10 Lethal Black Dress (16 page)

“But this
is
my favorite! I don’t want to let it go.
What if someone snatches it away?”

The store was empty, the bridal rack deserted, and Felicity
had the only dressing room in use. It wasn’t exactly bridal mania, with
desperate women going
mano a mano
over the last white dress.

“Okay. This is the dress. But you’re going to need special
underwear for that dress, too.”

“Special underwear? What kind of underwear?” Felicity looked baffled.
“Why?”

“Look at yourself. Your bra straps are visible. You’ll need a
strapless bra, one with support. Major support. Like a corset, or a merry
widow. New, not used, in your size. With a professional fitting. It is
absolutely essential. Do you understand? And let me make this perfectly clear,
Felicity: You’re on your own for that shopping trip.”

Felicity ignored her, staring at the person she loved most in
the world: herself. She spun around to see the back view.

“Oh my God,” she exclaimed. “It’s beautiful. I love it.
Harlan will love it. Harlan will faint.”

I may faint. Any minute.

“Now all I need is a tiara and a lace veil,” Felicity added,
gazing hopefully at Lacey.

“Up to you. And proper undergarments and the right shoes and
a dozen other things. None of which you will find here.” Lacey realized she
hadn’t had lunch. She needed protein. Her head hurt again.

“Are you sure?” Felicity peeked around her toward the dress
rack, as if bridal undergarments might magically appear there.

“I’m sure.” Lacey sneezed. Spring was in the air and so was
the pollen, not to mention a rack full of dusty wedding dresses. “Let’s buy
this dress and get out of here.”

“You’re not getting sick, are you? I can’t get sick. I’ve got
things to do.”

“Sick?” It was a chance to escape. “Yes! Very sick.” She
faked another sneeze. “I should get back to the office. Cold coming on. Or the
flu. That Killer Flu that’s going around. Shall I undo your buttons?”

“No! Don’t touch! And don’t sneeze on me! I can manage.”

Felicity bustled off to the dressing room and emerged in
record time, her arms full of the dress, its voluminous skirt spilling onto the
floor. She didn’t seem concerned about sweeping a muddy thrift store floor with
her wedding gown.

“You’ll probably want to take it to the cleaners,” Lacey
pointed out.

“Why? It’s brand-new.”

“Right. But the skirt is wrinkled, it has smudges from your
hands, and you’re dragging the hem on the floor.”

“I can iron it. I’ll sponge out the spots. I don’t want to
take it to a dry cleaner. It might shrink.”

“Fine, Felicity. Fine.”

Lacey’s head throbbed as they loaded Felicity’s big purchase
into the minivan. She texted Vic as they pulled away.

“Dinner?” All she had to do was get through her interview
with Granville first.

Vic texted back. “Where and when?”

“Steak at six,” she texted. “Rare. Anywhere.”

Felicity was racing her minivan back to the office like a
woman possessed. “If you’re getting sick, Lacey, could you breathe out the
window?”

If you open this window, I’m jumping out.
“So,
Felicity,” she said, “you really don’t mind buying your wedding dress at
Goodwill?”

“Mind?! I’m thrilled!” Felicity shouted over the roar of the
speeding minivan. “The tag doesn’t say Goodwill, it says ‘Curvaceous Bride.’
I’m keeping the tag for my scrapbook. I have my dress and it was a steal. And
so easy! Now all I have to do is find a veil and a tiara and some shoes and
stuff. How hard can that be? I mean, come on, Lacey, this was a
snap
.”
She laughed. “And you made this wedding dress thing sound so hard!”

Lacey Smithsonian’s FASHION
BITES

Eastern
Standard Geek:
A Primer

Washington, D.C., is legendary for
having more spies per square mile than any other city on Earth. But I’m willing
to bet it also has more geeks per square foot than any other place on Earth. Many
wear a style I’ve affectionately dubbed Eastern Standard Geek.

You may have
pondered this popular fashion statement on the Metro, or on the streets of
Dupont Circle, Capitol Hill, or Adams Morgan. Or in the fast-food restaurants on
M Street while you grab your lunch. You may feel moved to imitate this look, to
fit in with the local geeksters. Pay no attention if you hear the occasional
snicker.

