Lacey ran into Mac, looking for crumbs from Felicity’s baking. Alas, the cupboard was bare. Felicity had left for the day. Her editor wearily acknowledged Lacey’s presence with a question.
“What have you got, Smithsonian?”
“A headache.”
“Take an aspirin. Don’t call me in the morning.”
“How do you feel about a picture story on the theatre costumer’s craft?”
“If you can fill a big hole in Sunday’s edition, I’m thrilled.”
“Those words make my heart sing. I took some pictures with my trusty digital.”
“Good. Deadline’s at five. Any developments on the red dress?” She handed him the fresh bottle of Maalox. He looked at it and made a sour face. “Oh. My favorite. This doesn’t bode well, does it?”
“For a five o’clock deadline, I can work on one story or the other. Not both. And I don’t have anything solid on the red dress story. Not yet. The theatre costumer thing is a little more solid.”
Mac’s eyebrows undulated quizzically. He gave the bottle of Maalox a shake. “I need the costume thing today. And make it solid.”
He threw one last look at Felicity’s empty desk before walking away. He lifted the plastic bottle of antacid in the air like a trophy.
Breathing Drama into Fabric: The Art of Theatrical Costume
By Lacey Smithsonian
There’s an old theatre saying, “You don’t want the audience to go home singing the costumes.” Yet the costumer’s craft is essential to every show. The costumes express the characters’ essences and help give them life. Costume design lets the director’s and playwright’s ideas and themes speak through the fabric, cut, and color of the clothes, enhancing but not overshadowing the action of the play.
The Kinetic Theatre’s resident costume designer, Nikolai Sokolov, is a Helen Hayes Award-winning master of his craft...
Counting photographs, her article would be plenty for the hole in the Sunday LifeStyle section. She pulled some file photos and looked at the frames she took during her interview with Nikolai Sokolov. Perhaps the Lady Macbeth gown and the fantastic Snow Queen? Her story was the lovechild of deadline and necessity. She sent the file to Mac.
Lacey rubbed her neck and stretched. She’d been wrestling with a question all day: Should she let Mac in on the full scope of the potential red dress story, what she had of it, and pass part of her headache on to him? Or wait for further developments?
The lights were still on in Mac’s office. He was working and the antacid bottle was on his desk, sitting on a pile of newspapers. She stuck her head through the door.
“Hey, Lacey. Your story’s fine. The pictures are okay too. I’m using three. You can go. Have a good weekend.”
“I’d love to. Unfortunately, I need to tell you about the other story I’m working on. We can call it the ‘The Red Dress Rabbit Hole.’ Or maybe, ‘Over the Rainbow in My Red Dress.’ Or—”
Mac’s eyebrows huddled together in that frown she knew so well. “This is about LaToya’s crimson monster?”
“And a bit more. Is Claudia still here?”
The eyebrows went sky-high. Claudia Darnell was the owner and publisher of The Eye Street Observer, and she only needed to be consulted in the event of traumatic news, or whenever Lacey Smithsonian was potentially going to cause big trouble.
“Oh hell, it’s that kind of story?” Mac reached for the Maalox bottle.
“Afraid so.”
Mac stared around his office. It was in its normal state of chaos, piles of newspapers covering his desk, more papers stacked in neat piles on the floor and the second chair, papers everywhere.
“We better use the conference room.”
“Good idea. I’ll close the blinds.”
Mac groaned. Not just a closed-door meeting, but a closed-blind meeting as well? Reporters loved to peek into the conference room windows, trying to figure out what was going on inside. Closing the blinds was a precaution, but also a calculated risk. Reporters were always nosy, but they tended to be nosier on Monday mornings; less so on Friday afternoons, when they had beach plans for the weekend. But if Claudia was spotted going into a closed-blind meeting, the rumor mill would start churning.
Mac and Lacey didn’t have much to say during the wait. Presently, Claudia Darnell arrived and made her entrance. She looked glorious, as usual. Today her hair was down, brushing her shoulders, she wore a violet sheath dress and silver sandals, and her legs were bare. A beautiful woman of fifty-something, her money only enhanced her natural assets, her sparkling white-blond hair, her turquoise eyes, and her buttery tanned skin, fresh from her summer home on Nantucket.
