10 Lethal Black Dress (6 page)

Lacey Smithsonian’s FASHION
BITES

Beating
the Rain Game! Or,
Don’t Fear the Raingear

April showers bring May flowers, but
in Washington, D.C., May showers can bring a colorful bouquet of expletives,
with little thought of the roses. Rain can dampen more than your outfit. It can
totally hose your good mood.

There is no
feeling in the Nation’s Capital like standing in the four-foot spray of water
from a passing Metro bus, one with a maniacally laughing driver who just scored
ten points in his game of
Soak the Pedestrian
. There is no frizz like
the frizzy follicles blown up like a balloon by the constant mist of a
Washington May. There are no cold feet like those soaked in a steady downpour
of D.C. drizzle.

It’s Eight A.M. Do
You Know Where Your Umbrella Is?

If you have
lived here for any time at all, you own a vast collection of umbrellas, bought
in haste at street corners, purchased after dodging into drugstores between the
raindrops, and as a last resort, grabbed for a few bucks at Metro stops as the
clouds opened up and poured down upon you. Many of them you will lose, or have
lost already. Others have turned inside-out in the gales, the spines have
broken, the wind has blown them out of your hands, and you have tossed the
battered remains in the next trashcan, where they will join others of their sorry
kind.

You wonder
why you can’t find a simple plastic parasol among your possessions?

You have
left them on the bus, dropped them on the Metro, forgotten them under your seat
at the theatre, and abandoned them on the counter of the department store where
you ran to address some more pressing fashion emergency. Thousands of umbrellas
change hands and locations every rainy day in Washington, D.C., like a secret
migration. They make their way into strangers’ hands, into dark corners in
closets and under desks and behind filing cabinets, and finally to dreary Lost
and Found departments, from whence they are never retrieved. They fill the
great Washington Graveyard of Lost Umbrellas, which is vaster than the Bermuda
Triangle. It is to be hoped that these umbrellas are not all black, like your
mood, umbrella-less in the rain.

So, shall we
sing off-key of Spring’s glories in our leaky waders? Shall we curse the skies
that open up and rain down upon us? Or, shall we prepare for the inevitable
with smart stylish raingear? If you chose the last option, you are way ahead in
the rain game.

Washington Rainwear
Do’s and Don’ts

Do
invest in
a
smart
pair of rubber rain boots. They come in a variety of colors and
patterns, blue or red or yellow, but if that’s too much visual adventure for
your sense of propriety, you can always go with classic Wellies in English Garden
Green. Simply swap them for another pair of shoes when you get to the office.
You do have a few extra pair of heels and flats lurking under your desk, don’t
you? Next to that missing umbrella?

Do
buy a
good
raincoat.
You will need it here. Often. So buy one that is good quality and
good looking. Unfortunately, when you find a great raincoat, one that is
flattering and wicks away the moisture and remains unwrinkled, you will immediately
see it everywhere in town, coming and going. A khaki trench coat? Another
popular choice. You might think there’s a Trench Coat Conspiracy to take over
the Nation’s Capital. On rainy days everyone on Pennsylvania Avenue looks like
a trench-coated refugee from World War I. Take heart: Yours doesn’t have to be
khaki! Go crazy. Pick another color.

Do
have several
umbrellas
on
hand. Buy them in bright colors or patterns, to lift your mood and help differentiate
yours from the sea of gloomy black umbrellas filling every rainy Washington
street. But don’t get too attached to them. The life expectancy of the average
umbrella in this town is short. See above.

Do
have an
emergency
hair
and makeup kit on hand. You will need these supplies to look polished
for that important board meeting or Congressional hearing. Remember, never let
them see you sweat, or with rain dripping from your scalp. So pack along your
comb, elastic hair bands, hairspray, and pins to deal with a hairdo that has
exploded and looks like a mushroom cloud erupting from your head. Wet wipes to
clean up dark smears under your eyes are invaluable. Don’t forget, a bit of
foundation or powder and mascara can rescue melted makeup streaks creasing down
your cheeks. Streaks happen.

Don’t
think that
a mere
newspaper or even that fat Senate subcommittee report is going to keep you dry
in a Washington downpour. It won’t.

Don’t
wrap yourself up in
a
big plastic garbage bag, not even a shiny black one. It looks sad and desperate.
In this case, black does not equal
formal
.

