10 Lethal Black Dress (26 page)

“Of course, if you were anyone but Lacey Smithsonian. When
your EFP kicks in, it is all about the hunt. You will not rest until you solve
the mystery of the death of Courtney Wallace.”

“Leave my EFP out of it.”

“Everyone knows about your EFP,” Marie said. “You have
uncommon intuition when it comes to clothes. It’s a gift, cher, and believe me,
I know about gifts, even when they are unwelcome.”

“Theories are theories, but everything about the woman’s
death points to an accident,” Vic said. “An unusual accident, I give you that.”

“Pity. Dress of deceased will be more valuable if murder is
involved.”

“Now, Gregor, cher,” Marie began. “Sometimes we try not to
say everything we think.”

“Is true!” he protested.

Lacey lost her appetite. She wrapped the rest of her sandwich
and put it away in the cooler.

“You all enjoy. I’m going for a walk in the woods.”

CHAPTER 32

“Hold on!” Vic threw his
unfinished
lunch in the cooler. “I’m coming with you.”

“We’re coming too,” Marie said. “That’s why we’re here.”

“So glad you could join us.” There was just a hint of sarcasm
in Lacey’s tone.

“We are probably saving your ass. Be grateful,” Kepelov said.

“Prove it, and I will be.”

“Now, children, don’t squabble,” Marie scolded. “It’s still a
lovely day.”

After handing out the remaining brownies for the walk, Vic
packed up the rest of the food in Lacey’s tote and locked it the trunk of her
BMW. She put an extra bottle of water in her backpack. They found the sandy
hiking path at the edge of the woods and headed up the river. Vic and Lacey led
the way, with Marie and Gregor a few paces behind them. The Virginia bluebells
became lusher and thicker the farther they went. The sun dipped behind a high
hill to the west, creating deep green shadows among the leaves. A rustle in the
forest startled Lacey and she stopped.

“Turkey buzzard,” Vic said, scanning the woods.

Lacey pulled the postcard of the Jillian Hopewell painting
from her pocket and showed it to him. “I really came to see this, Vic. Nothing
spooky at all. The exact spot where this was painted must be at a bend where
the river cuts in. Not far from the trail to Carper’s Pond, I think.”

“Is that the little pond up the hill?” Vic pulled out his
trail map from the visitors’ center. “Yes, but the river cuts new bends and
landmarks every year. This exact spot might be hard to find.”

Marie took the postcard and studied it. “The artist who
painted this—her light is almost gone. Look, she painted with the same green
color you wrote about. You’re right, Lacey. There is a connection to the
dress.”

“I knew it!” Kepelov said.

“How could there be?” Lacey said. “Tell me, Marie, what is
the connection?”

“Oh my. I don’t know. That is your journey to find.”

Typical.
Lacey thought Marie was slightly overplaying
the drama of the moment.

“All that from a postcard?” Vic asked. “And what do you mean,
her light is going?”

“Almost ready to cross over,” Marie said. “She’s cutting the
tether to this earth.”

“You mean when she painted this?” Lacey asked. “She died
years ago.”

“Marie is beautiful to watch, is she not?” Kepelov said with
admiration. “Together we learn more. There is a connection from the dead
woman’s dress to dead artist’s painting? Let us find out.”

Lacey didn’t even know what she expected to see. Her new companions
muddled her thoughts. She turned toward the Potomac, just a few feet to their
right. The path’s edge hugged a rise of rocks over the water. Beyond the rise,
the cut bank fell steeply several yards to the water’s edge. The bluebells, the
trees, the river, it was all breathtaking.

She had no sense of danger until a large rock hit her in the right
shoulder and threw her off balance. She fell forward and skidded down the
embankment through the mud. Marie screamed. Vic shouted her name and skidded
down after her. He grabbed hold of her by one outstretched leg and slowed her
skid. She caught herself on a big rock, just before she would have tumbled into
the river. She clung there, trembling, inches from the water.

“Up there, Kepelov,” Vic shouted up from the water’s edge.
“Find whoever threw that rock!” Kepelov looked at Marie.

“You go, Gregor,” Marie said. “I’ll stay right here with
Lacey.”

