10 Lethal Black Dress (20 page)

CHAPTER 25

Ingrid Allendale’s shop, DECADES, WAS
Lacey’s only slender lead on the origin of Courtney’s Madame X dress, and it
was her last scheduled stop before going home. She’d called and got an
answering machine, but the recording said the shop would be open until five.
She barely made it.

She parked on Mount Vernon Avenue, the main drag of Del Ray,
and checked the address on her phone. Del Ray wasn’t her own neighborhood, but
it wasn’t far from her beloved Old Town, and it was charming, in its own way.
Less snooty, less expensive, less ostentatiously historic. More neighborly and
more down to earth, and with a wealth of shops and restaurants on the avenue.

Distracted by the line for ice cream snaking out of the Dairy
Godmother, Lacey almost missed the small, discreet sign:
Decades
, in an
antique gold script on a brown background. She hadn’t noticed it before. She
climbed the narrow steps to the shop, nestled unobtrusively above a music
store. The occasional sour note of violin lessons penetrated up through the
floorboards.

The store was full of artificial trees and paper-leaved
vines, hung with twinkling lights that made Lacey think of fireflies. The shop
was small, but the clothing was thoughtfully displayed, and not crammed so
tightly together that a customer couldn’t get a good look, which was one of
Lacey’s pet peeves about most vintage stores. The place had an elegant, upscale
feel that might have been snooty enough for Old Town, had Ingrid not been so
welcoming.

“I’m glad you found me,” Ingrid said. “I plan to get a bigger
sign. That one is too hard to see.”

“Good for your exclusivity, though.”

“Exclusivity can put you in the poorhouse,” she said with a
smile.

“True. Anyway, I got a tip you were here. From Killer Stash,
in Baltimore.”

“How sweet of them. I’ve only been here a couple of months,”
Ingrid said. “I came up from Charlottesville. I’m still unpacking and deciding
where to put things.”

Like most lovers of vintage, Ingrid clearly dressed from her
own stock. Her heart-shaped face, red lips, dark eyes, and short, dark, curled
hair, rather like a sculptured cap, evoked another era, as did the dress she
wore, a late Thirties bias-cut frock in a black and pink print. Almost like a
demure Betty Boop. She appeared to be mid thirty-something.

“You must be Ingrid? I’m Lacey Smithsonian,” she began.

“So nice to meet you. I recognized you from the photo on your
column. I like the pieces you write about vintage clothing the best. And you
wrote that article about the death of that TV reporter? Frightening. And
fascinating.”

“You won’t mind if I ask you some questions?”

“About the clothes? Of course not.”

“I’m particularly interested in the Madame X dress, the one
Courtney Wallace wore the night she died.”

Lacey pulled out an enlarged photo of Courtney from Hansen’s
archive. It was Courtney in full broadcast diva mode at the Correspondents’
Dinner: one hand on her hip, her blond mane and big smile blazing, thrusting
her microphone at some unseen celebrity. Unfortunately, the dress looked limp
after the dousing. Ingrid took the photo from her.

“The Madame X. Oh, dear. This must be after the champagne hit
it.” She sighed deeply, sadly. “I noticed it looked like that dress in the
painting too, with a few slight differences. Yes. It came from my shop. Right
here.”

Lacey felt a thrill. She had finally found a thread, and now
she would pull it to see where it led her. “What can you tell me about it?”

“I sold it, and not for a song, but reluctantly. I didn’t
want to sell it to that Courtney Wallace person, but she was so insistent, so
relentless, I feared I would never get her out of my shop unless I gave in.”

“Why didn’t you want to sell it?”

“Oh, I didn’t mind selling it. It was selling it to
her
that gave me pause. This may sound funny, but I have deep feelings about my
clothes.”

“It doesn’t sound funny at all. Not to me.”

Ingrid smiled and moved behind the counter to lay the photo
down flat. “Yes. You understand. I like your dress, by the way. High Forties.
Side zipper under the arm. The shoulder and hip embellishment firmly places it
there. This dress always puts you in a good mood, doesn’t it?”

