The Masque of the Red Dress

by Ellen Byerrum

  “I’ll meet you at the theatre. We can run over to Kramerbooks and get some lunch in the café.”

  She blew out the breath she’d been holding. She didn’t realize how tense she had been. The chance to peek at that mask was tempting Lacey’s fatal flaw, she knew: always wanting to know how the story ended.

  Careful, Lacey! Don’t go into the haunted theatre! The Red Ghost will get you!

  If the crimson costume had secrets, what might the scarlet mask reveal? Perhaps nothing. But it hadn’t surfaced before, therefore it was still of interest. Vic was right though, the timing was too convenient and it felt like a setup. Or was that the paranoia talking?

  “It’s a date. Kepelov isn’t going to show up, is he?”

  “I make no promises where he’s concerned.”

  “That’s okay. Thanks for being my backup today.”

  She turned the little BMW’s radio up and sang along to the Beach Boys, dreaming of being at the ocean. In Cape May, New Jersey, not California. The city seemed a little sluggish for a Saturday in June and traffic was light. Perhaps there was a ballgame somewhere, she thought. The heat was back and the humidity was on the rise. Lacey wore a vintage hand-painted Mexican skirt, black and turquoise with gold accents, and deep pockets. She paired it with a fitted turquoise sleeveless blouse.

  She was surprised to spot a parking space under a sign with a lot of fine print, right by the theatre. Reading parking signs diligently was an essential skill in Washington. The fine print could yield a ticket for an unsuspecting driver. Lacey scanned the sign: It was legal to park here on the weekend, illegal every other Tuesday because of street sweeping, and illegal from four to six p.m., Mondays through Fridays, but right now she was safe.

  As she walked toward Kinetic, Lacey wondered what it would be like to live in D.C., instead of across the river in Alexandria. It would require a private parking spot at the very least. Lacey transferred the little bottle of Doctor Kepelov’s Spy Stopper into her right pocket. In her left pocket, she had several of the N95 respirators.

  DeeDee Adler opened the theatre door for her. “Hey Lacey, you can go on upstairs.” She gestured toward the staircase distractedly.

  “Do you know where Sokolov left the mask for me?”

  “Nope.” She shook her head without glancing up. “Sorry. I’m seriously busy here. This donor thing tonight. Everyone’s on edge. Anyway, Nicky said you’d find it.”

  It didn’t feel like a trap.

  “Is Yuri around?”

  “No, thank God.” DeeDee quickly glanced over her shoulder to make sure he wasn’t behind her. “He’s having coffee with some big money guys and I hope it keeps him busy and out my hair all day.”

  “Thanks. I’ll just go on up.”

  “Knock yourself out.” DeeDee turned away to inventory piles of boxes of party supplies. Lacey told herself she’d be out of there in ten minutes, mask or no mask. As she walked up the stairs she could feel the little bottle knock gently against her leg.

  This better not be some kind of game, she thought.

  Fragrances tickled her nose, aromas of preparation, glass cleaners and floor wax, then roses and lilies, in stylish arrangements. The air conditioning was humming, chilling the lobby space for the evening’s opening night gala. It made the perfumed air feel close.

  The mask was not in the upstairs lobby, where she expected to see it. Lacey was certain she’d recognize it. The mannequins were still present, extravagantly attired, and in the dim light, they looked as if they might move at any moment, gliding into a minuet. Macbeth and his murderous Lady were not mannequins she wanted to see come to life. She opened the glass doors and stepped into Sokolov’s costume shop, her second choice. She went from worktable to worktable, stopping at the costume designer’s drafting table. No mask. The whole workroom was clean and uncluttered.

  “No mask in the costume shop,” she said conversationally to the empty room, knowing Vic would hear her. “I’m going to take a look in the costume closets. If I don’t find it there, I’ll give up.”

  Returning to the lobby, she saw the door to the hallway leading to what Sokolov called “the costume closet” was open. The door down the hall was also ajar. She opened it wide and felt for the light switch. The ceiling lights were diffused through the hanging costumes, giving the room a shadowy film-noir look. It was unsettling.

