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Early Tuesday morning, Tamsin Kerr arrived at The Eye’s offices with a news tip for Lacey.
The theatre critic’s appearance at that hour was unusual, as startling as an apparition. During the day, the newsroom was barely controlled chaos, and Tamsin didn’t care for chaos unless it was on stage and neatly choreographed. Because she attended the theatre in the evening, Tamsin generally filed her reviews late at night, and she often filed from home. Occasionally, however, she found it soothing to visit The Eye after dark when the newsroom resembled a graveyard.
Before she came into view Tamsin’s long, tall shadow preceded her, stretching down the hallway toward the reporters’ cubicles. Her shadowed curls stretched into long fingers of amazement, reaching across the walls. As she emerged corporeally, Tamsin’s dark curly coiffure, exploding with the humidity, seemed even more fierce than usual. She wasn’t about to let an insignificant thing like the weather daunt her. Even in the D.C. heat she wore a perfectly tailored, deep burgundy Armani suit, contrasting dramatically with her pale skin. People stopped dead in their tracks to stare at Tamsin Kerr, proving Lacey’s theory about the authority of red. Tamsin paid no attention to them and focused on Lacey.
“Smithsonian, there you are! Did you find what you needed? The Masque reviews, the tragic death of ingénue Saige Russell, the fabled red dress?”
“I found what I found.” Lacey waved at her stack of copied articles about the Kinetic production. “What I don’t know is still a mystery. Saige did die on closing night. No one knows how or why. No foul play suspected, so far as I can tell. Nothing indicates she was wearing the red dress at the time, and Yuri Volkov, the director, says that’s just a stupid rumor. Still, that dress seems to have an awful aura about it.” Lacey flexed her fingers. “And how are you, Tamsin? Lovely to see you too. Have some hot coffee?”
The office A/C kicked on, blasting Lacey’s neck with an icy breeze. She shivered in her sleeveless lavender dress and grabbed her cream-colored felt jacket. In the breast pocket was a vintage violet lace hanky, which she had secured with a vintage pin of purple irises. She tugged the jacket on, happy she’d brought it with her. It felt as cozy as a hug.
Tamsin seemed to be immune to mere heat and cold. She commandeered the infamous Death Chair, which always seemed to roll its way back to Lacey’s cubicle, and sat. Either she didn’t know its reputation or, more likely, she didn’t care. She would consider the painted skulls droll. She leaned forward almost touching Lacey’s desk, her dark curls hanging down.
“So the rumors weren’t entirely wrong. A dramatic curtain scene for an actor, I suppose, though a trifle obvious.” She paused for effect. “I don’t want to be an alarmist, Smithsonian, but I have some alarming news.” She smiled, clearly not at all alarmed.
“About the red dress?”
“You be the judge. You remember that other woman, the one who got into the fight with LaToya over the dress on Saturday?”
“Yes.”
Tamsin paused for effect. “She’s dead.”
“Excuse me?” Lacey shook her head as if she didn’t hear. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh yes. The one who sparred with our dear LaToya and lost. Short, blowsy blonde? Dead. Mort, muerto, mortuus est. I have this information on excellent authority.”
Lacey sat bolt upright. “The woman from Kinetic? The Masque of the Red Death red dress?” A bolt of dread hit her in the pit of her stomach.
“The very one. Amy Keaton, I believe her name is. Was, rather.”
“What are you saying?” Lacey sounded stupid, even to herself.
“Didn’t I say? I thought I said it quite clearly. Amy Keaton is dead.”
“Yes, but why is she dead? And when did it happen, and how, and who told you, how do you know this?”
“Aren’t you a good little journalist, all those W questions! Who, what, when, where, why!” Lacey glared. “Really, Smithsonian, it’s very impressive, and just when we hear journalism is dead.”
“Some answers, Tamsin. Please.”
