10 Lethal Black Dress (7 page)

What if the newspaper folded and she couldn’t find another
job? Papers were in a precarious position everywhere and
The Eye
wasn’t
making much profit, if any. Lacey didn’t think she could switch to something
like broadcast journalism, even though she had the cheekbones for it. Her heart
would never be in it. Of course, there was her P.I. registration, for which she
had worked harder than she expected. Could she switch careers? Would Vic give
her a job as an investigator? Could they be a twenty-first century Nick and
Nora Charles? She liked that image. Minus Asta the dog, of course.

“We can get the ring,” she said at last. “I’d like that.”
Lacey was grateful he hadn’t simply surprised her with one. What if she hated
it? She wanted to select the setting herself. After all, she planned to wear it
for the rest of her life. She wanted to love it.

Vic’s mother Nadine Donovan had already mentioned the “family
jewels” from which any potential daughter-in-law would be welcome to choose.
She knew there was at least one diamond that would be perfect. Well over a
carat, a healthy size without being gaudy.
Okay, maybe just a little gaudy.

“Is the diamond all right?” A frown creased Vic’s forehead.
The stone had already been taken out of the worn platinum solitaire setting.
“It belonged to my grandmother. It worked for her. She was married for over
fifty years.”

Lacey laughed. He almost never betrayed fear, but he was
worried she might object to his grandmother’s gem?

“It’s a wonderful stone.”

“It’s not like it’s a chip or anything. It’s a respectable
diamond.”

“Hush.” She squeezed his hand.

“I’ve wanted you for such a long time.”

“Me too.”

For so many people in the world, it was hard to find love.
Lacey thought of Courtney Wallace, so young and ambitious. Now she was dead.
Lacey leaned across the table to kiss Vic.

“Let’s go ring shopping,” he murmured. “Can we do it this
week?”

“I’ll ask Mac for a day off.” Vic looked like he was ready to
go shopping right that minute.

“Good. We’re going to Baltimore.”

“Baltimore? Why Baltimore?” she asked.

“I know a guy there, a diamond specialist. Friend of the
family. And we won’t run the risk of running into anyone you know and freaking you
out. I understand how emotional this ring thing is for you.”

“I’m not that bad.”

“Says the woman who wanted to have a secret engagement.”

“It’s been a busy time. And complicated.” Lacey didn’t want
to admit he was right. Wearing a ring was a public declaration. She wasn’t
ready for it. Until now.

“I know you didn’t want to step on Stella’s wedding. But she
and Nigel are off on their honeymoon. It’s the perfect time for us to do this.”

Her cell beeped. It was a text from Brooke, which she read
aloud to Vic. “ ‘What happened re: Wallace? Theories? Need to investigate! CALL
ME NOW.’ ”

Lacey put her phone away with a sigh. “Let’s run away, Vic.
Couldn’t we just elope?”

CHAPTER 7

“I don’t know why she’s
dead, if that’s
what you mean,” Lacey told Brooke later that afternoon.

“Maybe she really was a wicked witch, and the champagne
melted her,” Brooke offered.

“Maybe you and Damon can rip the lid off wicked witches in
the Washington media. Uncover a coven meeting at the Press Club. You’ll have
fun.”

“With so many flying monkeys in this town, we’ll never find
them all.”

They spoke on the phone as Lacey was walking home from lunch
along the Potomac River. Vic had departed for his office to catch up on paperwork.
She breathed in the May day. The warm air cuddled her. She adored Old Town, even
though the Alexandria City Council was trying to destroy the picturesque waterfront
and turn it into an exclusive millionaire’s club.

“Well, witch or no witch, Courtney is dead and I’m sure
you’ll
be investigating,” Brooke said.

“Fashion reporter here. Remember? Not on the investigative
beat. Or the conspiracy beat.”

“I’ve heard that tune before.”

