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Death of a Sad Stage Manager
By Harlan Wiedemeyer
When you hear of a friend’s death, even one you haven’t seen in years, it hits you in the gut. It takes your breath away. It fells you like a runaway truck. And so it was when I heard that Amy Keaton, stage manager at Kinetic Theatre in the District, had died in an incident the police are calling a “freak accident.” Amy was a friend. No. She was more than a friend. Keaton was a beacon of hope in the theatre world...
Lacey had been unaware of Keaton’s beacon-like attributes. Although the writing was florid and full to the brim with tortured phrasing, Lacey was pretty sure Mac had done his best to edit the piece before relegating it to an op-ed slot. To her amazement, Harlan didn’t mention the fight over the dress between Amy and LaToya. Or did Mac cut that part?
The deceased paragon celebrated in the article bore no resemblance to the woman who confronted Lacey in Baltimore, and Lacey had no idea what Felicity thought of Harlan’s former relationship, now enshrined in deep violet prose. Perhaps she wasn’t entirely displeased that Amy-the-paragon was now even more definitely history. And Felicity must not have felt too threatened: The aroma of baked goods permeated the newsroom air. She had cooked up a storm of fruit tarts, possibly in a flurry of love-induced hormones.
Felicity appeared right behind that aroma in a clash of crayon colors. Her sack-like dress was bright orange, and the fruit-themed sweater was glow-in-the-dark yellow with cutouts of bright red cherries and apples and royal purple berries. Felicity’s style brought to mind a kindergarten teacher on the first day of school. A seasonal calendar of delights. Isn’t love grand? Lacey thought, while applauding the eye-popping outfit in front of her.
I wouldn’t be caught dead in that, but it’s fun to look at.
It seemed the balance had been restored to Felicity and Harlan’s relationship. At last, the newsroom could look forward to more recipes with summer’s ripened fruits, for Felicity announced she had picked her own cherries and blueberries for today’s repast. In fact, she had some kind of membership at an orchard or a farm. There would be semi-healthy, although drenched in sugar, baked goods for the rest of the season and into the fall, until the apples turned crimson.
Lacey was still pondering the meaning of those home-baked goods, and reading Harlan Wiedemeyer’s opinion piece, when the shadow of her editor loomed. She peered at him over the newspaper.
“Pretty exuberant piece of prose,” she said. “Harlan’s little op-ed.”
Mac’s bushy eyebrows knit together like two caterpillars mating. “It was so awful there was nothing to do except shovel it over to editorial.”
“Good call. It will keep Harlan happy.”
“Smithsonian. Listen. You find out anything more about that creepy crimson costume?”
She put her fingertips together, as if in contemplation. “I need to talk to the costume designer. I haven’t heard back from him yet.”
“You need any help?” His lips formed a sadistic smile. “Wiedemeyer would love to sink his teeth into it. He volunteered.”
“For the love of heaven, Mac.” She waved Harlan’s purple prose in front of him. “You’d do that to me?”
“Something’s got to give, and soon. This story’s got my newsroom in an uproar. Wiedemeyer’s turned the hysterics on high. Crawford’s jumpy, and when she gets nervous, she gets mean.”
“LaToya is fierce,” Lacey said.
“One way of putting it. It’s because of that dress. It’s haunted or something screwy, isn’t it?”
“I’m trying to find a connection. Some threads to follow. A red thread.”
Felicity moved out of earshot, heading to the kitchenette with a bag of her special personal coffee. Mac sniffed the air, his gaze following her.
“And Pickles— I hope she’s back to normal.”
“I don’t know, Mac. Anything could happen. The Harlan-and-Felicity nuptials aren’t until next month. Long time around the newsroom.”
“Yeah. And the hottest damn month of the year.” He picked up a cherry tart, looked at it, and picked up a blueberry tart as well. “A July wedding in Washington. Everybody sweating in the church like pigs. What do you have for me today? Crime of Fashion-wise?”
Grasping at straws, Lacey grabbed her notebook. “Street fashion! Popular looks this summer on the streets of the District.” Of course most of the same looks were popular last summer and the summer before, so it wouldn’t be difficult. “Gotta go outside. Commune with the street.”
“You aren’t fooling me. You just do that when you’re out of ideas.”
“And yet it always works, Mac.” She smiled and tossed the notebook and pen in her tote bag and stood up. She figured she could scan some denizens of the city in their summer togs, ask a few questions about their outfits, and voilà, instant column. To save the day, and her beat. And while she was out, she would stop by Kinetic Theatre and try to finagle some more tidbits on the fatal frock.
But how? Did anyone there even know that those Russian medals were used in the hem? Had they replaced earlier weights? Had the dress been designed with weights in mind? The resewn threads indicated the weights were added at different times over the years. Why? To add even more weight? Or had others fallen out and been lost? Once, those weights were deadly spy weapons. Heeding Kepelov’s advice, Lacey decided it was wiser to refrain from mentioning the face of Vladimir Lenin, or even the hem of the gown. At the moment, her head felt as hollow as those seven Lenin medals.
“If you have time, figure out what’s going on with that red rag LaToya bought, so my newsroom can go back to normal. Or whatever passes for normal around here.” Mac took a bite of the blueberry tart. “Let me know if there’s something I can do to push this along.”
How the world had changed. Even Mac wanted to jump on her story.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“You think it was more than an accident? This Keaton woman? Is this one of those feelings of yours?”
“I prefer to call it intuition, but honestly I don’t know what it is. Yet.”
“Okay. Get out of here. Work on the dress story. I know you will anyway.”
“It’s touching, your faith in my work ethic.”
“Will we have anything on fashion from you today?”
“Yes, on a Fashion Bite. No, on the crimson costume.”
He harrumphed loudly. “Throw something together by deadline. What did you say, street fashion?”
“I did.”
“So hit the street, Smithsonian.”
Felicity returned with a fresh platter of tarts. Lacey briefly wondered if the paper actually paid for all those fattening dishes she made.
Of course they do! With their waistlines, she realized, if not with their wallets.
Lacey hugged her notebook to her waistline and fled the premises.
