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Outside The Eye’s cool lobby, a blast furnace hit her with an oppressive wall of humidity as clingy as a wet sweater. It wasn’t pleasant, but it was better than hanging around, playing an extra in the newsroom’s third-floor drama.
Lacey bought a bottle of cold water from a street vendor and trudged up Connecticut Avenue to Krispy Kreme Doughnuts in Dupont Circle, where the “Hot Doughnuts Now” sign beckoned. Lacey strode in and was greeted by the March of the Doughnuts, in all their sugar-glazed glory.
As she suspected, Harlan Wiedemeyer was there. He sat hunched in a corner in misery, with his head lolling on his chest, which only made him look shorter and rounder than usual. Predictably, he wore a white shirt and gray slacks, today paired with a bright orange tie. He had a large collection of ties, usually accessorized with crumbs. Except for his ties, his office wardrobe palette was stuck in neutral. He had told Lacey he was content to fade into the background and let Felicity be his “fair bird of paradise.”
Harlan didn’t notice her. His hand reached into a flat box full of hot glazed doughnuts.
“Drowning your sorrows, Harlan?” Lacey stood over him. His hand stopped in midair. He glanced up at her.
“Smithsonian! What are you doing here?”
“Following a trail of doughnut crumbs, Hansel. Your Gretel misses you, back at the gingerbread cottage.”
I actually think of Felicity as the witch in that story, but whatever works.
“Oh.” He automatically brushed off the front of his shirt. “Sorry.”
It was well-known that Wiedemeyer had a serious jones for doughnuts. He’d take any kind, but Krispy Kreme was at the top of his doughnut tower. He licked a crumb off his lips.
“You’re going to have a serious sugar hangover, Harlan.”
“Only if I stop.” His eyes glistened. “Lacey, I can’t marry her. I can’t ruin her life.”
“You’re ruining it now! She can’t concentrate, she can’t work. Soon Felicity won’t even be able to cook.”
“My Dilly Pickles? Not cook?” His doughnut hand wavered. “Baking is her life.”
“She’s worried.”
“At least she’s not dead.” He bit into another glazed puff of paradise. “I’m a jinx.”
“Stop it, Harlan.”
Somewhere behind them, a platter of hot doughnuts fell with a tremendous clatter. He tilted his head toward the sound.
“Exhibit A.”
“Harlan, she made you moon pies today. With glazed chocolate.”
“Moon pies?” His eyes lit up for a moment, then dimmed into misery. He wiped his eyes with a paper napkin.
“And you’re missing them,” she said.
That statement got his attention. “No!”
“Trujillo ate the first one. The first three. Or four. And then Mac arrived. You know what that means. Are you telling me you’re turning down a lifetime of moon pies, caramel rolls, and cakes? A lifetime of culinary bliss?”
He wavered. “When you put it that way—”
“I am putting it that way.” The sweet aroma of “hot doughnuts now” was getting to Lacey. She was hungry. She wavered. He offered his white box full of fresh doughnuts. She took one and contemplated it, not taking a bite. It was still warm. “She’s miserable, Harlan, and so are you, and it’s making me miserable. Please, go back to the office and talk to her. You guys were made for each other.”
Heaven help us.
“I know we were. But I can’t.”
“Listen to me! You are not a jinx, Harlan Wiedemeyer!”
A man at the counter slipped in the remains of someone’s spilled drink and slid across the floor, crashing into a couple just walking through the door. All three hit the ground. Lacey ignored them and snapped her fingers under Wiedemeyer’s nose.
“Focus! I need your help, Harlan.” She finally bit into the warm doughnut. It was heavenly.
“Help? How can I help you? How can I help anyone?”
“I’m working on a delicate story and I can’t concentrate when Felicity is sighing and sobbing over you.”
“Poor kid’s got the blues. Me too. I could sing her a blues tune. ‘Am I Blue’? And Lacey, I am blue. Too blue to croon.”
Wiedemeyer had started a retro swing band in college, Harlan and His High-Stepping Hipsters, and they still played parties and events. Harlan sang and played the trombone, which conjured up a rather comical picture for Lacey.
“Croon anything, Harlan. Go to her. Sing to her.”
“Wait. What’s the story you’re working on? You said there’s a story.”
His death-and-dismemberment beat antennae were up. Lacey hesitated. Harlan Wiedemeyer could be a little too enthusiastic. He was ridiculously fond of stories of the bizarre, the obscure, and the deadly. And this was a story involving a fellow reporter. It would be irresistible to him. But Lacey thought about Felicity, endlessly moping about the newsroom, and Wiedemeyer eating every last Krispy Kreme doughnut on the planet. She took a deep breath.
“Have you heard of Kinetic Theatre?”
“Heard of them?” He perked up. “We played in one of their shows. Harlan and His High-Stepping Hipsters. One of our first paying gigs after college.”
“Really?” That was a surprise. “You didn’t play for The Masque of the Red Death, did you?” Harlan’s jinx, or whatever it was, could not possibly be involved in Saige Russell’s death, she told herself.
“No, not that show, but it wasn’t too long after. Oh, Kinetic was already notorious all right, especially after that actress died. It was all anyone could talk about. Tragic of course. And just downright weird.”
“What was your role?”