“Lacey, so nice to see you.” Claudia smiled brightly, and she didn’t seem to be in a rush to be somewhere else. “I take it a big fat mess is about to hit the fan?”
“Potentially,” Lacey said. “Depends on how you feel about theatre, death, and Russian spies.”
“I feel intrigued.”
“Oh, boy,” Mac said. “Here we go.”
“And this is all way beyond top secret, by the way.”
Claudia nodded. Lacey launched into a summary of what she had learned so far and what she had yet to find out. She began with a thumbnail history of the red dress and what she found inside it, the seven hollow Lenin medals and the missing poison needles, and the Kepelovs’ suspicions about “the Centipede.” She ended with her interviews with Volkov, Sokolov, and Pushkin, including Maksym Pushkin’s confession of almost witnessing Saige Russell’s suspicious death.
“Wait, what I don’t get,” Mac interrupted, “is why you felt like tearing up the hem?”
“I didn’t tear it up. I opened it up. Carefully.”
“And what made you do that?” Claudia was also curious.
Good question. Why did I have to do that?
“The dress has a lurid reputation, starting with the actress who wore it as Death and died in that fall on closing night. It’s good luck, it’s bad luck, it’s cursed, it’s haunted, it had this brush with death, it’s become a theatre legend, and so on. Then Amy Keaton died, also supposedly in a fall. I know the police say they were both accidents. Even Pushkin seems to think Saige Russell’s death might be an accident, though he seems haunted by it. Unless that’s an act. But I saw Amy Keaton a day or so before she died. She was distraught, wildly upset about losing the dress when LaToya bought it. And after LaToya’s apartment break-in, where it seems increasingly obvious that someone was after the red dress, I wanted to take a closer look at it and see what the dress could tell me.”
“Why can’t you write like other reporters?” Mac complained. “They do an interview, take a picture, write a story, done! Your beat is just fashion. Not how to have fun with killer spies.”
“Clothes have a language, Mac,” she said, trying not to stare at his Tower of Babel of an outfit, the lime green pants, the purple and orange shirt. Could he be color blind? “And this dress has a tale to tell, even if I don’t know the whole story yet.”
“Stop interrupting her, Mac. You found the medals in the hem,” Claudia said. “Then what?”
“When I saw Lenin on the medals, I called the only Russians I knew who might understand what they meant.”
“Seven medals,” Mac said.
“Seven medals, but no poison needles.”
Claudia laced her fingers together. “And the Kepelovs think the hollow medals signify seven deaths?”
“It’s a theory. And if what Gregor and Olga say about the medals is true, yes,” Lacey said. “And we really have to protect these sources. The two of them and my friend Marie.”
“That goes without saying,” Claudia said.
“So far, everyone is safe,” Mac said. “Even you, Smithsonian.”
“Do they think the costume is some kind of gruesome trophy case?” Claudia said. “A repository of a killer’s memorabilia?”
“Possibly. Some kind of memorial. There could be other explanations, but I don’t know what they m
ight be.”
“And what about this Centipede character?” Mac shook his head and scowled. “Sounds like a spy thriller.”
“I don’t know. Possibly part truth, part myth. Presumably somehow connected to Kinetic. Whoever sewed the KGB medals in the hem certainly could have been a Russian agent, either active or in the past. Perhaps even the legendary Centipede. Who is supposedly dead. Did I mention that? Volkov, Sokolov, and Pushkin are all viable suspects, but there might be any number of Russians who’ve had access to the dress over the years.”
“Run through those three again for me, Lacey, if you would,” Claudia asked. “All those Russian names run together.”
