| |
“Lacey Smithsonian! Are you there?”
Lacey decided six a.m. on Monday morning was way too early to have a buzzing phone in her hand. It took her a moment to recognize the insistent voice and the attitude to match.
“LaToya?” She sat up in bed and glanced at the illuminated numbers on her clock radio: robbed of at least another hour of sleep.
“Who else would be calling you at this time of day?”
Lacey could think of a variety of answers. Crawford wasn’t even on the list.
“Nobody, I hope.”
There should be a saying, Lacey thought. Like red sky at morning, sailors take warning? How about, Phone call at dawn, sleep be gone!
She rubbed her eyes and peered into the gloom. Light was peeking around the perimeter of her dark drapes.
“Someone broke into my place last night!”
“What? You had a break-in?”
“Yes, a break-in. A burglar. A thief. A thief in the night. In my home, my condominium, my personal space.” LaToya paused in her outrage to catch her breath. “I waited until you were up.”
“I’m not up. But I guess I am now.” Lacey lurched into the kitchen and with one hand hit the power button on her coffee maker, filled with grounds and water the night before, while holding her phone to her ear with the other. “Are you okay? What did they take?”
“Nothing, so far as I can tell.”
“Nothing? How do you know? Did you call the police? And why are you calling me?”
“Why do you think, Miss Fashion Reporter? I buy that Red Death dress and the next thing someone invades my privacy and rifles through my closet, desecrates my home. Broadway says whoever it was—”
“Broadway Lamont is there?” Interesting. Lacey wondered if LaToya had finally gotten something going on with the big detective.
“Who do you think I’d call first?”
Of course she’d call Broadway. “But he’s homicide. Is someone dead?”
“Not yet, but if I find the creep who did this there WILL be homicide! Broadway is just doing a favor for a friend.”
The aroma of fresh coffee distracted her. Lacey retrieved one of her promotional Fashion BITES mugs and poured herself some liquid energy. Sunshine was already flooding her kitchen. The day would be hot, but the early morning was pleasant. Lacey’s weekend had had too much going on and not enough Victor Donovan to suit her. It was a shame she had to go to work today, she thought, and now there was LaToya on the phone with a Big Problem.
“Are you listening to me?” LaToya demanded. “Who the hell would break into my place? Does this unsub have anything to do with the dress I bought?”
“The what?” Unsub? Someone’s watching way too much television. “How would I know? Besides, your red dress isn’t even there, it’s—”
The dress. Lacey’s apartment was quiet and empty, apparently untouched. Vic had left a jacket on a chair. But what about the dress? Lacey raced to the front hall closet. The good-luck/bad-luck dress was still there, hanging in its zipper bag.
“Your dress is fine, LaToya.”
“Well, of course it is! I’m the one who got burgled! But what does your EFP tell you?”
Run and hide, that’s what.
“It doesn’t work that way, LaToya. I’m not psychic. The EFP thing is just, you know, one of those things people say. Besides, you live in D.C. Things happen.”
“Not to me, they don’t. Besides, I live off Logan Circle. It’s safe here.”
“No place is safe all the time. Is Broadway there now?”
There was a pause, as if LaToya had to make sure. “Yes. He’s calming me down.”
Not doing a great job of it, is he? “What does he say?”
“That I need better locks on my door. And a better building security system. And not to buy crazy red dresses from some crazy-ass theatre.”
That sounds like Broadway Lamont. Lacey heard grumbling in the background. “No valuables taken?”
“No. And that’s what makes it even creepier. Nothing taken at all. And whoever it was, they were here while I was sleeping. In my bedroom. Watching me sleep!” LaToya’s voice started rising again.
“Nothing taken? Then how do you know someone was there?”
“All my damn doors were wide open! And—” LaToya’s voice quavered. “They did things with my clothes—”
Lacey felt a sudden chill in her sunny kitchen. “Did things? What kind of things? Let me talk to Broadway—”
“We can’t talk about this on the phone. You have to come over here. You have to see this for yourself. Even Broadway says you got to see this. Now.”
“Right now? Your place? Before work?”
“You got to see this.” LaToya’s voice broke. “This is all kinds of stone crazy wacko voodoo. Please.”
“Okay, I’ll be there soon.” Now that you said please.
Lacey hung up and wondered what to wear. Between the summer heat, LaToya’s meltdown, and Broadway Lamont, of all people, looking for a fashion clue, she would need to keep her cool. Maybe a retro sleeveless summer dress in a breezy mint-green polished cotton? The skirt was flared for coolness and movability. She paired it with straw wedge sandals in case she had to run from a cranky editor.
Or a big bear of a homicide detective.
