10 Lethal Black Dress (3 page)

CHAPTER 3

Although the incident happened in
a
flash, Lacey remembered it in slow motion.

The server, whom she recognized as a local stage actor in the
role of a professional waiter, one hand under the tray, was smoothly weaving
through the crowd on autopilot when suddenly things went off script. She could
tell he hadn’t planned to improvise. He seemed as surprised by this plot twist
as everyone else.

Somehow he stumbled in the crush, falling toward Courtney
face to face, tray first. He went down halfway and the tray went up and over.
Two dozen full glasses of champagne went airborne, their contents cascading
over the broadcaster and her glorious black dress with the brilliant green
lining. Lacey gasped as the shower rained down, more concerned at the moment
about Courtney’s expensive vintage dress than she was about Courtney, who
surely would dry without ill effects, albeit with a little shame. The waiter’s
expression was pure shock.

“Damn it! What the—?” Courtney’s face registered confusion,
then horror, then rage—not without many choice expletives that would be deleted
from the tape if the moment ever made the news.

Her cameraman—Lacey had heard him called Eric Something—was
still shouldering his camera rig, catching everything. Courtney’s microphone
finally tumbled to the floor as she tried to shake off the champagne like a wet
dog. The crowd seemed to be waiting for the denouement, Courtney’s twenty
seconds of shame. Or was it just ten? Bystanders, mostly print reporters and
their cherished sources, might have offered sympathy or help, even a dry
handkerchief. But no, they stood and watched and said nothing, because it was
Courtney Wallace, and she was not one of them. She was a broadcaster, and
worse, a disgraced practitioner of “gotcha” journalism—now the victim of her
own “gotcha.”

The waiter recovered his composure before she did. He quickly
and gracefully started picking up the mess. Slowly, a horrible realization
struck Courtney: The camera was still on her. Her own camera, her own
cameraman. There was the ghastly possibility this clip could end up as a
blooper tape on her own TV station. Or worst of all, running endlessly on the
Internet.

Camera phones came out and captured her reaction. Even Lacey
took a photo. She really wanted a picture of the dress and that astonishing
lining. She now regretted she hadn’t taken a photo before it was spoiled.

It was clear what Courtney must do. She picked up the mike
and cleared some sopping strands of hair out of her eyes. She nodded to her
cameraman and smiled brightly into the lens.

“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.”

She signaled the cameraman to cut with that universal
gesture, her fingers slicing across her throat. He put down his camera with a
smirk.

“Way to go, Courtney,” he said. “This one’s a keeper. This is
going to blow everyone else off the screen tonight.”

“Shut up, Eric. Just shut up.” Soaked and steaming, Courtney
tried to make a quick exit from the cocktail party. It wasn’t easy, but she
elbowed her way to the door, dripping champagne at every step. Partygoers squeezed
back to keep from getting dripped on, and, Lacey knew, to keep from being
caught in the same camera frame as Courtney. She was followed closely out the
door by another woman, presumably a friend or coworker.

Eric lowered the camera and turned his head. Lacey could see
his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
Ah, the rewards of broadcast
journalism,
she thought.
From star to laughingstock in mere seconds.

Lacey had never seen a news cameraman wearing a suit, and she
didn’t see one now. Eric was wearing a black sweater and black denim jeans, a
concession to the formality of the event, and his long, glossy black hair
brushed his shoulders. He looked Asian, perhaps Korean, and she could read his
full name on one of the blizzard of press and identification cards around his
neck: Eric Park. He smiled readily. His on-camera reporter having fled in
shame, Eric went calmly about his business, capturing random video bites of the
Correspondents’ Dinner revelers.

“What’s that smell?” Broadway asked her. “Don’t smell like
champagne to me.”

Lacey sniffed the air. “Wet fabric? Old cloth? The scent of a
century? Maybe the aroma of hopping mad broadcast reporter.” She breathed in
the pungent fragrance and that whiff of garlic caught in the air. It was the
same scent she’d caught before, but stronger.

“The party’s over. For Courtney Wallace,” Damon said. “Glad I
scored some priceless phone pics.”

Brooke was more sympathetic. “She probably just wants to
die.”

