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The little shop of Horus, the books and curiosities shop owned by psychic Marie Largesse, would be open for only another hour. Exiting the King Street Metro, Lacey knew she could be at Marie’s shop in fifteen minutes.
The tidy store off King Street in Alexandria near the river offered all sorts of books on the psychic world and New Age phenomena, and it always had a pungent aroma of rich herbs, scented candles, and incense. There were aisles of candles and sage for smudging. But no Ouija boards. Marie believed they opened the door to darkness, and she preferred the light.
It was a steamy stroll but Lacey was at Marie’s shop before she realized it, and the door tinkled its familiar chime. The place looked deserted, but a musical Southern voice called out from the back room.
“Hello, Lacey. I’ve got some iced raspberry tea ready, cher.”
“You were expecting me?” Lacey said.
“You have to ask?” Marie laughed.
Lacey had debated about even calling on Marie. As a psychic, Marie was usually able only to foretell positive or neutral events. When she caught vibes of death or disaster, fear or foreboding, she tended to faint, and later she seldom remembered anything very useful. Today, however, Marie seemed perfectly upbeat. She bustled into the shop with two tall glasses filled with ice and sweet Southern raspberry tea, and she wore an ethereal white flowing blouse with angel wing sleeves and a long blue denim skirt which flattered her voluptuous figure. Marie would never wear grey or beige or something as mundanely professional as a mere suit. Her clients, she said, didn’t want to see their psychic looking like an aging Congressional staffer.
“Of course I knew you were on your way. Come in and sit down.”
“I didn’t call you,” Lacey said, teasing her.
“Not on the phone.” Marie handed her a glass of tea.
“You caught my vibes?” Lacey wasn’t really surprised, but Marie’s powers came and went and it was hard to predict whether they might be on or off.
“Big vibes. You wanted to ask me something?”
“It’s about a dress, a costume I’m researching.”
“Not your own dress?”
“No. A friend’s.”
“And it’s red, isn’t it? Red on red on red.”
Lacey nodded. “It’s at Vic’s. At least he took it somewhere for safekeeping.”
“Red is a powerful color, strong, sensuous. Too much of it can turn dark and overpowering.”
Lacey touched her hand. “I don’t want you to faint, Marie.”
“No, no, cher. I’m fine. Gregor’s sister, you know Olga, she’s been helping me with that. Deep breathing. Lots of deep breathing. And centering.”
“Why would Marie be fainting, Lacey Smithsonian?” The Russian-accented voice belonged to Olga Kepelova, who entered from the back room.
Olga was the sister of Marie’s fiancé, Gregor Kepelov. She was a perennial houseguest of the happy couple and one of Marie’s biggest fans. Olga had a shadowy background in the Russian intelligence services, and Lacey sometimes wondered if she had worked on psychic experiments with them. After emigrating to the U.S. she was now working as some kind of weapons expert, consulting with American law enforcement agencies.
There was a severe but wild-eyed quality about Olga. Her brown hair was cut in a razor-edged pageboy. Her brown eyes stared hard and seldom blinked. Lacey thought she vaguely resembled the Russian émigré writer Ayn Rand. She was too slender and wore pants and matching shirts in brown, black, or gray. Today, Olga was a monochromatic picture in brown, from her severe brown haircut to her booted feet. Lacey briefly imagined her as Ayn Rand working for the United Parcel Service, but Olga wouldn’t appreciate that whimsy. The woman rarely displayed even a shred of lightheartedness.
“I know she’s a tad frightening,” Marie whispered. “But Olga has a good heart. Under the hard angles. And Gregor’s here, too,” she said without looking.
Olga’s brother, Gregor Kepelov, appeared behind her, a former Russian spy whose American dream it was to own a ranch in Texas and could usually be found, like today, wearing blue jeans, a cowboy shirt, and cowboy boots. He had blue eyes and close-cropped hair and sharp features that always seemed a quarter-turn off to Lacey. Marie lit up at the sight of him. She always saw something no one else could.
