10 Lethal Black Dress (32 page)

Turtledove materialized next to her. He had an apple and an
iced tea in hand. Lacey was surprised, but with someone throwing rocks at her,
she didn’t really mind having a bodyguard.

“I didn’t even see you,” she said.

“That’s kind of the point.” He grinned at her and bumped her uninjured
shoulder gently with one big fist. “My specialty.”

“Guess it is. Did you notice anything?”

“The usual midday Dupont Circle crowd. Lots of Washington
types. Some theatre folks.”

Turtledove was very large and very muscular, but at the same
time, graceful. He was a beautiful blend of multiple ethnicities and he set many
hearts aflutter with his dark soulful eyes and brilliant smile. He was one of
Lacey’s favorite people, even though she knew very little about him. Except
that he played a mean jazz trumpet and he was a good man to have around in a
crisis. She trusted him.

“We’re close to a lot of the smaller theatres.
The
Eye
’s
theatre critic lives just around the corner.”

“Tamsin. Interesting lady. Did you see the latest on
DeadFed?” Turtledove was a wonderful guy, except for being a faithful follower
of Conspiracy Clearinghouse. “I think you’ll be interested.”

“Oh no. Now what?”

He showed her his phone.

CRIME
OF Fashion Beat Heats Up!

Murder
Slander HITs Fashion Sleuth Smithsonian

By Damon Newhouse

Is fashion
reporter Lacey Smithsonian too close to the truth about murdered Channel One
personality Courtney Wallace?

An
anonymous tipster to Conspiracy Clearinghouse has accused Smithsonian of being
complicit in Wallace’s death. Responding to our query, D.C. homicide detective
Broadway Lamont attributed the claim to a crank. “Any investigation is subject
to crackpots with crazy accusations. This appears to be one of them,” he told
this reporter. The Clearinghouse agrees.

This
reporter has learned from confidential police sources that the unknown tipster
is being investigated as a person of interest in the Wallace case. Wallace’s
death was initially ruled an accident, but is now thought to have been the
fruit of a lethal conspiracy reaching deep into the hidden world of Washington
media…

Apparently the woman who called Broadway Lamont with her
accusation against Lacey had also contacted Damon Newhouse. Lacey handed back
his phone with a sigh.

“Damon’s on your side,” Turtledove said. “He does get a
little carried away sometimes.”

Lacey emitted a small strangled scream.
And he weaseled a
quote out of Broadway Lamont?

In light of this story, Lacey thought it was odd she hadn’t
heard from Brooke. Even as the thought occurred to her, her phone jingled. It
was a text from Brooke. She was on her way to a hearing and would “debrief”
Lacey later.

“Swell. He’s on my side. I’m thrilled. He should have let it
drop. He just rose to the bait of this ‘anonymous tipster.’ Damon’s being
used.”

“Damon’s just shaking the tree of truth. The truth will set
you free.”

“And sometimes the truth will get you killed,” she replied.

“That’s why I’m here. To see that doesn’t happen.”

She trusted Turtledove with her life, but now it felt even
more like she had a target on her back. Or on her shoulder. Lacey phoned Mac
and told him she was knocking off for the day. Turtledove escorted her to
The
Eye
’s
parking garage and then followed her home.

On her blue velvet sofa, Lacey checked YouTube again on her
laptop and found the leaked clip of Courtney and the champagne shower had
finally surfaced.
Thank you, Eric!
She called Vic. He was in his Jeep,
but he promised to watch it ASAP. Lacey watched the clip to the end,
fascinated. She played it again, and again.

Eric’s camera began in an extreme close-up on Courtney’s
face, then pulled back to frame her full height. Then back in tight again, but
on her back. Courtney was dodging through the crowd and Eric was obviously
hustling to keep up. She was trying to flag down a fleeing celebrity for an
interview when a sliver of waiter Will Zephron came barely into the frame, his
tray balanced on one hand. Suddenly, he lurched forward and his white-shirted
arm and the tray of champagne flutes flew straight up. The tray tilted forward
and dumped its contents, catching Courtney full in the face and down the chest.
A dozen or more full glasses hit the broadcaster, soaking her face, hair, and
dress. A few drops even landed on the camera lens. Lacey dialed the clip back
and watched it again.

Courtney’s dripping face morphed from stunned surprise into a
grimace of shock and horror. She screamed and cursed, while Zephron staggered
against another guest, trying to catch his balance. He seemed as stunned and
outraged as she was, perhaps even more dramatically. His mouth and eyes were
wide open, yelling “No!”

Courtney spun around, shaking her wet hair and yelling
obscenities. She looked right into Eric’s lens and froze. Realizing this was
all being caught on camera, she pulled her shoulders back, fought to regain her
composure, wiped her hair out of her face, and smiled for the camera.

“Well, folks, just a slip, a trip, and a fall. This story is
all wet. But I’ll be back with fresh updates throughout the evening as the
President addresses the media. Reporting live from the White House
Correspondents’ Dinner, for Channel One News, I’m Courtney Wallace.”

