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“Poison needle? Where?” Lacey peered into the medal Olga was holding up to the light.
Brooke cannot hear a word about any of this, or DeadFed and Damon Newhouse will be stalking us all.
“Where? Good question.” Olga pointed out the tiny slot in which it would have nestled, against a tiny spring. “Needle is now presumably in deceased target.”
“Deceased target?” Lacey’s head was spinning.
Olga opened the rest of the medals, very carefully. “No needles. All gone.”
“Are you sure?” Lacey asked.
Olga leveled a look that brooked no argument.
“My sister is sure,” Gregor said. “You see, these were not sold in spy souvenir shops. They contained poison needles, at one time.”
Seven poison needles? If the Kepelov siblings were to be believed, and Lacey had no reason not to believe them, these medals represented seven deaths. Or if as Marie said, the dress was a memorial, perhaps they represented seven tombstones. A killer’s trophies?
“What kind of poison?” Lacey asked. “Cyanide?”
“Better than cyanide,” Gregor said, picking up another medal. “A secret Soviet poison. There is a Russian name for it. Stops the heart, disappears quickly, cannot be traced, and if other plausible evidence of cause of death is present...” He shrugged.
“Are you talking about a super-secret Soviet knockout juice?”
“No. Super-secret Soviet knockout juice merely renders you pleasantly unconscious, it does not kill.” He smiled at her and they shared a memory. For Lacey, not a pleasant one. “And we do not call it that.”
The first time Lacey encountered Kepelov, he’d approached her from behind, covered her face with a monogrammed handkerchief, and rendered her unconscious with that secret Soviet juice. But not so “pleasantly.”
As if answering her unspoken comment, Gregor said, “That was before we were such good friends, Lacey Smithsonian.”
Yes, good friends indeed. “Wait a minute. LaToya told me something odd. During that break-in, she never woke up. She claims she’s a light sleeper and she’s up at the slightest sound, but she never heard a thing.”
“Ah. The burglar made her sleep more soundly,” Olga said. “This is a very polite burglar.”
“How is that polite?”
“If she had awakened, the thief would have had to deal with her. Perhaps even kill her. Obviously this was not the plan.”
“Exactly right,” Gregor said. “Well executed. Saves on excess corpses and questions.”
“Okay. First, I don’t like where this is going. And second, I am not going to tell LaToya this,” Lacey said.
“Good,” Olga said. “No unnecessary explanation.”
“Please hand me one of the medals, Gregor, honey,” Marie asked. He put one in the palm of her hand. She breathed deeply and nodded her head in a brief prayer. He handed her all the rest. She cupped the seven medals in her hands, blinked, and started to sway. She managed to whisper, “Murders. Memorials. Faces. Why are there so many faces?”
Marie’s eyes rolled back and she crumpled into a faint. Kepelov caught her gently before she fell out of her chair and held her tight against his shoulder.
“My darling, rest now. Gregor is here.”
“I was really hoping that wouldn’t happen,” Lacey said, catching her breath.
“Delayed reaction,” Olga noted. “Still, she is getting much better.”
“How is this better?”
“See how softly she fainted? No shock, no terror. And she was able to tell us there was a murder before she went under. She has given us so much more information than she could have before. Marie is very gentle person. It is a mercy she doesn’t remember everything. She leaves it to us to find out more. Or in this instance, to you.”
“But why so many faces?” Lacey said. “Who are they? Victims? Or killers?” Olga said nothing.
“Are you sure there were poison needles?” Vic asked. “Not microfilm, microdots, whatever?”
“Needles,” Olga stated. “I know this concealment method. Watch me.” She held up one medal. “Hold like this. Press like so. There is a tiny spring. Concealed needle pops out. Can be delivered by stealth or in formal ceremony. Can even be done while pinning medal on target. Mission accomplished. These needles have served their purpose. Found their targets.”
“And who were those targets?” Lacey asked, knowing that was a question that couldn’t be answered. Not yet.
“Not the aging family pet,” Gregor said. “Human targets. The only target where you must conceal the weapon. But the killer?” He lifted his glass of vodka and realized it was empty. “Who can say?”
“How old are these things?” Vic asked. “Cold war stuff? Or current issue?”
“Good question, Victor,” Gregor said. “Not necessarily old. Possibly they have been made to look old.”
The Kepelovs launched into another debate in Russian. Figuring that her fingerprints were already all over the medals, Lacey picked them up and felt the weight of them in her hand.
“But you’ve seen these Lenin medals before?” she asked Gregor. “This exact kind of medal?”
Gregor nodded. “Never before hidden in a dress.”
“A costume, Gregor,” Olga corrected. “In the theatre, everything is illusion.”
Lacey turned the medals over, face down. They were scratched on the back. She lined them up in a row. All had distinct marks.
“What are you thinking, Lacey?” Vic rubbed his face. He was clearly ready to go home.
“I’m not sure. Look at these markings.”
“Could be a code,” Gregor said.