“Always. I wear it when I don’t want to worry about what I’m
wearing.”

“I can tell. Let me see here.” Ingrid turned to her private
stock she kept on an upper rack behind the counter and pulled out a pale gold
gabardine jacket, with beading on the collar and breast pocket. “This would be
fabulous on you. Early Forties, possibly late Thirties. One of a kind. Came
from the same batch as the Madame X. Perfect for a cool spring day. And we’re
having a lot of those just now.”

“It’s lovely. Does it have a skirt?” Another connection.
Lacey was drawing a picture of the woman who owned the Madame X dress and this
jacket. They were exquisite.

“Alas, I was hoping it might turn up in that batch, but it
never did. It was probably worn without the jacket and simply wore out.”

“What about chocolate colored slacks with this?” Lacey
suggested. She reached for it delicately, running her fingers over the
beautiful weave of the gabardine. “I don’t know, it looks pretty snug.”

“Try it on, I think you’ll be surprised.”

Lacey gingerly put one arm through one sleeve, listening for
ripping seams. No rips. That was promising. Then the other. To her surprise it
fit like the proverbial glove, only better. The heavy satin lining gave it
weight and a proper drape. She looked around for a mirror.

“Right over there,” Ingrid said.

Lacey moved to the mirror and assessed her reflection. The
buttery gold color picked up the highlights in her hair. It was perfect. “I’m
in trouble now.”

“Does that mean you like it?” Ingrid was smiling gently.

“Not just
like
it. I love it. I might have to have
it.”

“I’m so pleased. It’s really not that expensive. And
certainly not the kind of thing you could pick up at the mall.”

“You’ve convinced me.” Lacey slipped it off and handed it
over to be rung up. “You were saying that you didn’t want to sell the Madame X
dress to Courtney Wallace.”

“Right. I thought something bad would happen—to the dress,
not the woman. Almost a premonition. She insisted. I ignored it. I wish I
hadn’t.”

“Something bad did happen.”

“I am seldom wrong.” Ingrid wasn’t boasting, simply
reporting.

“You haven’t talked to the police about it, though,” Lacey
asked. “Not even after you heard she died?”

“No one has asked me anything. Except you. Anyway, things
like premonitions would just confuse the police. Why borrow trouble?”

Indeed, why borrow trouble?
Lacey had borrowed quite
enough already. “Do you think it was a freak million-to-one accident, as the
police do?”

“I do not. For one thing, the lining of that dress, when I
sold it, was not green. It was never green. Certainly not Paris Green. I would
never knowingly resell a piece dyed in Paris Green. No, the lining was white.
Pure white silk, to flash through the cutouts in the skirt.”

“White?” Lacey felt an electric current run through her. “So
Courtney, or someone, changed it. When did she buy it?”

“Three weeks ago.”

“Did she say anything about replacing the lining?”

“No. Not that I recall. But the white lining was in bad
shape. It was a silk that had shattered. The fibers had deteriorated. Happens unpredictably
with silk, sometimes just from hanging in the closet all those years. A shame.”

“Do you know where the Madame X dress came from?”

“I do. My stock comes from various places. Dead stock, when I
can find it.” Ingrid referred to vintage clothes that had never been worn and
still had the original sales tags attached. Dead stock was highly coveted by
some vintage collectors. Others believed if a piece hadn’t sold the first time
around, there was something wrong with it, style-wise.

“That’s rare stuff.”

“True. People occasionally come through the door with a big
bundle of clothes. From an armful, I might find one piece I can use. There have
been times when other dealers have gone out of business and I’ve bought entire
store inventories, but that’s rare too. That particular dress and your new
jacket came from an estate sale in Richmond last fall. An old woman died, I
suppose, and her family sold everything through an estate sales house. I’m sure
they thought she was crazy for keeping all those antiquated clothes, the
families usually do, but my God, some of them were couture! New York, Paris,
Milan. Beautiful pieces. That dress was made for her. Your new old jacket, too.”