  There were costume-filled racks on either side of her. Above her head, to her right and her left, were additional hanging bars of clothes, all types of suits and outerwear. Lacey peered down the central aisle. At the far end, in front of a full-length mirror, she saw what looked like another figure, a white mannequin in a glittering “suit of lights,” the costume of a Spanish matador. It was turned away from her. What show could that be from, she wondered.

  She spoke quietly for Vic’s benefit. “I’m in the so-called closet. DeeDee said Sokolov told her I would find it. But it’s nowhere obvious. Is this supposed to be a scavenger hunt? I hate games.”

  From her tour with Sokolov, she knew the place was a confusing labyrinth and she tried to remember the general layout. She found the area that held bins of feather boas, costume jewelry, and other accessories. No masks. Passing baskets full of leotards and tights, she saw racks of men’s and women’s character dance shoes. Another aisle was full of hats. There were specific sections labeled by show, with entire costumes identified by character. Nicky Sokolov is insanely organized, she thought. Even so, it felt like the walls and the walls of clothes were pressing in on her.

  So where did he put the mask? Was there an aisle marked “masks”? Wasn’t there an open area somewhere in the middle? Were there hidden cameras? Was someone watching her? Paranoid much? There was only one thing to do: Go back to the beginning. Try it again.

  “I’m starting over,” she said softly. “One last look, then I’m out of here.” She backtracked to the door, glancing uneasily down every aisle, then she took a different path, a different turn here, a different turn there. But it led in the end to the same aisle, and at the far end she saw the same mirror. It reflected the matador mannequin, silhouetted in the light of the window.

  Something was different about it. Someone had moved the mirror, placing it at an angle to the matador. Now it looked as if there were two matadors, two suits of lights. And the missing scarlet mask from the Red Death covered the mannequin’s face.

  Oh Hell. Lacey sucked in her breath and froze.

  “Found it,” she announced for Vic.

  The mask was even more brilliant than she had imagined. Against the dummy’s white surface and its sequined suit of lights, the scarlet silk was as shocking as a splash of fresh blood. Cascading strands of faux jewels, diamonds, rubies, and pearls, sparkled among the headpiece’s fountain of blood-red feathers. The crimson facepiece glittered with the seductive features of the Red Death, outlined in jewel-studded gold braid. The empty eyes and mouth revealed the dim shape of a gleaming skull, a death’s head, the mask within the mask that would suddenly appear in the magic of stage lights.

  As she looked at the mannequin in the mirror, she realized that someone was seeing her reflection as well. Someone who had moved the mirror into position to achieve the most dramatic effect.

  “Damn it, Nikolai! What kind of game are you playing?”

  “It’s not a game, Lacey Smithsonian. It’s a test.”

  It was Sokolov’s voice. The matador suddenly turned, stepped away from the mirror and walked toward her.

  Lacey took a step back. Her heart was slamming against her chest at the rhythm of a parade march. As the matador came to life like a living statue, he slowly removed the mask and held it high. His blue eyes were bright, the rims red, his lips curled in a smile against the dead white makeup he wore beneath the mask. Nikolai Sokolov was a ghastly figure in a costume production designed just for her.

  “A test?” she managed to say. Kepelov’s secret juice had better work.

  “So far you have passed.”

  “I
don’t understand.”

  “You have a gift. It is your gift to understand, Lacey. You will.”

  Despite her rising panic, Lacey had always found pressing on regardless the best strategy. Well, maybe not the best, but it was all she had at the moment.

  “The suit of lights?” She indicated his costume.

  “From our production of Don Juan in Hell. Yuri envisioned Hell as a bullfighting ring.”

  Appropriate. I seem to be in Hell right now. “I haven’t seen that show.”

  He smiled. “No need. I will explain everything you need to know.”

  “And the mask from the Red Death. You didn’t have to look very far to find it, did you? This is your place, and everything is always in its place, isn’t it, Nikolai?” She felt like a pawn in some stupid game. “It was never lost in the move.”