“A code?”
“Fascinating,” Olga said. “But useless without the key.”
“Can you figure it out?” Lacey asked Gregor.
“Lacey Smithsonian, I am flattered that you think I have such powers.”
“And to answer your next question,” Olga added, “premature to call in expert Russian cryptographer. These are troubled times. So many deaths. ”
“So these marks are Russian?” Vic opened another soda. Gregor poured more vodka.
“Possible. Some are Cyrillic letters. Badly done. Other scratches are not. Perhaps unique to the one who marked them.”
“We all want to know what it means,” Olga said. “But it is wise never to seek out expert opinion until you know whose side the expert is on.”
“A code. This makes my night.” Vic leaned back in a chair and propped his cowboy boots on the conference table. “Thoughts, anyone?”
“Someone hid these medals in this scarlet costume,” Gregor said. “Why? A dressmaker’s reason, of course, to make it hang just so. But there is another reason. Is it meaningful or trivial? For example: Medals found forgotten in a closet at this Russian theatre, used innocently without knowing their original purpose? Trivial. But if meaningful, the concealer is possibly also a killer. A killer is unlikely to want such things lost to some unknown buyer. If selling it to LaToya Crawford was a mistake, this killer will be most unhappy.”
“Uh oh.” Lacey said and everyone turned toward her.
“Are you all right, Lacey?” Vic sat up and reached for her.
“Amy Keaton, the woman from the theatre, the one who fought to keep the dress, was panicked when I ran into her on Sunday. Maybe she knew the dress’s secrets and knew there would be hell to pay if it were lost. She begged me to get LaToya to give it back. And if it wasn’t a freak accident, she paid a price for that sale.”
“Explain, please,” Olga said. “Freak accidents are Russian government specialty.”
“Amy Keaton is dead.”
“Aha! At last the heart of the mystery! Someone had to be dead, or we would not be here.” Gregor poured more vodka for Olga. “Another woman connected to the dress is dead? That makes two?”
“That we know of,” Lacey said. This part isn’t nearly as much fun. Maybe I should give that vodka a try. Vic stood behind her and rubbed her shoulders. “The medical examiner hasn’t released a cause of death. Off the record, a police source told Trujillo at The Eye that it looked like a freak accident. Or maybe murder.”
Olga nodded with satisfaction.
“And of what did Ms. Keaton die?” Gregor persisted.
“Looks like a broken neck. Again, no determination yet.”
“Is that not the way the actress died? Broken neck, falling off the set?”
“Yes, and I know what you’re thinking,” Lacey said.
“Then we are all thinking the same thing. We are ninety-nine percent sure this was no freak accident.” Olga seemed very cheerful. She was about to continue, but just then Marie emerged from her faint. The psychic blinked and wiped her eyes.
“It happened again, didn’t it?”
Olga clucked like a mother hen and poured Marie a glass of water. “Not to worry, dear. You had good information for us. You are feeling all right?”
“Yes, Olga honey, I’m fine, but I went out like a light. It must have been bad.”
“Yes, my darling, but you were magnificent,” Kepelov cooed into her ear. “And I caught you. I will never let you fall.”
“Lacey, the woman you wanted to speak with,” Marie said. “The one I said wouldn’t return your call?”
“She’s dead,” Lacey said.
“Yes. I saw that. There is no light there, where she used to be.”
“We will let Lacey find out what happened,” Olga said. “She is good at finding secrets. How did you put it? Secrets behind the seams.”
“Answers will come, Lacey, but keep your wits about you.” Marie reached out for Lacey’s hands. “And your mask. Don’t forget your mask.”
“What do you mean—my mask?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea, cher.” She giggled unexpectedly. “Sometimes words just slide out. It must mean something.”
“But why would anyone keep this thing in a costume shop,” Lacey asked, “with all these ominous things sewn into it? Why lend it out to actresses every year?”
“I don’t know, sugar. But we need to be getting home, and I have to drive.”
She wobbled as she rose from the chair with Gregor steadying her. Olga patted Marie’s purse and deftly produced her car keys. A pickpocket in a previous life? Or just more KGB training?
“Not to worry, Marie. I will drive, very carefully. I have not drunk as much vodka as Gregor.”
Vic put his arm around Lacey’s shoulder. “It strikes me that by dangling that dress in front of the world, and letting all those women parade around in it unknowingly, this nut job is laughing at everyone. Thinks he’s smarter than everyone else. Any other symbolism is probably personal.”
“Excellent point, Victor.” Olga took Lacey’s arm. “Take warning, Lacey. You are very smart journalist, but you must tell no one what we have discovered here tonight. Is not safe at present time. Every day another death: Russian agents, ex-agents, persons of interest, spies, witnesses, family members, they die every day. Someone is erasing footprints.”
Gregor nodded. “Olga is right. Could be agent of foreign government. And we all know exactly which government. Very dangerous.”
