10 Lethal Black Dress (8 page)

“He bumped into Courtney Wallace with a tray of champagne at
the Correspondents’ Dinner. Spilled it all over her dress.”

“A clumsy waiter? Not a great calling card for an actor.
Courtney Wallace. Now why do I know that name?”

“Television reporter.”
And recently deceased.

“Yes. Dreadful woman. Won an Emmy? Best performance
impersonating a reporter, I believe. You know the type. Eternal ingénue, she’ll
never advance to meaty roles. She’ll just flip that hair till we all have
whiplash.”

“Not anymore. She’s dead.”

“Dead? She’s rather young to be dead. Though dying is easy,
as they say. Tell me the plot, Smithsonian. What happened and how are you
involved? You are involved, aren’t you? Something to do with clothes, I hope.
It drives the boy reporters mad when you do that. I love that. They have no
respect for the rest of us poor scribes.”

“I haven’t done anything yet. It’s just conjecture at this
point.”

“Conjecture away, I’m not an attorney.”

“It happened last night.”

“Ah, the Correspondents’ Dinner, you said. I’ve never been.
The Helen Hayes Awards are quite enough drama, or lack thereof, for me. But
then, no one has died at the Helen Hayes. By the way, what did Will Something
do, other than bumbling the bubbly?”

“Not sure. I just want to talk to him. Ask how he happened to
trip.”

“Was it on camera? That’s always fun. You know what I mean.
Not fun. Opportune.” Tamsin’s tone said she really meant it was fun. “Does it
have anything to do with the Wallace woman’s death? Wait. Did he bonk her on
the head with the tray? A piece of glass struck a vital artery?”

“You’ve seen too many bad plays.”

“Indeed, I have. At any rate that would be unmotivated,
without a back story. Hence, dramatically unsatisfying. Therefore you must be
seeking out the back story. The subtext.”

“It must be interesting to see the world in dramatic context,
Tamsin,” Lacey said.

“Agreed. It would be if I did, but alas I don’t. So pray,
continue with your tale.”

Lacey explained her theory of toxic fumes of Paris Green dye
from the wet dress. “Just a half-baked theory at this point. The autopsy
results aren’t in yet.”

“They wouldn’t be. Clever way to kill someone though.”

“You think she was killed?”

“I certainly would if I wrote plays. But in this case, a
freak accident seems even more absurd. Is the poison asp in the bodice ever an
accident? As a drama critic I vote for murder. And appropriate motivation. Good
luck finding young Will.”

“I appreciate it.”

“I don’t believe our Will Something is appearing in anything
right now. I’ve seen every bad play currently running. He’s Equity, I think, but
you know theatre. You can make a killing but not a living, and all that. It’s a
hell of a life. Even if you’re good.”

“I imagine it is.”
But theatre is also what people do for
love,
Lacey thought. Kill themselves for a moment in the spotlight. Just
like Courtney Wallace.

“Please call back with the climax and the denouement, when
you know what it is. What we really need to know is whether this is the end of
the play, or the beginning. Was Courtney’s death the final curtain, or just Act
One?”

Lacey promised an update and signed off. She searched online
and found on
The
Eye
’s web site Tamsin’s review of the
Dream
they’d seen together. Francis Flute was played by one Will Zephron, Tamsin’s
“Will Something.” Lacey called The Spotlight and asked for Will.

“Not here today.” It was a bored woman with a flat Midwestern
accent. “He’s got a scene work class or something. He’ll be working the lunch
shift tomorrow. Like maybe about eleven? Not sure till when.”

Good, another D.C. restaurant staffed with actors dashing
off between customers to try and nail a part. Or nail a director.
“Do you
have a phone number for him?”

“We don’t give out personal information like that. If it’s
really important, I can get a message to him tomorrow. Or if this is like life
or death, like about an acting gig—”

Lacey was glad it wasn’t a matter of life and death.
Except
for Courtney.
And it would be awkward to explain to the bored girl.

“No, thanks.”

She decided to pencil in lunch tomorrow at The Spotlight.

CHAPTER 8

Lacey’s phone buzzed, announcing Brooke’s
arrival. She shut her laptop and opened the door to let in her friend.

“So what’s the cause of death?” Lacey asked. “I assume that’s
your big secret.”

Brooke’s blond hair was pulled back into a braid, and her
plaid shorts, athletic shoes, and yellow polo shirt told Lacey she’d either
come straight from the tennis court or wanted everyone to think she had.
Brooke’s eyes sparkled with secrets to share. Lacey knew this could mean only
one thing: She and Damon had their own mad theory about Courtney’s demise.