***
LATOYA LIVED IN A ONE-bedroom condo in a glorious Beaux Arts building a block and a half from Logan Circle, seven stories tall and apparently unimpregnable. LaToya was waiting for her in the lobby by the concierge’s desk, an enormous coffee in her hand. Not her usual put-together fashion plate self, she wore a pair of dark blue shorts, a white tank top, and athletic shoes. Without her makeup and all the eye-candy she usually wore, she looked younger, smaller, and less self-assured.
“You look like you’re going running,” Lacey said.
“I ran all the way to Starbucks after Broadway left. I didn’t feel like being alone.”
“No coffee for me?”
“I’m not the welcome wagon.”
“Apparently not.”
“Sorry. I’m just jangled, Smithsonian. I wasn’t thinking. I have a splitting headache. I never order an extra-mega-grande caramel macchiato frappuccino or whatever this is, and yet here it is in my hands.” She paused to consider it and took a long sip. “Good though. Want some?”
“If I’m going to see your apartment, you better lead the way.”
They rode the elevator in silence and stopped on the fifth floor. Her manicured hand shaking slightly, LaToya unlocked the door and opened it wide. She stood aside for Lacey.
The pretty one-bedroom condo had been renovated and was sleekly decorated in black and white furniture, accented with blue pillows and blue rugs. One wall was cobalt blue, creating a striking contrast, and a white marble mantled fireplace made an elegant counterpoint. The windows looked out over a canopy of green trees. It was as smart and stylish as its owner. Lacey wondered how LaToya could afford this place in a grand old building with a concierge on a reporter’s salary. It was nothing like her own cozy little slum in the sky.
As if LaToya read her mind, she said, “I had a little help from my parents. They hate the idea of throwing money away on rent. But that’s not the important thing.” Lacey tore her attention away from the décor and followed LaToya’s pointing finger. She gasped.
“Oh my God.”
On the phone, LaToya had said someone “did things” to her clothes. Lacey envisioned piles of clothes dumped on the floor, furniture overturned, pillows scattered, pictures smashed, lamps broken, the usual aftermath of a messy break-in. This was nothing like that.
The scene was eerily neat and composed. LaToya’s clothes had been taken from her closet and placed carefully all around the room, on the sofa and chairs, and even at the petite dining room table, arranged in coordinated outfits. Everything was accessorized with scarves, belts, hats, purses. Matching shoes were ready for feet to slip into them. That was strange enough. But someone had also taken the time to neatly stuff each of LaToya’s dresses with wrapping paper or other clothes so that they took on a semi-lifelike appearance, as if they were being worn by invisible women. The outfits at the table sat before a tea set, cups and saucers ready for the clothes’ invisible occupants. LaToya’s wardrobe seemed to be having an improbable tea party without her.
Lacey drew a deep breath.
“Wow. Broadway was here?”
LaToya nodded and sipped her coffee. “Took my report, had some cops take photos, checked for prints. Said it was weird. Said you should see it. I was going to call you anyway.”
“Thanks. It is weird.”
“Weirder than weird. Scares me to death.”
“LaToya, not to pry, but are you a sleep-walker by any chance?” LaToya shook her head firmly. “Okay. Heavy sleeper?” Another shake.
“Not me. I’m up and down all night. Not last night though.”
“And you didn’t hear anything?”
“Not a sound.”
LaToya was still trembling. Lacey wondered if she was in shock. Anyone might be if some intruder had breached her security and played with her garments like they were a doll’s dresses. It was hard to take it in.
“Do you mind if I take photos?” She didn’t think she would forget this strange scenario, but she might want proof. She took her phone out of her purse.
“Be my guest. You won’t be the first.” Either the grande caramel macchiato thingy was kicking in, or LaToya was getting her spirit back. “Unbelievable! Some freak places my clothes all around my apartment. In my chairs! On the sofa! Round the table! My dresses, coordinated with my shoes, my belts, my scarves, my hats. Like some ghosts or something were gonna float around the room in them. And what’s with all my wrapping paper stuffed inside of them? Somebody playing dolls with my clothes, in my house? If this was supposed to freak me out, it’s sure as hell working! This is an invasion of my privacy. An invasion of my soul. I should never have gone to that costume sale.”
“This may have nothing to do with the red dress.” Lacey didn’t believe it even as she said it. She took more pictures of the table set for tea with its invisible guests.
“Or everything to do with it! Fashion voodoo. I’d ask you to sit down, but all the seats are taken. It’s that damned red dress. I know it is. That’s what they were after. All this is ’cause they didn’t find it here, I bet.”
She slumped against a windowsill and Lacey joined her. She had to credit LaToya with tenacity. Once she got hold of an idea, she wouldn’t let go. It made her a good reporter. And a pigheaded one at that. She’s a lot like me.