“Yuri Volkov is the artistic director of Kinetic. The boss. He directed The Masque. He’s always at the theatre, he’s always had access to the dress, but he says he couldn’t care less about the stupid dress. Can’t stand to hear about it. Also doesn’t want to talk to me. Intense, driven, not a charmer. Nikolai Sokolov is their costume designer. He made the dress for The Masque. He had a passionate affair with Saige Russell, the actress who died. He runs the costume shop like his little kingdom, so he’s had the most access to the dress, but he also said good riddance to the dress. Also intense, but more charming. Maksym Pushkin played opposite Saige in The Masque. Couldn’t stand her. Very charming, matinee-idol handsome, now a smooth big-money lawyer for Russian interests. Says he was an ear-witness to Saige’s death, says she wasn’t alone, but doesn’t know who was with her, doesn’t know if it was an accident or murder or what. Tried to warn me off the story.” Lacey took a breath and then rushed on.
“Oh, and the moody playwright says Saige was a justifiable suicide, the wistful understudy dated Pushkin but seems to still have a thing for Sokolov, and the sharp new stage manager hated Saige too, thinks they’re all nuts, but seems awfully comfortable taking over for Keaton.”
“And if LaToya’s break-in is any indication, whoever sewed the medals in the dress is probably the one who wants it back. Sokolov,” Claudia said, jumping to the most likely conclusion. “This Sokolov made the dress for Saige Russell, because he loved her. But if he also sewed the medals into it, he doesn’t seem to want it back. So that argues against Sokolov. Where is the gown now, by the way?”
“In a secure, undisclosed location.”
Claudia smiled in appreciation. “Of course. I assume your handsome Vic Donovan is taking care of it.”
Mac was not amused. “And you’ve got some maniac after you again?”
“There’s no indication of that, Mac,” Lacey said. “No one seems to be on my trail or lurking in my closet, playing with my clothes. I’ve been chatting with suspicious Russians all week long, and no one has come after me yet.”
“Yet. Stupid fashion beat. Should be as safe as obituaries. No one ever comes after the obit writer. And this time, what do we have? Spies and the RED Silk Road!”
“Not a bad headline,” Lacey said.
“Calm down, Mac,” Claudia told him. “Lacey, you know we don’t expect our reporters to be targets of violence. Or bait for killers.”
“Smithsonian’s got a special talent for it.” Mac lifted his blue bottle and took another slug.
Claudia ticked points off on her fingers. “This all started a dozen years ago with a red dress and a dead actress. A little Russian theatre in D.C. A rogue spy-slash-assassin keeping trophies there. And then nothing happens for twelve years? Until the dress is sold? Why the gap? And what bothers me too is the current alliance of high officials in our government with Russia.” She massaged her temples. “Are all these things connected somehow?”
“Maybe there’s no gap at all. If the dress is a trophy case of his kills, he’s been executing targets all along, without anyone connecting it to him,” Lacey said. “And if he killed Amy Keaton just because she let the dress escape—”
“He’ll stop at nothing.”
“Yet one puzzling thing is that LaToya wasn’t harmed, although she was certainly freaked out.”
“What does she know about this?” Mac asked.
“About what I’ve found out since the break-in? Nothing.”
“Small blessing, but I’ll take it,” he said.
“Please keep it that way until we break the story,” Claudia added.
“We are going to break the story, right?” Lacey took a breath. “I’m afraid the U.S. government, Homeland Security, FBI, or some obscure agency will get involved. They might try to cover it up.”
“You mean they’ll lie,” Mac said.
“Of course they will,” Claudia replied. “And then they’ll deny lying.”
“This Russia-loving administration might try to kill this story, Claudia,” Lacey said. “So I’m making a record of everything I know, or think I know. If I get thrown in jail, you’ll get everything. Send me a care package. And protect my sources.”
“I will, Lacey. And you think I wouldn’t run this story?”
“Well, there might be a lot of pressure on you—”
“Bullies can’t intimidate me. They can cry fake news till the cows come home.” Claudia’s blue eyes took on a hard-edged glint. “Everyone is safer, the public is safer, if we break this story in The Eye. The public has a right to know about Russian agents in our midst, a right to know about the Centipede, dead or alive, about how two women died in this town. Whatever the truth is. If we act first, bring the story public, the bastards can’t do anything. Knowledge is power and if I can’t use that power in a good cause, then I don’t deserve to own this newspaper.”