“It was the
flu
,” Brooke confided dramatically.

“The flu?” Lacey lifted an eyebrow. Just what Broadway Lamont
suggested, too. “Just the flu? Really? That’s an anticlimax. Is Damon’s story
online?”

“Not ‘just’ the flu. And of course it’s online. Is D.C. the
spy capital of the world?”

Lacey reopened her laptop and found the headline of Damon’s
Conspiracy Clearinghouse article on DeadFed dot com.

BROADCASTER Dead at 28! Victim of 1918 Killer FLU?

“Did he confirm that?”

“Of course he did. Confidential source.”

Lacey suspected Damon’s confidential source was
himself
.
“Persuade me.”

“It’s not just any flu,” Brooke said. “This is a pandemic
flu, like the one that hit almost one hundred years ago. Damon thinks it’s weaponized
flu, genetically modified for rapid lethality, and it’s being deliberately
spread worldwide. But why and by whom, that’s the real question.”

“It doesn’t have to be modified,” Lacey said. “People were
healthy one day and dead the next.”

“This one works even faster. Courtney was healthy when she
arrived, and practically dead by the end of the evening.”

“Maybe.”

“There’s no maybe about it! In 1918,” Brooke explained
breathlessly, “more young and healthy adults died of influenza than older ones,
because they had a fatal overreaction of the immune system. They went into a
state of emergency, called a cytokine cascade, meaning it wore them out,
killing them at higher rates than older victims. Ironically, middle-aged
people, though not the elderly, were more likely to survive. This year’s highly
weaponized flu resembles the 1918 strain in that young adults are dying in
higher numbers. Those at the highest risk of death are between eighteen and
forty-five years old. Like Courtney. And like us.”

“Courtney fit the fatal profile,” Lacey agreed, “but how
could the flu, even
weaponized
flu, kill her so quickly?”

“Read the whole article,” Brooke insisted. “You only read the
headline!”

Of course, to Brooke and Damon the insidious conspiracy to
spread a deadly new strain of Killer Flu was obvious. Or was Courtney already
ill when she arrived at the dinner, and the gorgeous green lining of the black
dress and the champagne spill, and Brooke and Damon’s theories, all just
irrelevant distractions? Had Lacey’s ExtraFashionary Perception failed her,
shorted out by a spray of champagne?

“It’s too beautiful a day to stay inside and talk about the
flu, don’t you think?” Lacey said. “I need to get outside.”

“As long as my cell phone works.” Brooke couldn’t stand to be
completely unhooked from the Web.

“You know, Brooke,” Lacey teased, “aliens are probably
tracking you with your phone.”

Brooke snorted. “Why use a phone when they can just read that
microchip they implanted?”

They strolled down the river toward Dyke Marsh, a mile or so
down the Potomac River bike path in the direction of Mount Vernon, only eight
miles away. The earthy aroma of the river and the lush early summer vegetation
accompanied them. Lacey was content to let Brooke talk and theorize at will.

“Maybe when Courtney was inoculated, she was dosed with the
virus itself, instead of the immunization,” Brooke suggested. “Maybe the virus
was in the champagne. Or her microphone, always in her face. Or maybe it was in
that crazy black dress.”

“Maybe it was in the alien chip,” Lacey said.

Brooke eyes lit up, almost seeming to buy it—until she saw
Lacey smirking at her. “You laugh. You’ve probably got one too.”

The bike path was crowded with Sunday joggers and bikers
until they reached Belle Haven Park at the marina, but it thinned out once they
entered Dyke Marsh. A lone artist sat at an easel at a bend in the path,
painting the boats and birds. Farther down in the marsh, just off the curve of
the boardwalk, a violinist wearing green rubber boots stood in the tall grass,
playing his fiddle in a concert for no one, or perhaps for everyone. He nodded
to Lacey and Brooke as they continued to the end of the boardwalk. There was
music in the air.

A breeze ruffled Lacey’s hair. Now just south of the marina,
they could see the full sweep of the Potomac, dotted with the marina’s little
sailboats, the larger yachts from up and down the river, the big sightseeing
cruise ships heading for Mount Vernon, and of course the ever-present geese and
gulls.

“You’re convinced it was the flu?” Lacey said. “Alien or
otherwise? Broadway Lamont thought so too. Not the alien part, though. Just the
flu.”

