10 Lethal Black Dress (14 page)

“Reese. We only have today to do this,” Vic said.

Evans just laughed at him. “Your grandmother would not hear
of a new setting. We replaced the prongs and the head several times, but she
insisted on keeping the original band. She was sentimental. It was set in
platinum, but something tells me you don’t particularly like platinum, do you?”
he asked Lacey.

“Did you tell him?” Lacey poked Vic this time. But it was
probably the gold hoop earrings that gave her away.

“No. I swear. He only knew we were coming today.”

“Victor didn’t need to tell me anything. I can tell,” Evans
said.

“Do you read auras too?” she asked.

“I do. Yours is gold,” he answered.

“The diamond will stand out better in a gold setting,” Lacey
said. “I prefer gold to silver. Or platinum.”
I’ll leave the platinum to my
friends and everyone else in D.C.

She was about to say something more, when he put up his hand
to stop her. He took her left hand and studied it a moment. “You don’t want a
typical setting.”

“You’re right. I don’t really care for a solitaire.”

“Ah yes, so lonely. I have some unusual settings, if you
would like to see them. Victor, do you have a preference of your own?”

“Whatever Lacey likes. No matter how gaudy,” he teased her.

“You might regret those words, mister,” she replied.

The jeweler reached below the counter and withdrew a tray of
rings, some with stones and some without.

“Just to give you an idea,” Evans said.

“Bling,” Vic said. “Let me put on my shades.”

The jeweler placed the tray on the table and picked up a
setting to show her. “We can take the stone and set it gently in the setting,
like this, to see how it would appear. Be careful though, the diamond is not
secure.”

“Perhaps a thicker band?” she said.

“Of course. You want the world to see this ring.”

“Everyone but my mother,” she said.

She glanced at Vic. He looked like he was in pain.
Hey, this
was your idea, buddy!
She held back a giggle. She eased the first ring onto
her finger for size. It was dazzling. She tried on a half dozen for comparison,
each with a comparable stone, but none were quite right. Lacey was beginning to
feel like Goldilocks, when she gazed into the jewelry case and saw something in
the estate jewelry section. Her gaze was drawn to an antique ring with a coral
rose in the middle. The coral was cracked and chipped, but the ring wrapped
round it like leaves around a flower. There was something about it.

“What about that one?”

The jeweler withdrew the ring from the case. “You are
thinking without the coral ring, but with your diamond?”

“Yes. Maybe.”

He nodded encouragingly. “Let’s see. This is easily remedied.”
With a small tool he popped the coral out of the ring. “Don’t worry, I can put
it back, but the coral is damaged. It should be replaced anyway.” With
tweezers, he carefully set Vic’s family diamond loosely in the center. “Ah. Very
nice. You have a good eye.”

Lacey took the ring and slipped it on her finger. “It’s
gorgeous.” It felt right on her finger. She was glad her manicure was fresh.
Like so many of her vintage clothes, this ring seemed to already belong on her
hand. It fit perfectly and wouldn’t even need resizing. She gazed at Vic with a
smile.

“Are you sure?” he asked. Lacey nodded. She didn’t speak for
fear of choking up.

Vic picked up her hand. “Reese, this is the one. Our
engagement ring. But what about a wedding band?”

“It doesn’t come with one, does it?” Lacey managed to say.

“I could make one for you,” Evans said. “A thinner band that
would dip below the ornamentation and fit snugly with the golden leaves. It
could be plain, or it could carry some smaller diamonds, if you like.”

Lacey’s head was spinning as the jeweler explained that he
could fashion a complementary filigree band that would make it a set. Vic
agreed that two rows of smaller diamonds set in the wedding band would pull the
pair together, and were, indeed, absolutely necessary.

She could only nod in agreement.
This is the ring. This
wedding thing is really going to happen
.