“DeeDee Adler. She’s always around Kinetic. A stagehand or something. She witnessed the titanic tug of war last Saturday. Apparently she worked the event and saw me there. Called me this morning at the ungodly hour of nine a.m.” Tamsin’s expression made it clear that this was unacceptably early. “She thought I’d want to know. And I suppose I do, though I don’t cover death. Unless it’s on stage. Or the head of a theatre, an artistic director, an acting legend, someone like that. The requisite retrospective, cultural context, artistic legacy, et cetera. But I didn’t know this Keaton person. A backstage type. What was she, a stage manager?”
“Who is DeeDee Adler? How does she know Amy Keaton is dead?”
“Those W questions again.” Tamsin wagged her finger. “I suppose they were friends. Worked together. After all, DeeDee was the first to know. Adler has been wardrobe mistress or—oh God, I suppose that term’s been changed to something like wardrobe master now or wardrobe wrangler or something—at Kinetic, and she had something to do with the yard sale. What exactly, I don’t know. I saw her there. And that is all I know.”
Lacey was still trying to wrap her head around the news. “Dead? Tamsin, are you sure? Absolutely sure? She was alive just the other day.”
“That’s how it happens, doesn’t it? Here today, gone tomorrow.” Marie’s words came back to Lacey. That woman is not going to return your call. “DeeDee seemed quite certain,” Tamsin said.
“I didn’t know you saw the fight over the dress.”
When Tamsin smiled, as she did now, she looked impish. “It rather made up for having to go to that sale in the first place Saturday. These early mornings are going to kill me.”
“What did you think? About the tug of war?”
“Very convincing. One thing you have to say about LaToya Crawford is that she commits.”
“Commits? What, murder?”
“No, she commits to the action. To the moment, the emotion. Fully. Without restraint. Very impressive. Maybe it was something about that dress. Or maybe LaToya. She could be a great performer. You have to commit.”
It wasn’t surprising that Tamsin gave the critic’s-eye view of the action. After all, she once wrote up an attack in the newsroom as if it were opening night of a new play. She gave it five stars. That article raised Mac’s ire to a dangerous level, but there was nothing he could do, it was already in print. According to the paper’s algorithms, it turned out to be popular with the readership, the most read article that week, beating out a presidential news conference by a mile.
“Okay. Keaton’s death. Accident?” Lacey asked, trying to get back on track. “Foul play? How was her health? Is there a police report? A medical examiner’s determination of cause and manner of death?’
“Good lord, Smithsonian! I have no idea. Do you suppose it was murder? Never mind, of course you do, murder is your thing.” Tamsin leaned back, hands behind her head. “It doesn’t matter, vis-à-vis the dress. Its reputation will only grow. An unearthly object of unhealthy curiosity. That is your bailiwick, isn’t it, Smithsonian? And dumped right in your lap. Fashion and death and grim tidings. Lucky you.”
“Yeah, lucky me. And lucky for the red dress. Assuming it likes publicity, and notoriety, and being associated with death.”
“Well, it is the Red Death dress, the so-called Red Dress of Doom. It ought to be used to it by now. A monstrous myth, helped along with theatrical superstition. I’m surprised it isn’t the subject of a bad new play already,” she mused. “Or worse, an opera. The Masque of the Red Dress. What do you think?”
“God forbid. Somehow it’s become a talisman of good luck-bad luck. But people must believe in the good luck, or else all those actresses wouldn’t want to wear it to the Helen Hayes awards.”
“Two deaths now,” Tamsin pointed out. “Possibly more. Who knows what the tally really is? What’s it been up to all these years?”
“Tamsin, you’re suggesting a connection where there may be none. There’s a decade between these two deaths. You’re being dramatic.”
“God, I hope so. Drama is my job. To cover it, of course, not to live it.”
“Droll. Very droll.”
Tamsin stood up and sniffed the air. “You said something about coffee. Is there any coffee around this hellhole?”
“How strong is your stomach?”
“Strong enough to go to the theatre every night and face the ever-present possibility of dreck or delight.”
