“I think I do, but it was so long ago. The night when someone you know dies, you tend to remember everything you did. And I do, at least until the vodka really started flowing. The party was at this little club, more of a dive, close to the old theatre. Still there. I think it was painted purple back then.”
“Did Saige ever show up? I don’t know exactly what time the accident happened.”
“Does anyone? But no, she never arrived. We all thought Parsnips was just playing diva again, or waiting to make a grand entrance, or maybe having her own private party with Nicky.”
It was odd that after all these years, there still seemed to be a wistfulness in her voice when Katya mentioned him. But if Nikolai Sokolov wasn’t interested in her then, why would he be now, twelve years on?
“Did Nicky go to the party?” It was always essential to confirm what others told her.
“He did. He was pretty late.”
That tallied with what he’d told Lacey. “Who else came late?”
“Well, I was. I took my time getting ready. You know, shower and fresh makeup, fresh outfit. Most of the cast and crew were already there. I think only Maksym and Gareth showed up after I did. Oh and Yuri too.”
“Why were they late?”
“Not sure. I think they were filming like a two-minute spot with one of the TV stations in front of the theatre. Local arts beat stuff.”
“But Yuri was at the party?”
“He was there, in his glory. It was his night as much as anyone’s.”
“Was he as intense as ever?”
Katya laughed merrily. “So you’ve met him! Not as much as usual. The show was a big success. They had a little break before rehearsals for the next show. The pressure was off, for a minute or two.”
“What about DeeDee Adler?”
“Who? Oh, was she a techie? I have no idea whether she was there or not.”
“Did you have a good time, without Saige?”
“I won’t lie, I was glad she wasn’t there. We drank and we danced. I even had one dance with Nicky. He seemed a little distracted, with Saige missing in action. They were a couple, you know. Overall, it was really fun, but I paid for it the next day. Since then, I have parted ways with vodka shooters. Take my advice, stay away from them.”
“I thought you were Russian.”
“Only half. Half of me loves vodka, the other half is puking her guts out at the very thought of it.”
Lacey thanked Katya for her time and wrapped up the call. Lacey’s stomach growled and she reluctantly gave up her pleasant seat by the fountain. She strolled toward Connecticut Avenue, past street vendors, looking for lunch.
She planned to take a quiet break and let her interview with Sokolov sink in so that she could write her lede. Well begun is half done! An old proverb, but useful. Returning to the office would just be a distraction. Mac would want a recap, and Wiedemeyer and Trujillo would try to jump aboard the Good-Ship-Lacey’s Big Story.
Whatever that is. This ship may be sinking fast.
The restaurant she stepped into was cool and dark and felt secluded. It was new, with a fresh coat of paint and white tablecloths for the professional lunch crowd. The host picked up a menu and guided Lacey to a table where she had a view of the street.
“Want to share a table?” She lifted her head from the menu to see Turtledove.
“How did you know where I was? Oh, right. The phone.” She reached into her skirt pocket and turned it off.
“Just making sure you’re safe.” He grinned and took the seat opposite her.
“Much appreciated.”
In contrast to the sleek, compact Nikolai Sokolov, Turtledove was robust and muscled and had an engaging smile. His pale yellow short-sleeve polo shirt strained over biceps the color of caramel.
“What do you think of that Nicky Sokolov guy?” he asked.
“Not sure yet. An interview is like a dance, or a performance. Everyone wants to give the reporter their side of the story, all glossy and friendly. It takes a while to digest it. Like the theatre.”
“You got some good information there, though. About the connected townhouse. But I don’t know, Lacey, there was an awful lot of clothes talk.” He faux-yawned.
“I warned you.”
“A whole lot of clothes.”
“Costumes. So I can relax now?”
“Maybe. Why do you think he wanted to know about the Romanov diamonds? Does he think you’ve got a lead on something else, some other jewels?”