“The size is perfect, but you can’t have the engagement ring
today, I am sorry to say. I must make sure this lovely diamond is rock solid in
the setting, as it were. I’m going to build up these prongs and strengthen the
band to make sure it is just right before I hand it back to you.” He assured
them it would take no more than a week, the wedding band a little longer.

“Do you know anything about the ring’s history?” Lacey asked.

“Only that it came from a very happy home. And that it is
going to another one.”

Vic escorted her outside to the waiting sunshine before
returning to the jeweler’s tiny office to conduct business. She turned to him
and said, “He would have to say that it came from a happy home. I nearly choked
up.”

“It probably did come from a good home, he’s dealt with the
same families for generations. I’m just relieved he didn’t say it was haunted.”

“Tell me again, why I’m marrying a smartass?”

“Because you love me.” He kissed her.

“I seem to remember now. See you later.” She kissed him back
and reluctantly let him go.

Besides the selection of their rings, Vic had other business
to conduct with Reese Evans, something about a background check on a potential
employee. Before heading home, Lacey would have some time to check out the
quaint Baltimore shopping area of Fells Point, and a vintage clothing store, a shop
that Courtney had visited for her feature series. Perhaps the Madame X dress
had come from Baltimore. It was a long shot. But it was
all that
and
then some.

“It doesn’t feel right to let you go after this,” Vic said.
“We should be going home together. With that ring.”

“Next trip to Baltimore, we’ll come together.”

“Meet me in an hour at the Daily Grind, before you drive back
to Old Town,” he said. “You’re sure you’ll be okay for an hour on your own?”

“Vic, honey, do you know me at all? There are stores to
explore. Vintage stores.”

“Just don’t trip over any bodies or try on any poison dresses.”

“But the poison ones are the most compelling. I love that
shade of green.”

CHAPTER 16

Lacey was on the hunt.
She was slightly
chagrined to be following in the footsteps of a broadcast reporter, especially
one who had so often copied her own lead. However, she consoled herself with
the fact there was more to this story than could fit in a twenty-second news
bite.

Killer Stash was a popular Fells Point vintage store, the
shop where Courtney Wallace found the Sixties dress she wore on Channel One,
the shift style popularized by Jackie Kennedy. The Sixties weren’t Lacey’s
favorite period, because she thought the styles weren’t particularly flattering
on her. But the store was bound to have other clothes, and possibly
information.

Lacey had been to Killer Stash before, but most of the
clothing it carried was a little more recent than she preferred. Like Best
Vintage Baltimore, “vintage” to them meant anything pre-1990. The small store
was packed with clothes, and the vibe was friendly. Lacey spotted the sales
clerk, a young woman who obviously loved the 1950s, as evidenced by her vintage
leopard-print wiggle dress. She had artistically penciled black eyebrows and
thick cat-eye liner that made her eyes look enormous. Her black tresses were
tamed into a modified beehive wrapped with a red ribbon.

Her name, she said, was “Veronica. Like in the Archie comic
books, the early ones.”

Lacey introduced herself and complimented Veronica on her
commitment to style.

“Fifties,” Veronica said, knowingly. “The Eighties are very
popular here right now, but I prefer the Fifties. Because I have a
waist
.”
She pointed to her tiny middle, encircled by a narrow red patent leather belt.
“You really need an excellent waist to rock the Fifties.”

“Agreed. You’re certainly rocking it. Did you happen to talk
with Courtney Wallace for her Channel One series on vintage?”

“You mean that blond woman who died in that dress?”

“The TV reporter, yes.”

The clerk’s eyes grew even larger as she opened them very
wide. “Is that weird or what? I mean it looked like a really pretty dress on
TV, and that lining is wild. But to die for a dress, it’s just so wrong. People
always say things like, ‘That dress is to
die
for,’ but no! It’s just a
dress! You know what I’m saying?”

“I do.” Lacey was happy to have found someone who liked to
talk. “Did you sell anything to her? To Courtney Wallace.”