“You have too much faith in me, Brooke. Besides, if I did
come up with a theory, you’d tattle to Damon for his rag, although I don’t know
if you could actually call an online blog-slash-newsletter a real rag. It’s a
slur on rags.”

“I’m hurt, Lacey. DeadFed is too a real rag. You know what I
mean.” Brooke never pouted for long. “What if I promise I won’t tell Damon
anything unless it’s public knowledge or I have your permission?”

“He’s there with you, isn’t he?” A bright red cardinal
swooped across the path in front of Lacey. She heard hushed voices on Brooke’s
end of the line.

“No, no, he’s just leaving. I’m a free agent. Why don’t I
come over?”

“Come ahead, I’ll be home in a few minutes. I’m going to
chill.” Lacey planned to catch up on the news stories about Courtney. It would
be all over the media. She wanted to watch Courtney’s entire vintage fashion
series and see if she’d mentioned the Madame X dress or where she purchased it.

“I’ll bring some wine. We need to debrief.” Brooke sounded a
little too excited.

“Debrief? You know I hate that word. Better to say ‘brief’
than ‘debrief.’ If
brief
means to supply information,
debrief
sounds like we’ll be wiping our brains clean.”

“Don’t get your briefs in a bunch. See you soon.” Brooke
clicked off.

Back in her apartment, Lacey changed into a casual print
skirt in blues and violets and a sleeveless purple top, comfortable for the
weather, but not sloppy. Contrary to popular opinion among her friends and
fans, she was not all vintage, all the time. She didn’t want to wear out her
favorite pieces, knowing how fragile some of them were, and there wasn’t a lot
of vintage casual wear left. The pieces that survived the decades were
typically only the very best, pieces that women saved for special occasions.
Outfits from the Thirties and Forties, Lacey’s favorite eras, were scarce and
getting scarcer, and many were impossibly small, the size of modern children’s
clothes.

Often older fashions were recut and restyled to suit new
designs, taken in or taken out, the shoulder pads thrown away. These
transformations may not have been the best choice, but in tough times clothes
were worn until they were threadbare and then cut up for rags or quilts, or the
material was saved to be used another day. During World War II, posters and
hand-stitched samplers advised Americans to
Use it up, Wear it out, Make it
do, Or do without!

The American people took wartime fabric rationing to heart, using
and reusing their clothing. Lacey’s grandmother and great-grandmother had made
quilts of cut-up dresses and scraps of worn-out fabric. Only her Aunt Mimi
treasured some special wardrobe pieces enough to keep them intact and pristine.
Lacey eyed Mimi’s trunk of vintage treasures (which doubled as her coffee
table), where she often found inspiration. Instead, she booted up her laptop.

As she suspected, Courtney’s recent news stories were easily
found online, and Lacey was able to watch her every entry on vintage fashion.
Courtney’s theme was “Wearable Vintage in Vogue in Washington, D.C.” The short
segments were light and breezy and full of vintage eye candy, but Courtney’s
work still managed to irritate Lacey. Prior to Courtney’s series, Lacey had
written a feature series of her own in
The Eye
, highlighting local
vintage stores—their strengths and specialties, the eras and types of clothes
they carried, and how a vintage wardrobe could work in everyday life. Courtney
cribbed a lot of Lacey’s articles.

Five features on vintage were aired leading up to the
Correspondents’ Dinner, the last one just a few days before. The station
treated these bits as the entertainment part of the news and replayed them on
the Channel One morning feature-oriented show, “Wide Awake Washington.”

Lacey wondered why this ambitious Emmy Award winner would
pursue a series her station clearly considered to be nothing but fluff. More
likely Courtney, for all her good looks and blond hair and Chiclet teeth, was
being shifted off the news beat. A single Emmy wasn’t that big a deal, anyway.
Lacey knew broadcast journalists who’d won dozens of them. The one big
political story Courtney screwed up must have had a far-reaching effect. It
felt to Lacey like the ax was ready to fall, right before Courtney herself did.
She skimmed through the features again on fast-forward, watching for clues in
Courtney’s clothes and presentation.