“Maybe he thinks I’m a diamond dowser.” She wiggled her fingers, showing off her engagement ring. “You know I’ve got the only diamond I want.” Turtledove grinned at her. “My take on Sokolov is that he wanted to establish some rules of the game. Information for information, whether he needed it or not.”
“And you established your willingness to talk.”
“I wanted information, he apparently wanted to talk. I can’t imagine he really cares about the Romanov diamonds. Plus, I didn’t tell him any secrets.”
“Yeah, but my guess is, Sokolov wants to know how you think.”
Lacey shook her head. “That way madness lies. I don’t even know how I think.”
“He’s suspicious about the EFP thing. That could spook someone who tucked hollow medals away in a skirt, thinking no one would ever suspect they were there. He wants to find out if you’ve found them. Or are capable of finding them.”
“No way. How could he even know I have the dress? And hey, I don’t have the dress, you do!”
Another voice broke in. “Pardon me, ma’am, mind if I take this seat?”
“Vic!” She hadn’t expected to see him there. “Aren’t I Ms. Popularity?”
He sat down beside her and hugged her. She kissed him passionately, even though public displays of affection were not common in the District of Columbia.
“I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Where else would I be?” he asked.
A server took their orders. Turtledove chose a healthy salad with grilled salmon. Lacey didn’t care for salmon. Despite its healthy reputation, it still tasted like fish to her. She asked for a burger with a side salad, no bun and no fries. Vic ordered a burger with everything and a big old mound of fries. The server winked at Turtledove before slipping away with her order pad.
“So what’s your take on this Russian?” Vic asked when she was gone. “Master spy, or just anal retentive theatre genius?”
“You were listening in too?” Lacey asked Vic.
“With your sweet butt at stake, what do you think?”
“I’m not sure it was at stake. Nicky Sokolov? I find it odd that he’s so creative and yet so controlling at the same time.”
“Forrest, your take?” Vic asked.
“A lot of talk about clothes. The fabric, the feel, the fit, how it wears, what it looks like under the lights.”
“I got that too,” Vic said. “Fascinating, wasn’t it? Forrest, you and I should go fabric shopping together more often.” The guys exchanged a look and cracked up. Lacey merely raised her eyebrows.
“Guys, you know this stuff is my job, right? Clothes. Fashion. Crimes of Fashion. Remember?”
“It’s the crimes part I’m interested in,” Vic said. “I leave the fashion up to you.”
“Bottom line, he was flirting with you,” Turtledove said.
Lacey snorted. “Blather.”
The costume designer might have been flirting, for all she knew, she realized, but since she’d become engaged to Vic, she tended not to notice other men as possibilities. Their orders arrived. Lacey assumed the service was exceptionally efficient because there were two attractive men at the table.
“You came out in one piece and I didn’t hear any threats, but I don’t like him a lot either.” Vic bit into his giant burger.
“One interview down. One to go.”
“I take it Pretty Boy Pushkin is still up for this afternoon?”
Lacey snickered. “You’re cute when you’r
e jealous, Vic.”
“Not jealous,” Vic said. “Just paying attention.”
“Yes, I’ll be seeing Maksym Pushkin. He played Prince Prospero, who was taken down by the Red Death.”
“Ironic if, in real life, it was the other way around, with Prospero taking down Death,” Turtledove said. “Or at least the lady who played Death.”
“It would be. I don’t really expect a confession, though. At the moment, I’d just like some basic, truthful information. Brooke thinks Pushkin could be a deep cover Russian operative, trained from childhood to be an agent in place. Normally, I’d let that pass as her usual craziness. Yet, in the current political climate, with serious Russian interference in our government—”
“I agree,” Vic said. “This time, Brooke could be on to something. Pushkin works for a Russian law firm, worked at a Russian theatre, he’s fluent in English and Russian, and Ukrainian too. He is connected. Deeply connected.”
“Ukrainian too? Darling, you’ve been busy,” Lacey said. “I just want to find out who put the medals in the dress and whether they truly represent murders. Pushkin doesn’t seem to have much connection to the theatre anymore, not with direct access to the costume shop. Although I’ve heard he teaches dance there sometimes.”
