes and even the most rudimentary of formal events, in the belief that whatever they throw on to wash the dog ought to be acceptable attire anywhere. Let me say it here and now. Please, do NOT “come as you are”! You can wash the dog later.
Today, men and women come as they are to the office, the garage sale, the wedding, the funeral, the picnic, the business dinner, and the awards ceremony, perhaps not understanding these are different things with differing social rules and functions. Different events require different wardrobes. Most people understand what to wear while riding a bicycle or working out at the gym, but many people haven’t the faintest idea what to wear to the theatre or a holiday dinner.
My advice: When you are invited to an event that does not involve lifting weights or going on a fifty-mile bike ride, absolutely do not Go As You Are. This is a fashion trap if ever there was one. And people are waiting to see you fall into it.
In your home, you can wear whatever you want. You can paint yourself blue and wear feathers, become the work of art you knew you were always meant to be, and no one else has to see it. On second thought, invite us all over, that would be something to see. However, the world is different outside your front door. When you leave your kingdom, as great or small as it may be, you have an opportunity to present yourself at your best, and an obligation to respect the rest of us. Life is a social contract even when the invite says “casual.”
Your clothes express more than your taste and personality, your social status and annual income. They reveal your attitude, your courtesy or lack thereof, your respect for yourself and others. The simple rule of what to wear is this: If you are going somewhere special or you want to impress people with what a cool, civilized human being you are, make an effort to learn the social rules for the occasion, which includes your clothes. You don’t want your clothes to say you don’t care.
When your hosts issue an invitation for a “casual” event, they don’t want to create a burden, they don’t want you to stress about your outfit. They do, however, expect you to be clean and presentable, and with your tresses combed or under control, even if they are dyed blue or green.
Casual in the steamy Washington, D.C., summer might mean slacks or a skirt, a madras plaid shirt, and boat shoes sans socks, a la the ultimate preppy. It never means filthy jeans and a grass-stained hoodie, or paint–spattered overalls. (Unless Senator Tom Sawyer has invited you over to help paint that fence. Then it’s your very best paint–spattered overalls.) You don’t want to look as if you just mowed the lawn, washed the dog, didn’t shower, didn’t change, and don’t care. That’s the ultimate insult to your host. And the rest of us.
When you’re next at a formal or formal-ish event, look around. Note the wide variety of garments people are wearing. You’ll see some underdressed Come-As-You-Are-Ists. You might consider some overdressed. Inside the Beltway, for example, many Southern women believe it is always better to be slightly overdressed than underdressed. If you have questions, check with a friend to get her take on the event and what she’s wearing. You’ll be on the same page, but not in the same outfit
.
If a cocktail party takes place at the end of a business day, most partygoers will arrive in what they wore to work. Washington lawyers who are coming as they are may have spent their day pleading a case before the Supreme Court, in dark suits and sober accessories. Others may be dressed down, in pressed slacks and pearls. And some attendees coming from work may change accessories and shoes to transform an outfit to fit the event. It’s a matter of perspective.
So why do some people always look appropriate to the moment? What’s their secret? They listen to the unspoken social rules and regulations. They don’t attend a cocktail party in shorts. They don’t wear a formal to a pool party, or a bikini to a formal dinner. They find it liberating to find a way to fit in while still standing out, rather than “sticking out like a sore thumb.” They might even read this column for a clue, so here it is:
Rules usually make dressing easier, not harder.
Some places and events have very strict rules. They make it easy: They’ll simply ask you to leave if you are not garbed appropriately. There are restaurants that require men to wear jackets and people to refrain from shorts and tank top. Tennis “whites” are required at many tennis clubs. Natty attire is expected on the golf course or in the clubhouse, or at least “natty” by golf standards. For tennis and golf, you can even buy the correct and coordinated outfits in sports shops, everything from shirts to slacks to shoes. And even woebegone media types are “requested” to dress appropriately when covering Congress (or you might be asked to leave the Press Galleries).
And yes, there are places and events that don’t spell out their requirements, but they still exist, as unwritten rules. These are more difficult to master. Pay attention to unspoken dress codes, those are the strictest of all. Consider the theatre or the opera or a symphony concert. These are events where the performers are dressing their part, often extravagantly. This shows respect for the part, the play, and for you, the audience. Take your cue from the actors. Theatre is a performance, not a punishment. No need to don prison togs or complain about dressing up. I would point out that of course you’re not five, but five-year-olds love to dress up, and will willingly suit up as Spiderman or Wonder Woman if the mood strikes. A five-year-old knows that you simply can’t be Superman without the cape. Now there’s a strict dress code!
How do you know when you’re clad appropriately? Here are some thoughts:
If you’re uncomfortable around other better-dressed people at the literary soiree or play reading, you need to up your game.
If someone dresses up for you, return the compliment. Dress up for them. Dress for the play. Dress the part.
What’s your imaginary style? The fantasy of clothing is a great place to start. When you see a frothy little frock, do you immediately picture yourself wearing it for cocktails on the beach? So maybe you can’t go to the beach this year, but you can indulge in the great little dress and find an occasion to suit. You don’t have to pass it by, it won’t kill you. Don’t let opportunity slip by in the twinkle of the tulle.
And when someone says the weekend get-together is casual so just come as you are, you’ll be able to come as you wish you were.
CHAPTER 30
The storms the night before blew away the cloud of heat and stale humidity that had hung over the town for a week, leaving in its wake a lovely breeze. It was a wakeup call. Thrilled to be done with her column and out of the office, Lacey felt wide awake and free.
