10 Lethal Black Dress (34 page)

Lacey vaulted over her desk at Zanna, taking her mug with
her. Later, she would wonder why she had never achieved such a gymnastic feat
in high school as vaulting over a desk. But then, her teachers weren’t killers,
just mean. This was a different situation. She swung the mug at the other side
of Zanna’s head and just missed as the woman twisted away and fell again. Lacey
heard another cough somewhere in the half light of the newsroom.

“Who’s out there? I hear you coughing!” Lacey called to the
office at large. Zanna scrambled to her feet, staggering and making guttural
noises.

“It’s Tamsin Kerr, Lacey. Quite a show, I must say.”

“For God’s sake, call the police, Tamsin! Call the guard
desk! Call somebody!”

“Right. Sorry, I was doing that, but I became rather riveted
by the action. Taking notes, actually.”

“Notes? On what? What are you waiting for?”

“Well, my cue, of course.”

“This is it! Go! Call!”

Zanna was on her feet again and charging. Lacey retreated
behind her desk. In a fury Zanna swept everything off the desktop, notebooks
and newspapers, pens and markers, phonebooks and framed photos, and the galleys
of
Terror at Timberline
. Lacey dodged out of the way of flying debris,
slipping into the gap between the cubicles, hers and Felicity’s. Zanna circled,
swinging her stiletto heel like a scythe. Her eye was caught by the sight of
the pink angel food cloud cake on Felicity’s desk, still waiting to be
consumed.

Such was the strange power of Felicity’s rosy pink
confection, Zanna stopped for a split second to contemplate the cake. She
raised her empty hand toward the tower of pink icing. Lacey watched, fascinated.
Was she going to stop in mid attack to eat a piece of cake? No. She plunged her
fist into the middle of Felicity’s half-eaten dessert, grabbed a gooey pink
hunk of angel food cake and lobbed it at Lacey’s face. Lacey ducked, but it
landed with a splat in her hair and hung there. Zanna found this amusing.

Lacey wiped a sticky glob of cake and icing out of her hair
and threw it back at Zanna. It caught her full in the face. Zanna gasped and
staggered back. Lacey took another handful of cake and smashed it into Zanna’s
face and hair. Someone started to laugh in the background. Zanna was not nearly
so amused now. She wiped pink icing from her eyes, bared her teeth, and lunged
at Lacey with her stiletto heel.

Lacey sidestepped her lunge. Zanna slashed wildly with the
heel and managed to graze Lacey’s left upper arm. It drew blood, it hurt like
hell, and it ripped the sleeve of her vintage white bolero. Lacey looked down
at her torn sleeve, aghast.

“Oh no, you don’t! I like this jacket!” She body-slammed
Zanna as hard as she could. Her mug tumbled to the floor, but she leaned
sideways and picked it up, curling her fist around the handle. Zanna slammed
her back, Lacey grabbed Zanna’s hair, and they staggered together. The struggling
women swept the pink cake off Felicity’s desk and rolled onto the floor with it,
grappling like mud wrestlers in the smashed cake and icing. Lacey lost her grip
on the mug again.

She managed to knock the black-and-silver shoe out of Zanna’s
grip with one foot, another ninja move she’d never dreamed of in high school.
After a split-second decision
not
to grab the shoe and crack Zanna’s
skull open with it, Lacey kicked it under a desk. She slapped Zanna hard across
the face and stood back, panting.

Zanna seemed to be speaking a foreign language. There were
only gasps and nonsense syllables. She pulled herself up onto her hands and
knees and panted for air. Lacey backed away from her on the sticky floor to
catch her own breath. In the background, Tamsin could be heard raising her
voice, talking excitedly to someone on the phone.

“No, I told you, I can’t stay on the line any longer! I have
to watch this. I have a review to write. No. I am on deadline. Well, you can
tell that to Detective Broadway Lamont. Yes, that’s what I said. He’s in Homicide.
Lamont is who we usually deal with for this sort of thing. Tell him to come to
the offices of
The Eye Street Observer
. Right away. And send an
ambulance too.
Eye Street Observer
. What? Seriously?” Tamsin sighed
loudly, dramatically. “Good. God. Obviously, it’s on Eye Street, you imbecile. At
Farragut Square. Yes, it’s a newspaper, and if you don’t arrive before blood is
spilled, there will be a huge, outraged story in tomorrow morning’s paper about
your department’s woeful failures in emergency response and customer service.”

There was a pause, and then Tamsin continued. “That is
correct. I guarantee it. Have you heard the saying: Never argue with people who
buy ink by the barrel?” There was another pause. “Yes, that’s a real saying!
Look it up when you learn to read. Right. Assault. Battery. Whatever you call
it. Murder in progress. Make that attempted murder. Oh, this is ridiculous,
just get somebody with a gun and a badge over here! I want to hear sirens
screaming in two seconds! I am putting this phone down right
now
.”

