10 Lethal Black Dress (23 page)

Lacey Smithsonian’s FASHION
BITES

Casual
Friday: Let the Counterrevolution Begin!

Believe it or not, “Casual Friday”
is not a national holiday mandated by Congress. On the contrary, it is an
insidious conspiracy, perhaps instigated by Levi Strauss & Co., to convince
you to wear your worst worn-out blue jeans, baggy shorts, and shabby logo
T-shirts to your workplace, and to disregard common sense.

D.C. is
where the seat of government
sits
. Do you really want the seat of your
government flying by the seat of its baggiest old khakis? The ones that need a
few more patches? And wouldn’t it really make more sense to have Casual Monday
instead of Casual Friday? After all, breezing into the work week is much harder
than sailing out of it. I hereby propose scrapping Casual Friday in favor of
Dress-Up Friday and Easy Breezy Monday!

Washington: Not Wired
for Casual

The biggest problem
with Casual Friday in a place like Washington, D.C., is that our Washingtonian workaholics
are not wired for it. They don’t have a business casual wardrobe, much less a
casual wardrobe, or even a casual attitude. They don’t have a sense of the
middle ground between Brooks Brothers and Goodwill. They are used to going
straight from work to dinner to the theatre to drinks to home without stopping
to change their suits until they toddle into bed, presumably in their neatly
ironed pajamas and name tags. Nothing else can explain the Washington
phenomenon of seeing so many men (and women) all buttoned up with their ties still
tightly knotted at 11 p.m. after the show.

When faced
with the mandate of Casual Friday,
some
of these same buttoned-down
professionals will, in the blink of an eye, go straight from crisply suited and
vested on Thursday to a Friday morning office look that says, “Dude, I’m waxing
my surfboard, why do you ask?” If your wardrobe contains
zero
choices in
that vast area between
buttoned-down
and
let-it-all-hang-out
, please
don’t let it all hang out where the rest of us are trying to work.

Business Attire: Survival
of the Best Dressed

Darwin was
right. Professional dress has evolved over the millennia for a reason.
Professional dress assures us that we’re professionals dealing with
professionals. It reassures us that our professional business is well in hand,
in a professional manner. For instance, when you go to the bank on a Friday,
you want to be assured that your money is as secure there as it was on Monday
or Wednesday. If your teller is dressed as if he’s waxing his surfboard between
customers, you might worry that a decimal point will land in the wrong column
while he’s mentally boogying on the beach. Maybe your savings account is out casually
shooting the curl (or whatever it is surfers do) with your casually surfer-themed
banker. Maybe they’ll run off to Tahiti together some Casual Friday and never
be seen again.

Casual
Friday is an insidious dressing-down that has spread this lack of regard for appropriate
attire to the rest of the week. Casual Friday has turned into Casual Everyday. The
trend must be stopped, or at least slowed. Many D.C. workplaces have resisted or
reversed Casual Friday, and you can too. Be on the lookout for these Casual
Friday eyesores, and just say, “No!”

Too Much
Information:
Tops
that reveal the most intimate tattoos, deep cleavage, ripped abs, or hairy
chests, and shorts that show off hairy legs and purple veins. What’s perfectly
natural on the beach is distracting in the office. If I’m too distracted by
your lack of attire to pay attention to your presentation, neither one of us is
getting any work done.

Sandals
and Hairy Frodo Feet:
All
feet are not created equal. That’s why shoes were created, to protect, conceal,
and beautify them. If your feet resemble Frodo’s or you have odd-looking toes,
or
extra
toes, be merciful. No one wants to look at curled yellow
toenails or peeling heel callouses, not even your own. And on others, once you’ve
seen ugly feet, they can’t be unseen.
My eyes, my eyes!

Baggy
Shorts and Saggy T-Shirts:
If
“man capris,” baggy cargo pants cut off below the knee, and blown-out T-shirts
are really appropriate in your workplace, then you’re probably waxing
surfboards at the beach. Lucky you! The female counterparts to this look are the
too-short shorts and too-tight tops that make us all wish we were at the beach
too. Wearing our shades. With our eyes closed.

