10 Lethal Black Dress (17 page)

CHAPTER 20

“It’s Will Zephron. You know,
the
actor. Can we meet?”

“Why not?” This day was feeling like it would never end. “Can
you come over to
The Eye
?”

Lacey was on Seventeenth Street heading back there when her cell
phone jingled. She skipped the short cab ride in favor of walking. By the time
she left Granville’s office, the sun was out and steam was rising from the
streets.

“I can’t. I’m auditioning at the JCC this afternoon and I’m
up next. Meet me here? I’ve remembered something about that night.”

Apparently it was too top-secret to relate over the phone.
Lacey didn’t really mind, she generally got better information face to face.

Lacey turned around and headed up Sixteenth Street. The
Jewish Community Center and its well-regarded professional theatre were less
than a mile away, and hailing a cab at rush hour was a lost cause. The walk also
allowed her to think about what Granville had told her. On the surface it
didn’t seem like much.

The young thespian was waiting on the steps of the JCC, the
stately building on Sixteenth Street, not far from The Spotlight Restaurant.
Auditions apparently were still in progress and Zephron had just finished his.
He wore black jeans, black shirt, and black running shoes, indicating he took
his work as an actor seriously, or perhaps he had an additional part-time job
as a mime. Slung over his shoulder was a battered leather messenger bag,
presumably full of play scripts and head shots.

“You ran out on me,” she said. “The other day at the
restaurant.”

“Sorry about that. I was totally blown. My mind, I mean.” He
rubbed his hands through his hair, then grinned sheepishly. “Forgive me.”

The actor was more in control now, but there was no telling
when he might fly away again. She suspected he’d been rehearsing what he was
going to say to her. Dramatically, with sincere emphasis here and an earnest
nod there. Cue the winning smile. Perhaps he had decided he was at the center
of a great big story and he didn’t want to miss his moment. Perhaps he really
was scared.

“I’ve been trying to reconstruct exactly what happened. At
the Correspondents’ Dinner,” he said. “To see if I could remember any more
about the, um, incident.” He paused and took a breath. He sipped from a bottle
of water before resuming. “I don’t want to be responsible for someone’s death.
I’m haunted by her. By Courtney Wallace. She wants justice. She screams at me
in my dreams. But at the time I was just pissed off because I spilled the
drinks. I keep replaying it in my mind.”

“You told me that.”

“I know, but now I’m really
feeling
it. It’s scary.
Someone pushed me. I’m sure of it.”

“Did you remember anything more? Like who pushed you? Can we
narrow it down to a man or a woman?”

Sitting on the steps of the JCC on a pretty afternoon after
the rain with a breeze spraying pollen on her was certainly better than
returning to the office, she told herself. Even if she had to sit through
Zephron’s one-man show on a slightly damp step.

“I was in waiter mode.” Zephron stood and mimicked holding a
tray. He reached out and offered imaginary drinks to imaginary partygoers. Lacey
took one. “Just cruising along. Seeing what I could use. You know what I mean.
For my craft. My acting. It’s character work. A dinner like that, I get to
observe all the Washington types and the Hollywood types together. For
instance: George Clooney was there with his girlfriend or fiancée or wife, or
whatever of the moment. He looked great, but you know what’s strange? I’m
taller than Clooney, and well, obviously younger, but he looked so small.”

“I saw the knot of women surrounding him,” she said. “I
couldn’t tell his fiancée from the rest.”

“Me neither. There were other big-name actors too, a lot of
them. Most have probably lifted a tray at one time or another. I couldn’t see
it with Clooney though.”

“See what? Him waiting tables?”

“No, the charisma. The fabled thing he has. Maybe it just
shows up on screen, not in person. Sometimes it’s like that. And vice versa. Some
of the greatest stage actors don’t have the right stuff on camera. Like people
who are beautiful but don’t photograph well? Clooney had this distant look.
Bored out of his gourd while trying to seem interested and amused. He’s into
politics, I guess, so he goes to this important dinner, but he still has to
play the movie star. It’s old hat for him, so he’s always looking past you.
Like this.”

