The Masque of the Red Dress

by Ellen Byerrum

“You’ll talk, and you may remember more details, if you get a nice long head massage shampoo. I’ll do it myself.”

  “You’re on.”

  Stella didn’t disappoint. The massage was great, and with her head back in the shampoo bowl under the warm suds, Lacey almost forgot everything, including where she was. She started to doze.

  “Hey. I’m talking to you, Lacey. Wake up.” Stella smacked her arm with a comb. “You need vitamins or something?”

  “I need more sleep.” And fewer distractions in my life.

  “This should wake you up.” Stella rinsed her hair with cold water.

  Lacey’s eyes popped open. “Hey! That’s freezing!” She covered her face with her hands.

  “Cold water’s bracing and it closes the cuticle.” She sprayed the last of the suds away. “You’re finished, and you’ve had your little nap. Time to talk.”

  Stella marched Lacey back to her station and brought out the sharp scissors.

  “Half an inch,” Lacey pleaded.

  “You’re not talking to Sweeney Todd, you know.” The stylist paused. “On the other hand, we wouldn’t want to experience an unfortunate slip of the shears, would we? So start talking. That woman we saw: Amy Keaton.” She parted Lacey’s hair into sections and clipped them up. “She pops up like a bad penny on Sunday in Baltimore? And now she’s dead.”

  “Have you been talking to Brooke?”

  “Brooke keeps in touch. We’re like this.” Snip.

  Lacey didn’t want Stella seeing Russian spies in every shampoo bowl. Or jump to conclusions about what might be going on. I don’t KNOW what’s going on. Or worse, announce everything she thought she knew on the Stella Broadcasting Network.

  “Take it easy, Stella.” Lacey glanced down to see how much hair was floating to the floor. Snip.

  “What does LaToya think?” Stella asked.

  “She thinks I’m going to make sure the costume she bought doesn’t retain any bad vibes. Any bad fashion juju. And the last time I looked at my job description, that wasn’t in it.”

  “But who else could do it, Lace? No one. You’re everyone’s go-to fashion guru. You got that EFP thing going on. Still, why blame the dress when it’s some person who put the bad vibes in it in the first place?”

  “Right.” Lacey yawned.

  “You still got custody of that burgundy bitch of a dress?”

  “Sort of. It’s in a safe location. Vic knows.”

  Stella tapped a fingernail on Lacey’s nose. “No sleeping. You know what I think? It’s all tied up with that theatre.”

  “You think?”

  “I’m sorry we couldn’t make it last night. To the theatre. Me and Nigel.” Stella never struck Lacey as a playgoer. Rock concerts, yes. The theatre, no. “Brooke told me about it and it sounded cool. Well, interesting anyway. Unfortunately, I had to close up late. And to tell you the truth, I’m not so big on plays and that kind of thing. Especially when I got Nigel waiting for me at home. And we’re still in that newlywed phase. ’Course he knows all that Shakespeare stuff, ’cause he’s English and it’s like a law or something over there.”

  “Right. English law. Don’t worry, you didn’t miss that much.” Except Marie’s Red Ghost.

  “We were busy last night, anyway. You know how I may have mentioned my clock is ticking?”

  “I remember. You really want a baby?”

  “I want a baby, Lacey!” Stella gazed in the mirror above Lacey’s head for a moment, perhaps envisioning the perfect baby. Or the perfect baby bump. “So maybe I’ll go to the theatre when I’m old.”

  “And when you need a break from the kids.”

  “That’s right.” With the conversation turning to babies who would have “Nigel’s awesome hazel eyes,” Lacey hoped she was off the hook for the moment about Amy Keaton and the red dress. Stella concentrated on cutting the back of Lacey’s hair straight.

  “You know, you could try something new, Lacey. Like layers.”

  “No layers. I see women with layers and it looks like some feral animal chewed off the ends.”

  “That’s not what I’d do to you. It would be cute.”

  “No layers. No short hair. I mean it.”

  “Spoilsport.”