Pajamas
and pajama-like outfits:
This
look proclaims that not only did you roll out of bed late, you dashed straight
to work without noticing you were still dressed for Dreamland, not Friday in
Foggy Bottom. And that you don’t care. Even on college campuses, going to class
in your flannel jammies bottoms and surgical scrub tops looks silly. If the message
you want to send with your outfit every Friday is really “I’d Rather Be Home in
Bed,” why not stay in bed?

So join the
Casual Friday Counterrevolution this Friday, and dress up instead of dressing down.
You’ll be doing your part to turn this menace around. Together we can stop the
conspiracy known as Casual Friday, one Friday at a time.

CHAPTER 29

Something was bothering
LACEY ABOUT
Courtney. The woman’s troubles started long before last Saturday night, before
the White House Correspondents’ Dinner. Was there a connection?

What if the whole news scandal wasn’t just about Granville and
the senator? Not completely, anyway. Had someone planted the story to bring
down Courtney Wallace? Did that person understand what the fallout would be?
Maybe Courtney was the objective and Thaddeus Granville and Senator Swansdown
merely collateral damage. Or a bonus.

Lacey called Granville. The best information gained from an
interview was usually at the very end, when she put her pen or recorder away,
and the subject would say something like, “By the way, did I mention…?” Or she
would ask, “What didn’t I ask that you’d like me to know?” She wasn’t sure
whether she’d asked the man in the middle of the Swansdown scandal everything
she should have. She decided to take another shot.

“This is an unexpected pleasure, Ms. Smithsonian,” Granville
said. “Something on your mind?”

“There is, Congressman. A loose end or two. Do you know who
gave Courtney Wallace the spiked information on Senator Swansdown’s campaign? I
know she never revealed her original source, at least not on TV.”

“My dear, I have kept myself up at night, long into the
night, pondering that same question. With my brandy and my cigars. I don’t
know. I have more than enough enemies to go around. So does the senator. However,
I thought it quite interesting that Drake Rayburn, Wallace’s sometime companion,
worked against us heavily and often bent the facts to his purposes, though he
never quite lied. It’s a useful skill. I did wonder if he fed the story to her somehow,
on the theory that the phony scandal would backfire and create sympathy for his
own candidate. It’s a crazy idea, but Courtney Wallace wouldn’t have known the
difference. Or cared.”

“I didn’t realize she dated him that far back.”

“Nobody ‘dates’ anymore, do they? I hear people merely hook
up.”

“So they tell me,” she agreed. “If Courtney dated Drake at
the time of the scandal, and if she got the info from him, whether he twisted
it or not, it would be a major conflict of interest.”

“Why, Ms. Smithsonian, are you the last living member of the
press to care about conflict of interest? I thought that scruple was out of
fashion in your field.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“Oddly, I’m not. I’m paying you a compliment.”

“Thank you, Congressman. There’s one more thing, and this is
a big ‘what if.’ What if Courtney was the real target? What if her unnamed
source for the phony scandal story really wanted to sink
her
career?”

“And not the senator or his wife, or myself?” He sounded
shocked.
Every victim thinks it’s all about them.

“I’d say you were definitely part of the equation. But what if
she was the primary target, not you?”

“My word. That’s devious. Rather like handing a letter bomb
to a mail carrier with the intent to blow up the carrier, not the target it’s
addressed to. And if the so-called target catches the blast as well, who cares?”
He paused. “That would be a hell of a thing. Not unheard of, I suppose, in the
dirtiest kind of politics, but Courtney Wallace was just an inconsequential
little whelp. Ignorant and thoughtless. Hardly someone worth targeting for
destruction.”

“Perhaps not everyone would agree.”

“And if that were the case, you think the Correspondents’
Dinner was the last act of this little drama?” He started to chuckle. “Clever.
I don’t know that you are right, but you are one different kind of thinker, Ms.
Smithsonian.”

“So I’ve been told. I appreciate you letting me know about
Rayburn’s connection to the election, Congressman Granville.”

“My pleasure. Thank you for your very interesting call. You’ve
given me things to ponder over brandy and cigars. You may call me Thaddeus, you
know, all my friends do. If you are ever in need of a job, look me up.”

#

Martin’s Tavern was serving libations the day after Prohibition
ended, and every day since. It was a legendary Georgetown hangout on the corner
of Wisconsin Avenue Northwest and N Street, with a list of famous patrons that
included presidents, senators, speakers of the house, and spies, among other
notables. Decades of secrets, political and otherwise, had been whispered over
beer and cocktails poured by four generations of the Martin family.