Courtney began her sartorial journey in the 1930s, wearing a
beige-and-white-striped knit sweater and solid beige knit skirt, paired with
brown pumps and a brown beret. She struck a pose, looking very much like that
outlaw clotheshorse Bonnie Parker, of the bank robbing duo, Bonnie and Clyde.
Bonnie didn’t rate a mention, though, nor did the Great Depression or the end
of the Flapper Era.

In the next piece, the sleek siren look was gone. The
bias-cut Thirties fashions that hugged the figure changed dramatically, as the
broad shoulders and nipped-in waistline of the Forties took over. Courtney wore
a striking blue-gray pinstripe suit with red platform pumps, looking ready for
the Senate press room—or
His Girl Friday
. But Courtney Wallace was no
Rosalind Russell.

American clothing design in the Forties sent the message that
women could shoulder the wartime responsibilities of the workplace and, indeed,
the nation. While American men were at war, American women were taking over
their jobs, and their need for a professional wardrobe fueled the historic rise
of the American apparel industry. Courtney didn’t mention any of this
historical context. She just oohed and aahed over the shoulder pads.

For her segment highlighting the clothes of the Fifties,
Courtney chose what Lacey referred to as the Lamentable Lampshade Dress. This
one was a sleeveless cocktail creation in ivory taffeta which fanned out in an
extreme lampshade silhouette. It looked painfully nipped in at the waist and
flowed out into a full circle skirt. Lacey thought it looked just as
preposterous on Courtney as it probably did in that postwar decade when men and
society were shoving women out of their offices and back into the kitchen, to
wear aprons and disappointment. Lacey was surprised Courtney hadn’t donned
pearls and a cocktail apron. Again, the television bites pulled the clothes out
of context and ignored the larger world behind them.

“Don’t eat if you’re going to wear a dress like this,”
Courtney chirpily advised her viewers.

Moving into the Sixties, Courtney donned a simple yellow
sheath dress à la First Lady Jacqueline Kennedy. The dress looked eminently wearable
today, Lacey thought, though the matching yellow pillbox hat and low heels
marked it as out of place and out of time. It was an iconic style, but Lacey
didn’t care for unconstructed garments that ignored a woman’s basic shape. The
Jackie Kennedy sheath dress would look good only on someone thin enough to pull
it off. Courtney wore it well. But did she mention Jackie or JFK or the
enduring style legacy of their brief, shining Camelot? Lacey watched and
waited. Not a word.

The Seventies vintage piece closed Courtney’s series with high-waisted
bell-bottomed jeans and a white cotton bohemian top, its flowing sleeves
embroidered in blue and lavender paisley. She completed the look with sandals
and a lavender paisley scarf tied as a belt. It could have been worse. There
were much more extreme fashions from that era, and this one managed to look
fresh and pretty on her.

Lacey remembered her grandmother saying of the Seventies,
“The whole world was having a costume party and I wasn’t invited.”

Courtney’s series was one long costume party, without a hint
of the worlds from which these clothes emerged. In each segment, Courtney
merely demonstrated how vintage fashion was classic and wearable and could be
found in stores here and there throughout Washington, Maryland, and Virginia.
She never mentioned the Madame X dress, but she ended the last episode with a
teaser: “Join me next time, as I once more travel back in time to explore more
wearable vintage fashion at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner.”

Lacey grudgingly had to admit that she didn’t own the vintage
clothing territory. And television news stories were a flash in the pan that
disappeared even more quickly than newsprint. In addition, the very nature of
television news ensured that Courtney couldn’t possibly explore any story in
depth. Her stories were measured in seconds rather than column inches, and in
those seconds she could only deliver the lede, a couple of the journalist’s famous
Five W’s, quote someone on camera, smile, and sign off. The why and how of a
story were usually the W’s that got left out.