Lacey scrambled to her feet and picked up the now-empty
coffee mug. It was her favorite FASHION
BITES
mug. She didn’t want it to
get broken. She gazed around at the damage. The newsroom was a disaster. She
scanned the debris for the green silk, thinking she could use it to tie Zanna up
until somebody arrived with handcuffs.

Zanna seemed to be coming back to her senses. She dragged
herself to her feet, shaking her head, and suddenly lurched toward Lacey, her
empty hands outstretched like claws. She raked her fingernails across Lacey’s
cheek. Lacey felt the sting of her nails as they drew blood. Blood dripped down
her face.

“Your face is a mess, fashion reporter.” Zanna stretched out
her claws again. “Wanna turn the other cheek? A matching scar, that’s what you
need. Besides, who cares what a
print
reporter looks like?”

Lacey wiped her face and looked at her bloodstained hand.

“You broadcast bitch. I will take you down.”

Zanna lunged again, slashing at the air with her nails. Lacey
dodged. She narrowed her eyes and took a deep breath. She gripped the mug’s
handle in her right hand. Lacey had never played baseball, or even softball,
except when a high school gym teacher was making her go through the motions,
but now she assumed the pitcher’s position. She drew back her right arm. She
aimed and swung, followed through with good form, mug still in hand like an
extended fist, and released her missile.

FASHION
BITES
connected with the side of Zanna’s head
with a loud hollow
smack
. Her eyes went wide and rolled back in her
head. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. She crumpled to
the floor in a heap.

It was quiet in the newsroom.

Lacey stood still, feeling her heart beat hard and fast
against her chest wall. She tried to catch her breath, while watching to make
sure Zanna didn’t rise again. She picked up her mug. The handle was broken, but
her shaking hand was ready to pitch again, if need be.

“Is she dead?” Tamsin Kerr crept closer, notebook in hand,
curious to see whether there would be a curtain call.

“I don’t think so. She’s breathing.”

“Well done. This isn’t the kind of thing I often see on
stage. Would have improved tonight’s show.”

“Stage fighting is choreographed with a little more
precision,” Lacey agreed, still panting.

“But much less passion,” Tamsin said. “The raw, ragged
emotions on display here tonight were very compelling to experience live. I
probably wouldn’t have believed it in the theatre. I might have thought it was
too artfully contrived to be quite real. But in real life, it was, well, very
realistic. Most notably discharged, Lacey. By the way, you’re bleeding. A
little.”

Lacey wiped her cheek again and smeared the blood. It stung.
She heard the noise of more people heading their way. The late-shift editors
finally ambled into the newsroom from across the hall, coffee cups in hand, wondering
what on earth was going on. Sirens and police cars could be heard racing toward
The Eye
. The sound of feet pounding down the corridor in their direction
grew louder. Lacey looked up.

Vic and Turtledove were running through the door toward her.
Vic reached for his handcuffs, while Turtledove flipped Zanna face-down like a
rag doll. Vic cuffed her to the infamous Mariah Death Chair. Zanna was semi-conscious
again, but she seemed dazed and began to cry. Turtledove squatted by her
silently. Vic ignored her and reached for Lacey.

“My God, Lacey.” Vic held her tight, then pulled her into the
light and gently stroked her face. “Did she do that? Are you okay?”

“My arm is killing me. And my face hurts.” She held on to him
as tight as she could with one good arm. “She smashed my phone. And I broke my
favorite mug. Other than that—”

“You don’t understand,” Zanna sobbed. “She tried to kill me.
With the deadly silk. Just like she killed Courtney Wallace. It’s not me! It’s
her!”

“Shut up, lady.” Turtledove looked disgusted that he’d missed
the intruder. “How’d this piece of trash get in, anyway? I never took my eyes
off this building. I watched every door and window. And why didn’t you answer
the phone, Lacey?”

“The garage,” she said. “The door down there is locked, but
she flirted her way in. According to her. And I tried to get the phone, but,
well, things happened.”

Detective Lamont thundered down the hall, making the floor
shake. Lacey could hear him coming the moment he got off the elevator. He was
followed by a mob of uniformed cops and emergency personnel. Lamont stopped
short to take a long look at Lacey, the fight scene, and Zanna Nelson. He
stared sadly at the layer of pink cake crumbs and icing and papers and desk
detritus covering the floor.
Terror at Timberline
was scattered
everywhere. He eyed Zanna Nelson, shackled to the Death Chair, sobbing and
wailing and kicking her feet.

“Damn. I’m afraid this one’s got psychiatric hold written all
over her,” he said.

Smithsonian Hooks Broadcaster Killer

Dramatic
Showdown at Eye Street Observer

By Tamsin Kerr, Observer
Theatre Critic and Staff Writer

A new play opened on Fourteenth
Street Tuesday night, but despite its attempt at shocking the audience, it
could not hold a candle to the theatrical extravaganza witnessed by this critic
at
The Eye Street Observer,
where in a late-night command performance
fashion reporter Lacey Smithsonian captured the alleged killer of television
personality Courtney Wallace.