Timeless
(and clueless) geekiness has always been in style in the Nation’s Capital. But “Geek
Chic” is now the hot look in hip boutiques and vintage shops inside and outside
the Beltway. Is it really chic? Is it merely “preppy” on steroids, or “nerdy” with
a degree in an obscure field? Is Geek Chic the silent uniform that rules the
street scene of D.C.? Could your personal look be the True Geek Chic, or a distinctive
subspecies? You be the judge. I offer a formula for the elements that go into
the unique D.C. Geek Chic look, so that you, the dedicated follower of fashion,
may recognize it. Or imitate it.

The Math of Eastern
Standard Geek

Is there a
mathematical equation that describes this look? Why yes, there is! Let’s go to
the chalkboard.

Capitol
Hill drone
times
preppy squared
plus
tech nerd
plus
advanced degree
minus
social and sartorial skills
equal
s
Washington D.C. Eastern Standard Geek.

The
absentminded Georgetown professor, the Foggy Bottom think tank geek, the Capitol
Hill drone, the Congressional aide, intern, and assistant, these are all
classic examples of the Eastern Standard Geek. Male or female, young or old, or
any variation, all are from educated backgrounds and work, study, and play in a
uniquely Washingtonian social setting. They are far too busy and important to
care about what they look like or what they wear—or they choose to
appear
to be.

That self-aware
choice is what turns un-ironic Eastern Standard Geek into Geek Chic. The true
ESG is generally happy merely to have gotten dressed. So what if your socks
don’t match? If the tie clashes, or the tights are torn? These anti-style visual
keynotes are the security blanket of Eastern Standard Geek, also known as the
look of the Prematurely Serious.

Today’s
Eastern Standard Geeks are teched out with tablets and iPhones and smart watches.
They no longer carry leaky fountain pens in a pocket protector in their
polyester shirts. They don’t merely wear glasses, they wear Google Glasses.
They are secure that their facts and figures are straight, even if their seams
are not. They are more casual and less self-aware of their chosen look than are
the Geek Chic.

Three Shades of Geek:
Geek Chic, Geek Noir, and Hipster Geek

The poster
girl for
Geek Chic
is the “sexy librarian,” the coolly sophisticated
woman who turns into a Geek Goddess when the spectacles are tossed and the
pinned-up hair tumbles down.

The poster
boy for Geek Chic
,
bespectacled Clark Kent, is the prototype Chic Geek,
although more muscled. The man from Planet Krypton was aware of the costume
aspects of playing Clark Kent and the importance of urban camouflage. Beneath
those square suits and glasses, and that “Yes, Chief,” and “Gosh, Miss Lane,
would you like some coffee” attitude, he was Superman! With his glasses off,
his hair was a shiny blue-black with an adorable curl on his forehead, his eyes
were bluer than blue, and his physique is what Geek Chic aspires to when the
lights are low.

Geek Noir
is a subset of Geek Chic. It sports
the same basic style notes, only darker. It wears black and wants to look
dangerous
.
It pretends to be edgy. But this is D.C., so edgy belongs in the theatre or the
9:30 Club, not in the halls of Congress, or in the K Street lobbying corridor,
or at high-priced law firms.

Hipster
Geek
is basically
Geek Chic with an attitude and a little hipster fedora. Hipsters are too cool
for school. Geeks love school. You know who you are.

Geek Chic Do’s

Argyle
sweaters and
socks,
sweater
vests, cardigans, Oxford cloth shirts, and bow ties.

Plaid
is acceptable, but in
only one item at a time: the shirt but not the pants, or the pants but not the
jacket. Especially avoid three or more different plaids worn together.

Khaki
is not
merely
acceptable
for Geek Chic, it’s practically required. Wear it in shirts and
slacks and additionally, for the women, skirts.

Navy
jackets or
blazers
in
good condition are always acceptable, and in fact, often required.
Tailoring is a friend to this look.

Penny
loafers polished
to
a
high gloss. Pennies are optional, though a true Geek wouldn’t see the
point.