“Even though it seemed to be copied from the painting, which
was 1884, I’d say the dress was made in the early Forties,” Lacey said. “The
turn of the decade, before the wartime government regulations restricted
fabric, especially silk.”

“Precisely. Before all the silk went into parachutes. Just
what I was thinking. That metal zipper on the side, too, very common in the
early Forties. Possibly late Thirties. Very classy at the time, definitely
influenced by Hollywood. I wonder how she looked in it, that woman. Very
glamorous, I would guess.”

“Do you know her name?”

“No. I received no information about her or her family. The
estate sales people might know. I have their number somewhere. I’ll find it for
you.”

Every decade of fashion borrowed or incorporated details from
earlier ages, but the Madame X copy could not have been made before the
twentieth century, Lacey knew, because it wasn’t until 1913 that the modern
zipper appeared on the scene. By the late 1930s, metal zippers were commonly
used in men’s pants and were beginning to be used in women’s dresses. Only later
did plastic zippers supplement metal.

Courtney had changed the lining. So the Paris Green silk
might have been much older than the dress. Possibly from the mid nineteenth
century, as bizarre as that seemed. Unless someone managed to dye a batch of vintage
silk at a much later date. Lacey tried to visualize the Madame X dress with a
white silk lining. It might make better sense, stylistically. So where did the
Paris Green silk come from?

“You wouldn’t happen to have a photograph of the dress?”
Lacey inquired.

“Funny you should ask. Yes. I keep a photo inventory of all
my stock. Oh, not so much the common threads, cotton skirts and pants and so
on. But all the dresses, suits, jackets, hats, all the substantial pieces. I
have an online store too. They’re all on there.”

Antique clothing meets the twenty-first century, over the
Internet.

Ingrid moved behind the counter again and opened up her
laptop. She turned it around for Lacey to see. The Madame X dress was modeled
on a mannequin, with the skirt pinned to the upraised hand to show off the
cut-out pattern, the playing card suits. The lining was snow white.

“You see, it’s unique, beautifully designed, expertly
stitched, most likely by a professional seamstress, possibly in New York or
Paris. It’s not mass market. There were no tags. I’ve never sold anything else
quite like it.” She sighed.

“I can’t decide which lining I like best,” Lacey said. “The
white or the green.”

“The white. It never killed anyone.”

Ingrid printed a copy of her photo for Lacey. Side by side
with Hansen’s photo of Courtney, the change in the lining color made a striking
difference.

“Do you mind if I use all of this in a follow-up story?”

“You’re welcome to. Would you mind mentioning the location of
my shop?”

“I’d be happy to.”

“Nothing wrong with a little notoriety, and publicity.”
Ingrid smiled slowly. “I think I’ll wear more of a noir look for the rest of
the week. Please enjoy the jacket.”

With her beautiful new-yet-vintage gold gabardine jacket in
the car and the new knowledge that the original dress lining had been replaced,
Lacey’s EFP was humming.

She had tracked down the store where the dress was purchased.
She had found the thread she’d been looking for. But how could she keep pulling
it? Now she knew there was a brief window of a few weeks in which the lining
switch must have occurred. But that just opened up more questions. Did Courtney
know what she was doing? If not, who did? And where did the old green fabric—or
the brand-new dye—come from?

Courtney Wallace’s dress told a story, but Courtney had
listened to only a fraction of what it had to say. Lacey wanted to hear the
rest of the story. Curiosity, as she often said, was her failing.

And it killed the cat.

CHAPTER 26

Someone else knew the
lining
material had been switched.
Maybe that person knew even more.