Lacey grabbed an extra Fashion BITES mug for Tamsin and gestured for her to follow her to the newsroom’s kitchen. As usual, the coffee was drained to the dregs and on the verge of burning. Lacey made another pot. As they watched the coffee maker expectantly, Lacey wondered how much to tell Tamsin about recent developments.
“Unfortunate on many levels,” Tamsin was musing. “Sad that the Keaton woman is dead. Sad for Kinetic. Tomorrow is press night for their new show. Stage managers are utterly indispensable, so someone’s got to take over her duties and they may not be completely up to speed. Could be a disaster.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“No doubt there’s an assistant and lots of tech people because of the complexity of a Kinetic show, but still. The stage manager makes the trains run on time.”
Tamsin’s beat seemed very exciting to Lacey, even glamorous, though it was a lot of late-night hours. There were days Lacey grew weary of the fashion slog. There were only so many ways to describe the latest and greatest look that could change one’s life or the newest “blue is the new black.”
“Does it get old?” she asked. “The plays, I mean?”
“Not really. Of course there are disasters, but on press night or opening night, there is always the possibility something magical will occur. You always hope for the best. Or the worst. And in a small theatre like Kinetic, the energy is completely different than the huge theatres, where they often present big fossilized warhorses of plays, like frozen dioramas. A small theatre with no money and no resources but passion and talent can sometimes build wondrous things out of hope and dreams.”
“Illusion. Smoke and mirrors. Making something out of nothing.”
“Yes. It’s a relief that the little theatres don’t have the money to land helicopters on stage just because they can. Or spray the audience with a stupid rainstorm. Just make us imagine that rainstorm, we’ll feel it.”
“What if a play is bad?”
“Better than boring! Passionately bad can be just as interesting as good, if everyone is committed to it. A strong but wrongheaded choice is still a strong choice. And then of course there are—disappointments.”
“Have you seen work by Nikolai Sokolov? He designed the infamous Red Death.”
“Did he? Before my time, but I’ve seen his work. At Kinetic and elsewhere. He’s very good. I’ve seen him create amazing sets and costumes with practically no money at all.”
“And now Amy Keaton will miss all that.”
“Yes,” Tamsin agreed. “She’ll miss all that.”
“What’s a press night like?”
“Just part of the job. When you’re the critic, you get stares from near and far, trying to decode your every little reaction. Does she like it, does she hate it? Is she falling asleep? Is she taking notes or looking at her phone? What did that little smile of hers mean? Exhausting.”
“I never thought about it that way.” Lacey generally didn’t wonder how others reacted to her or her notebook and pen. But then, she was usually in the background, and she believed no one actually read her fashion columns. At least, she wanted to believe that.
“I arrive at the last minute, I stay in my seat through intermission, if there is one, and I always leave as soon as the lights come up. I never want to be interrogated by actors, directors, friends of the actors, the understudy’s mother.”
“Acting must be a very strange profession.”
“Yes. Funny thing about theatre people. Actors. Actresses too. Though the women all want to be called actors now. They hang on to the dream of making it. And when they do, the few who do, when the money rolls in, they firmly believe the stuff that made them great were the bleak days, when it was creativity and alchemy that turned nothing into something.”
“And people like Amy Keaton?”
“People like Amy Keaton keep the theatre going, but they’re never seen and rarely thanked.”
“Kinetic is about to open The Turn of the Screw.” Lacey rinsed out her coffee mug. “I never considered Henry James as an inspiration for music and dance.”
“Who would?” Tamsin stared at the coffee pot. “And a strange show to do in the summer. Of course, they’re filling the gap between the big theatres’ seasons, and that’s part of their niche. I merely hope to be writing a rave and not an obituary. I write about the illusion of life and death on stage, not life and death. I’m not that important in the grand scheme of things. Critics are mere cogs in the show biz machine.”
“Don’t underestimate yourself.”
“I don’t. However, the critic is the first to go in a recession, and if newspapers survive in the future, who knows whether critics or reviewers will remain as well. I expect to get the ax every week. When The Eye cuts back, this theatre reviewer will be among the first to go.”