Zephron posed in his impersonation of the Clooney bored-but-half-amused
look. He wrinkled his forehead in concentration, but let his eyes wander in
every direction, seeking someone more important to schmooze with.

“That’s good.” Lacey laughed. He might not really remind her
of Clooney, but he had captured a look, a distinctly Hollywood-meets-D.C. moment.

“Thank you.”

“You’re digressing.”

“I know. I’m using my sense memory to reconstruct the scene.”
He inclined his head slightly. “Clooney was surrounded by women. Not all movie
stars. Frumpy reporter types too.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Not you. You’re different. I remember you. You were in a
fabulous blue gown. Period piece, right? I don’t see you playing the groupie.
I’m talking about the rest of them, media worker drones in their stretchy black
dresses from discount stores. I’ve seen actresses look better borrowing random
costumes from the backstage shop in the dark. Courtney Wallace was hot too. Her
dress was different, sexy. You called it something?”

“The Madame X dress.”

“That’s it. I was watching her. She glided into the room just
before Clooney worked his way out. He wouldn’t talk to her. He put his hand out
like ‘stop.’ The cameraman caught it all. I felt a little sorry for her, being
dissed by that guy on camera. I don’t usually talk to people at these things,
but I’ve seen some clips of her now, since it happened, and she seemed friendly
on television. Big smile.” Zephron lifted his imaginary tray. “ ‘Ms. Wallace,
would you care for champagne?’ But she didn’t even look at me. Most people at
least nod. A lot of people say ‘Thank you.’ Even George Clooney smiled and said
‘No, thank you.’ I felt disrespected in a big way by her. That’s the key.”

“What’s the key? Being disrespected?”

“How I
felt.
That’s how I can reconstruct the event.
Through my emotions. She made me feel low, depressed. A nobody waiter in a
crowd of important people. It stung. I am somebody. People are going to
remember me someday.”

Celebrities could do that, Lacey reflected, especially at an
event where people fawned over boldface actors and politicians. They sucked
energy out of the room, as if it were their due, and they left people like
Zephron downgrading themselves, feeling even less important than when they
walked through the door. It could be a dangerous feeling.

“What was she doing? Who was nearby when it happened?”

Lacey figured if someone had managed to convince Courtney to
wear the dress with the Paris Green lining, he or she could find a way to slam
into a waiter with a tray of drinks at precisely the right time. And they
wouldn’t leave the scene. They would stay to witness the champagne spill. To
see Courtney’s humiliation. They might even be on camera. The tool didn’t have
to be Will Zephron, it could have been any waiter in the room, anyone in the
right place at the wrong time.

Or was the waiter included in their plans? Did they recruit him
to spill the drinks on her? No, Lacey thought, it was too risky to involve a
third party. Especially an actor who couldn’t keep his mouth shut. It would be
better to manage it alone, without anyone else knowing or suspecting.

“She was trying to snag interviews for TV, so she was scoping
out the important people. Like everybody else. Because she had a microphone in
her hand and a camera guy behind her, she assumed people would talk to her.” Zephron
mimicked her. “ ‘Oh, hi! I’m Courtney Wallace for Channel One and I’d just
love
to ask you about your
dress
. It’s
fabulous
! Is it Givenchy?
Armani? Versace? Gucci? Pucci? Hoochie-coochie?’ As if anyone in that crowd
would be wearing a real designer.”

Except me. And maybe some of the Hollywood imports
.
“You said someone pushed you.”

He closed his eyes and reached behind him, discarding the
imaginary tray. “Yes. Two hands, one in the middle of my back, one on my elbow.
Fast and hard. And then—” The imaginary tray came back. He demonstrated how the
tray went up and over as he spilled the champagne glasses.

“They pushed your elbow up?”

“Like it was hinged. Well, it is hinged. But I wasn’t
expecting it.”

“The crowd was practically elbow to elbow. Someone could have
stumbled against you,” she suggested.

“No. If someone stumbled, they would be off balance and they probably
would have fallen. Or grabbed at me to hold on. They didn’t. No one actually
fell down, not all the way. Not even me. So whoever pushed me was
not
off balance. It was deliberate.”