Geek Chic Don’ts

Geek
Chic does not
involve
clothes held together with tape, safety pins, staples or bread wrapper
ties. Those are in the purview of the Nerd. No short-sleeve polyester shirts,
no hanging hems, and no knuckle-dragging sleeves, please. No high-water
trousers. Capris are different.
Really.

No
pleated-from-the-waistband
slacks or skirts. Geek Chic does not mean adding ten pounds to your waistline,
even if you are a 90-pound weakling.

No
mashups of
a
multitude
of patterns, stripes, and plaids. The person wearing a trio of
conflicting plaids may be a genius, but their style statement says, “I am
insane.” Compare and contrast: Clark Kent and the Nutty Professor.

Messy
electro-fried
hair
with
a mind of its own is reserved for Albert Einstein.

Dear Fashionable
Reader, if you choose to go Geek in any variation, be aware of what your look
is saying. Wear what you mean and mean what you wear. The essential difference
lies between your personal style statement and clueless imitation.

Geek guys
and gals, you with your horn rims, your bow ties and suspenders, your high-flying
hipster ponytails, geek on! Let your Geek flag fly, whether Chic, Noir, or
Hipster. We can’t stop you, and we will learn to appreciate you.

Besides, we
need you to fix the printer.

CHAPTER 19

The offices of Thaddeus T.
Granville
perched high above a corner
of K Street, Washington’s bustling hotbed of lawyers and lobbyists. The suite
was large and appropriately intimidating, though more modern than Lacey
expected. There were no antique, rococo, or Southern antebellum touches, as
there were on the man himself.

The floor-to-ceiling windows looked down from the fifth floor
on the street below. There was no sound from the K Street traffic. The
furniture was sleek and chrome with a mid-century feel, upholstered in smoky
blue and set against pale gray walls. The latest news magazines were placed
with precision on the glass coffee table.

 The receptionist was young and blond and well-dressed, in
blue and gray, as if coordinated with the decor. She placed a call and
delivered Lacey to Granville’s corner office, which was furnished in the same
manner. He came around the huge lacquered desk and offered his hand. They shook.

“You have lovely offices,” she said, because it was the thing
to say.

“Thank you. I selected the space myself. You work hard in
this country, you can wind up here. In the corner office.” There was a hint of
self-satisfaction in the air as he swept his arm around.

She wasn’t sure she wanted an office like this. Granville’s
suite was too antiseptic and stark for her. Nothing warm or personal, no
bookcases, no books. The difference between a newspaper’s office and a
lobbyist’s was vast. Lacey rather enjoyed the controlled chaos of the newsroom
and a never-ending availability of stimulation. And reading material.

Granville, on the other hand, was more interesting than his
space. He was the peacock in his pen. He wore a blue seersucker suit, a pale
lavender shirt, and a blue-and-pink bow tie. A lavender hanky peeked out of his
pocket. On his feet were baby blue bucks, without smudge or crease. His graying
hair was in its trademark Mark Twain tangle, which probably took his stylist hours
to achieve. His mustache was trimmed. Lacey detected a hint of woodsy cologne.
He looked like he should be sipping a mint julep on a Southern porch with white
pillars, instead of holding court in a K Street lobbying firm.

“How do you do, Ms. Lacey Smithsonian,” he drawled, his Deep
South accent smooth as honey. “You must be the star style writer at Claudia
Darnell’s paper. Do give my regards to Claudia, by the way. She’s quite a lady.”

“Thank you for seeing me, Congressman.” Thaddeus Granville
was many years out of public office, but in the etiquette of Washington
honorifics, once a congressman, always a congressman. Until and unless you rose
higher on the public ladder.

“My pleasure.”

“I see you’ve broken out the summer wardrobe early. Very
dapper, I must say.” Lacey couldn’t help herself. She was fascinated by anyone
as dedicated to expressive personal fashion as he obviously was.

“My
seasonal plumage. Why wait until Memorial Day? All of this color makes me a
character
,
of course,” he acknowledged with a smile. “I like it when people notice my
efforts. I expect them to. In my business, it is important that people remember
me. Not to mention that people have come to expect a certain standard of dress
from me. I try not to disappoint.” Lacey knew that pressure well herself. “Besides,
seersucker makes good sense here in the semi-tropical District of Columbia.
Would you care for tea? I generally find a cup restorative at this time of
day.”