“Hello, Kepelov,” Lacey said.
“Lacey Smithsonian. Marie said you would come by. And here you are. Let me see the ring.” He grabbed her left hand and studied her engagement ring.
“You’ve been talking to Nigel?”
“Of course. Jewels excite him. Ah! Is beautiful antique setting. Good-sized diamond. Very nice. A family heirloom?”
“The stone was in Vic’s family.”
“Family. Always a good sign,” Olga said. “Stability.”
Marie crowded in for a look. “I wondered when you were going to tell everyone, cher.”
“Some things I like to keep private,” Lacey said, pulling her hand back.
Kepelov laughed. “Trust me, with friends like your Stella and Nigel Griffin and my Marie, who knows all, privacy is a fantasy.”
“I didn’t want to press you for details,” Marie said, taking Lacey’s hand gently. “It was obvious from the start. The first time I met Victor Donovan I knew you would wind up together.”
Lacey grinned. “The first time you met Vic, you fainted.”
“Well, yes. At the warehouse, but not when I saw you two together. My, that is a lovely ring, it has such good energy! The setting and the diamond. Both have been much loved.”
Marie invited Lacey to take a seat in the cozy blue- and gold-starred psychic reading corner. After Gregor locked the front door of the shop and turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED, he and Olga squeezed in as well. There was barely room for the four of them.
Was this a Russian thing, Lacey wondered, from growing up in a once-Communist country where everything was constrained, intimate, crowded? Marie will never be lonely with these two around. Lacey took a deep breath and searched for the right words.
“I didn’t want to bother you, Marie. I’m not really sure why I came.”
“You came because you had to, sugar,” Marie said.
“You have some mystery, Lacey Smithsonian?” Gregor said. “Something of grave interest?”
“No diamonds this time, Kepelov.”
“You are among friends,” Olga assured her.
“True.” Sort of. Lacey was slowly warming to Gregor Kepelov, but his sister was another story. She imagined Olga hitting her over the head with a copy of Atlas Shrugged.
Lacey described the events of the weekend, the theatre garage sale, the tug of war over the red dress, LaToya’s victory, and the break-in. She gave them the big-print version, not the fine details. She held back the bizarre costume parade the burglar had staged with LaToya’s wardrobe.
Let’s see if Marie picks up on that.
“That red dress is very valuable to someone,” Marie said. “As valuable as a memory. Tell me more about the dress.”
“It was a theatrical costume,” Lacey said. “Made for a production of The Masque of the Red Death.”
“Ah, Edgar Allan Poe. Famous American depressive.” Gregor nodded. “Continue, please.”
“It was a Kinetic Theatre production, more than a decade ago,” Lacey said.
“Kinetic? What is this Kinetic?” Gregor asked.
“Kinetic is a theatre company in the District, run by performers from the former Soviet Union. Mostly Russians, I think.”
“They are Russians?” Olga and Gregor shared a look. Gregor clearly felt affronted not to know every single Russian in the D.C. area. “How do I not know of this group of Russians?”
“I don’t know. Maybe they’re not KGB spies.”
“You are so funny, Lacey Smithsonian,” Gregor said. “Tell me what you know about this theatre.”
“They’ve been around for a dozen years or more, and they have a playhouse on Sixteenth Street near the Circle. It’s a small theatre, but they’ve won some big awards,” Lacey said. “Like the Helen Hayes.”
“But not a big theatre, like Kennedy Center or Arena Stage?”
“No, much smaller, even smaller than, say, Source or Woolly Mammoth or Studio. Apparently they have this unique style combining acting and dance, a very muscular type of movement, and they tell stories through choreography, dance, music, and a minimum of dialogue. I haven’t seen their shows, but I’ve read about them.”
“Ah, dancers! Russians are the best dancers in the world,” Gregor said.
“They learn to dance in Russia,” Olga added.
“I’m trying to run down a story about this costume and whether there is a connection to LaToya Crawford’s break-in. It seems far-fetched.”