The Madame X dress design details were complicated, and if
Lacey and Ingrid Allendale were right, it was more than seventy years old. No
amateur would attempt such a delicate job as relining the entire dress. It had to
be a professional seamstress or tailor. Whoever it was, they weren’t talking,
at least not to the media. No one had come forward to say they’d neatly stitched
in the cause of death. Perhaps, like Ingrid Allendale, they didn’t want to
borrow trouble, or feared they might be implicated in Courtney’s death, even
without intending it. Or there was a chance whoever it was knew exactly what
they were doing and would never come forward.

Nothing is ever easy,
Lacey thought.

At least she was finally at home in her apartment, lying on
her deep blue velvet sofa, and not at her desk in the newsroom. Phone calls
could be made anywhere. Even in a prone position. Even though she found it hard
to concentrate.

She tried not to be distracted by a bag of delicious treats she
picked up at the Cheesetique. The so-called cheese boutique in Del Ray was far
too tempting and far too close to Ingrid’s vintage shop, and Lacey found it
impossible to pass by without stopping in. Once inside, the aromas of delicious
cheeses from many lands and a gnawing hunger from missing lunch drove her to
purchase far too many assorted cheeses, meats, olives, and crackers. And a
bottle of Virginia Riesling that the girl at the counter recommended to
complement them all.

Lacey would rather plan an intimate dinner for two than think
about death, but the Paris Green mystery wouldn’t solve itself. Her cell phone
was in her hand. She thought about calling Courtney’s coworkers, like Eric Park
or Zanna Nelson, to ask where she usually took her clothes for alterations, but
Lacey didn’t think about it very long. If they were any kind of newshounds,
even broadcast newshounds, they would wonder why she was asking, connect her
question to the infamous dress, and launch their own hunt. Lacey decided
against it.

Courtney’s family was next. It was a long shot. Lacey called
Mrs. Wallace to see if she knew anything about the lining, or if she knew where
Courtney might have had the dress altered.

The woman was polite but brief on the phone. She had no idea
where her daughter would have gone for tailoring. Indeed, Courtney never told
her what dress she would wear to the dinner. Perhaps it was meant to be a
surprise, she said, her voice breaking. They didn’t talk about clothes much.

“I hate that dress,” Mrs. Wallace added. “If it weren’t for
that dress, and that idiot waiter, and that ridiculous dinner party, my baby
would be alive.”

Unless it wasn’t an accident—and if the dress had failed, someone
would probably try again
.

Lacey wanted to make sure she covered the waterfront. She
asked one more time. “What’s going to happen to the dress?”
Did she really
plan to burn it?

There was a pause. “My hands will never touch that dress. I
will never see that dress. I have no idea.”

 “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Wallace.” Lacey ended the
call. She decided against calling Courtney’s brother. If her mother didn’t know
anything about her daughter’s wardrobe, the brother certainly wouldn’t.

Courtney seemed to have had a remote relationship with her
family. Lacey formed a picture of a woman who couldn’t wait to leave her little
Maryland hometown for the bright lights of nearby Washington. Someone who might
say, “I’m too busy to come home, Mom, but you can always see me on TV!”

Who tailored Courtney’s dress? Did they know it was a
toxic time bomb?
Ingrid didn’t know, nor would the estate brokers who sold
it to her; the dress still had its original lining when they last saw it. Short
of calling every seamstress in the D.C. area, there was only one more person
Lacey could think of to ask about the green lining. And that person did not
want to talk to her.

“Hello, Alma? It’s Lacey—”

“Lacey Smithsonian, the answer is still no. No, no, no. I am
sewing for you no more. Never.
Comprende
?”

“This is not about me, Alma. I promise.”

“And none of your crazy friends either. It was even worse
with that crazy Stella and her crazy dress.”

“I’m so sorry,” Lacey started. She was saying that a lot
lately.

“Sorry? I’m lucky to be alive!” Alma was just getting started
too.

“And I’m grateful. I just have a question. Please don’t hang
up. Do you remember Courtney Wallace?”

“That TV reporter who died.” There was a snort on the other
end. “Another crazy friend of yours? Did you get her killed too?”