“Does your sense memory tell you anything else?”

He closed his eyes again in thought. “Small hands.”

“Are you sure?”

“They felt small. Or maybe they were fists. Pushing just hard
enough to set things flying.”

“In which case it could have been a man or a woman.”

“The other television reporter was there.” He rubbed his
temple, as if that helped.

“Zanna Nelson?”

“Who’s that? No, I’m talking about Eve Farrand. The
dark-haired one with the sexy growl. I saw her on the news last night and
remembered she was there. She wore something light that night. Maybe white? That’s
why I noticed her. She was with a guy. Tall. A pretty boy.”
Said one pretty
boy about another.

“I don’t remember seeing Eve there,” Lacey said.
Or Drake
Rayburn, her pretty boy.
After first telling Lacey he never watched TV, now
Zephron seemed to know quite a lot about the players.

“Why would you? You were looking at Courtney Wallace, like everyone
else. God, how embarrassing. Even more embarrassing than it was for me. Eve
Farrand dodged out of the way when the champagne flew. I remember seeing her
feet running to the back of the room, near the doors to the patio.”

“Her feet?”

“Hey, I was bending over, picking up broken champagne
glasses. I saw the light-colored skirt and light high-heeled sandals. That funky
beige nail polish too, I remember that. But she didn’t leave. Her dress wasn’t
ruined, so I guess she stayed to watch Courtney’s moment of mortification.”

“Reporter’s instinct. Could she be the one who pushed you?”

“No idea. I didn’t see her till I saw her running. But right
then everyone was running, scrambling out of the way.”

“Anything else you remember? Your emotional memory?”

“Courtney. Screaming at me. The bitch. It wasn’t my fault. I
felt sick to my stomach. And there was this funny smell. A little like onions
or garlic? It wasn’t the hors d’oeuvres.”

Lacey marveled at how Courtney Wallace had changed over the
course of Zephron’s re-enactment, from glorious to horrible, from a beautiful,
friendly TV personality with a microphone and the ability to bring someone out
of obscurity, to a high-handed bitch. All in the time it took to break a glass.

The Will Zephron show was winding down. The wind picked up. Lacey
stood and stretched.

“How long did you work that evening?”

“Not much longer. The cocktail parties were breaking up,
everyone was leaving to go in to the dinner. I was exhausted, humiliated,
bummed out. They didn’t need me after that anyway. After the big dinner event,
everyone who’s anyone heads to the
Vanity Fair
after-party. Did you go?”

“I gave it a pass,” she said.
Ah yes, the party to which
neither I nor anyone from
The Eye Street Observer
was invited.

“It wasn’t a bad gig until I was pushed,” Zephron reflected.
“Everything went south from there. Are you going to put all of this in the
paper?”

“If I do, I promise to get it right, and I’ll spell your name
correctly.”

“Could you mention that I’m an actor? Equity, by the way.” He
reached into his messenger bag. “And if you need a photo, here, take one of my
new headshots.”

CHAPTER 21

“Hard day at the office,
dear?” Vic
smirked at her from across the table. “You went shopping with Ms. Pickles! Good
God. Are there photos documenting this unlikely occurrence? I say, pics or it
didn’t happen.”

“Boy, I hope there aren’t any pics.” Lacey slumped in her
seat.

“Sometimes your better nature gets you into trouble.”

“It had nothing to do with my better nature. It had
everything to do with keeping my job bearable. And getting cornered, like a rat
in a trap. Not very noble, I’m afraid.”

“You still get points, just for going. And you found her a
dress. Bonus points.”

Lacey was so tired she could hardly concentrate on the menu.
She set it down and leaned against the back of the booth. The waitress quietly
materialized.

“Filet mignon, medium rare, please. And a gin and tonic.”

Vic took her to a new steak restaurant in Arlington, not far
from his Rosslyn office building. The décor was warm and cozy, all dark wood
with a pressed-tin ceiling and windows overlooking the lights of Georgetown.
The wood-burning grill smelled wonderful. Lacey turned off her cell phone. The
world would be fine without her for one evening.