  Lacey gazed into the mirror to monitor the snipping and caught a glimpse of Lady Gwendolyn with her bottom deep in a massaging chair, her toes in hot soapy water. Her eyes were closed and she looked transported. For someone who previously had no sense of style, since meeting Stella Lady G had become a fashion fiend. She’d tossed many of her tweeds in favor of chic linen suits. But it was summer. Winter would tell if the makeover had really taken hold. She looked very different, stylish. Lady G’s English overbite, however, was still English.

  “How’s it working out with your mother-in-law? She’s here a lot.”

  “She’s a doll. Strangest thing, Lacey, it’s like having a real mom. Yeah, I know I got a mother and we haven’t even fought since the wedding. Course we haven’t talked either—knock on wood. But Lady G and me? Who’d of ever thought we’d get along so great? It’s like a miracle.”

  “And how’s Nigel?”

  “He’s a doll too. Who’d of thought a year ago, I’d be here today and happy?”

  “Who indeed.” Lacey thought of the past year. Stella’s marriage. Lacey’s engagement. “How’s your leg coming along?”

  “Better. Course I can’t wear high heels all the time anymore. And that grieves me, Lacey. It really does.”

  She glanced down at Stella’s feet, laced up in a pair of black leather boots with a small heel and a lot of ankle support. Stella had broken her leg in a frightening confrontation last winter with a woman who was obsessed with Nigel. On that cold and snowy day at Great Falls, Brooke had brought a gun, but in the end she couldn’t use it. With Stella’s life at stake, Lacey had used the gun. The memory still gave them both nightmares, and it left Stella with physical scars. It could have been worse.

  “But I could have died. Lots of us could have.” Stella said what they were both thinking. “Instead, I got the man of my dreams and a perfect mother-in-law. That other bitch, she’s getting prison.”

  Stella picked up a piece of Lacey’s hair and watched it fall. “Everything Nigel and I have been through has just brought us closer together.”

  “I can tell. I’m really happy for you, Stel.”

  “Hey! New subject! Notice something new?”

  Lacey gazed around the salon. Three elaborate period wigs that Stella had scored at the theatre sale were perched on wig stands in the front window: Cleopatra, Marie Antoinette, and Queen Elizabeth I. The faces were painted with exaggerated makeup to approximate the period of the wig. At least a theatrical version of the period. Stella’s handiwork, no doubt.

  “Wow. I like what you’ve done with them. Have you tried them all on?”

  “Totally!” Stella’s grin exposed her inner imp. “They’re getting lots of action after hours, and Nigel loves them too. He gets to be with a new woman every night. Well, a new woman from the neck up, you know.”

  “Do I really want to know all this?”

  Stella laughed. “The Cleopatra’s my fave so far. She was a complete temptress. Without the asp, if you know what I mean. What a weird way to die. Snakebite? And speaking of dying, what do you think happened to Amy Keaton? I haven’t forgotten about her.”

  I was afraid she hadn’t. “Police say it was an accident.”

  “Ha. That’s what the paper said.” Stella snipped one more piece of hair. “I want the story behind the story.”

  “That’s all I have.”

  “It’s weird, Lace. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That Keaton woman looked like the last person on earth to go crazy over a dress. I’m not being mean when I say she was dumpy. Clothes, hair, grooming, attitude, what a mess. On the other manicured hand, LaToya is always styling. What a contrast in types. I wish I’d taken a picture.”

 
Pictures! How could I forget? Lacey gave herself a mental head slap. Todd Hansen was there on assignment last weekend, taking pictures of the theatre yard sale. Tamsin had used some with her piece in The Eye. Had he caught LaToya and Keaton fighting over the dress? If so, why hadn’t he told anyone? Time to find out.

  “You’re working on it, right?” Stella prompted. “You’re not giving up?”

  “No, but I’m a little stalled. I’m trying to find out more about the dress and the first actress who wore it. I’d like to find out why it wound up on the sales rack. If that leads to Amy Keaton, then it does.”

  Stella grabbed her hair dryer. “Now you’re talking.” She hit the switch and the dryer whined. It was too loud to talk anymore. And when Lacey’s hair was finished, Nigel arrived to escort his ladies away. Lacey was off the hook and looking fabulous.

  Too bad it’s not Friday already.

  FRESHLY COIFFED AND window shopping in Dupont Circle on her way to the Metro, Lacey was interrupted by a phone call from a number she didn’t recognize.

