The Masque of the Red Dress

by Ellen Byerrum

  “You heard the man, Vic,” Lacey said, getting to her feet. “A free press is our only protection.”

  “You two sound like a recruiting poster,” Vic said, but he tapped his phone. “I’m calling Broadway Lamont.”

  While Vic talked to Lamont, Lacey watched Turtledove cinch Sokolov’s ankles securely together with a pair of plastic cuffs and then sit back down on him. At the sight of the Centipede, she felt her stomach turn over. Standing up might not have been a good idea either. She staggered to the restroom and threw up.

  When she felt better, she dared a look into the mirror. Yikes. Her makeup had melted. Her hair was a damp mess. There was a knock on the ladies’ room door. It was Kepelov. He handed over her tote bag.

  “I was thinking you might need this, Smithsonian. Also I retrieved the little bottle. Is safe. Not good to leave such things laying around. Glad you found it of use.”

  “Thank you, Gregor.”

  She took remedial action: her hair, her face, foundation, blush, and mascara. She re-tucked her top into her skirt before heading back to the lobby. Nikolai Sokolov was just coming to. He stirred beneath Turtledove’s considerable mass and lifted his head an inch to take in his situation.

  “I am flattered by your precautions, gentlemen. Even I didn’t know I was this dangerous.” His eyes searched for Lacey, squinting up at her from the floor. “Lacey Smithsonian. You have redone your makeup for me. Very nice. Thank you.”

  “It’s war paint.” War paint was one of Aunt Mimi’s favorite expressions. And Lacey was ready to do battle.

  “How very appropriate,” he replied. “I appreciate your spirit.”

  Turtledove volunteered to retrieve her laptop from her car so she could start writing. She threw him her car keys, never taking her eyes off Sokolov. White makeup streaked down his face in tracks of sweat. His eyes were bloodshot from the spray of Doctor Kepelov’s secret formula. The effect was startling. He looked like a tragic-comic harlequin dressed up as a matador. The mask from The Masque of the Red Death still hung around his neck, its scarlet feathers now tipped with white.

  Freed from Turtledove’s weight, Sokolov struggled to sit up. Kepelov lifted him into a sitting position and steadied him against the wall. He locked eyes with Sokolov.

  “One bad move,” Kepelov said, “you’re a dead man. You breathe wrong, you’re a dead man. I get tired of looking at you, you’re a dead man.”

  “I know the drill, comrade,” Sokolov said.

  “Call me comrade again, you’re a dead man.” Kepelov pulled up a chair and sat still as a snake.

  “Forgive me, Lacey. I have not had a chance to make myself more presentable. My feelings for you made me—impractical.” Sokolov tried to look down at the mask, still hanging around his neck. “The feathers are tickling my chin.”

  “You said I could see the mask.”

  “So I did. I want you to have it. However, I’m afraid you will have to take it from me. I am tied up at the moment.” Even tied up and surrounded by enemies, Sokolov could try to be droll. Kepelov shook his head at Lacey in warning, but Sokolov gave him a look. “Not you, Kepelov. Lacey Smithsonian must do it. Or believe me, you will have to kill me.”

  Kepelov turned to Vic, now off the phone. “What do you think, Donovan? Trust me, there is nothing this creature can do to us now.”

  Vic was as tense as a panther on the prowl. “We’ll take it off him, Lacey. You don’t have to do this.”

  “Yes, I do.” Lacey looked at Vic. “I’ve come this far.”

  “If you must.” Vic stepped in closer and put his hand on Lacey’s back. He pulled his pistol and held it down at his side. Kepelov moved in tight.

  She knelt down close to Nikolai Sokolov and put her arms behind his neck to untie the mask’s ribbons. Her hands were shaking.

  “How close you are.” He breathed in deeply. “I can smell your perfume, your distinctive scent. I will never forget it.” He started to cough.

  She took the mask and leaned back on her heels. Vic and Kepelov stepped back. “Thank you. Gregor, can you get him something to drink? Like a soda? There must be a straw at the bar. And one for me, too, please.”

  “Sometimes, Smithsonian, your humanitarian instincts are too kind,” Gregor said. “He does not deserve it.” The subdued Centipede was still coughing.