“He could have friends with access,” Vic pointed out. “Maybe he’s buddies with Sokolov. He could be lying about not being connected. Brooke says he’s a liar. Liars lie, always.”
“Maybe. I hope he remembers something without knowing it’s important.”
“That’s my favorite fact-finder,” Vic said. “Anyway, he was born in Russia. He may not be a spy, but simply surrounded by them.”
“I think he’s interested in Brooke. Attracted to her. A big old crush.”
“Talk about irony,” Turtledove said. “He doesn’t stand a chance.”
“You do have the bottle Kepelov gave you?” Vic asked.
“You mean—” Lacey dropped her voice. “Doctor Kepelov’s Super-Secret Soviet Knockout Juice? Yes, my skirt has deep pockets.”
“And the masks?”
“Check. And my spy phone. Relax, Vic. I’m meeting Pushkin at the Portrait Gallery. It couldn’t be more public.”
She couldn’t say exactly why she needed the security of a public place with Maksym Pushkin, when at the same time she was happy to crawl around the deep closets of Kinetic Theatre with Nicky Sokolov, without anyone else on the premises.
“I’ll be nearby,” Turtledove said.
“And listening to my every word.” She would have to try to keep the snark to a minimum. Unfortunately, it was way too easy to forget they were listening. “Then I’ll go back to the office and you will turn off the remote mike, right?”
“Word of honor,” he promised. “Just one thing. Is this going to be all about clothes again?”
“I hope so, Turtledove. In my book, clothes chat is preferable to murder and running for my life.”
SHE STOPPED AFTER LUNCH at St. Matthew’s Cathedral on Rhode Island Avenue. The day was getting hotter and the cool interior of the church was a relief. She often sought the quietude this cathedral provided, a short walk, but a world away, from the news business. The majestic mosaics decorating the walls were soothing, and the jewel colors in the murals and the pillars burst forth from every corner. She smelled candles and the lingering scent of incense. It was after midday Mass, but several people stayed to pray, or just sat in silence. Tourists gazed silently at the Byzantine murals.
Lacey lit a candle and prayed she would be able to discern the truth in this confusing story. The church was a sanctuary where she didn’t expect to see people she knew, but she was amused to see a couple of Eye Street reporters sitting in the pews, their eyes closed. Meditation was free to all. Must be a stressful day.
Yeah, mine too.
CHAPTER 38
Pushkin was right. The National Portrait Gallery definitely beat a typical coffee shop for their meeting. Even better, it was public and the summer visitors and school classes were out in force. Lacey was grateful for every pair of loud madras shorts paired with a Day-Glo T-shirt and oversized running shoes.
Despite the throngs of tourists, Maksym Pushkin was easy to spot, tall and attractive in a bespoke suit, looking like a menswear ad. He was standing just inside the museum shop, leafing through a large art book. He looked up and smiled as she entered.
“I hope you don’t mind this place,” he said. “It’s handy for me.”
“No, I like it. And I like getting out.”
She had no idea what Pushkin would have to say. But the feel of the live phone in her pocket, with Vic and the gang listening in, reassured her. As did the bottle of Kepelov’s knockout spray in her other pocket.
Pushkin put the art book down. “Shall we stroll? Or do you want something to drink? Coffee? We could take it out to the courtyard.”
“Strolling first. Then something cold. I’m coffee’d out.” They passed a wall of Mathew Brady’s daguerreotypes. “I would have called you if you hadn’t called me first. Why did you want to see me?”
“You have a history of getting into trouble,” he said.
He sounds like Vic. “I also have a history of getting out of trouble.”
“After you invite it in.” Pushkin smiled, but he seemed very serious for a friendly afternoon chat.
“And your point?”
“I’m not saying bad things might happen, but why kick around the dusty ancient history of Kinetic Theatre?”
“You’re concerned about a twelve-year-old show?”
“Listen to me, Lacey.” He stopped and faced her. “It was a bad-luck production. You can’t get more bad luck than the leading lady dying on closing night.”