One thing Washingtonians really hated was a scene. Any scene,
especially an embarrassing scene in front of hundreds of strangers. Nevertheless,
one woman’s embarrassing scene is another’s low comedy. There was a buzz of
laughter rolling through the cocktail party crowd. Lacey felt a little sick to
her stomach. Clearly many people thought it was hilarious, and that Courtney
was only getting what she deserved. Still, public humiliation was hard to take.
And the dress! That beautiful vintage dress didn’t deserve that treatment.

The room started to empty out. The crowd looked for another
party, another quick drink before the dinner. They would slowly make their way
to the ballroom, armed with plenty of gossip. They had witnessed the blooper of
the evening.

Damon took Brooke’s arm. “I hear Matt Drudge is at the
National
Journal
party. I’ll introduce you.”

“Catch you two at dinner,” Brooke called to Lacey over her
shoulder as they wandered out, chattering with excitement.

“I’ll be right back,” Lacey said to Lamont. “Ladies’ room.”
Lacey figured Courtney would head for the nearest place where she could mop up
the mess. Something else was bothering Lacey about the whole mishap, but she
couldn’t say just what it was.

“Following the rest of the story? Well, once a snoop, always
a snoop. Don’t get wet. I’ll be here, testing the hors d’oeuvres.”

Lamont leaned against the wall where he could take in the
hubbub. He traded his empty champagne glass for one of white wine from the next
waiter who came by with a tray of filled glasses. The champagne seemed to be
gone, all wasted on the Wallace woman.

Lacey found the nearest women’s restroom. It was suitably
elegant, with marble floors and gilt-framed mirrors, but small, with just two
stalls at an angle to the sinks. Two women were filling the space before the
mirrors, and one of those women was Courtney. Lacey slipped into an open stall
unobserved, just as another woman slipped out.

Courtney’s companion was busier wringing her hands than
wringing out her friend’s soaked dress. Her own mustard-colored dress was
eye-catching, but not as flattering as she might have hoped. It seemed to be a
copy of a Nicole Kidman dress, with a mandarin collar and a keyhole cutout in
the bodice. However, it might only work on the famous actress it was intended
for. Lacey paused to make a mental note, an occupational hazard. She couldn’t
imagine that color looking good on anything but a hot dog.
In this case, a regulation
little black dress would have been so much better.

“Leave me alone, Zanna,” Courtney snapped at her helper as
Lacey peeked through the gap in the stall door. Zanna Nelson: Lacey recalled
the name. She’d seen her once or twice as an on-air reporter on Channel One,
but Ms. Mustard didn’t seem to get a lot of face time.

Zanna apparently was Courtney’s purse handler for the
evening. She handed her a comb and a makeup compact from a sleek little silver
bag and observed the other woman closely in the mirror. Zanna was pretty, in
fact, much prettier than Courtney. She had long, straight, glossy brown hair
that reached well below her shoulders. Her face was heart-shaped and her
features even, with deep-set hazel eyes. Perhaps her only visual flaw was her
small, cupid’s-bow mouth. But she didn’t have the exaggerated, outsized
features that Courtney had, the kind of features that the camera loved. In
person, Courtney looked more extreme. If they were fashion models, Zanna would
be
catalogue
, while Courtney would be
editorial
.

Courtney was mopping her face with tissues, trying not to
cry.

“Are you okay?” Zanna asked.

“Are you stupid? Do I look okay? I’m dripping wet. This is a
freaking disaster! Oh my God.” Her hair hung in strings and her makeup was
streaked. She leaned in to the mirror and sponged her face with foundation. She
was making it worse.

Zanna seemed accustomed to Courtney’s dramatics. “I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry for? At least you’re not soaking wet. Why
is this happening to me?”

Courtney was fighting a meltdown, and possibly tears. Lacey
didn’t blame her. Any woman would be entitled, after that public disgrace.
Still, Lacey hoped the vintage dress and the gorgeous green silk lining,
champagne streaked and clinging soddenly to Courtney’s legs, could be saved.