“No, thank you.”

“Let me know if you reconsider.”

He checked his pocket watch, and in one second, at precisely
four p.m., the receptionist came in with a tray. On it were a china teapot and
matching cups. She placed it on the chrome coffee table between them. He waited
to seat himself and ready his tea until Lacey took a seat opposite him.

“Ms. Smithsonian, what brings you all the way to K Street?”

“It’s only one block from Eye Street, Congressman. And you
went to Courtney Wallace’s funeral.”

“No beating around the bush. Good, I don’t like to waste time
either. I did go to her funeral. As did you. I read your story about her
‘lethal black dress,’ as you called it, in
The Eye Street Observer
. Oh
yes, I do read your newspaper. And I saw your small story this morning. I was
gratified that you quoted me correctly. I keep up personally on all the major
newspapers and broadcast and online media, particularly since the—incident with
Ms. Wallace. Your original article was very informative, too.” Granville seemed
amused. “Toxic fabric, a dye which may have contributed to Napoleon’s demise? A
very baroque method of death.
”

“The police think it was an accident.”

He dropped a sugar cube into his Earl Grey tea and stared at
her. “You don’t think so?”

“Frankly, I don’t know what I think yet, Congressman. You
didn’t like Courtney Wallace.” She leaned forward.

“That’s putting it lightly. I had no reason to like her, or
respect her. That young idiot tried to destroy me. Without a clue, which makes
it worse.” He burst out laughing. “In short, I despised her. But I didn’t put
her in that dress. I may have some small reputation as a mastermind of the
subtle art of politics, but I didn’t choose her wardrobe for her. Nor could I
fathom such a bizarre method of revenge. If I were so inclined.”

“Revenge?”

“Revenge. You do not suffer the slings and arrows of a media
harlot like Courtney Wallace without hoping for some opportunity to even the
score. But I would have wanted to do it in some way so that she would have to
live with it. Not die with it.”

“You didn’t want her to die?”

He smiled. “Not at all. Living, and suffering, is more
instructive. I know from experience. Her contract at Channel One was coming up
for renewal. I was in a position to know it wouldn’t be renewed. No matter what
kind of spectacle she pulled out of a hat. She tried to dip below the radar,
with soft news features. Change her profile. It did no good. She would soon be
through in television. Heaven knows she didn’t have the chops to be a real
reporter. Washington was not being robbed of a future Woodward or Bernstein.”

“We agree on that,” Lacey said. “But she didn’t get that
chance.”

“Fate, it appears, took her destiny out of my hands. And
hers.” He shrugged and stirred his tea.

“Why did you go to the funeral?”

“Simple. To get the last word. Important in this game we
play.”

Does he really think this is a game?
Lacey wondered.
He
might.
“You’re not sorry she’s dead, though.”

“No. I’m not. My comments are not for the record, of course.
As we agreed.”

“If I want to use something, I will run it past you.” At
least he hadn’t demanded “deep background.” Politicians and reporters often had
very different opinions as to the definitions of “off the record,”
“background,” and “deep background.”

“Fair enough. Her funeral was an opportunity for me to be the
bigger man. I took it. I could look gracious, and indeed, I was feeling
gracious. No matter our sins, any death is still a loss and her family is
grieving. Yet as you know, after her character assassination on me, I had to do
what I could to save my career.”

After his run-in with Courtney Wallace, Granville reinvigorated
his career with renewed energy, lobbying and giving seminars about the havoc
that irresponsible, free-wheeling journalists could wreak on unsuspecting
victims in the public eye, and how to recover from slander and scandal. They
turned out to be very popular among politicians and CEOs.

“Do you think somebody planted that story? Someone used her?”

“Very likely. She believed one of my enemies. Someone lied to
her and she didn’t dig for the truth. Now, however, everyone knows she betrayed
all tenets of responsible journalism by slandering me with a blatantly false
story.”

“You quit the Swansdown campaign.”

“The campaign I was running, yes. That was a disaster, after
Wallace spread her pack of lies. My candidate was not happy either, though he
supported me. He knew there was only one way to regain his traction. For me to
leave.”

