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“Holy costume heaven, Lacey! This is fabulous. So where are the wigs? There have to be wigs, right?” Stella asked. “Like, you know, the woman in that play thing who killed herself with the snake, or the queen who was guillotined?”
“No idea, Stella,” Lacey said.
Even at a theatre yard sale full of actors who were prone to wearing gold lamé with high-top sneakers—bless their hearts—Lacey could have picked out Stella Lake Griffin. As much for her sheer presence as for her style. And then there was her distinctive New Jersey accent.
“I mean wigs would be terrific to use to decorate the salon. Elaborate wigs. Sort of like: Don’t Lose Your Head, Just Your Old Hairstyle.” Stella had a gleam in her eye. Lacey had seen it before.
“I thought you had to work today, Stel.”
“Schedules can be adjusted, especially when I’m the manager. And when I read about this theatre sale thing in The Eye—it wasn’t even your story—how could I resist. I mean, look at this stuff!”
Lacey’s BFF, hairstylist, and personal critic, Stella, was not wearing her signature short, tight dress. Instead, each black-and-gold-legging-clad thigh featured the face and headpiece of Tutankhamun. Her King Tut leggings were paired with a daring gold bustier, showing off her recently acquired honeymoon tan. A long black-and-gold scarf dotted with pyramids graced her neck. On her feet were gravity-defying yellow high-heeled tennis shoes, which she claimed were “super comfortable.” Lacey had her doubts. In the same shoes, she would have been flat on her face. But Stella liked her clothes with a dangerous edge.
“Nice leggings.” Lacey indicated one skin-tight King Tut.
“So comfortable, you wouldn’t believe. You should pick up a pair, though these babies are sold out. Limited edition.”
“A shame. But I can’t really see me in them.”
“You never know till you try, Lace. Maybe the Van Gogh irises are more your style.” Though Stella had changed her look numerous times throughout the past year, she was always in tune with her inner spirit and her outer stylist. At the moment, her hair was parted in the middle with two bright pink streaks on either side. It reached her shoulders. “What do think of my hair? I’m trying to grow it out. It’s killing me.”
“And yet, no one’s really ever been murdered by their hair,” Lacey said.
“Good thing, huh? Now, murdered for their hair, that’s another story, right, Lace?”
Lacey nodded. They had shared parts of that particular story. But Stella wasn’t dwelling on the past, she was back from her honeymoon and she had her very English mother-in-law, Lady Gwendolyn Griffin, in tow. Much to everyone’s surprise, and her son Nigel’s utter bafflement, “Lady G” and Stella adored each other.
“When Stella suggested we both come today, well, it was just the thing, don’t you know,” Lady Gwendolyn said to Lacey. “We’ll take tea later, after we peruse the theatrical goods. You’ll join us, won’t you?”
The heat that morning had led Lady G to abandon her beloved tweeds. She opted instead for a pale linen dress, no doubt picked out by her new daughter-in-law. It was part of an evolutionary makeover Stella had undertaken.
“I knew Lady G would totally dig this,” Stella said.
“Quite. I love the theatre. Almost as much as Agatha Christie. And when the play’s a mystery, well, that’s the very thing you want, isn’t it?”
“The play’s the thing in which I’ll catch the conscience of the king,” another voice quoted. “But which king, I wonder? Now that was a conspiracy. Shakespeare knew his stuff.”
They all turned to see Brooke Barton, Esquire, their fourth member. Only the young blond lawyer could pull off this strapless gray pinstripe dress, an outfit that was both whimsical and preposterous. And yet somehow formal. Brooke wore oversize sunglasses and a pink bag slung over her shoulder. Her long blond hair was collected in a single braid down her back.
“I know I shouldn’t have told you about that dress,” Lacey teased her.
“Are you kidding? What else would I wear on a fine summer day off.”
“And what are those?” Lacey was momentarily stumped by the pink suede wingtip athletic shoes on Brooke’s feet.
“Aren’t they great?”
“Do those come in high heels?” Stella chimed in. “I could really rock a pair of those.”
Lacey kept her mouth shut. She actually didn’t know how she felt about Brooke’s absurd shoes. They certainly were conversation starters.
“I bought two pair,” Brooke said. “In the pink. I also got a pair in blue.”
Wingtip tennis shoes. Casual wear that wasn’t really casual, Lacey thought, such an obvious choice for the athletic Washington professional, particularly rising young lawyers. Perhaps someone should design pinstripe jogging outfits? No, on second thought, definitely no. Brooke would buy them all.