“We played the music for their modern interpretation of a Shakespeare play reset in the Thirties to swing music. Much Ado About Nothing. I thought they should call it Much Ado About Swinging! But they didn’t go for it. Think of all the great shows you could produce to a swing music soundtrack. Why, the music would practically be a character.”
“Like what, for example?”
This is promising, Lacey thought. Get him excited about something, anything, get him back together with Felicity, and all will be well in the world of The Eye.
“How about A Midsummer Night’s Swing, or All’s Well That Swings Well. And you could do The Swinging of the Shrew, As You Jive It, The Swinging Wives of Windsor, Romeo Swings Juliet. And why not Titus Swingdronicus?”
“Why not indeed? Tamsin Kerr would love it.”
She’d shred it to pieces.
“Aha! This story of yours has something to do with LaToya and the fatal frock from The Masque of the Red Death. Doesn’t it? Don’t hold out on me, Smithsonian. They’re a bunch of crazy Russians over there, you know.”
“How crazy? And what do you know about the costume she was wearing? The red dress?”
“I mean artistic crazy. Theatre crazy. Crazy Russian crazy. I don’t know anything about the— Wait a minute. Hold the presses.” He sat up straight and stared at her. It was unnerving. “Is the old EFP twitching, itching, pitching you forward into another dangerous story? It is! I can feel it. Tell me, Smithsonian, my life may be in crisis, but my nose for news is always sniffing. I’m a born newshound, you know I am.”
“Hold on, Harlan.” She put up her hand to stop him, but he was on a roll.
“And Kinetic, you say? Let me add this up. So LaToya has a slap-down snit over the fatal gown and then she gets burglarized. What aren’t you telling me?”
“Are you giving me any time to talk?”
“Ha. Not really. Sorry. Boy, Smithsonian, you get all the best stories.”
“Lucky me,” she said. “And I didn’t think you were paying attention.”
“I always pay attention. I was just letting my fear for my future children and grandchildren take over. But enough of that. Tell me more.”
“More?” She finished the last bite of the doughnut. A sugar rush hit her brain. Have I really done it? Wiedemeyer was coming alive. News! Weird, disturbing news, that was the food that really nourished the chubby little reporter. That and doughnuts.
“What can I do to help, Smithsonian? Unless you think I’m a Jonah, a jinx, a catastrophe.”
Lacey hadn’t actually thought about Wiedemeyer helping her. She just wanted to shift his attention from his own misery to Felicity and her moon pies. But what if he could really help? He’d worked on a Kinetic show. He must know people who knew people, and they might know something.
“I don’t know how to say this—” she started.
“Just let the EFP do the talking,” he urged.
“Don’t get too excited. There may be no connection.”
“Me, excited?” He was practically panting. “I’m as cool as a cucumber! I’m chill! I’m good! Come on, there’s more, I know there’s more. What is it?”
“The woman who fought over the dress with LaToya?”
“Yes.” He leaned into her.
“She’s dead.”
“DEAD?!” Harlan shot out of his chair. “How? When? What happened?” His eyes darted around as if he could see clues floating in the air.
“Don’t know yet. Trujillo’s asking around.”
“Holy Moses, Smithsonian. The poor luckless wench. What’s her name?”
“Amy Keaton.”
“No!” He threw the empty doughnut box into the air. “Amy Keaton? Not my Amy?”
“Your Amy? You know her?’
“Do I know her? I had a— Well, we had a— Ah, we had a thing. Together.”
“A thing?”
“Not really a big thing. Sort of a thing. A casual thing. Casual but intense. Sort of. We went out a few times. She was nice, really cute too, but well— Not like Felicity Pickles. My little gherkin. It happened long before Felicity and me, and ultimately it wasn’t meant to be. But jeez, poor little Amy Keaton. Wow.”
“Little?”
“Yeah, she was tiny. I haven’t seen her in years— Oh my God, do you think I jinxed her?”
Lacey blinked. “Harlan, don’t be ridiculous. There has got to be a statute of limitations on jinxing. Especially if you haven’t seen her in years.”
“You’re right. Still, poor Amy! No, I didn’t jinx her, I couldn’t have, not after all these years. So you think some sleazy bastard killed her?”
“We don’t know what happened yet. I don’t have enough information to draw any conclusions.”
“That’s right. Sure.” Wiedemeyer seemed lost in thought. “Too soon.”
“And this is between us right now. Just the two of us. Got it?”
“Of course it is. How could you even say such a thing?”
“Listen, I have an interview to get to.” She pulled herself out of the chair. “This has to be on the QT, the down low.”
“You’re interviewing suspects?” His eyes were wide.
“Not suspects. A couple of actresses who have worn the costume that Saige Russell wore.”
“Ah yes, the Red Dress of Doom, the fatal frock, the gruesome gown, the murderous moire, the treacherous toile—”
“Stop right there, Harlan. Let me reiterate: This is just between the two of us, right? Not anyone else. Not Mac. Not Tony. And don’t edit me, not even in your mind.”
It was well known at The Eye that Harlan Wiedemeyer meant well, but he had no filters. No discretion. And an over-fondness for adjectives.
“You have my solemn word on it.” He made a zipping gesture across his lips. That was exactly what Lacey was afraid of.
The spirit is willing, but the mouth must squeak.