“Lacey, are you okay?” Vic held her close, both of them
covered with mud and leaves. “Where are you hurt?”

“Just find the creep. Go. Seriously, I’m fine!” Lacey was
shaken and scraped, but nothing felt broken. There was a crashing sound above
them as Kepelov took off running through the trees. Vic nodded and scrambled up
the bank to follow the big Russian. Marie gave her a hand back up to the path.

Her legs were scratched and cut from her slide over rocks,
mud, and downed tree limbs. Lacey felt a stinging in her shoulder and warm
liquid dripping down her back. She reached around to touch the place where the
rock had caught her. When she pulled them back she saw blood on her fingers.
Her sweater was torn and her skin was broken. Her very first thought was not of
the pain or the blood or the injury.

You bastard! You ruined my sweater!
She was very glad
Marie was there. She was also glad she was wearing a generic black sweater top,
and relieved she hadn’t chosen a vintage sweater or blouse. She had more black
sweaters. It was one of her style rules:
You can’t have too many black
sweaters.

“You all right, Lacey?” Marie brought her back to the
present.

“I’m bleeding a little,” she commented unnecessarily. She
turned around and let Marie pull off her backpack and inspect the wound.

“Not too bad. It’s a shallow cut. Just good pure blood,
cleaning out the wound. See how close you were to the edge?” Marie’s expression
was ever-so-slightly smug. “You could have toppled into the water. Vic surely
would have gone in after you. And you might both have been swept away. Drowning
in the green river.”

“I get the picture. Thanks, I feel so much better now. I’m
fine, Marie.”

Lacey reached into her pack for the water bottle. She poured
it over her shoulder to cleanse the wound and thought how smart it would be to
have a first-aid kit.
And maybe a bulletproof sweater.
She folded her
scarf into a triangle and knotted it around her shoulder to cover the tear in
the sweater and the seeping blood.

They perched on a large rock by the sandy path, exhausted.
They sat in silence. They could hear nothing from the woods but the sound of
birds and rushing water. No one came up or down the path, and there was no
trace of Kepelov or Vic, or even of the direction they’d gone. Marie might have
been communing with the spirit world. Lacey just tried to order her thoughts.

“Thank you, Marie, for coming to my rescue. I appreciate it,
even when I don’t say so.”

“I know, cher. I know. You’d do the same for me.”

They sat silently again. Lacey contemplated how a perfect day
could spin so out of control, yet remain so beautiful. There was a fresh
rustling in the trees above them on the wooded hillside. Lacey turned her head
at the sound. It was Vic, followed by Kepelov.

“They got away clean, whoever it was.” Vic was disgusted. “We
talked to a family in the parking lot. No one saw anything useful.”

“Is always the case,” Kepelov said. “Even when they do see
something, nobody sees nothing.”

“I have their names and a phone number, I’ll follow up with
them. They did get a glimpse of a car tearing out of the lot. Gray, no one saw
the plates.”

“Typical anonymous gray car, like bat out of Hell,” Kepelov
grumbled. Then he smiled slowly, which always had a disquieting effect on
Lacey. “Good work, Smithsonian.”

“What on earth could you possibly mean by that?” Lacey felt
stupid for being hit by a rock.

“Congratulations. You, and our mysterious rock thrower, have
just proved that death of Courtney Wallace was no accident. Why else try and
put you into the river? You are getting too close. Killer is becoming nervous.
Making mistakes. Classic. Your theory is proven. Well done!”

“You don’t have to sound so happy about Courtney’s death,”
Lacey said.

“Don’t misunderstand. I am never happy about death,” Kepelov
said. “Never. But that Lethal Black Dress you wrote about? Price just went way
up.”

CHAPTER 33

“Ouch! That hurts!”

“You could use some stitches.” Vic was cleansing her wound as
gently as he could, but it still stung. He closed the tear with wound closure
strips.

“So could my poor sweater. I’ll be fine.” She was too tired
to even think of going to an emergency room. The wound stopped bleeding,
eventually, and it only started hurting again when Vic cleaned it. The cuts and
scrapes on her legs and hands were all superficial, though they stung like fire
when Vic cleaned the mud from them.