And
finally:

Don’t
reach for
that cheap
logo-printed plastic poncho you grabbed in desperation at the gift shop in one
of the museums (probably the Smithsonian). Remember, a true Washingtonian never
wants to be mistaken for a tourist! If you’re caught in the rain here without a
raincoat or an umbrella, just resign yourself to getting soaked to the skin and
dripping wherever you go for the rest of the day, like a true Washingtonian.

Like
the rest of us in this town who’ve lost our umbrellas.

CHAPTER 6

On Sunday morning Lacey heard
the click
of her clock radio just before the news came on. She yawned and lay back,
enjoying the prospect of a lazy Sunday. With Vic. And no fashion clues.

“—Channel One spokesperson said Wallace appeared ill last
evening at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner. No foul play is indicated.
Police are withholding further details pending autopsy results. Again, Emmy Award-winning
local newscaster Courtney Wallace, dead at twenty-eight. Now, turning to the
weather—”

“Dead?” Lacey opened her eyes wide and sat straight up.
“Courtney is dead?”

“Was that you squealing?” Vic showed up at the bedroom door
carrying two cups of coffee. He sat down on the bed and handed her one.

“I didn’t hear what I just heard. I must have been dreaming.”

“Scoot over. We’ll dream together.”

“It can’t be true. Courtney’s dead?”

“Sorry, sweetheart. Courtney Wallace shuffled off that mortal
coil early this morning. I caught it on the kitchen radio while I was making
coffee.”

“Cause of death?” She held on to the warm cup and breathed
the steam before sipping.

“Not announced. Details pending. Autopsy. You know the
drill.”

“Unbelievable. Courtney.” Lacey tried to wrap her head around
the news. She sipped Vic’s delicious concoction and hoped it would clear her
head. Vic had even steamed the milk with the adorable little frothing machine
he’d bought her. The coffee was delicious, creamy, hot, and sweet. Normally,
she would mentally compare the brew to Vic. He was very appealing this morning.
This, she thought, could be the start of a great morning. But under the
circumstances, she had other things on her mind.

“I tried to warn her,” Lacey said.

“You can’t be sure that Paris Green dye was the cause, you
know.”

“That’s not what my gut is saying.”

“It’s Courtney’s gut that’ll have the last word. Autopsy,
toxicology, the poison will turn up or it won’t.” He pulled her into a hug.
“Far be it from me to second-guess your gut, darling. But even if you’re right,
you warned her and she did not heed that warning. Who else could even have
known there might be something hazardous to warn her about? You did your best.”

The radio reported that it was going to be a beautiful day
for everyone.
Everyone except Courtney Wallace.
Lacey switched the radio
over to classical music on WETA.

“I need some Vivaldi. The news isn’t going to get any
better.”

“Lacey, darling, I know you’re going to keep going over
everything in your head until you make yourself sick. Don’t do it. Wallace’s
death had nothing to do with you. It’s not your fault. You couldn’t force her
to change that dress, could you?”

“I wasn’t very nice to her last night. I refused to let her
interview me. I refused to go on camera.”

“It didn’t kill her. She was used to it. Besides, we’ve all refused
to go on camera. We’ve all declined to be quoted.”

Vic was speaking from experience. He had often declined to
give Lacey information, back when he was the chief of police in Sagebrush,
Colorado, and she was a green reporter. These days he was keeping a much lower
public profile, and he shared a little more information with her. Vic had
returned to Virginia to work with his dad as co-owner of a security company
headquartered in Arlington. He and Lacey reconnected. Old feelings became new,
and they were together at last. And Lacey had to admit the man made a mean cup
of java.

Lacey pulled on a robe and took her coffee to the balcony of
her apartment, where she never tired of her seventh-floor view of the Potomac.
She had lucked out when she found this apartment building in Old Town,
Alexandria. This time of year it was extra glorious. The tall willows on the
banks might be weeping with joy that they were back in full glory. The oaks
were leafing out. Ospreys, egrets, and blue herons were in flight over the
river, and Lacey caught sight of a bald eagle soaring high above. Little
sailboats from the unpretentious Belle Haven Marina were heading out for the day.
Tour boats full of visitors headed across the river to National Harbor, while
others were bound further south to Mount Vernon, the ever-popular home of
George Washington. Yesterday’s furious rainstorm had washed the humidity away
and the day was bright and clear. Tourists would crowd the parks and the
monuments and the streets of Old Town.