“You specialize in the far-fetched, sugar,” Marie said. “And so do I. The only thing I feel sure about is that theatre woman, the one who fought with your friend LaToya, is not going to get back to you.”
“Figures,” Lacey said. “You’d be surprised how many people never call me back.”
“You are a reporter,” Olga said. “The enemy.”
“I’m not the enemy, I just ask questions. And I write about fashion, not the theatre or backstage intrigue. It hardly puts me in the enemy camp.” Lacey put the iced tea glass to her warm forehead. “Maybe she’s just embarrassed about how she behaved, making a scene and all.”
Marie frowned. “Tell me more about the dress. I see it as a deep red, many shades of red, dark, layered, long, flowing—”
“And very beautiful. It was worn by the character of Death in the play. And the young actress who wore it, Saige Russell, died right after the last show.”
“Oh, cher, I was afraid of that.”
“Supposedly she was not wearing the dress at the time. As far as I know.”
“Did you touch this dress?”
“I had to. LaToya practically threw it at me. The story spooked her.”
“Take my hand and visualize it,” Marie said. “Send me a picture.”
“I’ll try.” Lacey closed her eyes. She could see the layers of fabric, the tulle, the taffeta, the silk and satin. The blood-red splash of lace at the throat. She could see the substance of it and almost feel its weight, feel the way it would swing and sweep as you wore it, as you turned and stalked and spun across the stage—
Marie’s eyes rolled back and her head started to wobble. Gregor grabbed her before she hit the table and held her up. She shook her head, conscious but woozy.
“Oh my God. Marie, I’m so sorry,” Lacey said.
“You have done it again, Smithsonian.” Gregor smiled grimly. “Someone is dead.”
“Yes, of course, I told you, the actress is dead! The one who wore the dress. A dozen years ago.”
“What did you see?” Olga demanded of Marie.
“A face.” The psychic blinked. “It was just a face. Changing. Dissolving. Changing. Dissolving again. Over and over. Made me dizzy.” She rubbed her eyes.
“How many faces, Marie?” Gregor asked. “Five faces? Twenty faces? A thousand? Or all the same face?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t counting.”
This vision sounded very theatrical to Lacey. What did changing and dissolving faces have to do with the red dress? She didn’t have a chance to ask. Marie suddenly slumped in Gregor’s arms and fell fast asleep on his shoulder.
“We don’t know what this means,” Olga said. “Yet. But it means something. It is a good start, yes, Smithsonian?”
“More like a finish.” Lacey rose to her feet. “I have to go. Please take care of Marie.”
“Of course,” Olga said.
“We will take good care of her,” Gregor said, nodding goodbye.
The faces. Was it possible that Marie saw all the actresses who had worn the dress since the demise of Saige Russell? She was glad she hadn’t mentioned LaToya’s break-in and the oddly life-like presentation of her empty clothes. But why hadn’t Marie seen that? Why the faces?
Lacey exited, stage left, so to speak. It didn’t occur to her until later that Marie hadn’t given her the usual weather report. No doubt that meant no change, she decided, and the Washington summer would be blisteringly hot for the foreseeable future.
Maybe forever.
***
LACEY WALKED HOME FROM King Street alone. The sun dipped below the west wing of her apartment building, taking with it the scorching heat of the day. At home she changed into a casual cotton dress, moved to the balcony, and watched the boats on the river as the light faded.
Vic was busy this evening, with a surveillance and a client hand-holding session. He’d left a message on her phone. She wouldn’t have a chance that evening to look at the dress, wherever he’d taken it, but he assured her it was safe. As she sat on the balcony she polished her engagement ring and thought about the man she had promised to marry. It still felt unreal.
The ring had been on her finger for over a month and she still hadn’t told her family. It was complicated. She wanted Vic all to herself.
Mimi, what would you do? Lacey wondered.
Honey, put on your war paint and stick to your guns, she imagined her Aunt Mimi saying. It’s your life!