The Tavern’s décor included Tiffany-style lamps, dark wood,
and hunt country prints. It felt cozy and inviting, a place where anyone might
say—or overhear—almost anything. No wonder Drake Rayburn and Eve Farrand liked
it. Lacey cautioned herself not to spill too many of her own secrets here.

It was quiet when she arrived. She knew the bar would fill up
later, after the workday was over and date night began, which in workaholic
D.C., even on a Casual Friday, started later than in the rest of the world. And
ended sooner. Eve was already there, at one of the wooden booths near a window
looking out on N Street. She sipped a glass of white wine, the ubiquitous drink
of Washington career women.

Lacey ordered a soda and lime at the bar, so she could chat
without alcohol impairing her clarity. She slid into the booth opposite Eve,
who lifted her glass in greeting.

 “Hello, Eve. Good choice, I’ve always appreciated this
place. First, how about some ground rules? Everything we say is off the record.
For now, anyway.”

“Works for me.”

Other than the corpselike beige fingernails Eric Park had
mentioned, which were unsettling, Eve Farrand was perfectly groomed and
conservatively dressed. Lacey was glad that Eve chose a flattering pink
lipstick, instead of beige to match her nails and complete that
undead
look. The television reporter wore a cream-colored knit skirt and matching
sweater edged in black, and her top featured a knitted rose at the side of the
neckline, strikingly outlined in black. The outfit complemented Eve’s smooth
complexion and glossy dark hair. Her deep brown almond-shaped eyes were lovely.
Physically, Lacey thought she was more striking than Courtney Wallace.

“Nice story you wrote, Lacey. We’re running with our
version.”

“I suppose you took a camera crew to Ingrid’s shop after I
broke the news?”

“We did. She was informative. I have to admit she didn’t tell
me anything she didn’t tell you. But it made a nice news bite. It’ll be leading
the news tonight.”

“That will make Ingrid happy. The publicity, I mean. She told
me she was afraid she was too hard to find.”
And yet I found her, and you
didn’t.

“And you have the rest of the lining material? I saw the
photos in
The Eye
.”

“The leftovers. Just scraps, really, but obviously a match to
Courtney’s dress. By now, they could be in the possession of the paper’s
attorney.” They weren’t, they were locked up in her desk, but they could be.
Maybe
they should be.
Lacey thought about turning the rest of the material over
to their attorney, or Mac, so she wouldn’t have people hounding her for them.

Eve nodded. “It’s very peculiar, isn’t it? The whole thing.”

“Yes. Did you know where Courtney took her alterations?”

“No. She certainly didn’t tell me anything. I’d have guessed some
dry cleaner with alterations on site. But you found the woman. I didn’t even
know the dress had been changed. Hats off to you.” She sounded annoyed.

“Just working my leads. I understand you and Courtney had a
screaming fight right before the Correspondents’ Dinner.”

“We did?” Eve scrunched her brow in concentration.

“You were overheard. You were in the ladies’ room. Not
criticizing, just reporting. I had words with her too, though no one screamed.”

Eve shrugged. “Screaming fight is an exaggeration. Words were
exchanged. It happens. Tensions run high before a broadcast, a big event like
that.”

“But you weren’t working it, and she was. What was the
argument about?”

“Who knows? I don’t remember.”

“Why don’t I believe that? I remember most of my recent
fights.”

Eve set her wine glass on the table. “It was about Drake, of
course. Courtney hadn’t come to terms with the fact that she and Drake were
over. That he’s with me now. That we’re, you know. Dating.”

Or just hooking up?
“And Courtney dated lots of men?”
Lacey thought about Trujillo, who always preferred blondes, and who hooked up
with Courtney.

“She was an equal opportunity dater. But apparently she was
more into Drake than anyone suspected. Even Drake.”

“Did you hate Courtney?”

“Hate is a strong word, Lacey. I never liked her. It was an
instinctual thing. A gut feeling not to trust her. But hate? Honestly, who has
the time? You couldn’t have liked her much either.”

“I didn’t care for her series on vintage clothing,” Lacey
said. “It was far too close to what I’d written for
The Eye
.”

“Those are the breaks. You use what you find.”

“Or steal. Where television is involved.”

“Where
journalism
is involved. Let’s talk about your
story. How did you track the dress?”