“Definitely the flu,” Brooke agreed. “Genetically engineered
Killer Flu. It’s nationwide. Damon’s really nailed it this time. But who are
they? What do they want? And why choose Wallace? She wasn’t even a real
journalist! Why not
you
?”

CHAPTER 9

Lacey planned to ease into
work Monday
morning. When it was quiet, Mondays at
The Eye
weren’t that bad. She
preferred the calm before the storm, when the other reporters shuffled in
grumpily, resenting the start of their workweek. On the plus side, after their
brief storm of Monday crankiness, they would pick up their coffee and sit
quietly in front of their computers reading Facebook and their email until at
least eleven a.m.

It was just past nine, so she had time to prepare for the
day. She took a deep breath before turning the corner into her cubicle. Harlan
Wiedemeyer was already waiting for her. Short, chubby, and in love, he was
often seen near the cubicle of his beloved Felicity Pickles, the food editor
and his fiancée, who dwelled across the aisle from Lacey. Wiedemeyer paused in
front of Lacey’s desk with an announcement.

“Well, well, well, Smithsonian, seems that D.C. isn’t the
only place where crimes of fashion take place. Real crimes, I mean.”

“Undoubtedly not. What are you talking about, Harlan?” She
scooted around him. Did he know about Courtney? But no, he was on another story
entirely. He waved the early edition of
The Eye
in her face.

“Some poor bastard died in a stiletto attack in New Jersey.
I’m talking about a woman’s shoe, a high heel. Not a pump, not a kitten heel,
not a flat, not a Cuban heel. A stiletto heel as deadly as the blade of the
same name, and wielded like a dagger by a vengeful female. Poor bastard never
had a chance.”

“I’m impressed. You’ve been reading my column. You know there
are different kinds of heels. But it’s a little early in the day for blood and
guts, isn’t it?” She hunted for her favorite coffee mug.

“Happened over the weekend, wire services were all over it. I
wrote a brief for us. Bam to the back of the head with her stiletto heel,” he
continued. “Pithed the poor bastard like a frog in a tenth-grade science
class.”

Lacey lifted her head and stared at him. “Are you sure this
really happened?” She wasn’t sure ‘death by stiletto heel’ was even possible.

“Of course I’m sure. It’s right here in black and white. Read
my story. The accused murderer, some brazen jezebel with a foot fetish, is
going to prison for the crime.” He thrust the paper in front of her.

Brazen jezebel? What era is he out of?
“They must have
been really good heels.” She studied the photos, the woman, her victim and the blood-stained
shoes.

“I’ll say. Poor bastard.” Harlan rubbed his head. “What’s the
world coming to? I could understand if she shot him with a gun. But a stiletto
heel to the back of the head? Nobody expects that.”

“No. Nobody does,” Lacey agreed.

“And to add insult to injury, the poor bastard gave them to
her. The shoes! They were a gift! This idiot couldn’t win. He handed his killer
the weapon of his own destruction. See, right there, it’s in my lede.”

“Nice lede, Harlan. But you don’t have to worry. Felicity never
wears high heels.”

Lacey had only seen the woman in a pair of frumpy-dumpy pumps
on the rare occasions she tried to “dress up.” Felicity seemed to have an
endless supply of clogs.

“You’re right, Smithsonian. My pumpkin, my gherkin, my sweet Dilly
Pickles would never harm me.”

“Of course not.”
Only your cholesterol.
Lacey watched
him slip over to Felicity’s desk and search for today’s sugar-filled treats. He
didn’t find anything, but he had his own bakery bag with him.

“I understand you were at the Correspondents’ Dinner this
weekend when Courtney Wallace bought the farm.” Wiedemeyer bit into what looked
like a doughnut.

“She died later, at the hospital. Not at the Hilton.”

Wiedemeyer was the reporter in charge of what the newsroom
called the Death and Dismemberment beat. Lacey was sure it wasn’t precisely that
he was happy about Courtney’s death; but as long as she had to die, he would be
happier if it were peculiar or preposterous or truly disturbing.

“Tell me what you think, Smithsonian. Who offed the Wallace
dame?” he asked.

“Harlan, how you talk. What makes you think it wasn’t—” She
hunted for a word.

“An accident? I already checked in with DeadFed.”

She gripped the arms of her chair and sat gently down.
“DeadFed. I’ve seen it. The general consensus is the flu. Killer flu.”

“Maybe the virus was shot into her with the tip of an
umbrella, like that spy.”