“Not me. I wasn’t in the store that day. But between you and
me and the rest of the world, that woman was a bitch. That’s what Betty said.
Isn’t that funny, Betty and Veronica working together? Like the comics. And
Betty is a blonde with a flip. But we get along. There’s no Archie coming
between us. Oh my God, did you hear about what happened to Archie?”

“Um, yeah. Tragic. So it was Betty who waited on Courtney?”

“Yeah. She told me this Courtney person was acting all high
and mighty and everything. She even talked Betty out of that cute yellow
Sixties number that Betty was saving up for. And the perfect pillbox hat that
went with it. Even the
shoes
.”

Lacey leaned in a little. “How did she manage to do that?”

“Betty said she threatened not to mention us on TV. Went all
bitchy on her. As it was, she gave us like two seconds or something. The yellow
dress was on that mannequin in the window. So of course it caught her eye. It
was like she wanted it all for free just for a tiny mention on TV, but that
wasn’t going to happen. This is Baltimore, hon. She had to pay. Everyone’s got
to pay. And now she’s dead.” Big sigh. “I mean it was weird, on TV she was all
hard-charging with her funky anchor-woman-crossed-with-a-prom-queen hairdo.
Must have used a ton of hairspray and not in an
ironic-I-have-to-keep-my-beehive-in-place kind of way. It was stiff, like the
rod up her you-know-what.” Veronica patted her own beehive. “I don’t wish ill
on nobody, but you know, maybe it was her karma. Karma ran over her in a Paris
Green dress.”

“Oh, so you read my article in
The Eye Street Observer
?”

“Was that you? You’re the one? You’re Lacey? Oh my God! Are
you kidding me? I totally read Crimes of Fashion, like every word! I think it’s
on a bulletin board in the back room. Would you sign it for me?”

“Be happy to. Do you think it was an accident? Her death?”

“Why? You think someone slipped her a poison dress on
purpose?” She put her hands on her hips, considering it. “Like instant karma or
something? Who knows? I don’t know if karma cares. Karma just wants the job done,
you know?”

Lacey thanked Veronica and signed her clipping like a regular
celebrity. She strolled a couple of blocks to the Daily Grind coffee shop
facing the harbor, admiring colorful petunias in hanging pots. The warm breeze
felt like kisses on her skin. She was tired. She felt emotional. The day had
been a roller coaster. The memorial service, running into Kepelov of all
people, then lunch and ring shopping with Vic, strange new vintage stores to
explore, and all topped off by the philosophical wisdom of Veronica at Killer
Stash. She wished she had her engagement ring right now.

After avoiding it for so long, now suddenly I miss it. Instant
karma?

She was craving something sweet and hot and chocolate to take
the edge off her mood. She was sipping the velvety smooth brew when Vic walked
through the door. He threw her a huge grin, bought himself a coffee, and sat
down beside her.

“Sorry I couldn’t wait,” Lacey said, kissing him. “It was
either this tiny hot chocolate or a giant chocolate chip cookie. This might be
more forgiving.”

He leaned down and kissed her, then pulled up a chair. “You
talked with the clerk at—what’s the name of it?”

“Killer Stash. I spoke with the Philosopher in Chief.
Veronica, like in the Archie comics.”

“What did she think of the Lethal Black Dress?”

“That it was weird, that Courtney was snotty, and that the
killer was probably instant karma.”

“She could be onto something. In death, darling, karma is
often part of the equation.”

“Karma’s a bitch.”

CHAPTER 17

When she opened her bedroom
curtains
Wednesday morning, Lacey couldn’t see Maryland across the Potomac River. It had
been towed away in the night, or else it had disappeared in the gray morning’s
fog and heavy rain.

She selected the easiest thing she could think of to wear, a
lightweight two-piece suit from the Forties in dark violet crepe. The skirt was
plain and flared. The elbow-length jacket, which buttoned so it didn’t need a
blouse, was a work of art. There was a bit of smocking at the yoke, under which
were small shoulder pads. Small bands of embroidered flowers, red, blue,
yellow, and green, created four horizontal stripes on the jacket, which precisely
matched the sleeve bands. The waistline eased out into a short peplum. She
grabbed her lightweight white trench coat and umbrella, pulled on her bright
red rubber rain boots and grabbed a pair of wedge shoes for the office and in
case the rain lightened up.