She purchased an iced coffee that was finally drinkable and hailed a taxi to the museum-rich Gallery Place neighborhood near Chinatown. The International Spy Museum complex was located just south of the Smithsonian American Art Museum and the National Portrait Gallery, and among its other neighbors were Ford’s Theatre, Madame Tussauds, the Shakespeare Theatre Company, and the FBI. Lacey wove her way down the F Street sidewalk through groups of happy tourists in their newly purchased museum T-shirts, baggy plaid shorts, and dazzling athletic shoes. She ducked out of the throng into the Spy Museum shop to meet Brooke.
And there she was, breezy and professional in a sleeveless blue-and-white seersucker dress, Brooke’s own spin on that traditional Southern summer fabric. She wore flats and carried a matching jacket and a light blue tote for her courtroom high heels.
Dressed in pastels in pink and blue, the two friends looked like a throwback to more elegant days, as if they had walked out of a vintage movie—if Rita Hayworth and Grace Kelly had ever made a movie together. Lacey noticed tourists staring at them. While she despaired of Washington’s stodgy style, she was always surprised when out-of-towners seemed impressed with the city’s prevailing business attire. To be fair, there were people who dressed well in Washington, D.C. Most of them were people who had the money to spend on personal shoppers, expensive clothes, and fine tailoring. A few, like Lacey, were able to find rare vintage pieces of great quality for less money. And then there were those like Claudia Darnell, Lacey’s publisher, who could do both.
Lacey caught up with Brooke checking out the spy toys. “What’s up, Mata Hari?”
Brooke grinned. “Mata Hari was a fool. We’ll discuss her later.” Brooke produced museum tickets for both of them.
“I’m starving, Brooke. Can’t we have lunch first? Maybe the District ChopHouse?”
One of Lacey’s favorites, the steakhouse and brewpub was a mere block and a half away, a bank in a previous life. It had lots of retro charm, comfortable booths, and a beef-heavy menu.
“How about Asian?” Brooke always countered with Asian. “We’re right by Chinatown.”
“I need comfort food. Protein, not rice.”
“ChopHouse it is, but the tickets are timed entry. We’ll have to eat afterwards. How much time do you have?”
“Before I collapse from hunger? Well, I am taking the afternoon off.”
“Wonderful!” It had been a while since they’d spent much time together.
“What about you? You must be busy.”
“I have a few hours. I shoveled some briefs off on Ben.” Brooke’s younger brother Benjamin, who also worked at the family firm, apparently owed her again, for something. He was eternally in his big sister’s debt. “Okay, first spies, then lunch.”
The Spy Museum was one of Brooke’s favorite places, and Lacey was sure she knew the place as well as the staff. She pulled Lacey through the store and the museum entry and into the elevator, where screens lit up with an introduction to the lore of spies.
“I love this place. Let’s just walk and talk. I’ll show you my favorite stuff.”
“From the Land of Paranoia?”
“It’s not paranoia when it’s true. And it’s fun, right?”
“It is,” Lacey agreed. “I feel like I’m playing hooky.”
“Me too! We’ll play hooky like champs.”
They stopped to watch a film of a woman being disguised, step by step, as a young man, emerging in a turban and a thin beard. It was an amazing transformation, but one that an actor or a spy might do routinely. For the actor, just another performance. For the spy, perhaps life or death. Lacey thought again that spycraft and stagecraft had so much in common. Each dealt with illusion and fantasy. Each told a story that their audience found believable (if they were good, and lucky). Although on the stage, no one died at the end of the play (despite the body count in Hamlet). Not permanently. Not usually. Saige Russell was an exception.
Was the person who hid the Lenins in the red dress a theatrical spy? Or an espionage-obsessed actor?
“Hey, I’ve seen that actress,” Lacey said to Brooke. “The one in the disguise video. She’s a Washington actress, I’ve seen her on stage somewhere. I don’t know her name, though.”
“Neither do I,” Brooke said, “and speaking of Washington actors, I don’t trust Maksym Pushkin and neither should you.”
“The dancer-slash-lawyer at Kinetic last night? He seemed nice.”
“Obviously he seemed nice.” Brooke frowned. “He seems nice in court too, but he’s a total shar
k. He’s a smooth attorney with a very smooth courtroom demeanor, but he’s a liar.”
“He likes you,” Lacey said.
“Oh, please.” Disgust registered on Brooke’s face.
“Really, he’s very attracted to you.”
“Well, of course, that’s an entirely different thing,” Brooke replied. “I know he oozes charm and empathy, and he’s very handsome, but—”
“But what?”
“He’s a sneaky bastard. Charming is just a performance for him. Agents in place are programmed from an early age, and Maksym Pushkin is exactly the type who would make a very good agent-in-place for Mother Russia.”
“A spy? You really think he’s a spy?” Lacey treated Brooke to an obvious eye roll. “Pushkin is an American. Or so he told me.”
“Born in Moscow. He’s a naturalized US citizen.”
“He told me he was brought here when he was just a kid.” Brooke shook her head. “Okay. I see you’ve done your homework.”
“A smart attorney always does her homework. And when any Russian national comes into my professional view, and keeps coming into view, my antennae go up.”
“The Russian thing again.”
“The Russian thing is a threat to our democracy. They hacked into our elections and colluded with American traitors, traitors who are now in the highest levels of our government. And they are everywhere, Lacey. Russian plants in the White House, Congress, the FBI. And Putin! Don’t get me started on Putin.”
“I’ll try not to. However, not every last Russian in this country can be a spy.”
“Maybe not, but nearly every Russian in this country could be a target for Russian kompromat and could be tempted or corrupted into collaboration. Money, power, sex, glory, whatever it takes.”
Lacey looked at Brooke. Most of Brooke’s conspiracy theories struck Lacey as tongue in cheek, as much comedy as conspiracy, but her passion about this felt very different.
“Maksym Pushkin’s won against you in court, hasn’t he?”
The Masque of the Red Dress Page 23