“It’s a theory. And your suspect?” Lacey asked.
“Who do you think? Who else but that pasty-faced woman who said the red dress wasn’t for sale. After I already bought it, I might add.”
“What’s the intended message?” Lacey wondered aloud.
“The message?” LaToya was quiet for a moment.
“Was this person saying, ‘I know how you wear your things’? Or maybe, ‘This is how you ought to wear them’?”
“You mean like my yellow dress, sitting on the sofa with my yellow wedges and the yellow and red belt? Maybe. Anybody would put those together though. Wouldn’t they?”
Maybe someone was just getting a picture of LaToya through her clothes. Why? To learn something about her? Simply to freak her out? To teach her a lesson? But what’s the lesson?
“You didn’t wake up at all?”
“No. And that is extremely weird, Smithsonian, because I am a very light sleeper. Practically lighter than air. I wake up when my neighbor down the hall snores. How did that woman get in my bedroom without me hearing it?”
“You don’t know that it was that woman.”
“She is the most likely suspect. That theatre woman got up in my face.”
“You got in her face.”
“She grabbed my dress! A defense was required. That, that woman—”
“Her name is Amy Keaton.”
“How do you know that?!”
“I encountered her at HonFest yesterday.”
“Hon what? What is that?”
“This street festival in Baltimore. Stella made me go. Hard to explain in ten seconds.”
“She followed you up to Baltimore? What the hell?”
“Probably just a coincidence. She claimed she was helping out in the costume booths. She asked me to ask you to please reconsider giving the dress back. She said selling it was a big mistake, she would get the blame, her job was on the line. She went on and on.”
“She blamed an intern, didn’t she?”
“You’ve been in D.C. too long. Yes, she blamed an intern.”
“Ha. I knew it. Better she follows you, the Clothes Whisperer, than me. I’m not sure I’d even recognize her, all pasty-faced, ratty-haired, dressed like a homeless—” LaToya paused for breath. She had a pretty detailed image of this woman she wouldn’t recognize, Lacey thought.
“But why would she place your outfits around a room?” Lacey said. “Like set dressing, or a wardrobe test for a show? She said she’s a stage manager. She doesn’t seem the type to even know what goes with which dress.”
“No.” LaToya pondered that. “She’s a hot mess.”
“As far as I can tell, this Amy Keaton only wears black. You live your life in Technicolor.”
“You got that right. But who else would do this? If the Keaton woman didn’t do this, she’s got a co-conspirator. Maybe the intern. And what about my red dress? You still got it?”
“It is safely in my temporary custody. Underline temporary.”
“Is it dancing around the room by itself? Stuffed with paper and sitting down to breakfast at your table?”
“Perfectly calm, last time I saw it. In my front closet. I don’t actually communicate psychically with clothes and fabrics, you know.”
“Can’t prove it by me, Miss Clothes Whisperer. The question is: What are you going to do about this, Smithsonian?”
“Me? I’m going to give that dress back to you as soon as possible.”
“Oh no you’re not, not with this closet freak on my ass. You promised to keep it till it’s psychically cleansed.”
“I promised no such thing.” The last thing Lacey wanted was to play a game of hot potato with the ruffled red gown. She squirmed on the windowsill. Five little birds gathered on LaToya’s window ledge behind them, sunning themselves. Lacey watched them fluff their wings. She was easily distracted this morning, she decided. At least she wanted to be distracted.
“You’ve got the fashion voodoo, not me.” It sounded like an accusation.
“I don’t have any voodoo, LaToya. Don’t jump to conclusions.”
“So what’s the plan, Smithsonian?”
Lacey wanted to sun herself like the birds on the windowsill and be free of all this craziness.
“If there is a connection, the first step for anyone—not necessarily me—would be finding out why Amy Keaton was so upset about the dress being sold. It’s not world peace. It’s just a costume. Clearly someone meant to sell it. It had a price tag.”
“Apparently it is not just a costume. It is a very special costume. To someone.”
True enough. “Besides the rogue intern theory, there must be some other reason the dress was at the sale in the first place.”
LaToya pressed her macchiato to her forehead and thought. “Maybe someone did it to antagonize that bee-yatch. Or blame her for it. Make her lose that job. I’d buy that reason.”
“Also, what do the police think about it? What did Lamont say? Have there been any other strange break-ins like this?” Was there a strange game of playing dress-up going on?
“He didn’t say much. I’ll have to tête-á-tête with Broadway later.”
“Didn’t he say anything?”
“He says at least no one’s dead. Yet.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh, damn, look at the time. I’ve got to get ready. If there’s anything left in my closet that didn’t get stuffed and mounted. I ain’t touching these things. But what about that woman and my dress?”