“And I can run in these, too,” Brooke continued. “So what do you recommend seeing here, O Fashion Maven?”
“It’s a motley assortment,” Lacey said. “Stella wants wigs.”
“Totally,” Stella said. “For the salon.”
“And you, Lacey? What are you shopping for here?”
“Just looking.” Lacey knew she wouldn’t be buying anything. She preferred to go on the hunt alone, where she could trust her own instincts and not the crowd’s. There were way too many people here for her to decide on anything. “Some people come for clothes, some for costumes for Halloween, and I’m told, some for disguises.”
A look of interest crossed Brooke’s face. “Disguises?”
“Here we go.” Stella nudged Gwendolyn in the ribs.
“But that’s perfect,” Brooke said. “What better place for spies to refresh their covert wardrobes?”
“The Spy Store?” Lacey suggested.
“And did you see the news?” Brooke tapped her phone. “About that Russian billionaire who allegedly died of a heart attack in that Dupont Circle hotel?”
“I sense a correction coming,” Lacey said.
“It was no heart attack. Blunt force trauma to the back of the head.” She handed her phone over so Lacey could see the latest development. “Murder. And how many Russians does that make? A lot, let me tell you. Dozens.”
Lacey skimmed the story. DeadFed dot com, the Conspiracy Clearinghouse web site run by Brooke’s boyfriend, reported that autopsy results were in. The victim was another in a long line of Russians with connections to Vladimir Putin.
“Why did it take so long?” Lacey wondered. “He died months ago.”
“Exactly,” Brooke said. “And why did his family insist it was a heart attack?”
“They were afraid it was catching?”
“Exactly. They’re terrified.”
Conspiracy theories churned Brooke’s blood and gave her a reason to get up in the morning. The fact that the attorney had fallen for Damon Newhouse, the only man who could match her in this fever of intrigue, was just the icing on her tort. And now, months after the fact, there was a fresh report on a dead Russian oligarch, crudely dispatched in a D.C. hotel, supposedly fast friends with the intrusive and evil Russian president. Not anymore.
“Intriguing,” Lacey admitted.
“Ask Gregor Kepelov about this guy.”
“You still think Kepelov’s a Russian spy? As in currently?”
“If the trench coat fits. They say nobody is ever really ex-KGB. Unless they’re dead.”
“What’s going on?” Gwendolyn asked.
“Brooke’s on a spy hunt,” Stella said. “I can tell by the look on her face.”
“Just because he was once with the old Russian spy agency doesn’t mean he’s a spy now,” Lacey said.
“Doesn’t mean he isn’t,” Brooke countered. “You can’t swing an umbrella without hitting a spy here.”
True enough. And Lacey still had the occasional twinge of doubt about Kepelov. “This Russian’s murder seems a little sloppy, doesn’t it? Blunt force trauma? Why not something more clever?”
“You were expecting polonium or ricin?”
“Something like that.”
“I agree. Sloppy.” Gwendolyn said. “Very sloppy.”
“Just what they want you to expect,” Brooke said. “That’s why this is more clever than you think.”
“You go pick up some spooky disguise, Brooke,” Stella said. “We’ll recon later. I got places to go and stuff to see. Keep in mind HonFest, Lace. I want something awesome. You need something awesome too.”
“HonFest?” Lacey had a sinking feeling she’d forgotten something.
“Tomorrow! Baltimore. Beehive hairdos and all that stuff. It’s epic. You’re coming, remember?”
“It’s this weekend?”
“You promised!” Stella leveled a look at her. “You’re coming to HonFest with me.”
“As am I. I can’t wait to see myself in a beehive,” Lady Gwendolyn said.
“Beehive hairdos?” Lacey blinked. Lady G was the least likely candidate for that style.
“You’ll be so cute with your hair up, Lace. Trust me. It’ll be fun.”
Lacey hadn’t seen much of Stella since the honeymoon, so a little together time was important. She had even refrained from wearing her engagement ring from Vic Donovan on those few occasions they had seen each other. Lacey told herself she didn’t want to take away from Stella’s big moments and her rapturous descriptions of the islands she’d seen, and the food she’d eaten, and of course the wonderfulness of her new husband Nigel Griffin.