  “No, it wasn’t. Are you afraid of me, Lacey?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “An honest answer is so refreshing.” He took one step toward her and she stepped back. His smile looked strange inside the white mask of his makeup. “Let me assure you, you have no reason to fear me.”

  “Under the circumstances that’s a little hard to believe.” She took another step back.

  “But you were the one who sought me out. I am flattered.” He stepped forward again.

  “Just doing my job.”

  “I disagree. You do far more than your job requires. I suspect you have uncovered some of my secrets. Don’t you want to ask me questions?”

  “Is this an interview now, as well as a test?”

  “If you like, Lacey, my dear.” Nikolai Sokolov speaking her name felt wrong. It felt too intimate.

  “You’ll know what I know by the questions I ask you.”

  “Very good. This test is going well.” His smile spread wider. Everything she said seemed to please this man.

  “You don’t mind if I keep my distance?” Lacey asked.

  “Not at all.” He took another step toward her and she stepped away again, slowly, as if they were doing some macabre dance in slow motion. Vic was on his way, she told herself. Any second. Turtledove and Gregor Kepelov too.

  “Perhaps we should sit down. We’ll be more comfortable. This way?” He indicated a direction past the mirror and waited until she inclined her head.

  “All right.” Just keep buying time, Lacey. The cavalry is on the way.

  Sokolov let the mask hang by its red ribbons. They were knotted around his neck, its tails draped down his back. He made an exotic stage picture in the ghostly white makeup, the matador’s suit of lights, and the crimson mask with its sparkling scarlet feathers spreading across his chest like a spray of blood.

  Down another aisle and around a corner and then another, he had set the scene for them: a small café table and two chairs, beneath another high stained-glass window. No one could see them there. On the table, a bottle was cradled in a bucket of ice, and crystal glasses were nearby. He made a flourish with his hand.

  “Sit. Please.”

  All this for my benefit? “How long have you been planning this?”

  “I like to be a good host.” He indicated a chair. She remained standing. “Would you like a drink?”

  She realized her throat was dry. He uncorked the chilled bottle and handed it to her with a wine steward’s gesture, as if offering it for her approval. She took it and poured some bubbling liquid into one of the glasses. She picked up the glass, but she let it hover in the air.

  Polonium? Dioxin? Cyanide? What’s your poison?

  “You wouldn’t mind taking the first sip for me, would you?” she asked.

  He laughed. “You delight me, do you know that? Let me assure you, the bottle has not been tampered with. Scout’s honor.”

  Are there boy scouts in Russia?

  He took the glass from her, drank it down, and handed it back to her. “My champagne is very good. You can trust me.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” He smiled again. “A good question. I want to talk with you. I want to know what you have discovered.”

  “And in exchange, will you answer my questions honestly?”

  He wrinkled his forehead. It made furrows in his white makeup. “I will try, though I must tell you, honesty has never been my strongest suit. How could it be, living a life in the theatre? We deal with illusion and fantasy. Now, please sit. I am way over here on my side of the table. More than an arm’s length away. You are quite safe.”

  Maybe, maybe not. It annoyed her that he knew what she was thinking.

  “Is your name really Nikolai Sokolov?”

  “Oddly, yes. The name I was born with. It’s easier that way.”

  “And Yuri Volkov is your cousin?”

  “To his everlasting shame and horror, I am afraid. He is stuck with me.”

  “That doesn’t seem to bother you.”

  “Not very much. People say I, and others like me, have no empathy. It is true, mostly. But every once in a while— The sensation surprises me.”

  “You do have feelings, though?”

  “I am not a robot.”

  “Is that why you were drawn to the theatre? To understand human emotions, or to mimic them?”

  “Very good. Both, actually. The very process of acting creates emotions, in both the audience and the actor. I like that. It’s so strange. A little like magic. Do you know, I have feelings for you? I was fascinated by you even before we met.”

  “The Romanov diamonds?”

  “And many other stories. The haunted shawl of the Kepelovs, for one. I could fall in love you, Lacey Smithsonian.”

  She tried to keep her cool. It was difficult. “That sounds very dangerous for me, Nikolai.”