“LaToya, if your break-in has anything to do with the dress, and I am not saying it does, you should find out more about it and the actress who wore it. Why it’s so valuable. Such a theatre legend.”
“Me? I’m not the fashion reporter! This is not a LaToya-gotta-figure-out-how-to-do-it thing, this is a Smithsonian-already-knows-how-to-do-it thing. There is a dead actress involved. I don’t do theatre. Or death. Not my beat.”
“It’s not my beat either. Besides, I’m not sure the actress even died. Maybe the story never happened. Maybe the dress has nothing to do with anything. Maybe it’s the kind of story that starts in a glass of beer, then grows into a myth. For all we know, the actress might be alive and well. She might have tripped onstage, the dress got blamed, and the story grew into a long, tall tale.”
“You think so?” LaToya sounded hopeful.
“We need facts, not fiction. You’re a reporter, you know what useful things facts can be.”
“Then what about this freaky break-in?”
“I honestly don’t know. Get better locks on your doors, like Broadway said.” Lacey picked up her tote. “I have to get to work. You do too.”
They agreed to meet later at The Eye and compare notes, but Lacey wasn’t optimistic. Questions were always more plentiful than answers. And what about the dress? LaToya’s break-in would only embellish the dress’s notorious reputation, whether there was a connection or not. One thing was clear: That ruby-red confection would have to find a new hiding place. A place that was not Lacey’s apartment.
Outside in the green and leafy Logan Circle, she grabbed a bench near the statue of Civil War General John A. Logan forever sitting on a horse. She gave Vic a call.
“Sweetheart. What’s up?” His voice was deep and warm, like honey down her spine.
“I am, and a little too early. And I have a mission for you, should you choose to accept it.”
“As long as it’s not impossible. Is this mission fun or dangerous? Or both?”
“You are so suspicious. Remember that dress of LaToya’s I brought home?”
“Aha. A dress. Dangerous, then.”
“I wouldn’t say that. I just think it needs to take up residence in another closet somewhere, for the time being. A closet in a galaxy far away.”
“And why would that be?”
“LaToya’s place was broken into last night.” Lacey heard Vic groan.
“And you think they were looking for the dress?”
“Maybe. I really need to take a closer look at it at a safe place and—”
“Share an intimate moment with the red dress?”
“You know me so well.” She gazed at people cutting across the Circle. They had cups of coffee, reminding her she was thirsty.
“The burglar was looking for that specific dress?”
“I don’t know what the burglar was looking for. But anything is possible.”
“Experienced Lacey Smithsonian viewers always suspect every possibility.”
“That’s a small possibility. The disturbing part—”
“There’s a disturbing part? God, I’d be so disappointed if there wasn’t one.” She could hear him tapping on a keyboard. Perhaps taking notes.
“LaToya was asleep while persons unknown were rifling through her things.”
“But the dress wasn’t there. So what did they take?”
“Nothing. They—he, she, whoever—removed outfits from her closet and set them up around her apartment.”
“Set them up? Like, strewn around?”
“No, not strewn. Placed with care, with the proper accessories, shoes, belts, that sort of thing, and stuffed with wrapping paper to give them shape. Sitting at the table. Lounging on the sofa. Like the Invisible Woman’s costume parade.”
“You’re right. That is disturbing. You have pictures?
“On my phone.”
“Send me some, when you have a chance. Sounds like bad performance art. Maybe the guy, because statistically it’s a guy, is obsessed with LaToya and not the dress, which is still currently in your possession. Does she have a stalker?”
“Eww. That would be worse. For LaToya. I wouldn’t want any stranger looking at me while I’m asleep.”
“Don’t worry, darling. That’s my job.”
***
LACEY HAD TAKEN AN Uber to LaToya’s apartment, but the office was just half an hour away, adding a stop for an iced coffee. In Farragut Square, birds perched on the head and shoulders of Admiral Farragut. Men and women lingered outside with cups of coffee, hot and iced, resisting the race to their daily grind. Flower sellers’ carts on the street corners were in full bloom. In an effort to ward off any more bad news, Lacey bought a bunch of blossoms. She wasn’t sure they would help, but they were pretty.
It wasn’t something she did every day, but today Lacey hoped that Felicity Pickles, The Eye Street Observer food editor, had something tasty on hand. Felicity was obsessive about tempting the staff with her recipes. She called it work. Lacey called it something else. More like coercion.
But Felicity’s food was a big draw for Broadway Lamont. He was sweet on Felicity and her food and he wasn’t nearly as intimidating when he was oohing and ahhing over something jam-packed with calories.
If I’m going to have Broadway Lamont involved in this mess, I want him sinking his teeth into one of Felicity’s sticky buns. Not me.