“And the fashion beat too,” Lacey said.
“Au contraire, Smithsonian. Not your beat, it’s sui generis, off the beaten path, what with all those fashion crimes. Torture and tulle, murder and mannequins.”
“You sound like Wiedemeyer.”
“Do I? Why is that coffee so slow?” The pot was only a quarter full.
“Did you know LaToya’s apartment was broken into the other night?” Lacey asked. “Sunday night or early Monday morning.”
“Burgled? Were they after the dress? Better and better. Not better for LaToya, of course. You understand what I mean. Better story value, more plot twists.”
“I do. Nothing was taken, but there was a very strange—”
“Curious, isn’t it?” Tamsin interrupted, looking pensive, yet somehow delighted. “A contretemps over a dress, a burglary, and now a death. The dramatic arc is provocative, suggestive yet inconclusive.”
“That about sums it up.”
Tamsin reached for the coffee pot before it finished and poured herself the first cup. She inhaled the fresh aroma and sipped, closing her eyes. A few drips sizzled on the burner, adding to the kitchenette’s distinct aroma.
“You must need that pretty badly,” Lacey observed, filling her coffee mug.
“Are you joking? I’m not usually up till the crack of noon. Coffee is my blood, my ink, my drink of choice. I leave my information about Keaton to you. Do with it as you please.”
“Thanks for the heads up.”
“Any time. After noon. Keep me posted.” Tamsin glanced at her watch. “I’m here so early, I might as well go torture my section editor. Cheers.” A nod of her head and Tamsin was gone.
Lacey’s stomach was still unsettled and it wasn’t the coffee. The facts made her head spin. Unless by some chance Amy Keaton had died of natural causes, everything that had happened since the theatre sale on Saturday was connected: the tug of war over the scarlet costume, LaToya’s break-in, Keaton’s death.
The battle between Amy and LaToya. Was that the thing that led to everything else? Lacey wondered. Or did something else happen before the sale? How did the dress wind up on the rack if it wasn’t supposed to be sold? And by the way, wasn’t there an actual mask to go with that dress? Where did the mask go?
Too many unanswered questions. She peered into her coffee as if she could read the grounds. It wasn’t her particular talent. It occurred to her that the break-in at LaToya’s, particularly the way the dresses were staged, was terribly theatrical. This burglar was sending a dramatic message. The trouble was that Lacey didn’t know what the message was.
Maybe: I’m just messing with your head? Playing dress-up with your things? Taking an inventory? Or, I know where you live, I know how you dress, and I know who you are! Or could it also mean, I know what you bought on Saturday and I want it BACK!
Lacey returned to her cubicle where the air was freshly chilled. She kept both hands around her mug for warmth. Amy Keaton. While Lacey thought Keaton had looked unhappy and unhealthy, her gut told her that wasn’t the cause of death. But first she needed facts, even if facts were slippery. No doubt Damon Newhouse would soon be nipping at her heels with some mad conspiracy theory, and Brooke right beside him, demanding information.
I need facts! Where to start?
Should she call Detective Broadway Lamont and inquire about Keaton’s death? And get involved in an endless police interrogation? Call LaToya about Amy Keaton’s death? And freak her out completely without knowing what was going on? Later. Lacey made her first call to DeeDee Adler. And got nowhere.
“Like I told Tamsin, she’s dead. That’s all I know,” the woman said on the phone, obviously in a hurry to hang up.
“How did you find out?”
“I got a call. It’s out there. The drums. The theatre grapevine.”
“Do you know what happened?”
“No, she’s just dead. But she’d been depressed,” Adler volunteered. “Always up or down. She was either hyper or the world was totally noir. Everything was important. Details drove her crazy.”
“Suicide?” That hadn’t occurred to Lacey. It was a sad and lonely thought.
“I don’t really know. Gotta go.” Adler hung up. Lacey didn’t have a chance to ask Adler about the theatre sale, her part in it, and what she might have known about the red dress.