“That must have been very hard.”

He stirred his tea vigorously for a moment. “As if I would
ever attack the family of an opponent. For all I know his wife might well have
been a madam, or an escort. Makes no difference. It’s out of bounds. Every
political neophyte knows that. Whatever the candidate does or had done is fair
game. But their family and relatives? Hands off.”

“His wife took an overdose.”

“Regrettable. Wallace’s damage spread far and wide. I lost my
best clients.”

“You’ve made a remarkable comeback.”

“Yes. I have.” Whatever Granville might have been guilty of,
it did not seem to be false modesty. “I had to find a new passion, a new
direction in my life. However, I’m not about to thank Wallace for that. I was
very comfortable in my old life.”

“You have lectures and workshops, a successful speaking
career.”

“Presentations on the pitfalls of an unrestrained press. I
counsel people and corporations on how to deal with the media, before, during,
and after they’ve been scorched by them. A reputation, once wounded publicly,
is difficult, if not impossible, to recapture. In my case, the damage was
exacerbated when the other media picked up her allegations. Television,
newspapers, magazines, the Web. All of them had an opportunity, indeed an
obligation, to check their facts and report the truth. And they did not.”

“You have recovered, though.”

“In part. Only because I knew how it could be done. It has
cost me.”

“And now she’s dead.”

“Yes, she is. And I am alive to fight another day.” He waved
his tea cup for emphasis. “Are you sure you won’t join me? Earl Grey. It’s
quite nice.”

“Thank you, but I’ve had too much caffeine already.”

“I take it you’re following up on your article on the so-called
‘Lethal Black Dress.’ I must confess, I think that was a clever turn of
phrase.” He smiled again. “What else did you call it? The Madame X dress?”

“It did seem to be a copy of that famous dress. But I haven’t
determined yet if there is more to the story.”

 “It would be a good story though, wouldn’t it? If you found
out that someone really had managed to kill her, in such a strange way, in such
a safe place. Some fiend, foisting hazardous haberdashery on unsuspecting
fashion victims?”

“I don’t think my editor would let me run with that
headline.”
Although with Mac “Terror at Timberline” Jones,
she thought,
you
never know.
“At any rate, curiosity is one of my failings.”

“Then you must
not
be the cat that’s killed. Tell me,
Ms. Smithsonian. Am I to expect a visit from the police?”

“Not that I’m aware of. The police believe this is a
one-in-a-billion freak accident.”

“That’s where the smart money is. For the record, I had
nothing to do with the death of Courtney Wallace. In any case, my approach to
problems has often been called ‘ham-fisted’ and ‘hammer-wielding.’ I have no
grasp of anything so devious and clever as lining a dress with poisoned fabric,
though I can appreciate the concept in an academic sense.”

“Do you think there’s a possibility it was murder?”

“Theoretically, I suppose. In fact, I believe Courtney
Wallace was done in by a most peculiar twist of fate. If it was by a deliberate
act, the perpetrator strikes me as probably female. Poison is most commonly a
female weapon, I believe. Poison and clothes? Stitchery and witchery, if you
like.”

“Do you know anyone capable of killing her? Female or
otherwise?”

“Seems to me finding someone like that would be more up your
alley than mine. You have a decided talent for discovering the macabre in a
yard of material.” He finished his tea and set the cup down carefully. “I’ve
heard it said that Courtney stole many of
your
ideas. I wouldn’t think
you would particularly care about why she died, or what really happened. After
all, a sneak thief and character assassin is dead. Peace reigneth once more in
the land.”

“I want to know what really happened. And I might be more
curious about that dress than about Courtney. That’s probably a personal
failing too.”

“Ah, yes. The curious cat. An honest answer. Thank you for
that. And for coming to me to ask your questions, not just pulling the answers
out of the air. You can be sure I will be following your every story.”

Was that a threat?
If it was, Granville could
certainly deliver a threat with a charming smile.

“If I want to quote you, Congressman, you can be sure I will
call to confirm.”

“And I will welcome your call, Miss Smithsonian. Any time.
We’ll meet again for tea.”