They were at Vic’s place. Lacey studied the room. It was
comfortable, but very masculine and decorated with way too much brown. The sofa
was brown leather, the walls were taupe. She wondered how wedded he was to that
particular shade of mud.
Mud! Mud is the last thing I want to think about
today.

“You’re nearly done.” He kissed her neck and applied an
antibiotic cream and a cotton pad, and taped over it. “There.”

“Why did you take the rock?” she asked him. “You can’t get
prints off it. Probably not even DNA, right?”

“Call it a sentimental gesture. It has your blood on it. Also
it’s a weapon, and I witnessed the assault. Chain of custody. Just in case.”

Vic bagged the rock when they left the park, and they reported
the incident to the park police at the visitors’ center, who were sympathetic
but unimpressed. The rangers said it was probably just some kids, they probably
didn’t mean to hit her, and they took off, running scared. She found their
explanation hard to swallow.

“I just wanted the two of us to have some time alone today. A
romantic little picnic.” She leaned back on the sofa.

“There will be other picnics, other rendezvous. And who says
this isn’t romantic? Me, dressing your shoulder wound. Sharing bodily fluids. That’s
pretty intimate.”

“Good to know, and thank you.” She switched positions, careful
to avoid the sore shoulder. “I love you, Vic. And it’s eye-opening to know that
someone hates me.”

“Hates you, or else is afraid of you. Kepelov is right.”

“Really? Kepelov?”

“Kepelov didn’t survive in the KGB by being stupid. He just
looks that way. We can conclude that there is more to Courtney’s death than
mere accident.”

“Someone thinks I know more than I do? Darn, I wish I knew
what that was.”

“We have to find out what it is, and why they are so afraid
of what you’re going to find out. Then we’ll find out who it is. And stop them
in their tracks.”

“We do? We will?” This was a switch. Vic usually wanted her
to back off from any investigation that put her in danger.

“Don’t think this will stop at rock throwing. And you won’t
stop doing what you do, either. So I hold my lecture and we go forward,
together, not back.”

“You’re going to stick with me, then?”

“Like glue.” He nestled in closer.

“I’m safe here tonight?”

“Very safe. Except from me.”

She laughed and kissed his neck. She snuggled into his chest.
An image of Peter Johnson surfaced in her thoughts. Had he really pitched on
the softball team? But Johnson at the river? At Riverbend Park, well outside
the District? Outdoors? He seemed allergic to the outdoors. At the moment,
however, he was the only person she could think of who actively hated her.

“It could just be this idiot at work, you know, and have
nothing to do with Courtney.”

“Shall I beat him up for you?”

“I already beat up his ego. So, sure, knock yourself out.
Knock him out too, while you’re at it.”

“Who is this creep?”

“Peter Johnson. Capitol Hill reporter. You’ve seen him.”
Lacey explained how Johnson sabotaged her story, his escalating jealousy over
her beat, her book, her very existence, and how she was afraid he might start
doing more to stop her from scooping him, to harm her job.

“That guy?” He grimaced. “Sweetheart, he’s too out of shape
to run that fast through the woods. And if he’s trying to screw with your work
behind your back, he’s the passive-aggressive type, not someone to throw a rock.”

“That’s what I thought. But I heard he ran the Marine Corps
Marathon a few years ago with some tubby congressman. They trained for it
together for a year and Johnson wrote a series about it in
The Eye
. It
was a big deal right before I moved here. He also pitched on the office
softball team once. So we know he can throw a little. Maybe not major league.”

“In that case, I’m definitely checking this jerk out. Find
out where’s he’s been hanging.” Vic looked grim.

“And if it’s not Johnson, then there’s someone else who hates
me. But how would anyone know I would be at Riverbend? Other than clueing into
the psychic hotline, like Marie?”

“Maybe you were followed. Maybe all the way from your place,
to the deli, and here, and then they followed us to the river.”

“All day? And we never noticed anything? That doesn’t make me
feel any better.”

“Leave that aside for a minute. Let me see that postcard.”

She gingerly reached into her pocket and retrieved it. It was
slightly the worse for wear.