The truth was that Lacey was reluctant to share everything with the world at large. She wanted to keep the engagement, and Vic to herself. But the diamond suddenly glinted in the sunlight and Stella saw it.
“Oh my God, Lace, you’re engaged!” Stella squealed. “Wow! It’s gorgeous, Lacey. What a ring! Filigree? A little froufrou for my taste, but it’s so perfect for you.”
Lacey grinned. As if Stella ever eschewed froufrou!
“So when’s the big day?”
“One thing at a time, Stella. I believe in long engagements.” Years. Maybe decades.
“You’re the only one! I promise you, marriage is wonderful. With the right person, of course.”
“We’re not here to talk about marriage,” Lacey said, sensing an escape from engagement chatter. “While we waste time, someone else is grabbing all the good stuff.”
“Yikes! This isn’t over, Lace,” Stella said. “I need all the facts. Every detail.”
“Later. You go ahead. The wigs await you.”
Stella was off, with Lady G at her side. Saved by the wigs.
“Hey, isn’t that LaToya Crawford? From The Eye?”
Lacey followed Brooke’s gaze. “That is definitely LaToya. But what on earth—”
There was some kind of disturbance at the cash register. At first Lacey couldn’t tell what was going on. One woman was chasing another, knocking over a table full of props. Then the two women were fighting over something. Something red. Then the crowd parted around them and it was the red dress, the costume LaToya had fallen in love with. There was more shouting, and LaToya waved a receipt with one hand.
Lacey was willing to bet the more someone wanted something LaToya had, the more she was ready to fight for it. The tug of war was vicious but brief. LaToya seized the prize triumphantly from her frazzled combatant, who finally backed down in defeat.
“LaToya is one tough interviewer,” Brooke said.
Lacey whistled. “I had no idea she was that tough.”
LaToya paused to catch her breath, then she shook the dress out and stared at it. She seemed to be checking for damage. Satisfied, she looked up as Lacey and Brooke arrived at her side.
“A little misunderstanding there, LaToya?”
“You could say that! That crazy woman tried to steal this dress right out of my hands. She said it wasn’t for sale, but they just sold it to me! I got a bill of sale for this dress. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, and I’ve got a receipt. I’ve got one hundred percent possession.” She wiped a drop of sweat from her brow.
“Are you all right?” Lacey asked her.
“You kidding me? I’m good. I won!” It was clear that the dress was even more valuable to LaToya in the moment of victory. But then LaToya’s expression changed. She looked down at the red dress and frowned, and then back at Lacey. She suddenly thrust the bright compelling costume at the fashion reporter, piling its voluminous folds into Lacey’s arms. “Smithsonian, I’ve got an itty-bitty favor to ask.”
***
LACEY LOCKED THE RED dress in the trunk of her vintage BMW. It filled the entire trunk. LaToya accompanied her to make certain it was secure. Brooke stood by to oversee the operation, a specialty of Brooke’s.
“This is silly, you know.” Lacey turned and faced LaToya.
“You’re the one with the EFP,” La Toya said. “What’s it telling you?”
“She’s right,” Brooke said. “ExtraFashionary Perception.”
“Would everyone stop saying that? You know that stuff is ridiculous.” The dress was fast becoming a nuisance, but Lacey didn’t need any EFP to tell her that.
“What is it about the dress?” Brooke asked LaToya. “Why did that other woman want it so badly?”
“I have no freaking idea! She wouldn’t even fit in that dress. I just want Smithsonian to keep it for a couple of days, till it’s, you know—cleansed.”
“Cleansed?” Lacey stared at LaToya, checking for irony. There wasn’t any. “I assume you’re not talking dry cleaning?”
“Course not. I mean psychic cleansing. I’m not the one with the EFP. And I don’t have a psychic friend. Like you do.”
“Ah, this is a job for Marie Largesse,” Brooke said.
“Yeah, Marie. The hoodoo queen of Old Town. If you can’t do it, Smithsonian, maybe your psychic can do it. You got to vet and cleanse this dress for me. I’ll take it back in a couple of days, when it’s safe. I mean— Please.”
Lacey didn’t know what to say. She had the feeling her mouth was hanging open. “LaToya—”
“Thanks, Smithsonian. What are friends for?” She trotted off on her high heels, her burden lifted.
“So what’s the story?” Brooke nudged Lacey, her eyes full of delight. “This big old red dress really came from Kinetic? Isn’t that a Russian theatre?”