  “I understand how you might think that. We’ll come back to that later. For now let’s talk about the theatre. I have always enjoyed the challenge of it, to get into the psyche of it. And to learn about the emotions, the ones they say I don’t have. To learn, as it were, how to be a human being.” He poured champagne into both glasses and took one. Lacey let hers stand. “Most people, it seems, can’t go a day or two without a big emotional scene. How do they stand it, I wonder? How does it work?”

  “You mean on stage?”

  “And off. Backstage is sometimes much more dramatic than on stage. Big emotions, big scenes, small emotions, quiet little deceptions. I find people very entertaining.”

  “Has acting human been a challenge for you?”

  He laughed. “Exhausting.”

  “Tell me about Saige Russell. Did you love her or was it an act?”

  “I did love her. A completely new feeling. A surprise. Strange and upsetting, with so many violent emotions. It was wonderful. And awful.”

  “Her death wasn’t an accident, was it?”

  He saluted her with his glass. “No, not an accident. Though no one has thought otherwise, all these years, until Lacey Smithsonian walked through the door.”

  “Did you kill her?”

  “Your line of questioning is very direct. You are an excellent reporter, I think. Yes, I’m afraid it came to that. I must say Saige’s death caused me some discomfort. Don’t think it did not.”

  Discomfort? Lacey swallowed hard. Her throat was dry again. She eyed the bottle and her bubbling glass. “Why? What happened?”

  “They say confession is good for the soul. Let’s try it. You know of course I have no soul.”

  Exactly what Kepelov said.

  “I had to do it, you see.”

  “It wasn’t because she was a terrible actress, was it?”

  “You’ve been talking to others from that show, I see. Saige had developed a bad reputation among the cast and crew. She wasn’t very good, but even I don’t kill an actor for a bad performance. Yuri might. Although I don’t think he ever has. I know he’s wanted to. Many times.” Sokolov laughed at his own joke.

  “Was she cheating on you?”

  “Perhaps. If she wasn’t, I’m sure she would have, eventually. It was he
r way. The truth is, I couldn’t stand it. Love. The way I felt. Love, to me, it felt out of control, savage. Violent. Incomprehensible. Walking around with a stupid grin on my face. The next moment, miserable. It was as if something alien had entered my body. Yuri was happy for me, he thought love would change me into ‘a real live boy,’ you might say. Like Pinocchio. We’ve done Pinocchio here, did you know? I costumed a squad of dancers as a great sperm whale. It was magnificent!” He took another sip of champagne. “But Saige was not my blue fairy. I felt rage like a tiger when she wasn’t on time. When she finally appeared, I floated like a feather. Things like that. Love. So very strange.”

  Lacey never took her eyes off Nikolai Sokolov. She let him talk, willing her heart to slow down, willing her brain to speed up, her reflexes to be ready.

  “Love was an earthquake inside of me. I thought I might explode. I might change. I might die. But I was a younger man. It would be different today.”

  “But you were in love,” she managed to say. “And yet you killed her?”

  “Strange, isn’t it? To most people. Not to me.”

  “Did you feel any remorse? What did it make you feel?”

  God, I’m sounding just like a broadcast reporter! This IS Hell! And where the hell is Vic? Turtledove? Kepelov?

  “I felt regret, I admit. That too was an unaccustomed emotion. But better, I felt back in control. In equilibrium. Myself, again. Don’t fret, my dear Lacey. It was years ago. It would never happen again.”

  Don’t fret?! “Why not, if I might ask?” Love and death are the same to him.

  “I’ve learned so much since then. I have so much more self-control. Self-knowledge. ‘Mastering others is mere strength, mastering oneself is true power.’ Do you know that quote? I have that mastery now. Now I am ready once again.”

  She wanted to jump up and run, not walk, to the nearest exit. Instead, Lacey gripped the arms of her chair.

  “You’re ready? Ready for what?”

  “To love again.”

  CHAPTER 42

  “I am ready to love again. But first I would have to find the most amazing woman.” Sokolov looked directly at Lacey. “I see you are not ready to talk about this yet, Smithsonian. But you know who I mean.”