There was an atmosphere in the room that was giving Lacey a
headache. That smell of garlic was back and even more pungent, as was the musty
aroma of the sopping black gown. What was it about the aroma? She tried to
remember.

“It’s not that bad,” Zanna said meekly.

“
It’s not that bad,
” Courtney mimicked her. “No, it’s
not that bad, it’s worse, it’s a complete freaking catastrophe. I could kill
that idiot waiter!”

“Let me help you.” Zanna stood aside, still wringing her
hands.

“Kill the waiter? Be my guest. Just leave me alone. I suppose
you’d like to finish the rest of the story for me,” Courtney sneered. “Well,
you’re not going on air for me tonight. This is my assignment. And if I go down
with the ship, at least it’s my ship.”

“But Courtney, I’m just trying to help. If you’re not feeling
up to it, I could—”

“Don’t you get it? I have to get back out there! I have to
show my face in front of all those people! I have to prove I’m professional
enough to finish this. Listen to me, I am fine. I will touch up my makeup and
fix my hair and I will go out there and do my job.”

Courtney rapidly smoothed her hair, twisted it into a
ballerina’s knot on the top of her head, pulled out a few damp strands by
her face, and curled them with her fingers. It was an admirable save. The two
women stood back, checking the results in the mirror. Zanna nodded in approval.
Courtney shrugged.

Lacey decided this was her cue to join the party. She flushed
the toilet behind her to serve as an announcement of her presence and stepped
out of the stall.

“Is there anything I can do, Courtney?” Lacey asked.

“You! I don’t believe it! You wouldn’t even talk to me out there
on camera, but now?” Courtney glared at Lacey in the gilt-framed mirror. “Now
you want to
help
?”

“You know I couldn’t talk. Not on camera. It wouldn’t be
professional,” she tried to explain. “Are you all right? How is your dress?”

“I’m fine. The dress is fine. Everything is fine. Get out of
here.” Courtney didn’t look fine. She looked furious. “You too, Nelson. Go
away. Give me some space.”

“This is a public restroom.” Lacey wasn’t about to be ordered
away. Her head was aching, and she washed her hands for no particular reason
while studying Courtney’s dress and its saturated green lining. Courtney
focused on redoing her eye makeup. Zanna stood watching, incapable of helping
or leaving. The wet marble floor looked slightly greenish where the dress was still
dripping.

Something about that color, that brilliant heart-stopping
jewel shade, registered in Lacey’s memory. And her headache. It made her think
hard. The color, the aroma of garlic, Courtney’s pallor, her throbbing head.
Was it something about the wet vintage fabric? Was it mildewed, was it
releasing some kind of mold? But no, the dress looked clean, if dripping wet.
Could it be the green lining and not the dress itself? That lovely shade of
green? Green, emerald green, bright spring green, like a green that Lacey had
seen somewhere long ago, something with a lovely, evocative name. What was it?
Something like—Paris Green. That was it.
Paris Green
.

Paris Green, Lacey remembered from school, was a dye discovered
in the early nineteenth century. It was the first vibrant emerald pigment that was
stable and widely usable. Even today, it was said that nothing could create
exactly the same intoxicating green. Yet Paris Green had a sinister reputation:
That beguiling shade of green was toxic when wet.

Lacey felt slightly woozy. She realized she needed fresh air.
Was she just imagining this had something to do with the dress? Could it really
be hazardous?
Impossible.
Paris Green hadn’t been used in clothing in
over a century. And this dress couldn’t be that old. It was clearly a replica,
probably from no earlier than the Forties. But she smelled garlic.
Hors
d’oeuvres? Aromas from the hotel kitchen?
She shook her head to clear it.

“All right, Courtney,” Zanna said with a sigh. “I’m leaving.
I’ll be right outside if you need me.”

Zanna patted her sleek brown hair in the mirror and swept her
mustard dress through the door, looking slightly ill herself. Of course, it
might just have been the dress.
That mustard color would make anyone look
ill.

“Courtney, I don’t know how to say this so it doesn’t sound
rude, but I think you need to get out of that dress,” Lacey said. “I don’t know
what that lining was dyed with, but if it was something called Paris Green, and
it’s now soaking into your skin, it can’t be good for you.”