The balcony and the river were getting dark. Lacey went inside and put on some big band music. Mimi’s trunk was calling her.
Some relax after a stressful day by watching TV or surfing the Web. For Lacey, often it meant diving into her Great-aunt Mimi’s trunk of vintage clothing and other wonders. An ancient wooden steamer trunk banded in leather with tarnished brass buckles, it was filled with patterns and fabrics and half-finished clothes from the late 1930s and 1940s, old magazines and letters, clippings, photographs, mementos, memories. It was a trunk full of dreams.
It was Lacey’s personal treasure chest, and it always made her feel close to her favorite aunt, dead now for years. Mimi had left her trunk of dreams to Lacey, and it kept their connection alive, as if Mimi spoke to her through what it contained. She wondered what Mimi would think of Vic, of her engagement ring, of their potential wedding plans, of Lacey’s life and career in Washington, of everything. Unfortunately, it was a one-way conversation. The trunk was full of wonders, but there had been no guest appearances of Mimi’s ghost.
Mimi was the infamous rebel of the Smithsonian family, the one who had felt liberated in the East, the only one who had changed the family name back to the original Smith, of the Cockney Smiths of east London.
Mimi had moved from Denver to D.C. during World War II for all the right reasons: to do her part for her country and the war effort. And to get away from her clingy family. She landed a job with the wartime Office of Price Administration, which oversaw, among other things, price controls, rationing, and investigating black markets. Mimi always wanted to be where the action was, Lacey knew, and not where her family was. Letters took weeks to arrive back then, and long-distance phone calls were costly. Distances were, well, distant.
What do you think, Mimi? Yeah, Vic’s a doll. Satin or lace? And yes, a veil is a bit jejune. Oh, maybe dressing my hair with pearls? Yeah, I like that. And the dress? Of course it would have to be vintage, or a vintage pattern. Maybe a pattern out of your trunk...
Lacey put her family out of her mind and opened the trunk. She spotted a large scrap of re-embroidered lace in a beautiful claret color. It was clipped to a photograph of Mimi in a dress made with that same material, standing next to a handsome young man in a sharp tuxedo with a silly grin on his face. The dress featured a sweetheart neckline with satin piping. On the back, Mimi had written, “Valentine’s Formal 1940.” Nothing else.
Who’s the pretty boy with the grin? A big romance or just a random date?
The picture was black and white, which added to its glamour, but Lacey was seeing it in color. Mimi looked like Rita Hayworth and had a million-dollar smile, her auburn hair was pulled back behind one ear, where she wore a flower that matched the pink sweetheart roses in her corsage. Mimi’s date was handsome and wore a sheepishly proud look. It always struck Lacey that although Mimi was very young—in college at the time—she looked impossibly sophisticated in her old photographs, like a movie star caught by a candid camera. Like so many people in old photos from the Forties.
Times were different then. Courtships, and clothes, were formal. Must have been nice. Not the inequality of the times, the unspoken sexism, but the formality, the stability. The clothes. And Mimi never had to worry that her mother was reading about her exploits on the internet.
A song called “The Lady in Red” came on the radio. Serendipity. Lacey looked back at the red lace in her hand. The workmanship was beautiful. Something like that today would cost dearly.
What is it about a red dress? Lacey thought.
The color red attracts the male of the species, studies claimed. Red gets the blood flowing, red means passion, fire, life, love, lust. Lacey wished the red dress Mimi made from this lace had survived and ended up in the trunk. Even though it was gone, Mimi must have been sentimental about it: She saved the photo and this one remnant of lovely red lace.
Does every woman have one great red dress in her life? Many did, but Lacey did not. Her thoughts turned darker. For Saige Russell, a red dress presaged her demise and became part of her death story. It hardly mattered that she wasn’t wearing the costume when she died. Or did it?
Few people know the hour of their death. Did Saige have any inkling she was about to die? Or did she intend to die? Lacey wondered.
Out, out, brief candle.