“I didn’t get anyone killed! Listen, this is about the dress
she was wearing.”

“The one that killed her? I’m not surprised to hear you’re
involved.”

Lacey paused to take a deep breath. Alma was entitled to a
little rant. Anyone would be entitled. Maybe it would make her feel better.

“I had nothing to do with it,” Lacey said. “She bought the
dress from a vintage store I didn’t even know about until today. I just found
the store. What I need to know—”

“You going to tell me there’s another haunted dress?
Everything is haunted when it comes to you.”

“That was a Russian shawl. And it wasn’t really haunted. I
don’t think. And the original silk lining of this dress was shattered, so
Courtney had a new lining put in. It would have been a tricky job. She must
have taken it to a local seamstress. That’s who I’m trying to find.”

“Where? Virginia or D.C., or heaven forbid, Maryland?”

“Courtney lived in Virginia. I’m guessing it was someone
here.”

“It wasn’t me, if that’s what you want to know. Someone else
sewed in the poison green lining. And don’t you be asking me to do such a
thing, Lacey Smithsonian!”

“You have been reading my column.”

“Maybe I was bored.”

“Do you have any ideas?”

“My only idea is I don’t sew for you or anyone you know, ever
again. Now I ask people, ‘Do you know Lacey Smithsonian?’ before I agree to do
any work for them. If the answer is yes, I say no.”

She’s really milking this.
“I never meant to put you
in danger, Alma, you know that. I simply thought you might have heard something
through the grapevine.”

“You think we got a union? Maybe a newsletter? You think we keep
poisoned material on hand so we can sew it into our clients’ clothes? Now that
I think about it, maybe I should get some, for the next crazy dress for Lacey
Smithsonian. Except there’s not going to be a next one!”

Patience, Lacey
.

“Alma. You are the best seamstress I know. There is poetry in
your hands, Alma. And I am sorry from the bottom of my soul that you were
involved with such a bad scene with Stella’s dress. I hope you are feeling
better now.” Lacey also hoped that Alma had the same curiosity most people had.
She prayed Alma would want to know the end of the story. “How is your shop?
Back in one piece?”

“Humph. My place will never be the same. And after all those
news stories about me and your crazy business with that
loquisima
woman.
I’m busier than ever. I suppose I could ask around among my ladies, see if
anyone heard anything or handled that green silk. Probably scared they’re gonna
die after touching it. Maybe I could make a couple of calls. For their own
safety, not for any other reason.”

“That would be great, Alma. I owe you.”

“Yes, you do.”

“If you turn something turn up, I will give you credit. In
the paper.”

“That would be a start.” Alma hung up the phone. In the best
of times, she was not one for sentimental goodbyes.

Lacey checked the time. Vic would be there shortly. He had
taken her to dinner the night before. It was her turn tonight. It was a perfect
evening for a dinner
à deux
on her balcony. The harsh sun that blasted
the balcony during the day had receded behind the building’s other wing. It was
now lovely, and the Potomac River far below was as blue as the evening sky.

Lacey spread one of Aunt Mimi’s linen tablecloths on her
petite bistro table and set up a small banquet, arranging the cheese and the
other expensive items from Cheesetique. She could have called it tapas, but
that seemed pretentious.
It’s really just a picnic on the balcony.

Work often made her too tired to cook anything more
complicated than popcorn or scrambled eggs. Occasionally, she produced a
splashy dessert to impress Vic’s mother, but most of the time, she was a simple
eater. This comparative feast on the balcony was in recognition that it had
been a tough week and she deserved a break. She spent far too much money at the
cheese shop, but at least all she had to do was open the packages and chill the
wine. And there would be leftovers. She changed into a simple sleeveless yellow
and white dress and touched up her makeup.

Vic arrived as the clouds and sun turned the sky into a
spectacular pink, orange, and purple display over the river. He kissed her at
the door.