Upon
returning to
The Eye
to pen a review of the new show,
The Brain-Dead
Monkey,
this critic happened upon the confrontation between Smithsonian and
the suspect already in progress in the newsroom, around Smithsonian’s work
cubicle.

Zanna
Nelson, an on-air employee of Channel One News, was arrested after the curtain
by Metropolitan Police Detective Broadway Lamont, who responded to this
critic’s report of an ongoing disturbance and assault at the newspaper.

Nelson is
expected to be arraigned tomorrow. The charges will include, but may not be
limited to, murder, attempted murder, assault, battery, stalking, trespass, and
vandalism, according to Detective Lamont. Overacting might be plausibly added
to these charges.

Act One: Drama Links
Green Silk With Murder

Smithsonian
was the first investigator to connect the suspicious death of broadcaster
Courtney Wallace to the toxic silk lining of the dress she wore to the White
House Correspondents’ Dinner, where Wallace collapsed and later died at George
Washington University Hospital. Although a Metropolitan Police spokesman called
Wallace’s death an apparent accident, Smithsonian redoubled her investigation,
based on her professional insight into the role of clothing in human behavior.
Apparently alarmed by the accuracy of her subsequent news coverage in
The
Eye Street Observer
, Nelson set her sights on silencing the fashion writer.

When an
angry Nelson gained unauthorized access to the newspaper offices late Tuesday
evening, Smithsonian first tried to talk the agitated suspect down. However,
the more calm and reasonable the fashion reporter was, the more agitated Nelson
became.

The suspect
admitted that she knew the silk was toxic and that she supplied it to Wallace for
her use in the dress with deliberate malicious intent, her motive pathological
jealousy and envy, and further, that she now intended to murder Smithsonian.
Her motivation for this attempted murder remains, to this reviewer, unsatisfying,
as in so much current drama. Discovering plausible motivations for obviously deranged
characters is a dramatic conundrum which has challenged playwrights from
Shakespeare to Tennessee Williams, and beyond.

Nelson at
times appeared incoherent and babbling. It is still unclear whether she was
ill, insane, under the influence of drugs or chemicals, or giving an eccentric
but undeniably powerful performance. This critic is inclined to credit her work
with the terrifying intensity of madness or intoxication or both, while leaving
the question of performance-enhancing drugs to the D.C. Crime Lab’s toxicology
section. Nelson spat her dialogue at Smithsonian in a style worthy of a young Meryl
Streep, catching her breath raggedly and lurching from one bizarre rant to the
next, which soon escalated into violence.

Act Two: Stiletto
Meets Mug in Hand-to-Heel Combat

Nelson
struck the first blow in the ensuing physical combat, attempting to strangle
Smithsonian with a length of the poisoned silk. Smithsonian fought back
valiantly, while this critic called the police and was detained on the phone
for several minutes by an incredulous 911 dispatcher. It was riveting when
Smithsonian leapt over her desk to press her counterattack. Nelson escalated
her assault, even resorting to the antiquated dramatic trope of a food fight.
Still, this tired bit of seriocomic stage business appeared fresh and
compelling under the circumstances.

Nelson
appeared to have gained the upper hand, wielding as her weapon a
black-and-silver stiletto-heeled shoe with a sharp spike heel. The shoe was one
of a pair worn by Courtney Wallace on the night of her death and was allegedly
removed from her body by Nelson, presumably as a souvenir.

However, in
self-defense Smithsonian launched a heavy ceramic mug (a promotional item
available from
The Eye Street Observer
’s
Web site) emblazoned
with the title of her popular LifeStyle section column, FASHION
BITES
. The
mug found its mark. And bite it did. FASHION
BITES
connected with her
attacker’s head, rendering the suspect unconscious and concluding the combat
interlude of the drama. In the denouement, help soon arrived in the form of the
Metropolitan Police, paramedics, and concerned citizens.

In the
leading role, playing herself, Smithsonian delivered an exemplary performance
as an investigative journalist under attack simply for pursuing the truth. Tentative
at first, her characterization gained gravitas and authority as she rose to the
challenge of creatively defending herself against a murderous assault by a
madwoman.

At curtain,
the entire cast had given their all and no curtain call was expected. This critic
can safely recommend this two-woman show as one of the most dramatic
performances she has witnessed in Washington, but the production will not be
held over for an extended run. This was, it is to be hoped, a
once-in-a-lifetime event.

Kerr’s Stars

The Eye Street Observer,
untitled special performance: One
night only.

Rating: Five Stars

The Brain-Dead Monkey
at Thesaurus Theatre: Go only if
you are the eponymous monkey or have excess brain cells you are willing to
impair.

Rating: One and a
Half Stars*

(*One-half star awarded
for an unexpectedly amusing performance by the monkey.)