“Not that again. Is that what Conspiracy Clearinghouse is
saying?”

“I added the umbrella,” Wiedemeyer said, proudly. “After all,
it was a night for umbrellas, with all that rain. Newhouse says she was fine
earlier, but on her deathbed by the end of the evening. He was an eyewitness.”

“Thousands of people were eyewitnesses,” Lacey said. “Damon
is just imagining what happened. He doesn’t
know
. He never knows
anything. It’s just another theory. He wasn’t even there when they put her in
the ambulance, he and Brooke were off schmoozing with Matt Drudge!”
There
goes my Monday morning calm.

“But you were there, weren’t you, Smithsonian? Always hot on
the trail of a crime. Drawn to it like a magnet.”

Lacey took off her jacket, dark green with velvet cuffs. It
was a favorite, a copy by her former seamstress Alma Lopez of one of Aunt
Mimi’s jackets from the 1940s. Underneath, she wore a vintage black crepe dress
that never let her down. It was dressy yet businesslike, with white collar and
cuffs.

“It’s not a crime. We don’t know that there was a crime of
any kind. Besides, you don’t look like you’re hot on the trail of anything but breakfast.”

He looked at the now-empty white bakery bag in his hand,
crumpled it up, and tossed it in the trash. “I would have offered you a doughnut,
but I guess I ate them all.”

“You’re worse than Winnie the Pooh.”

He grinned, managing to look like a chubby monk. “I like
honey too. By the way, you have a visitor.”

Wiedemeyer’s grin spread wide and became worthy of the
Cheshire Cat. This couldn’t be good. Lacey turned and saw Detective Lamont making
his way up the aisle.

Lamont was eating a mini muffin and sipping coffee from
Lacey’s personal red-and-black FASHION
BITES
mug. She’d talked Mac into
having a couple of them imprinted for her. The detective and the muffin
indicated that Felicity Pickles, the food editor, was on-site with some new
fattening delicacy. Broadway must have picked up Lacey’s mug before she
arrived. The detective could always just call her with a question, but he
preferred to come to
The Eye
in person. He had a crush, if not on Lacey
or on Felicity Pickles, then on Felicity’s food.

“Broadway, what are you doing here?” Lacey asked. She
indicated Mariah’s Death Chair, waiting in the aisle. He rolled it over and
settled in comfortably. The Death Chair didn’t scare him.

“What? You’re not happy to see me? And me—your star source and
dinner date.”

“Yes. Of course I’m happy,” she said doubtfully. “I see you
found my favorite coffee mug.”

“I washed it for you too.” He sipped coffee and munched
happily on his muffin.

At least someone in Washington isn’t grumpy this morning.
She
waited.

“Looks like you were right about the dye,” he said between
bites.

She felt her eyes open wide. “The Paris Green killed
Courtney?”

Wiedemeyer jumped into the aisle between the cubicles. “Paris
Green? Who’s that? Like Paris Hilton?” He jumped backward when Broadway glared
at him.

“I’m talking to Smithsonian here. Confidential, like. This is
just a courtesy call, you understand?” he said to Lacey. “Not an official press
release or anything.”

“I understand.” Lacey’s news radar was tingling.

“Your poisoned dress scenario, Smithsonian? Damnedest thing. You
nailed it. Sounds like something only a fashion reporter would come up with. If
it wasn’t a strange mishap, maybe you’d be the perp.” Lamont was playing with
her. “Green is the color of jealousy, right?”

“Right. Me, jealous of a broadcast reporter? And you think
I’d use a method that would clearly point to me?” Now she was playing with him.

“Nah, guess not. Too easy. Well, call it a tragic
misadventure then. Wrong dress, wrong place, wrong tray of champagne. My
department is calling it a freak accident. Pending the medical examiner’s
ruling, which is going to rule it a
bizarre
accident.”

“Not a homicide?”

“No evidence of foul play. No suspects. Besides, you think I
got time to get involved in some whacked-out medieval poisoning scheme? You
find some murder plan like that, you take it to the suburbs. Tell them I sent
you.”

“Paris Green,” Lacey pointed out, “was actually perfected as
a dye in the early eighteen-hundreds, so that would make it more of a Regency
poisoning plot, not medieval. Except they didn’t know the dye was poison until
much later.” Lacey turned to where Wiedemeyer was still eavesdropping. “One thing,
Harlan. This is my story, you got that?”