Many people found the rain in D.C. depressing. Not Lacey.
After growing up in a place with relentless sun, blindingly bright days, and
air so dry it hurt your lungs, she enjoyed the peace and solitude of a gray,
rainy day. There was the usual griping at the newsroom that the weather was
miserable, humid, and stuffy. Lacey loved it. But coffee was essential.

She called Thaddeus Granville’s office as soon as she filled
her coffee mug with the sludge from
The
Eye
’s coffee maker. To
her surprise, a receptionist put her call straight through and Granville agreed
to meet with her at four that afternoon. There were certain conditions: An
informal chat, off the record, no recording devices. Lacey agreed. At this
point, their chat would be merely informational anyway. His public comments at
the funeral were already tucked into a brief story in today’s paper.

Lacey was itching to walk outside and plan her interview
strategy, and to escape the newsroom, which was full of grumpy weather
complainers. Lacey combed her hair and tucked it back into a chignon at the
back of her neck, grabbed her raincoat and cardinal-printed umbrella, and fled
outside to the rain.

She wound up a few blocks from
The Eye
at St. Matthew’s
Cathedral, breathing in the scent of incense and candles. The hustle and bustle
of the District stayed outside the doors. Lacey was often surprised at the
people she saw at St. Matthew’s, which today included several reporters and section
editors from
The Eye
. Newspapers were supposed to be bastions of atheists
and nonbelievers. Yet here was a cadre of cynical journalists seeking the quiet
serenity of the Cathedral during the workday.

Perhaps it was the peace that drew them there, among the
marble pillars and stained glass and statuary. Lacey didn’t stay for the midday
Mass, but she left feeling confident she could nail the Granville interview and
not let him intimidate her.

Outside, the rain let up, leaving a fine mist in the air. The
gray sky and slick pavement intensified the color of the flowers around the
trees and in planters around the city. Farragut Square was empty of the
noontime lunch parties of the day before.

Office workers scurried to and from their jobs. Lacey
detoured to Firehook Bakery for a cup of decent coffee to bring back to the
office.

Her calm lasted precisely until she returned to the newsroom.
Mac poked his round head around her corner of the news world just as she was
hanging up her raincoat and booting up her computer.

“What are you looking for, Mac?” she asked, as if she didn’t know.
“If you’re looking for the calorie queen, I haven’t seen her lately.”

Mac stared at the latest of Felicity’s offerings, but he
seemed reluctant. It had not been nibbled. “Is it fair game?” he asked,
wistfully. “Has she photographed it for her column yet?”

“I don’t even know what it is. Or want to know.” She did
suspect, but she thought Mac should find out for himself.

Lacey half believed Felicity lived in a gingerbread house in
the woods, where she lured unsuspecting reporters to fatten them up on her
muffins and tarts. But Felicity had no need of a gingerbread house. She simply
dropped a trail of tasty crumbs leading to her desk, where
The
Eye
’s
reporters were drawn as inexorably as Pavlov’s dogs were drawn to that bell.

Felicity had free rein to use the fully equipped kitchen on
the executives’ sixth floor for her food column experiments. These executives
were seldom seen in the flesh, at least not in the newsroom. Perhaps, Lacey
thought, they were locked up in calorie-laden captivity in Felicity’s fattening
pens at the gingerbread house.
One could only hope.
Today, however,
Felicity hadn’t personally baked this dish upstairs. Rather, she had
built
it, so to speak, with the aid of the Krispy Kreme Doughnut Company. The final
creation was an impressive mound of glazed doughnuts, stuck together with icing
and sprinkles. On the very top was a small statue of a tuxedoed groom, standing
atop a miniature Krispy Kreme doughnut truck.