  Vic retrieved drinks for them. He handed one to Lacey, and one to Kepelov with a straw. “I’ll cover you.”

  Gregor took the soda and let Sokolov drink. He sucked on the straw, swallowed, and breathed deeply.

  “Much better.” He coughed again, never taking his gaze off Lacey. “Thank you, Lacey. I suggest you put that artifact out of sight before the police get here. They can be grabby.”

  “That’s evidence, you know,” Vic said.

  “I can turn it over later,” Lacey said. “After I examine it.”

  “Not to worry, Donovan,” Kepelov said. “Things will be busy here very soon. No one will miss one little costume item. It might even be valuable, if only for its associations with evil.”

  “Kepelov, your reputation precedes you,” Sokolov said. “Practical and avaricious.”

  “And I am up here and you are down there.”

  “For now.”

  Lacey examined the mask. Vic lifted an eyebrow at the idea of concealing evidence, even something like a prop.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Vic, but I’ve earned a closer look at this thing,” Lacey pointed out. “I found the Lenins in the dress, and I know we’ll have to turn that over. But this may be a crucial part of the story. He loaned out the dress, but he held on to this mask. Maybe it’s even more valuable to him. Why?”

  “Only you, my darling Lacey, could begin to understand,” Sokolov said. “After all we have shared.”

  “Say that again and I punch your lights out.” Vic lifted a fist.

  “No need. I can’t fight back. You must be the fiancé.”

  No matter what Sokolov said, Lacey could never forget that he killed the last woman he loved. She considered the brilliant red mask. The backing was made of thin leather, and it had held its shape well for a dozen years. The front was covered with several layers of red fabric. She traced with one finger the jeweled gold braid outlining the eyes and mouth. Did he make it in Saige’s image?

  “For the longest time, I could smell Saige’s scent on it,” Sokolov said. “Now, forevermore, I will be reminded of you. On the side, there is a little catch. Try it.”

  She felt for the catch, found it, and pulled the outer mask away, revealing the inner mask, the death’s head, the skull beneath the skin that shocked audiences at The Masque of the Red Death. She glanced up at the Centipede.

  “This must have been an amazing moment on stage every night, Sokolov.”

  He bowed his head slightly. “I am honored.”

  She turned the skull mask over. On the smooth leather of the back, the side that would hug the wearer’s face, she saw symbols and writing in Cyrillic.

  “And on the back. A record of your kills?”

  “Assignments perhaps. Perhaps other assorted achievements. Or perhaps not.”

  It’s the key to his code, she thought. The coded marks on the backs of the Lenins. He stared at her as if reading her thoughts. He gave her the slightest nod.

  “Your face gives everything away, Lacey Smithsonian. Very expressive. You would make a fine actress. And one who could learn her lines.”

  “It’s a good thing I’m not a poker player,” she said.

  Footsteps pounded up the stairs and they turned at the sound. It was Turtledove, returning with her laptop and her car keys. Lacey put the inner and outer masks back together and tucked the thing into her tote bag. She opened her laptop on one of the café tables in the lobby. While her computer booted up, Lacey called Mac’s cell phone. When he answered, children were squealing in the background and there was the sound of cheering.

  “Hey Mac, I’m filing that story today,” she said. “The one we talked a
bout. Things developed quickly. I suppose the weekend editor can take it, if you don’t want it. How’s the game going?”

  “What do you mean, things developed?”

  “It’s a bit of a situation. But it’s under control now.”

  “Tell him you caught the notorious Russian assassin, the Centipede!” Sokolov yelled, loud enough for Mac to hear him. “Only Smithsonian could have done it.”

  “Who’s that?” Mac asked. “You caught him by yourself?”

  “I had a little help.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “He’s tied up and we’re waiting for Broadway Lamont.”

  “You had to do this on a Saturday? We’re at the girls’ soccer game.”

  “News never sleeps, Mac. You know that.”

  “I’m calling Claudia. And our attorney. Keep me apprised.”

  “Spread the joy. Gotta go.” Lacey hung up and began to type.