“You are vexing, Smithsonian,” he replied. “Very vexing. This
one sounds juicy. If you need a wing man on this, let me know.” He sat in
Felicity’s chair and leaned back, his feet on her filing cabinet.

“Get ready, people,” Lamont said, flipping open his notes.
“The copper acetoarsenite in the dye, known as Paris Green, reacting to the
champagne bath, produced a highly toxic arsine gas that sickened and then
killed the victim. She might also have had the flu, weakening her system. Preliminary
findings, pending further tests, of course. The Metropolitan Police are not
releasing any information at this time.”

“So it’s a leak?” Lacey asked.

“Do not call it that.” He shook his finger at her. “Out of
the goodness of my heart, I thought I’d set your mind at rest, Smithsonian,
seeing as how you took me to that swanky dinner. And you came up with the
poisoned-green-dress theory.”

Her mind wasn’t at rest. All the questions still nagged at
her. “You have the cause of death, but not the official determination of death
by accident?”

“That will come. Eventually. The M.E.’s office takes their
time. Because of Wallace’s high profile, people are going to want an answer
soon. Her news station is already pressing for it. On the other hand, the M.E.’s
going to dot every ‘i’ and cross every ‘t.’ Accident, not suicide, not
homicide, I’m relieved to say. You don’t have any hoodoo-voodoo fashion
intuition about this one, do you, Smithsonian?” Lamont aimed his eagle-eye
stare at her.

“Where is the dress now, Broadway? Did it go back to her
family?”

“Funny you should ask.” He drained the rest of her mug. “Once
somebody, I don’t know who, suggested that the dress itself could be a cause of
death, well, that dress became very interesting to everybody. Now it has to be
tested and verified and, who knows, maybe registered as a lethal weapon. That
dress is in the custody of the office of the District of Columbia Medical
Examiner.”

“Can I see it?”

“Don’t you think I gave you enough?” He leaned forward in his
chair into her personal space.

“Yes, but—”

“No ‘yes, buts,’ Smithsonian. Sorry, no can do. It is sealed,
not revealed. You think you going to get some kind of dress vibration? That
thing going to talk to you?”

“I just wanted to see the dress, the material. How it was constructed
and who made it. Do you think it will go back to her family when the testing is
over?”

“Not my call. They’ll probably have first dibs.”

“Thank you, Broadway. I appreciate the info.” Lacey realized
she didn’t have any coffee. Lamont had her mug. By now she was practically
craving an IV drip of caffeine. “The whole thing is so weird.”

“Weird like a freaky
accident
, right?” he said. “Say
it for me. Accident.”

Lacey didn’t have time to say anything before Felicity
Pickles bustled in with a self-satisfied smile. With her round blue eyes, ruddy
pink cheeks and glossy chestnut hair, she always reminded Lacey of a china
doll.
A chubby, badly dressed doll.
In addition to food and Harlan
Wiedemeyer, Felicity’s other passion was themed sweaters. Today she wore a
typically shapeless cotton dress, in lavender. Her matching lavender sweater
was embroidered with purple violets and yellow daisies. It lent her the air of
a demented kindergarten teacher.

Felicity was starting early this week with the food
festivities. It wasn’t even noon yet. Perhaps she planned to ask for a raise:
Mac Jones had a sweet tooth that wouldn’t stop. Lacey could calibrate his mood
by the calories he consumed. More likely, Felicity’s latest calorie bomb was
something she was considering feeding her guests for her upcoming nuptials.
Felicity carried a muffin tray, and Lacey could smell bacon.

“Do try one of these, Detective.” Felicity offered the tray
and Broadway Lamont scooped up a mini muffin. “Careful, they’re hot. Oh dear, I
should have given you one of these breakfast muffins before I gave you the
dessert muffin.”

“My stomach likes them no matter what order they come in.
Like they say, life is short, eat dessert first.”

Wiedemeyer jumped up for his own muffin. She smiled and gave
him second pick.

“How do you like them, Detective Lamont?” Felicity asked.

“These, Ms. Felicity, are delicious.” He licked his fingers
and she smiled. “Very tasty. Let’s see, I taste eggs, bacon, and something
else.”

“Walnuts for a bit of fiber, Asiago cheese, and a trio of
secret spices. These might just go on the brunch menu. The day after the
wedding.”

Lamont heaved himself to his feet. “I’ll take another muffin for
the road, if you don’t mind.” He grabbed another and sat back down, in no hurry
to exit.

Lacey was frozen in her tracks. “The day
after
the
wedding?”