“What is it supposed to be, exactly?” Mac asked.

“The groom’s cake, of course,” Harlan Wiedemeyer announced
from behind him.

It was common knowledge around the office that Wiedemeyer was
a devotee of the famous Krispy Kreme “Hot Doughnuts Now,” as well as a fan of their
no-longer-hot doughnuts, anytime at all. His tie was often iced or sprinkled
with the remains of the latest Krispy Kreme seasonal offering. He’d been
transported to Doughnut Heaven when the company opened a shop at the Dupont
Circle Metro stop, within walking distance of
The
Eye
’s offices. Felicity
appeared right behind him.

“Groom’s cake?” Mac said, lost in wonder. “Wow. It’s—it’s—”

It’s a carbohydrate and sugar volcano,
Lacey thought
.
And if the miniature statue on top truly represented Harlan Wiedemeyer, it
should have had a round tummy. She felt dismayed.
I can’t believe you have
to have a groom’s cake at a wedding these days. Surely, Vic won’t expect one of
those. Will he?

“I think that is the most beautiful groom’s cake I’ve ever
seen,” Wiedemeyer was saying. “Felicity, my sweet bread-and-butter Pickles, you
have outdone yourself.” He delicately removed the groom-and-truck cake topper
with one hand and snatched a doughnut with the other. This seemed to be the
all-clear signal. Mac grabbed a second doughnut, while Tony popped his head
around the cubicle wall.

“Felicidad,” Tony sighed. “Doughnuts. What would I do without
you?” He lifted a fluffy puff of dough and calories. He bit into it with great
contentment.

Lacey briefly wondered if Tony dropped all his blondes
because they couldn’t cook. If that was the case, he needed to find himself a
tall, skinny, blond Felicity.
If there was such a thing.

She turned her back on the groom’s doughnut cake
extravaganza, sipping her coffee, telling herself that being strong was better
than giving in to temptation.

“Um, Lacey,” Felicity began tentatively.

“No, thanks,” Lacey said, without turning around. “Looks
fabulous, really. But I have coffee.”

“It’s not that. I have a small request. A teeny, tiny little
request.”

No.
Lacey turned, reluctantly. The last time Felicity
had a request, she was accused of assault and Lacey had come to her aid. There
were witnesses, all staring at Lacey and Felicity, contentedly munching their
doughnuts like a herd of cows. Watching their beloved bringer of fatty foods
and the fashion reporter who always seemed to be getting into trouble.

“Request? What kind of request?”

“Well—” Felicity said, with a fluttery hand gesture. “You
wrote that column. About how a vintage wedding dress can be made over into a
one-of-a-kind gown?”

“Yes. I did write that.”
In a moment of weakness
. “Do
you have a vintage wedding gown? Maybe your mother’s? Grandmother’s?”

Lacey wrote that particular Crimes of Fashion column after a
small snafu left her friend Stella’s wedding gown in tatters, almost on the eve
of her wedding. The point of the article was that there were alternatives to
the giant Wedding Industrial Complex and their overpriced, cookie-cutter white
gowns. If someone had a little creativity. And a good seamstress.

However, Lacey was fresh out of great seamstresses willing to
remake a wedding dress. Her favorite, Alma Lopez, had sworn never to sew a
stitch for Lacey again after one particular incident. It made her sad to lose
Alma, but Lacey understood completely. A maniac had gone berserk in Alma’s shop
with sharp implements and made a slash of things. It was scary. It was sort
of
Lacey’s fault. Alma was not in a forgiving mood.

Something even worse could happen to Felicity and her
wedding dress,
Lacey thought.
After all, she’s marrying the original
office jinx of
The Eye Street Observer.

“No. I don’t have a vintage dress. Right now.” Felicity’s
voice jolted Lacey out of her musing. “But I’ve been thinking about finding
one. You said altering a vintage dress could be way cheaper than going to one
of those big wedding dress shops.” She made it sound like an accusation.