The Web and social media were another dead end. Amy Keaton had a surprisingly small footprint on the internet, though her name appeared on the odd theatre program. No one was setting up any memorial pages for her yet.
Lacey left a message on the Kinetic Theatre’s voice mail for artistic director Yuri Volkov. He would have to know something about her death. She was his stage manager, an essential role, and he’d been annoyed at her the day before. Volkov seemed the type to resent someone’s untimely death if it interrupted his show schedule.
Next up: Tony Trujillo. If Keaton’s demise was due to a car accident or something criminal, The Eye’s police reporter would know something by now. Lacey was about to call Tony’s cell when she looked down the hall and saw his cowboy boots strutting her way. Today’s boots were black cowhide with proud gold longhorns on the toes, a flashy contrast to his black jeans and black shirt, gussied up with a bolo tie anchored by a large turquoise.
“Hey, Tony.” He didn’t even glance at her. He strutted with a purpose toward Felicity’s cubby of caloric delights.
“Tony!” Lacey waved, but he danced across the aisle to Felicity, who was waving a plate of fresh homemade chocolate-iced moon pies. The aroma almost made Lacey weaken her resolve not to fall prey to Felicity’s master plan.
“Moon pies, Tony,” Felicity said. “My own recipe.”
“You are my angel, Felicidad,” Tony said, lifting one moon pie. “If you ever leave Harlan, let me know.”
At the mention of Harlan’s name, Felicity’s lips trembled, but she caught herself and smiled bravely. Harlan was mad about moon pies, yet he was nowhere to be seen. It was troubling. Without saying a word, Felicity was broadcasting her despair in today’s outfit, a dreary gray purple sack of a dress. A shabby gray sweater hung on the back of her chair. She might as well have worn a neon sign: the world is crushing my spirit. Have a moon pie.
Poor Felicity. Lacey found herself wishing for another of Felicity’s bright dresses and garish sweaters, trimmed in eye-popping felt flowers in colors unknown to nature, created by some mad knitter in the online shopping universe. At least it would signal Felicity’s happiness and optimism.
“You’ll have to get in line behind Broadway Lamont, Tony,” Lacey said.
“Oh, hey Lacey. What’s up, Brenda Starr? Black orchids? Mystery man?” Tony grabbed another moon pie for later.
“Too many mystery men to mention.”
“Heard you witnessed a smack down with LaToya and some woman at some theatre yard sale. Over a dress.” He grinned. His teeth were big and white, his wolf smile.
“What can I say? This fashion beat is a gift that keeps on giving.”
“Word has it LaToya’s pretty fierce.”
“Very fierce. I should take lessons.”
“More fierceness is the last thing you need, Lacey. Trust me. So what’s up?”
“A woman named Amy Keaton died. Probably accident or natural causes. But as you are the crime newshound—”
“And Lacey Smithsonian wants to rule out foul play. Why do you want to know? I’ll bite.” He did, into the nearest moon pie. “Who is Amy Keaton?”
“Don’t be difficult, Tony.”
“Don’t be evasive.”
“She’s just a name for now.”
“Call Lamont.” He savored another bite. “You know, these are exceptionally light and fluffy. The chocolate is just right.”
“So you haven’t heard her name? You’re the police reporter.”
“Glad you acknowledge that point. She died recently?”
“Yesterday maybe, or the day before. I don’t have an exact TOD.” Amy was missing in action on Monday. Today was Tuesday. Someone probably knew when she died, but Lacey did not.
“Unless she died in a hospital, it’s unlikely that a cause of death has been ruled yet.”
“But you can find out if it’s reached the attention of the boys and girls in blue, or whether it hints at suspicious causes.”
“Also true. Is this a hot story?” He narrowed his eyes at her.
“I have no idea.” She looked away. She didn’t want that chocolate moon pie in his hand taunting her.
“Liar. If it turns out to be a story, you have to share.”
“Don’t I always?”
“No. You don’t.” He flashed his smile again.
“You might not even be interested. You, know. Fashion. Girly stuff.”