  Seven Deadly Lenins Hidden in a Hem:

  The Eye Street Observer Unmasks a Notorious Russian Spy

  By Lacey Smithsonian

  Just hours before Kinetic Theatre’s opening night of The Turn of the Screw in Northwest D.C., a suspected Russian spy and assassin was apprehended in the theatre’s costume shop by the Metropolitan Police Department, with help from The Eye Street Observer.

  Many dignitaries, including the Russian Ambassador, were expected to attend an exclusive donor gala at the Russian émigré-established theatre company later Saturday evening. Russian native Nikolai Sokolov, Kinetic’s resident costume designer, allegedly led a double life as a foreign agent sometimes known as “the Centipede,” working undetected for years in the United States. He is thought to have breached security at the highest levels of the US government and claims credit for an unknown number of assassinations under orders from the Kremlin...

  Vic stood over her shoulder as she typed. “Someone is going to have an aneurysm reading this.”

  “Those are the breaks, darling,” she replied and kept typing. “Brooke will love it. I just don’t know if she will ever forgive me. For not bringing her into this.”

  He squeezed her shoulders and kissed her neck. “Do what you need to do, sweetheart. She’ll forgive you. Eventually. Or not.”

  Lacey focused on her screen.

  The alleged spy confessed to Eye Street Observer reporter Lacey Smithsonian to two murders related to the Kinetic Theatre, and to the death of a Russian billionaire found battered to death in a hotel in the District last year. That murder was initially ruled as a death by natural causes from a heart attack.

  Sokolov has been working as the master costumer for Kinetic for more than a decade, and he has won two Helen Hayes awards for his costume designs. Some might say the theatre was the perfect cover for a master of disguise...

  CHAPTER 44

  “I like watching you work,” the Centipede said.

  Lacey glanced over at Sokolov, a little concerned that he might break out of his restraints. She knew she had nothing to worry about, with Vic, Turtledove and Kepelov all on guard, but still. Sokolov wore an enigmatic smile. He caught her eyes with his.

  “Enjoy the view, Sokolov,” she told him, returning to her laptop. “It’s the last time you’ll ever see me at work.”

  “Never say never,” he said.

  “Why have you not quoted me?” Gregor Kepelov had also come to stand behind her, peering over her other shoulder.

  “You guys are worse than my editor. Back up. Do not watch me write. And Gregor, I am happy to quote you, but can I use your name?”

  “Of course not,” he said. “You may attribute my statements to a formerly highly placed operative of Russian intelligence services who defected to the United States.”

  “I’ll have to finesse that.”

  “Not a problem. The people who need to know will know who your anonymous source is. Remember who first said to Lacey Smithsonian the word Centipede.” Lacey added his comments to her story. Nice to have experts on hand.

  Heavy steps pounding up the stairs interrupted the flow of her fingers. Everyone stopped and looked expectantly at the lobby door. Kepelov put his hand on his concealed pistol.

  Like a Russian storm cloud, Yuri Volkov burst in, glaring around the room. He stopped short at the sight of his cousin trussed up on the floor. He stared at Lacey and her comrades, then back to Sokolov. He grabbed his head with both hands and opened and shut his mouth several times before speaking.

  “What is going on here?!” he finally burst out. “You are making a mess in my theatre! My party begins in a few hours! Important people will be here.”

  “Your cousin Nikolai killed Saige Russell and Amy Keaton,” Lacey said without looking up from her laptop.

  “You must have suspected, Yuri,” Sokolov said placidly.

  “Get him out of here! Now!” Volkov’s face was turning bright red.

  “Did I mention, Lacey, we are not a particularly close family?” Sokolov said.

  “You!” Volkov spat at him. “You have traded on our family connection ever since you came here. Don’t think I will cry at your funeral. I will piss vodka on your grave!”

  “As I said.” Sokolov didn’t bother looking at anyone but Lacey. “I anticipate your story in the newspaper with great pleasure.”

  “Get him out of here, please. I don’t care where you take him,” Volkov begged. “I will do anything you want.”

  Before anyone could answer, another thunderous commotion headed their way. It sounded like a rampaging bull roaring up the stairs.