“Same. Thanks. Oh, and a baked potato, loaded.” Vic handed
his menu to the waitress, who departed. “Consider it your good deed for the
day,” he said to Lacey.

“It better count for more than that. Felicity wouldn’t even
try on the other dresses. They might have looked better, you know. At least the
one she picked fit. A miracle. For which I’ll take those bonus points.”

“At least she’ll be dressed.”

“I have to admit, on her wedding day every woman should be
able to look as ridiculous as she wants to. Whether she’s jumping out of a
plane in a Supergirl cape, or riding a unicorn, dressed as a fairy tale
princess. Or in a dress that looks like it could swallow a room-sized wedding
cake whole.”

“Think of how entertaining this wedding will be.” He took
hold of her hand. “And how much nicer ours will be.”

“If we run away. I’m still trying to find a way not to be a
bridesmaid.”

“Is that nice?”

“Oh, Vic, I’d be doing her a favor too. She’d be just as
relieved as I would if I could wiggle out of it. She knows it, I know it, and
everyone at
The Eye Street Observer
knows it.”

“And break Wiedemeyer’s heart? He thinks you and Felicity are
the best of friends. And I personally can’t wait to see what she’ll make you wear.
I bet it’s something—
poufy
. Maybe even
froufrou
.”

“You think it’s funny now, Victor Donovan. I will look
fabulous in froufrou, if I consent to wear froufrou. I will be
too too
froufrou.”

Vic was still laughing when the gin and tonics arrived.
“Darling, you’ll be beautiful no matter how outlandish the outfit.”

“Outlandish? If the bride’s dress is merely insane, the
bridesmaids will have to look bonkers. It’s a law of the universe.” She
detected the aroma of steaks, heading their way. “At any rate, I might have
found a lead on where Wallace found that fatal gown.”

“Still chasing the story? Sorry. Of course you are. Lacey,
sweetheart, I realize you’re going to chase this into the ground, at least
until you run out of leads, or steam, or villains. I just want to tell you to
be careful. I want to tell you stop, but I won’t. So I’ll just say—beware of
old clothes. ”

“Vintage. Not old. Vintage clothing. I’m glad you understand
that a woman’s got to do what a woman’s got to do.” She sipped her drink. “It
bugs me, you know, the freak accident part of it.”

“As odd as it seems, it could have happened that way.”

“If a tree is struck by lightning and falls on your car,
that’s a freak accident. Bad luck.”

“Or the Wiedemeyer jinx.”

“Granted. Or an act of God. The emerald green lining of that
dress was not an act of God, Vic. Somebody deliberately put that dress
together, a hundred years or more after the dye was known to be toxic. Who and
why, and how did it get onto Courtney Wallace’s back?”

Vic raised one dark brow. “You’re hypothesizing.”

“And how I could not know about a vintage clothing store in
Del Ray? It’s practically in my backyard.”

“I sense a field trip coming on.”

“Definitely.”

“Sweetheart, you are the only one who cares about that
dress.”

“I am not. Kepelov, for instance.”

“What’s Kepelov got to do with it?”

“He wants to get his hands on it and sell it to a museum, I
gather. He’s always a little hard to follow. But he wants to sell something to
somebody.”

“He’d sell his grandmother’s babushka if there was a buck in
it,” Vic said. “Or a ruble.”

“Good luck on that, Vic. Wallace’s mother says she wants it
destroyed.”

“As would any mother. But in Kepelov’s world, it may be a
commodity. I suspect he was always a secret capitalist, even in the KGB. What’s
the EFP saying?”

“EFP? Are you making fun of me?”

“No way. Your friends have mentioned it so often, it’s sunk
in. I believe. However, if you have any of those feelings, the ones that go
hand in hand with danger, tell me. Call me. Let me in on it.” He was beginning
to sound like Broadway Lamont.

“I’m not Spider-Man, I don’t have spidey senses.”

“No, you’re a lot spookier than Spider-Man. Cuter, too.”

“Thanks. In this case, something in my gut is telling me
there’s more going on here than meets the eye.”

“I was afraid of that.” Their steaks arrived, sizzling.
“Whatever you have in your gut, darling, let’s replace it with a steak.”