Lacey combed every frame for a glimpse of someone, anyone,
giving Will Zephron that hard shove in his back and arm that he remembered
feeling. His arm, tray, and face were in a few frames, but not his back. The
scene was chaotic as the crowd parted around Courtney, fleeing the flying
champagne and the embarrassment, the bustling waiters cleaning up the mess. But
the camera stayed on Courtney. Most of it was filled with Courtney screaming
expletives, as Eric promised. There was nothing suggestive that Lacey could
see—except a flash of muddy yellow-colored cloth in the corner of one frame.
Then it was gone.

She was about to play it again when Vic arrived with a bottle
of wine. He kissed her hello and headed to her tiny kitchen to check out her
larder. The cupboard was as bare as Old Mother Hubbard’s, as usual. The cheese
was all gone. There was popcorn.

“Wine and popcorn for dinner again, Lacey?”

“It’s been weeks since I had popcorn. Festive and nutritious.
Want some?”

“I’ll phone for pizza. Extra pepperoni?” He settled down on
the sofa by her side. Lacey flipped her laptop open again.

“Want to watch a movie with dinner? This is my favorite movie
of the day.”

“You’re watching it again?” Vic inquired, while rubbing her
neck and shoulder where it was sore. Lacey leaned back into him.

“Just one more time.” As bodyguards went, he was lots more
fun than Turtledove.

“Are you sure?” His hands played a magic flute on her spine.

“Never mind. I’ll watch it again tomorrow.”

When Brooke called, Lacey let the call go to voicemail.

CHAPTER 39

“Hey, Lacey, did you see
YouTube?”
Harlan Wiedemeyer said, the first thing Tuesday morning. “The Courtney Wallace
Channel One News video was leaked. Kind of like the champagne that did her in.”

“You’re stretching the metaphor,” Lacey said.
If
Wiedemeyer’s seen it, everyone else has too.

“If there’s a metaphor to be stretched, I’m the man to stretch
it.”

“The champagne didn’t act alone.”

He laughed. “True.”

Except for Wiedemeyer hanging around the LifeStyle section to
see what new kind of groom’s cake Felicity would come up with, it was a quiet
morning. Lacey wore a sleeveless red cotton dress with a hint of sailor trim.
The skirt fell below her knees, covering most of the bruises from her fall over
the weekend, and she had her vintage white bolero jacket trimmed in red to put
on when the air conditioner blasted her desk.

Felicity was away from her cubicle. Lacey had a fresh cup of
decent coffee from the bakery and a protein bar to munch. Wiedemeyer had a
Krispy Kreme doughnut.

So far, there wasn’t much fallout from the DeadFed piece,
except her mother had called late last night wanting to know what kind of
nonsense Lacey was up to this time. Lacey averted disaster, and a possible trip
by her mother to D.C., by blaming Damon for blowing it all out of proportion.
She assured her mother that the nice homicide detective, Broadway Lamont, knew
she was innocent and was taking care of everything. Lacey was waiting for
fallout from the leaked clip on YouTube. Channel One was saying nothing, so
far. They must have expected someone over there to leak it sooner or later.

Wiedemeyer wandered off to look for his lady love, and she
watched the YouTube video again. Elizabeth Lionsgate’s gown was truly lovely
and Courtney wore it well, when she wasn’t being an obnoxious broadcast diva.
The camera caught a glimpse of her shoes, which Lacey hadn’t really noticed
before. They were expensive, black suede with tall silver stiletto heels.

Pretty
, Lacey thought
. Awfully high, though, if
you’re going to be on your feet covering an event all evening.
She was
surprised Courtney had been able to stay on her feet through the champagne
attack.

And then, Lacey saw that flash of muddy yellow fabric again.
The fabric may have had nothing to do with pushing the waiter into Courtney. Or
perhaps everything. But Lacey thought she recognized it. Zanna Nelson was
wearing a mustard-colored dress when Lacey found the two of them in the ladies’
room after the champagne shower. Was it the same dress? If Zanna had selected
something black, like the majority of the media and their guests, she would
have blended right in. That mustard color was memorable in an unattractive way.
But it didn’t prove that Zanna sabotaged Courtney, only that she was somewhere
nearby. Nor did the rest of the pieces fit together. It was a jigsaw puzzle. A
suggestive jigsaw.

She watched the video one more time, trying to catch a
glimpse of more than a mustard dress. Nothing.

Zanna was beautiful but bland, one of those people who slipped
under the radar. Lacey thought about what Eric Park had told her about the
night of Zanna’s meltdown, years ago. The fierce ambition that butted up
against the reality that Courtney was fate’s favored one, and not Zanna.
Jealousy, envy, resentment, and a misplaced sense of entitlement all played a
role. The would-be television news star lacked the magical alchemy to be on
television. Pretty though she was, she seemed to have faded into the background
of her own career. But underneath, she seethed.