Oh please. “But is it any more dangerous than usual? There are thousands of spies in D.C.,” Lacey said. Brooke had repeated that often enough. For Brooke, spy conspiracies were as fun as aliens and Bigfoot and killer rats in Congress.
“True, but only one such as this. This spy is an assassin.”
“Do you know someone like this?” Vic asked Gregor.
“Premature to say. I know many assassins, but none who sews red dresses.” Gregor reached for the gown. “Let me take this costume and keep it safe for you, Lacey Smithsonian.”
Vic stepped between the spy and the red dress lying on the table. “It’s safe, Kepelov. Trust me.” If it wasn’t well protected in Donovan’s walk-in safe room, Lacey thought, it wasn’t safe anywhere. Vic put his hand out. “And Gregor, the medals? Please.”
Kepelov hesitated. “They have more information. On the other side.”
“Chain of custody. Come back and visit them. You’re always welcome here. But it’s late.”
“Perhaps a good idea.” Olga put her hand on Gregor’s arm. “Victor understands security too.”
“Please, sugar,” Marie said. “I’m dead on my feet.”
It was clear that Gregor Kepelov didn’t want to part with the seven little Lenins, but he smiled his crooked smile and dropped them into Vic’s hand.
“You know something, Gregor,” Lacey said. “Something more. Tell me, who put the medals in the hem of the dress?”
He shrugged. “I do not know. Only a suspicion. A tiny little suspicion. I can say nothing more. Not yet. Keep close watch on this building. I will be in touch.” Just like Kepelov to go all inscrutable after being so chatty. But Lacey was too tired to try and worm more out of him. Vic wanted to go home, and Marie was practically in slumberland, so she let it lie. “Please. Do nothing for now,” the Russian ordered her. “Tell no one. Write nothing.”
Lacey and Gregor locked eyes. Normally, Lacey would bristle at his authoritarian tone, but she wasn’t in any hurry to break this story.
“Okay. For now.” What could I write, anyway? She had too many questions, not enough answers.
“Call me. We will get together for big evening on the town.” With that, Gregor ushered Marie and Olga down the hall to the elevator.
“What was that about?” Vic asked after he shut the door. “Get together? On the town?”
“You got me. Maybe it’s some kind of secret spy code. Like saying ‘let’s do lunch.’ Only with plenty of vodka.”
***
THE RED DRESS WAS BACK under armed guard. Lacey was nestled in Vic’s arms in his townhouse in McLean. She’d had only a sip of Kepelov’s vodka, for solidarity, but now she consented to a sherry. Vic was opening a Dos Equis. And Lacey was very relieved she didn’t have to go home tonight.
“It could all be nonsense, you know,” Vic was saying. “Hollow medals, poison needles, spy versus spy. Seems more like an elaborate inside joke. Or an accident. That whole theatre is full of Russians, right? So one of them inherits a shoebox full of Lenin medals, thinks they’re just corny old Soviet junk, uses them for hem weights in a stage costume. That’s as good as any other explanation.”
She snuggled a bit closer, trying not to yawn. “Do you think Kepelov was telling the truth? At least some of the truth?”
“From his reaction, I’d say yes. I was watching him, and his eyes popped open when Olga opened up that first medal.”
“She opened up a can of worms too.” Lacey sipped her sherry.
“Another can of worms. The real question is, Why does Lacey Smithsonian keep finding all the weird fashion stories?”
It was her turn for a raised eyebrow. She sat up and grabbed his lapels.
“No, Victor Donovan. That is not the question. The question is: Why do crazy Russians hide weird things in their clothes?!”
He laughed and pulled her into a hug. “Oh, that’s the weird thing. Thanks for enlightening me. Now, what is Lacey Smithsonian hiding in her clothes?”
When they came up for air, Lacey said, “I just wish the obvious solution didn’t add up to spies.”
“Like you said, D.C. is full of spies. But what I want to know is, in all this crazy mess, how did you end up with someone else’s dress?”
“It’s a gift.” Lacey groaned and pulled away to rub the headache beginning to flutter above her forehead. First vodka and now sherry. What was I thinking? “This is nuts, Vic. LaToya wants to me make sure it’s ‘psychically cleansed.’ Or something like that.”
“Yup, clean into another mystery.” Vic yawned and stretched. “Much as I want you to get rid of that thing, I can’t see you giving it back to LaToya. Not yet. Not until we find her a psychic dry cleaner. And will she even want it back?”
“Oh, Vic, you don’t know LaToya! It’s a matter of honor for her. She won’t give it back to the theatre. I’m just afraid she won’t take it off my hands either. I mean, how can you tell when something is really ‘psychically cleansed’ or not?”
“A dilemma. What to do?”
“Hush.” She put her finger on his lips. Lacey was tired of talking. She started kissing him and unbuttoning his shirt. “Let’s do this.”
“Now you’re talking,” Vic managed to say, before forgetting all about red dresses and Lenin medals and sweeping Lacey off to bed.
Things were looking up.