“I love girly stuff. Okay, some girly stuff. And the more you protest, the more interested I get.” He munched on a moon pie and winked. “Double byline.”
“Maybe.” Later. After I have a few facts.
“I’ll look into it. You owe me.”
Lacey cocked one eyebrow at Tony and turned her attention to her desk, the usual piles of papers to sort, and what little she recollected about Amy Keaton.
Could the Red Dress of Death, that lovely crimson costume, possibly be something Keaton personally cared about? Unlikely, Lacey decided. It wasn’t hers, it wasn’t her size, and from Kinetic’s point of view it was ancient history. Another point: Amy Keaton looked like any number of women in the District of Columbia who’d given up on their appearance and escaped to the comfort of stretch pants. Katya Pritchard, the once-lithe dancer and Saige Russell’s understudy, was another.
When Lacey had seen her, Amy Keaton’s frizzy blond curls were pony-tailed in a black scrunchy. With her white lashes and eyebrows, paler than her hair, she looked like a plump rabbit ready to run. Tight black pants, a black T-shirt with the Kinetic Theatre logo, and black canvas sneakers. Where did the long ruby dress fit into that picture?
Maybe Amy was afraid she’d lose her job somehow because of the mix-up. Was Yuri Volkov so unforgiving? He’d bitched to Lacey about everyone around him, but they’d all worked for him for years, and he said he didn’t care about the dress. Perhaps it was the last in a series of Keaton mistakes? Some people had a knack for screwing up. Maybe she was always getting blamed for something. Maybe she had no hopes for ever getting another job.
Like Harlan Wiedemeyer.
Harlan wasn’t causing catastrophes all around him, Lacey was certain, but he certainly took the fall for them. Lacey turned around, suddenly expecting to see him hanging around. He wasn’t there. But Lacey heard a sniffle and a stifled sob from the next cubicle.
Felicity sat in front of her screen, miserable and blocked. The fluffy food copy she could usually toss like a salad wasn’t flowing. No “luscious clouds of whipped cream,” or “layers of angel food cake lighter than air,” or “dark and sinfully delightful and delicious chocolate.”
Before Lacey could think of something to say, Mac arrived in his usual sartorial conglomeration, a short sleeve plaid shirt in yellow and lime green over bright purple slacks that belonged on a golf course. His girls must have slept late this summer day and left him to dress himself, but they would have approved of his footwear: He proudly wore the cowboy boots he had picked up in Steamboat Springs, Colorado, where he also bought boots for them. He lifted a moon pie and observed Felicity staring blankly at her computer screen.
“I don’t know what’s up with you, Pickles, but get it together. We’re on deadline here. And you didn’t tell me there were moon pies.”
Felicity whimpered loudly and hit a key at random. Mac bit into the moon pie, briefly closing his eyes in bliss.
“You’re not helping, Mac,” Lacey said pointedly. “Can’t you see she’s got troubles?”
“Who does?” Mac looked at her blankly.
“Men!” Lacey realized she had to find a way to make things right in the office, or she’d never get any work done. On the other hand, if Harlan and Felicity didn’t get married, Lacey wouldn’t have to wear a hideous bridesmaid’s gown. How does that stack up against an eternity of sighs in the cubicle next door? She couldn’t take it any longer. She stood and grabbed her bag. “I have to get out of here.”
“Where are you going?” Mac asked.
“Lunch.”
“It’s eleven o’clock, Smithsonian.”
“I’m hungry, and I have an interview.”
“With whom?”
“Two women who wore the dress, if you must know. The dress, Mac. The Red Dress of Death, the crimson costume, the fatal frock. The ruby gown of ill renown.”
Mac’s eyebrows rose in interest. “That crazy LaToya dress?”
“Bingo.”
“Okay. Go. Just don’t bring any bad fashion voodoo back here. We got enough weird stuff going on.” His eyebrows indicated the downhearted Felicity.
“You and Broadway Lamont are hilarious. You know that?”
Lacey left Mac staring at his moon pie and Felicity staring at her blank monitor.
Men.