Lacey compared Zanna’s envy with the corrosive jealousy she
felt radiating from Peter Johnson. She glanced around the newsroom, relieved he
wasn’t there. He was still on a forced leave of absence. Unfortunately, he was
scheduled to return. Lacey had little hope she would see a changed man. Unless
it was for the worse, after ten days of booze and resentment.

Had Zanna changed? Did anyone ever really change? Lacey
returned to her other theory: Courtney’s troubles started last year. Did Zanna
have a hand in it? Did Eve Farrand, or even Eric Park? They were all close to
Courtney, all ambitious, all old friends or coworkers who had a shared history,
and shared animosities.

What about Drake Rayburn? Did he have a motive? Was he
‘hooking up’ with Eve to get back at Courtney? He’d seemed easily rattled at
Martin’s Tavern, and Drake and Eve were at the Correspondents’ Dinner, but they
weren’t visible in Eric Park’s clip of the champagne incident. Somebody wearing
a muddy yellow dress
was
. It had to be Zanna. Lacey saw her with
Courtney just minutes later, in the ladies’ room.

There was nothing Lacey knew of that linked Zanna, or any of
them, to the Paris Green lining. They hadn’t shown any particular interest in fashion,
or history. Or chemistry. Would Zanna have any knowledge about anything as
obscure as Paris Green dye? For that matter, none of these people had any
apparent connection to the one person Lacey suspected of having been a local
source of that pigment, Jillian Hopewell.

Lacey’s phone rang. Forensic textile expert Rebecca Paulson
had news for her.

“Thanks for getting back to me so quickly,” Lacey said.

“No problem. I had some time and I was curious,” Rebecca
said.

“What did you find?” She was holding her breath.

“The two silks are entirely consistent with having originated
from the same source at the same time. I’m sorry that I can’t say one hundred
percent that they are from the same exact silk. But unless there was only one
source in the world, this is the closest I can come. And both are consistent
with heavy dress-grade silk from the mid-twentieth century.”

“What’s your best guess?”

“Guess? I don’t guess. However, two pieces of silk, same
weave, same fiber properties, both dyed with a copper acetoarsenite compound
known as Paris Green, the composition of which also matches? I’d be stunned if
they weren’t from the same material and the same dye lot, though they could
have both been dyed at a later date than they were woven. And interestingly
enough, the paint pigments in the painting also contain various shades of the
same Paris Green.”

“You can tell that?”

“Of course. Microscopic analysis of the crystalline structure
and particle size. Easy-peasy, as they say.”

Easy for you to say.
“So they are connected.”

“This is, I take it, the ‘Lethal Black Dress’ you wrote
about, the one with the Paris Green lining?”

“Yes, I’m still working on it. I’ve found out where the dress
originated, and where the lining came from, and how they came together. But not
the who or why. If I find out, it will be on the front page.” She hoped it
would be, anyway.

“It sounds intriguing. Foul play suspected?”

“Very possibly. May I use your name and the results of the
fabric analysis?”

“I’d be crushed if you didn’t,” Paulson said. “We geeky lab
rats don’t get much in the way of publicity.”

#

“Smithsonian.” A heavy manila envelope landed on her desk.
Mac stood by, waiting for her to turn her head away from the screen.

“What is that?” She was afraid she knew.

“Galleys. Hand delivered.
Terror at Timberline
.”

She groaned.
More like Terror on Deadline
.

“Ah, yes, the galleys. You really have to do something about
the title, Mac.”

“The title is what it is. Read it and get it back to me.”

“When is it due?”

“ASAP.”

“I should have known.”

“Read all of it, yours and mine and Tony’s sections. Read it
like a book, not a punishment. And proofread it too. The sooner we all get it
read, the sooner it will be in print.”

She realized this would be the first time she’d be reading
his and Tony’s versions of what happened in and around Sagebrush, Colorado,
this past February. She was a little curious, in spite of herself.

“And ASAP means?”

“Friday.”

“Friday?”
Like I don’t have enough to worry about
.
“Can I take this home?” If she read the galleys on the sofa in a reclining
position, she’d be zonked out in no time.
Better than a sedative.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Mac said. “If you read it here, it
won’t get lost. Won’t get any blood on the pages.”

“That’s what you say. But this is a newsroom, for pity’s
sake. Can you guarantee I’ll have peace and quiet and time to read this?”

He glared at her. “You’re a reporter. Multitask.”

“Tell you what, I’ll stay late every evening this week and
read it when it’s quiet. I’ll expect comp time. Two full days. Deal?”

“I don’t think Claudia will have a problem with that. She’s
just as excited about this book as we are. And we
are
excited, aren’t
we?”

Lacey nodded in resignation. “We’re all aquiver with excitement.”

Mac retreated, after checking Felicity’s desk for crumbs.

Writing a book is hard,
Lacey thought.