Lacey finished her coffee and went inside to shower and
dress, leaving Vic to enjoy the balcony. For her, this was that time of year
when the summer dresses were begging to come out. The light, airy summer frock
she selected wasn’t vintage, but it had a retro vibe in a bright coral with
three-quarter sleeves and white trim. Vic was already showered and ready to go
in jeans and a green shirt she had given to him. It matched his eyes.

There was just enough time for them to make the late Mass at
St. Mary’s. Vic wasn’t very religious, but he was happy to go with her whenever
she was in the mood. She took it as a pledge of his intent to walk her down the
aisle. Lacey had prayers to say, but unfortunately the warbling soloist with
the relentless piercing vibrato was making it difficult to focus. The soloist
did, however, keep her wide awake, as last night’s events played on a recurring
loop in her head.

Afterward, she and Vic went to brunch at the Union Street Pub
at the bottom of Old Town, a block south of bustling King Street. They were
ushered to a small table overlooking the Union Street action.

“You’re quiet,” Vic said.

“I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“I’m not going to ask if you want to talk about it, because I
know eventually you’re going to talk about it until you’ve exhausted the
subject.”

“You know me so well.”

“Just let me order first.”

“More coffee then.” Lacey yawned, covering her mouth.

“You had a big night. With the big guy himself, Broadway
Lamont. And not with me.”

“You know the rules. I couldn’t invite you. I had to bring a
source. I would love to have taken you.”

“I could be your source. I’ll make up all the news you can
use.”

She waggled her fingers at him. “Conflict of interest, my
dear.”

“That’s what you used to say when I asked you out, back in
Sagebrush.”

“Huge conflict of interest. You had a wife. I’m not the one
with a previous marriage.”

Lacey had caught his eye when he was still married to, though
separated from, his now ex-wife Montana. Lacey was a rookie reporter, fresh out
of journalism school. He was an almost-as-green chief of police. Vic Donovan,
dark-haired and green-eyed, towered over her, and she found him almost
ridiculously handsome.

Montana tried her best to win Vic back, even though she had
gone through a number of other men and other husbands, both her own and other
women’s. Lacey thought she was either completely ruthless, or an eternal
optimist.

“I was getting a divorce. As I told you at the time. Besides,
I’m not sure a Las Vegas marriage really ought to be considered legal. It’s a
gray area.”

“Legal but tacky,” she said. “Our wedding won’t be tacky.
I’ll make sure of that.”

“When?” he pressed.

“When? Not for a while.” The waiter appeared at their table.
“I’ll have the crab cakes, please.”

“Sounds good. Make it two.” The server scooted off. Lacey
rubbed her forehead.

“This thing with Courtney. It’s bugging me, Vic.”

“Especially with some screwy fashion aspect to the
proceedings that only Lacey Smithsonian could possibly decode.”

“It’s a gift.”

“Which keeps on giving.”

“Why there?” Lacey took his hand. “Don’t you think it’s weird
that Courtney’s slide toward the Grim Reaper happened at the Correspondents’
Dinner, of all places? Secret Service everywhere, all those metal detectors,
cameras all over the place, wall-to-wall media? It’s the most secure place in
town. Maybe the world. Nobody gets in who’s not on the List. Everyone has to
submit personal information ahead of time, everyone gets checked, everyone gets
screened at the security gates, all those guys with guns and earpieces. And
yet—”

“It’s not weird if it was an accident. You think it was
deliberate?”

“Not exactly. Not yet. But if it was copper arsenate
poisoning from Paris Green dye— And you can take that skeptical cop look off
your face, mister. Just go with me here.”

He smirked at her. “What cop look?”

“That one, and you know it.” She imitated him, scrunching her
eyebrows.

He smirked back at her. “Okay. You said it was an accident
when the waiter with the drinks spilled his tray.”

“That’s the way it seemed. The waiter looked horrified. I
didn’t see anyone trip him or shove him, but the place was packed. I could have
missed it. But why did he trip? Why was Courtney in his path at that exact
moment? Why did she wear that dress when she could have worn any vintage
dress?”