“It’s a beautiful dress. It was the capper for her vintage
clothing series, and the dress had to come from somewhere. I started pulling on
threads. And I had a little luck.”

“Better luck than Courtney. I find it odd and tragic that
Courtney had a hand in her own death. It’s unbelievable. She was only
twenty-eight. Only a year older than me.”

“Too young to die,” Lacey agreed. “I wonder who gave her the
Paris Green silk.”

“You said it was a friend.”

“That’s what the seamstress told me Courtney said. But that’s
all she knew. The fabric was exquisite. Why wouldn’t someone want to use it for
themselves?”
Unless they knew
, she added silently.

“Maybe it wasn’t their color.” Eve lifted her wine glass,
then stopped it in midair. “Maybe they knew it was dangerous?”

Lacey shrugged and let Eve think about it. “Did Courtney buy
the silk from the so-called friend? It wasn’t the type of fabric you could buy
in a store. That dye’s been off the market for at least a century. If someone
gave it to her, didn’t Courtney question it?”

“A friend doing her a favor with an old dress that needed
help in a hurry? No way. People don’t question their good luck,” Eve said.
“Maybe they should, but they don’t. Courtney never did. She took everything as
her due.”

“Was the material a Trojan Horse, a present with a nasty
surprise?”

“On purpose?” Eve frowned.

“I’ve been thinking. Courtney’s bad luck began a year ago.”

“You’re talking about the Swansdown-Granville scandal?” Eve
shuddered visibly. Clearly it was a bad memory. It reflected negatively on
Channel One News.

“That story started Courtney’s long, slow slide, didn’t it?
Losing the plum investigative slot at the station, getting pushed aside, trying
to find a new beat. She had bad luck ever since.”

Eve cocked her head to the side, thinking. “I could never
figure out why Courtney wanted to do that vintage fashion series. It seemed a
pretty desperate bid to save her job. No one else cared about it, and we always
need features that aren’t time-sensitive, so it was wide open for her. But after
I read your stories, I figured it out. You solved some actual crimes. Big stories.
Murders. And Romanov diamonds? Quite a find. Courtney would have killed to do stories
like that.”

“Once in a lifetime,” Lacey answered. It made her feel suspicious
that Eve had suddenly looked up her online dossier.

Drake Rayburn of the pretty boy looks materialized at their
table with a beer in hand. Eve scooted over so he could sit next to her, giving
Lacey the opportunity to study them side by side. Unlike so many couples in
D.C., who seemed unevenly matched, Drake and Eve were perfect together. At
least visually.

His expertly cut blond hair, worn just a tad long and combed
back, gleamed with gold highlights. His features were even, his eyes blue, his
smile a toothpaste commercial. Lacey decided that close up he was almost too
perfect-looking. He put out his hand toward Lacey. His manicured nails were
impeccable.

“I’m Drake Rayburn. Call me Drake.” He gave her a dazzling
grin. “Rayburn is a congressional building.”

She took his hand. “Lacey Smithsonian.”

Drake’s manner was as smooth as his wrinkle-less forehead.
Botox?
The most popular cosmetic procedure in D.C., according to a dermatologist she
interviewed for an article on skin care. More and more men indulged in the chic
paralyzing agent, as well as women. In Congress, as well as on K Street.

Lacey, however, included in her story a troubling study that
found people who’d had Botox displayed less empathy. It was as if the Botox
paralyzed not just their wrinkles, but their ability to feel for others.
Just
what Washington needs, congressmen with less empathy.

Drake smiled. His teeth were extraordinarily white, almost
blue. He left Lacey unmoved. For lack of a better word, he seemed antiseptic. A
picture of Vic settled in her brain. His unruly curly hair, the crinkles at the
corners of this eyes when he smiled. The very thought of him, his rugged
handsomeness, stirred her. He wasn’t afraid to work with his hands and get them
dirty, if necessary. He would never be a Botox poster boy.

Drake jumped right to the chase. “You’re talking about
Courtney? I have to admit, it makes me uncomfortable, now that she’s not here
anymore.”

“Have you seen my story?”

“Good piece. Eve told me about it.”
Because heaven knows
you wouldn’t have read it on your own
, Lacey thought. “That bizarre dress.
You found out a lot. But I thought that story was over. An accident is an
accident, right? As wild as it was.”