Vic studied it, turning it over front to back. He assessed
the photo and read the biography on the back. “That name sounds familiar.” He
concentrated, his eyebrows knit together. “She’s dead?”

“According to the gallery last night, and all the sources I
found on the Web, and her small entry in Wikipedia.”

“Says she lived in Great Falls.” He tapped his head with the
card. “Nadine might know her.”

“You’re kidding. Your mother?” Lacey rubbed her forehead.
“Why am I not surprised? Does she know everyone in Washington, D.C., and all
the suburbs too?”

“Never underestimate Nadine. She has a wide variety of
acquaintances. I might even have met the artist myself when I was a kid, maybe
that’s where I heard the name. Nadine was always having some sort of soiree or
other, artists, writers, symphony conductors. She loves creative types.
Probably why she likes you. And I like you too.” His grin was back.

“If we ask your mother any questions it will just make her
curious. You know that. Why do we want to know? Are we interested in buying a
painting? Or in taking up painting? Or is there something else, something
darker and deeper? Mystery and murder, perhaps?”

“That’s very good. She’ll like that. She’s curious, like you.
She’ll always find out. Do you want me to call? Satisfying my mother’s
curiosity is the price we have to pay for her information on this artist, if
she has any.”

Lacey lay back on the sofa. “Yes, please.”

Vic picked up his cell. She looked at her hand. The ring was
not yet on her finger. Vic had said nothing about it. Reese Evans, the Welsh
watchmaker, was taking his time with the setting.

She was very comfortable where she was now, on Vic’s sofa. But
she could feel herself frown in concentration. Lacey and Vic had never even
discussed where they were going to live after they were married. Whenever that
was going to be. She mentally compared his place to hers. Hers possessed much
more personality.
Not all of it good.

Lacey’s apartment building was pretty ratty, that was
impossible to deny. The wood parquet floors needed refinishing. The kitchens
were tiny. The window air conditioners worked about half the time. The plumbing
was fragile. There were cracks in her walls from an earthquake which also
damaged the National Cathedral and the Washington Monument. In its favor, the
building had not actually fallen down.

Her complex of apartment buildings on the south edge of Old
Town Alexandria were built in the late 1940s, during the Cold War years, and
were reputed to be “bomb proof.” Luckily, despite the cracks in the walls, they
had proven to be earthquake-proof. On the outside, the red brick buildings were
ugly and industrial-looking. On the inside, the apartments were light, airy,
and fairly spacious. Vic’s townhouse, by contrast, was comfortable and new and had
a big, modern kitchen. But it was in the burbs, deep in the suburbs, and it
made her feel isolated. And she had the river, right beneath every window.

Vic hung up, saying “See you tomorrow.” He tapped Lacey on
the hand. “We’re set. Brunch after church. Hey, what are you thinking? You have
a funny look on your face.”

She met his eyes. “You haven’t said where you want to live.
After we’re married.”

He smiled. “I suppose you have sentimental feelings about
that shack in the sky where you live.”

“It has a river view, Vic. I can see the trees greening in
the spring.”

“We have trees out here too. I’ll show you one tomorrow.”

“It’s in Old Town, where I can walk to everything.”

“You don’t like my place? You can walk to downtown McLean
from here.”

“It’s okay. But about the décor, darling,” she said. “It’s,
um, brown. You seem awfully fond of neutrals, Vic. I’m not very neutral. You
sure you like me too?”

“You’re not neutral at all, Lacey. You’re vivid. And I love
you.” He chuckled. “You can paint this place pink and purple for all I care.”

“You wouldn’t mind? I probably wouldn’t paint it
all
pink.”

“I think my manhood can take it.” He leaned closer to her.
“It’s just a house, Lacey. I’m not wedded to it. I will be wedded to you. But
your apartment won’t work. It’s too small for the two of us.”

It certainly seemed like a lot of room when Lacey moved in.
“I don’t think I can live in the suburbs.”

“We can move closer to Alexandria. Rosemont. Del Ray. Maybe
even Old Town, if we rob a bank to pay for it.”

Rosemont, full of azaleas in the spring and so close to Old
Town, had possibilities. She pulled him down and kissed him.

“About your manhood—”