Felicity? Dress shopping? Live and in person?
Felicity
was a dedicated online and catalogue shopper. Her wayward outfits and her
seasonally themed sweater collection testified to the dark power of the Web.
She’d once mentioned that the thought of going to a bridal shop with the snooty
salesclerks and their unspoken judgments terrified her.

“Um, I did write that, but—”

“I want to go shopping for a vintage wedding dress. With you,
Lacey.”

Me?
Dress shopping with Felicity Pickles?
Lacey
could hardly wrap her mind around it.
What have I done to deserve this? And
how can I tell her that a plus-sized vintage wedding gown is among the rarest
of all creatures? It would be like hunting a unicorn. A plus-sized unicorn.

“Shopping?” Lacey was appalled. “Together? You and me?”

“Anytime is good. As long as it’s right now. I like white,
but I’d be willing to consider something pastel.” Felicity’s voice sounded a
note of desperation.

“Right now?”
Think fast, Lacey.
“What about your maid
of honor? It’s really more of a maid-of-honor kind of thing. I bet she’d love
to go with you.”

“She’s in Pittsburgh. Besides, I can’t wait to order a bridal
gown. We’ve kind of moved the wedding up.”

“Moved it up!” It was suddenly hard for Lacey to breathe.
“And it’s going to be three whole days? You said it was going to be in
September. In Pittsburgh.” If it were in the fall, Lacey could put off thinking
about it. Now it was practically breathing down her neck. All three days of it.

“We think a summer wedding here would just be so much nicer,”
Wiedemeyer put in. “Outdoors. In July. In D.C.”

“A July wedding! Here? Seriously? Pretty steamy.” More than
steamy.
Insanity.
It would be like having a wedding inside an oven. In a
gingerbread house. In the woods.

“Steamy like our love,” Felicity said, beaming at her
intended.

You didn’t really just say that, did you?
A wedding in
a torrid D.C. July would make dresses stick to the skin. Hair would droop or
frizz. Makeup would melt. Tempers would flare. “What about the bridesmaid
dresses?” Lacey managed to say.

“Hillary, you know, my maid of honor, she’s working on that.
She’ll be in touch with you soon.”

Lacey had no idea who Hillary was. She could hardly wait to
meet her. “I don’t know, Felicity, there just isn’t a lot of time to find
something you like and get it reworked and—”

“Lacey, you saved my life once. You can do it again. Besides,
it’s just
clothes
. It’ll be a snap for you.”

“Just clothes?”
Just stab me.

“Exactly. We could go shopping today. Over lunch.”

“Lunch!” Lacey’s head was spinning.

“I’m sure Mac won’t mind if we take a long lunch. In a good
cause.”

Mac stood waiting, munching another doughnut. If Felicity was
unhappy, she would stop baking. It had happened before. The inmates of
The
Eye
’s asylum had been miserable. There would be no decadent delicacies, no
fattening desserts, no savory casseroles, no little sugar-filled pick-me-ups.
And if there was no food, Mac would be unhappy. Nobody wanted an unhappy
editor. Unhappy editors barked orders and made unreasonable demands. Felicity
gazed meaningfully at the towering doughnut concoction on her desk.

Lacey reached for her bottle of Advil. She swallowed two
pills with the last sip of the brew in her cup.

“Well, Mac?”
Please say no. Please, please, please…

“Yeah, sure. Go for it.” Mac’s eyebrows settled complacently
under his bald dome. “Felicity’s food section is finished. Take a couple
hours.”

Lacey grabbed her raincoat in a daze. “I have an interview at
four on K Street. With Thaddeus T. Granville. I can’t be late.”

Mac looked suspicious. “The political fixer? About what?
Clothes?”

“Possibly. That’ll do.”

“This will be such fun, Lacey! We’ll take my new minivan.”
Felicity had insisted on replacing her old, exploded minivan with another one
just like it. In gray. “You’ll love it. You want to drive?”

The humiliations just keep coming.