“You’re a wonderful appetizer, honey,” Lacey said. “We’re
eating outside.” She led the way, after retrieving the wine from the
refrigerator, and a corkscrew. He followed. He gave her a hug and lifted the
wine bottle. His gaze took in the table, the food, the candles, the river view.

“A picnic high above the river. What’s the occasion?”

“You’re here.” She held on to him for a few minutes.

“And so are you. And you’re in one piece. I’ll celebrate
that.” He opened the bottle and poured it into a couple of rose crystal
goblets, another gift bequeathed to Lacey from Aunt Mimi.

“It’s been a weird week.” She stretched her back and took a
deep breath.

“Does this weirdness involve your hunt for the origin of the
killer dress? The dress to
dye
for? The poison-apple-green Gown of Doom
that—”

“You think you’re smart, don’t you? Well, you are. And it is.
And I found it. Right here in Alexandria. A little vintage shop, hidden away,
practically invisible to the naked eye.”

“I had every faith in you. Good work.” Vic glanced at the
assembled banquet and checked a label on an exotic cheese. “By any chance, was
this miraculous find anywhere near the Cheesetique? My guess is the vintage
shop’s in Del Ray, close to Mount Vernon Avenue?”

“You must be psychic.”

“Simple deduction is an art form.” He grinned and handed her
a goblet of wine. They admired the Technicolor clouds over the Potomac. A few
white sailboats were heading back to the Belle Haven Marina for the night. They
sipped the Riesling. It complemented the cheese, just as the Cheesetique
promised. A warm breeze ruffled her hair. She leaned against him. This was the
first time Lacey felt herself really relax since she’d heard Courtney Wallace
was dead.

“Do you want to hear about the great gown hunt?”

“So our evening is dinner al fresco and a game of Clue?” He
seemed amused.

“You guessed it. The killer is Colonel Mustard with the wine
bottle on the balcony. I give you Exhibit X.” Lacey produced from her shoulder
bag the photograph of the Madame X dress in its original form, with the white
lining. “What do you think?”

“Isn’t this part supposed to be green?”

“Very good. Courtney herself changed the lining. Or had it
changed. Part of my big discovery. I spoke with the woman who sold the gown to
her. When Courtney bought the dress, it looked like this. White silk
underskirt. Not green. I give you Exhibit Y.” She placed Hansen’s photo of
Courtney on the table next to Exhibit X. “Voilà. Green lining. I don’t know
where this Paris Green material came from, or who replaced the white lining.
Yet. The original lining was in tatters. It’s called shattered silk. The big
question is: Did the person who changed it know what they were doing?”

“That’s a lot of questions. I’m sure you’re working overtime
to come up with a theory. You realize, sweetheart, it could still be a peculiar
once-in-a-lifetime accident. Cops say so.”

Lacey nodded. “And if it was, then it would be even sadder if
Courtney had a hand in accidentally causing her own death.”

Above the river, an osprey soared and dived down for a fish
in the river. Lacey filled a small plate with cheese and meats and popped a
salty garlic-stuffed olive in her mouth.
This is perfect,
she thought.
Now
that Vic’s here.

“The poison’s in the dye and the dye is in the dress lining,”
Vic said, looking through the things on the table. “And Colonel Mustard is
nowhere to be seen.”

“No. But here’s some Dijon, if that’s what you’re looking
for.”

He put some salami on a cracker, topped it with a little Colonel
Mustard and popped it in his mouth.

“Life is sad, darling. We make split-second decisions every
day. Many of them go wrong. Some of them dead wrong. The only saving grace is
that we don’t know everything that’s going to happen. What fun would that be?
Life unfolds.”

“Like a dress. Like a mystery.” She leaned over and kissed
him, thinking what a wonderful mystery it was that Vic Donovan had walked back
into her life years after they first met.

The evening deepened to a clear blue, and a big round moon
rose gold over the Potomac. It was time to forget about work and Courtney and
killer dresses. And Colonel Mustard.