It was the why and how of Courtney’s death that now nagged at
Lacey. She didn’t know why she felt so compelled to find answers. Perhaps it
was guilt. She would have felt better if she’d left the situation with Courtney
on good terms. Nevertheless, she didn’t regret saying no to an on-camera
interview. She had to protect herself, and sometimes feelings got hurt.

Could she have tried harder to convince Courtney to change
out of that dress? Lacey didn’t know for certain that the dress was the cause
of the woman’s death, but her gut said it was. Lacey kept coming back to the
same questions: Where had the Madame X dress come from? Why was Courtney
wearing it that night, at that exact moment in time, the same moment the waiter
tripped?

And who exactly was the waiter? Lacey had seen him on stage
in a play, a recent production of
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
at the
Folger Shakespeare Theatre. He didn’t have a large part, but his sweet face and
slight build made him a good fit for the role of Francis Flute, who played the
lovelorn maiden Thisbe in the play within the play. Lacey called the
Shakespeare expert with whom she’d seen the show,
The Eye
’s theatre
critic, Tamsin Kerr.

Tamsin was always entertaining. She was tall and striking and
had an austere, theatrical style of dress, usually in black. Her great mass of
curly hair rested on her shoulders like a dark cloud, and her dark expression
often matched it. She always managed to look regal, and in her career she had
terrified hundreds of actors, directors, theatre producers, and not a few
reporters. Lacey had heard the theatre community sometimes referred to her as
“Killer” Kerr, but the life of a critic had its compensations: Free tickets.

Tamsin wasn’t too excited by the show, Lacey remembered.
“Another season, another
Dream
,” she commented at intermission. “At
least it’s not another modern-dress extravaganza with motorcycles and
helicopters. Leave that to Arena Stage. And you should have seen the version with
the swimming pools, half-clad actors shivering in and out of the water,
slipping and falling onstage, splashing the audience. It was entertaining.
Spectacle can be hilarious in all the wrong ways. It isn’t always bad, it
entertains the groundlings, but I hate it when the play gets lost.”

Tamsin answered the phone with a single word.

“Speak.”

“Tamsin? It’s Lacey. Do you have a minute?”

“One or two. For you.”

“I want to get hold of an actor who was in the
Dream
we saw together.
Midsummer Night’s
, that is. He was one of Bottom’s crew
of rude mechanicals, the one who plays Thisbe. Do you remember his name?”

“Francis Flute, the bellows-mender. Oh, you mean the actor’s
name? Let me think.” There was a pause. Tamsin had amazing, but rambling,
recall and Lacey didn’t interrupt. “Will. Will Something. He was rather droll
as Thisbe. Will as in Shakespeare, but that wasn’t the name, of course. It’ll
come to me. He played an androgynous Ariel in that ghastly Tempest-with-Bigfoot
thing at Thesaurus Theatre last year.”

“He’s also a waiter,” Lacey said.

“Of course he is, aren’t they all? I used to see him waiting
tables at Two Quail, but it has since closed. Unsurprising. Their service was
glacial. Your waiter slips away for an audition and leaves your entrée
congealing under the warming lights. He’s waitering somewhere else now. Perhaps
Trio’s? But no, not Trio’s. Next door or down the street. I believe I saw him
before a show at Theatre J last week. A new restaurant. The Spotlight? That’s
it. It’s theatre kitschy.”

“The Spotlight. I haven’t heard about it.”

“All actors. Doomed to fail. But we’ll see.”

“How was the food?”

“Edible, but not memorable. I had the pasta, because you
always assume they can’t ruin the pasta. And yet, they
can
ruin the
pasta.”

“Thanks for the tip. Call me if you think of his name, would
you?” She was ready to hang up.

“Wait, Smithsonian. Why do you want to know this Will
Something? He’s really just a spear carrier, you know, not a lead.”