“Unless it was opening night,” she countered. “Certainly it couldn’t be bad luck now, all these years later. Are you superstitious?”
“Me? A rational attorney?” He examined his manicured nails. “Perhaps. Perhaps superstition is part of being Russian. I’m curious, what do you expect to find in that dress? More diamonds?”
“I’m pretty sure those diamonds were a one-time thing. I didn’t get to keep them, you know.”
“What then explains your fascination with the Death costume and poor old Parsnips?”
“I’m a reporter. It’s a story. A sad one, I admit. That crimson costume has become known as a good-luck, bad-luck talisman. There’s a story there.”
“Are you planning to draw a connection to Amy Keaton?”
She felt the thrill of anticipation of possibly learning something new. No one else had brought up the unfortunate stage manager unprompted.
“What do you know about Amy, Maksym? Is there a connection to Parsnips?”
“I know nothing about her. I know how you write.”
Has he been studying my work? Reading about more than diamonds? And why?
“You find the strangest stories to explore,” he continued. “Dangerous stories. And I know that ridiculous website follows you faithfully.”
“Did you see something on DeadFed? Something new today?”
“No. Nothing today.” Pushkin continued strolling down the hall at her side. “But there’s something crazy on it every day. My firm tracks social media for some of our clients, and Conspiracy Clearinghouse is always pushing the most insane nonsense. That conspiracy maniac your friend Brooke is with, Newhouse? Sooner or later he’ll tie Amy’s death to something other than the accident it was.”
“How do you know it was an accident?”
He looked away. “The police say it was.”
Pushkin was taking a lot on faith, she thought. Or he found it convenient to say he did, especially if he was a Russian agent who might have knowledge about Amy’s death.
“So about Brooke. Is she a maniac too?”
He softened at the name. “Not Brooke. She is very sweet, very fine. Sometimes tough as nails and sometimes a little gullible.”
“Sometimes conspiracies are real.”
He laughed
. “Every once in a while,” he admitted, pausing to admire a Mathew Brady portrait on the wall.
“Did you know Amy?”
“No. She started there after I went to law school. I only saw her bustling around, shouting orders, when I went to shows. But even Yuri said she was a good stage manager. He’s hard to impress.”
“You still go to the theatre, but you gave up dancing?”
“I loved it, but it didn’t pay. Except in aches and pains. I always go to their shows, I’m a donor, and I help out from time to time, teaching dance. Those who can’t do, teach, remember? And sometimes in the shop.”
“Sokolov’s costume shop?”
“Sometimes. Moving things around. Sometimes I even help paint the sets. I’ve always loved the theatre. But as I may have said, life interferes.”
Lacey mulled this new information. Maksym had worked in the costume shop. He had access to the dress. He hated Saige. He mentioned Amy without Lacey asking.
“The Masque. Tell me about Saige Russell. I heard she wasn’t popular.”
“No. Not at all. First, she wasn’t Russian. Not everyone in the production was, but she didn’t work as hard as the rest of us. The Russians worked their asses off. And Gareth too. So neurotic. He was the one who started calling her Parsnips, or maybe it was the techies. But we all did, behind her back. Somehow it made her easier to deal with. I have no idea what Nicky saw in her.”
“Gareth said she couldn’t learn lines.”
“Yeah, she had some kind of dyslexia when it came to memorizing. That is not an asset in the theatre. She could dance competently, but not superbly. Not lighter than air, like Katya.”
The Katya Pritchard Lacey had spoken with didn’t match that description. It was hard to imagine her as a dancer at all. “Katya was lighter than air?”
“Believe me, she was lovely.” He smiled at the memory.
“You dated?”
“For a while. People said we looked good together. I thought so too.”
“She told me she was attracted to Nikolai too, but Saige got there first.”
“Isn’t that always the case? Perhaps she was lucky she didn’t get the part. Look at what happened to Parsnips.”
The Masque of the Red Dress Page 31