  It wasn’t a bull. It was Detective Broadway Lamont, followed by a herd of uniformed police. Lamont was dressed casually in blue jeans and a blue polo shirt, except of course for his bulletproof vest and holstered pistol, and the badge hooked onto his belt.

  “Smithsonian, what the ever-loving hell are you up to now?”

  DeeDee Adler had crept up the stairs behind the mob of D.C. cops and peeked into the lobby. She stage-whispered to Volkov, “Yuri, I’ll be downstairs if you need me.” She backed up right into a D.C. uniformed officer, who shook his head at her.

  Volkov stepped into Lamont’s face and glared up at the big man. “I don’t know what’s going on here, officer. We have a show tonight and our donors are coming. Opening night. Big party. I need this cleaned up.”

  “You mean this isn’t the main event?” Lamont pointed at Nikolai Sokolov. “This white guy here on the floor, a prop in your show? Anybody want to tell me why this guy is a little extra white?”

  “Not a prop, officer. I am the master fashion criminal himself. Ask Lacey Smithsonian.” If he wasn’t enjoying himself, Sokolov was giving a good impression of it, and he clearly liked being the star of the show. Actors, Lacey thought, typing away.

  “Nice of y’all to wrap him up for me.” The big detective turned to Lacey. “Speak to me, Smithsonian. This is part of the latest fashion crime? I am talking about that damn red dress.”

  “Yes, it’s about the red dress.” And the scarlet mask.

  “How many people did you tell about us, Lacey?” Sokolov for the first time seemed pained. “What did you tell this man?”

  “She told me nothing.” Lamont turned his glare on Sokolov. “I know the woman who bought the damn dress and had her apartment tossed. And let me tell you, Mister Matador, it’s caused me grief. A lot of grief.”

  “And yet Ms. LaToya Crawford is alive to complain about it.” Sokolov returned his gaze to Lacey. “My feelings for you made me unforgivably human. I know you are brilliant, but still I underestimated you. You will tell my story, won’t you?”

  “I’m just a fashion reporter, Nikolai. But I’ll try to do it justice.”

  “That’s all I ask. The Centipede will not be anonymous anymore. He will not be a myth. I will exist, because of you.”

  Lamont side-eyed both of them. “Oh no, you don’t. You got the hots for Smithsonian? That’s a fast train to nowhere.”

  Sokolov gazed at Lacey longingly. “Lacey, my dear L
acey, I am tired of being a monster. I adore you. I could love you forever. But in practical terms, you know, I should have killed you.”

  Lacey stopped typing and looked up. She took a deep breath. “You say the weirdest things, Sokolov.”

  “You are not so easily rid of me. I have much more information.”

  The kind the government would be interested in, she thought. Probably several governments.

  “You’re not in the position to bargain for anything, Sokolov,” Vic said.

  “You think not? Who knows how many dresses are out there? Perhaps with additional records of my—job history?” Sokolov said. “There is a lot to learn. A lot to write.”

  “You’re bluffing. You’re no Scheherazade,” Lacey said.

  “But I am. Can I tell a story a day to keep myself alive? And living in comfortable circumstances here in the USA? I like my odds. And yours, Lacey. Especially if I only agree to talk to you.”

  “I knew it,” Kepelov said. “I told you so. Our Centipede does not want to go back to Mother Russia.”

  Broadway Lamont raised his voice.

  “Enough! Everybody chill! Okay, Nikolai Sokolov, I got enough to bring you in for questioning right there. I suppose I’ll get to arm wrestle with the State Department, Homeland Security, CIA, FBI, NSA, every other damn alphabet agencies. In the meantime, everybody shut up until I get your statements.”

  Lamont motioned to his troops. Two officers took command of Sokolov and got him to his feet. Two more pulled out tablets to start taking statements. A female forensics tech pulled out a big DSLR.

  “Detective, I don’t care what you do with this man or where you put him.” Volkov ran his fingers through his hair and tapped on his Rolex. “But please hurry! The Kinetic Theatre would be most grateful if this man’s removal could be arranged with the utmost speed.”

  “Wouldn’t we all?” Lamont said, unflustered.

  “You have never liked me much, cousin,” Sokolov remarked. “Understandable. Sorry to be such a problem.”