There was a wonderful spine-stiffening effect in being the odd woman out, Lacey decided, and never being invited into the good old boys’ inner circles. The beautiful and impressive Claudia Darnell was steel-belted, and she believed Lacey’s story had the power to rock D.C.
Maybe. And it still wouldn’t win us a Pulitzer Prize. We’re immune.
“Send everything to Mac first and copy me,” Claudia directed. “Nothing goes live until we’re absolutely sure of what is going on. I might feel out a few sources myself. Just general information. Nothing specifically about the Centipede. The ambient temperature, vis-à-vis our current relationship with the Kremlin. I know a few people I can ask, without revealing anything.” Claudia had friends in high places. “And this story will run,” she assured Mac and Lacey. “We can’t be silenced.”
“What if we don’t unmask the assassin?” Lacey asked. “What if it all falls apart?”
“We still have a hell of a story,” Claudia said with a smile. “Two women dead, a local theatre legend, and seven fake Lenin medals baked in a pie. Now, Lacey, do you have a personal protection plan in place?”
Someone knocked at the door. Lacey opened it just enough so they could see who it was.
“Hope I’m not interrupting,” Vic said. “Evening, everyone. Mac, Claudia.”
“So this is your protection plan?” Claudia remarked with a smile. “Good timing, Mr. Donovan.” Vic lifted one eyebrow at Lacey.
“We’ve been discussing the red dress,” Lacey told him. “I had to tell them.”
“In for a penny, in for a pound,” Vic said. “Old family saying. Are we all on the same page?”
“Front page,” Mac said. “Barring disaster.”
Claudia stood up. “No one tells us what to write or what not to write. Nobody intimidates me or The Eye Street Observer. And now if you’ll excuse me, I think there’s a margarita waiting with my name on it. Have a lovely weekend, everyone, and stay safe.” Claudia knew how to make an exit, as well as an entrance.
“I gotta go too,” Mac said. “Kim is holding supper for me and I promised Jasmine and Lily Rose we’d go find some fireflies. They love fireflies.”
Back at her desk, Lacey printed the theatre yard sale photos she copied earlier from Hansen. Vic settled into the skull-painted Death Chair.
“I guess your summit conference went well. So can I take you to dinner?” he asked.
“No surprises from our friends, the Troika?”
“As far as I know, the Kepelovs and Marie are busy tonight. No one has raised a warning flag.”
Lacey leaned over to Vic and kissed him. “That is music to my ears.”
“I was happy Gregor drove you back to the office and kept you safe.”
“Safe? You wouldn’t say that if you ever rode with him.” Lacey stuffed the photos into an envelope and slipped them into her tote. She grabbed Vic by the arm and pulled him out of the Death Chair. “We have a date, darling. And tonight I’ll be your firefly.”
CHAPTER 40
“I had to tell them, Vic.”
Lacey lifted her margarita and eyed the tortilla chip basket. They stood at the bar waiting for a table at Cactus Cantina, a Mexican restaurant in northwest D.C., near the National Cathedral. Inside, the air was cool and scented with chili spices. Children were enjoying watching the hot tortilla machine.
“I agree. And now they can’t say you went rogue.” He clinked his salt-rimmed glass with hers. “I get it, sweetheart. They pay you. They’re going to have to support this story, and you. And now they can’t scream when you unload this little treat on them.”
“Exactly. I needed their buy-in on this story.” She sipped. The margarita was perfect, just sweet and salty enough, and she could feel the tequila tickle her throat. The restaurant was roomy, but packed. Part of the crowd spilled out on the street to wait for tables, some opting to wait longer for a spot on the patio, which was still steamy from the day’s heat. There were a number of business-clad patrons there on this Friday evening, but some were so relaxed they had even loosened their ties.
“You think the power of the press will save you?” Vic asked.
“I’m counting on it. You should have heard Claudia! She could run for President. Maybe she should, come to think about it. I’d vote for her.”
The Masque of the Red Dress Page 33