“Why do trees crash onto cars on the highway in a storm? That
tree, that car, that exact moment?”

“Unanswerable questions, I guess.”

Courtney’s series of stories on vintage clothing on Channel
One would be a place to start. Could the series have been some sort of
punishment? An exile from hard news?

Fashion was not a beat that garnered respect. Lacey had
discovered that firsthand. She started her career in news, not fashion. She was
on her way to being a hard news reporter in Washington when she caught Mac’s
eye at the exact wrong moment. She was thrown into the fashion beat because the
previous fashion editor, Mariah “the Pariah” Morgan, died at her desk, in her
old-fashioned, oak desk chair. She’d been sitting there for hours and was in
full rigor mortis by the time anyone noticed, and then only because she’d
missed her deadline for a story. If not for that deadline, she might have sat
there dead at her desk for days.

That was the kind of respect fashion got in D.C. And they
never even got rid of the chair Mariah died in. The Death Chair sailed around
the office from desk to desk like a ghost ship, an oaken Flying Dutchman on
wheels. It always seemed to wind up back near Lacey’s cubicle.

But what happened to Courtney?

“The biggest question right now is the dress,” Lacey said.
“How did a dress that I suspect was made in the early Forties, or maybe the
late Thirties, happen to have a lining dyed a color supposedly not used since
the late nineteenth century?”

“They stopped using Paris Green?”

“Long ago. After people found out how dangerous it was. I
think maybe they still use it in fireworks, things like that, but not in
clothes.”

“You’re the fashion seer. What do you think?”

“It looked like part of her series on vintage clothing. She’d
been wearing a different vintage outfit for each story. I need to view all those
video clips, I only saw a few on TV. They sounded suspiciously like they were
cribbed almost word-for-word from my articles and columns in
The Eye
.
However, Courtney reminded me last night that ideas are not copyrightable.”

“In other words, it was okay to steal your stuff and change a
few words.”

“Basically, yes.”

“She sounds like a lawyer, not a reporter.”

“I’ve never seen anything quite like that Madame X dress of
hers,” she mused. “Where did it come from? And where is it now?”

“With her personal effects. It might go back to her family.
Unless the M.E. hangs onto it.”

“Champagne stains have to be taken care of right away. It’ll
be ruined. No one will want that dress now.”

“You’d like to look at it, wouldn’t you?”

Lacey peered out the window. “I don’t know that it could tell
me anything. But I’d like to see it.”

“It will keep. If there’s a way to see it, you’ll find it. I
have a better question on this beautiful day. When are we going to get your
engagement ring?”

“My
what
?”

Weddings were in the air all around them. Lacey’s friend
Stella Lake had finally married Nigel, the man of her very specific and unusual
dreams, despite all the odds against it. Brooke was paired up with Damon, again
a dream that only Brooke could have dreamed. Felicity and Harlan, Marie and
Gregor Kepelov. And Vic Donovan had proposed to Lacey, in the least likely
circumstances she could ever have imagined. She stared at her left hand, which
was still bare.

“You heard me.” Vic was smiling. “We need a ring for that
hand.”
He wants to go ring shopping?

“What’s the hurry?” she asked.

“Darling, we’re not getting any younger. I want to rock you down
the aisle without a walker. When I see a ring on your finger, I might start to
believe it’s real. You have a history of fleeing men who ask you to marry
them.”

“One time! Gee whiz. That was all.”

“One time, but you went two thousand miles!”

“Only eighteen hundred. Or so. And I was fleeing a terrible
town!”

Lacey ran away from Sagebrush, Colorado, and the cowboy—correction,
rancher—
who proposed to her. It was a small town. People talked. Vic
always made a bigger deal of it than it really was.
Maybe.

“It’s time to set up a home, Lacey,” he said softly. “You and
me. Together.”

And shop for a ring? It was things like that—setting up house
together—that terrified her. Vic reached for her hands. The feel of his hands
warmed her skin, her heart, her soul. Lacey felt at home with Vic, without the
need to set up house. Not just yet.

It was funny how love complicated things and simplified them
at the same time. Perhaps it was because she feared losing her independence.
Yet when she thought of Vic, she felt so at home with him. However, he had more
money, a more stable career, a family business. She’d never be able to match
him dollar for dollar with her reporter’s salary.