  “Ms. Smithsonian? Lacey? It’s Maksym, Maksym Pushkin. We met last night at Kinetic.”

  After discussing him with Brooke, this was unexpected and a little spooky. Were his ears burning? Is there a hidden microphone somewhere?

  “I remember you, Maksym. What’s up?”

  “You’re still interested in The Masque of the Red Death?”

  “Always.”

  “I don’t think I gave you a satisfactory answer.”

  “Well—” Not satisfying the press was a time-honored tradition in D.C., and anywhere politicians and lawyers dwelled.

  “Perhaps we could discuss it further.”

  “Why not?” Lacey always wanted to know the whole story. Maksym Pushkin might have an interesting take on Kinetic, and according Brooke, he was a possible spy. Lacey was willing to bet he was interested in her attorney friend. If she was right, perhaps he wanted to ask Lacey about Brooke, and Lacey might have some conversational leverage. In fact, she realized, she must have. Or else Pushkin wouldn’t be calling me.

  “The phone is so impersonal,” Pushkin said.” Could we meet in person?”

  “Is tomorrow soon enough?”

  “Tomorrow is fine for me.”

  “Tomorrow afternoon? I have an interview in the morning.” With Nicky Sokolov.

  “Would the Portrait Gallery be convenient?” he asked.

  “That’s an interesting choice,” she said. It was a public place, which was good. So far, Lacey believed Pushkin was probably harmless, but she wasn’t about to meet him in a secluded environment.

  “My offices are just a block away from there, and the Gallery is more interesting than a coffee shop,” he explained. She agreed. They set a time to meet and signed off.

  The Portrait Gallery was across the street from the Spy Museum. Lacey suddenly wondered if Pushkin had caught sight of her there with Brooke earlier that day. Outside the building, perhaps?

  It didn’t really matter. Lacey far preferred face-to-face meetings and interviews to phone or email. Body language, facial expressions, and gestures were always telling. Besides, leaving the office was a perk of her beat. External inspiration was better than waiting for ideas to hit her over the head while staring at her computer screen.

  Her phone beeped again. She had a text from DeeDee Adler: Amy Keaton had been cremated. Her brother was taking her home in a box and if there was a funeral service, it would be family-only. DeeDee didn’t know yet whether a memorial service would be held later at the theatre. She said she would text again if they got around to planning something.

  Lacey doubted it. Amy Keaton is gone, and Kinetic is moving on.

  CHAPTER 32

  Vintage clothes command attention and carry their own kind of magic. However, after wearing a wiggle dress all day and standing at attention to show off the pink dress to perfection for Stella, Lacey was happy to change into a comfortable pair of white capris and a patterned top. Alas, she had no time to chill out before company was due.

  She hoped her favorite man would arrive ahead of “the Troika,” as she was beginning to think of Gregor, Marie, and Olga. Two Russians tonight and two more tomorrow. All of a sudden it’s raining Russians.

  There was a knock at her door, and a voice. “Sweetheart, open the door. Please? My hands are full.”

  She found Vic bearing a gigantic aluminum platter and miscellaneous sacks and bags. He rushed through her living room and set it all down on her dining room table. He kissed her, smelling of barbecue.

  “Provisions, as promised, ma’am. Wings. And things.”

  “Wings?” She peeled back the foil on top of the big platter and peeked inside. “Just wings?”

  “Not just any wings. All kinds of wings. Crispy wings. Grilled wings. Right wings, left wings. Red, white, and blue wings.” They were piled high. Vic sounded proud of himself.

  “Chicken wings.” She contemplated them doubtfully.

  “Sauces too. Blue cheese, red chili, ginger Thai, ranch. It’s not like you wanted a salad, did you?” He picked one up and bit into it. “Yum.”

  “Not salad.” She shook her head. “But a hostess could get a reputation for this kind of thing.”

  “The hostess with the mostest.”

  “Yeah, the mostest chicken wings. What happened to those grapes you were going to peel for me?”

  “In the bag.” Sure enough, one of the bags was full of plump purple and green grapes. He grinned at her and threw some of the bags in the refrigerator. Lacey’s larder, as usual, was rather bare. Eggs, yogurt, and a variety of cheeses were on hand, but little else, except Dos Equis for Vic and a couple of bottles of champagne. She kept champagne on hand in case moments of celebration surprised her.

  “Why wings?” They smelled delicious.

  “We serve them at staff meetings. They’re very popular.”

  “Do only men attend these meetings?”

  “Women too. Hey, if anyone wants to provide something different—” He picked up another wing and dunked it into the blue sauce. There seemed to be plenty.

  “He who provides the food, chooses the food?”

  “Exactly. Them’s the rules.”

  Vic cleaned his hands with a wet wipe from a pile that came with the wings. He took something out of his pocket. It was the size of a small cell phone and had an antenna. Lacey had seen one before: a bug detector. He switched it on and methodically moved around the apartment, sweeping every room for hidden surveillance equipment.

  “This is new,” Lacey commented.

  “You mean the wings, right?” Vic gave her a wink.

  “The wings? Oh, the wings! Right. I usually leave the wings up to Brooke.”

  “My wings are better.” He continued the sweep. It only took a minute before he said, “Clear.”

  “Phew, I was holding my breath,” she said. “No spies have been in Smithsonian’s lair. Until this very moment.”

  “You’re a smartass. But such a cute ass.”

  “You say the sweetest things, Wingman.”

  Another knock at the door announced Gregor Kepelov, with Marie and Olga. As Marie was hugging Lacey, Gregor put his finger to his lips and did a bug sweep of his own, with his own detector, which he pulled out of an old leather briefcase. The gizmo looked a little different from Vic’s but seemed to work the same way. Probably Russian-made, Lacey decided. Vic watched, amused.

  “All good,” Gregor said as he finished. “Can’t be too careful.”

  “Or theatrical,” Lacey remarked.

  “Ah, a little joke.” He smiled but did not laugh.

  “So you begin all your meetings this way?”

  “Many of them.”

  Lacey didn’t even find this odd. Maybe it was the peculiar day, the Spy Museum with Brooke, or the odd call from Maksym Pushkin. The thought of LaToya’s break-in still gave her the creeps. She was doubly relieved to have a second opinion that no one had breached the sanctity of her shabby apartment. Lacey c
ertainly didn’t want to be paranoid all by herself. It was better to have paranoid company. And plenty of chicken wings on hand to feed them.

  This was the first time that Gregor and his sister had ever visited Lacey’s apartment, but they felt free to tour her rooms and opine on the décor. They liked everything she’d inherited from her aunt. And why not? Mimi had great taste.

  The Troika were most impressed with her balcony and the river view of the Potomac and Maryland across the river. Lacey’s building was old, a little scruffy, and the elevators were iffy at best. But the seventh-floor balcony with its French doors and incredible view made up for the rest of the place. It felt like an eye in the sky. It was still light outside, but the sun was dipping behind the west wing of the building. Ships with white sails dotted the water and the shadows grew long. The evening was perfect. Almost.

  “Smithsonian, why do you not invite us here before?” Gregor asked.

  It was a question she couldn’t answer. Not politely. “I never had a Red Dress of Death before.”

  “You have million-dollar view,” Olga said.

  “Not counting inflation, Olga,” Gregor declared. “Perhaps two million in today’s market.”

  “Dollars or euros?” Vic asked, and everyone laughed.

  Marie leaned against the brick wall. She seemed sleepy and content, ready to stay right where she was on the balcony. “I can see why you love it here, Lacey. It’s very peaceful. And I love your hair. I bet you saw Stella today?”

  “Yes, she worked her magic.”

  “Yes, everything is wonderful. But enough talk,” Gregor decided. “We have much to discuss.”

  He ushered everyone back into the living room, closing the French doors and pulling the blinds over both doors and windows.

  At least I don’t have to coat the room in tinfoil. I’m fresh out of Reynolds Wrap. “Is that necessary?” Lacey switched on some lights.

  “Perhaps not. But there are telephoto lenses and lip readers and that building across the way. Why take chances?”

  “Gregor is right,” Vic said.

  “Let’s get to work.”

  “Nyet, Gregor,” Olga said. “Refreshments first. We are company.”