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With minutes to spare before deadline, Lacey’s “Fashion BITE” was finished and sent to Mac’s editing queue. Seersucker was the thing. So sayeth Smithsonian. She’d merged her two draft headlines into one: D.C. SUMMER STREET STYLE SIZZLES IN SEERSUCKER!
Mac will just change it anyway.
She waited for Mac to edit and approve the piece so she could leave for the day. In the meantime, Lacey’s head was spinning with style notes and theatrical gossip. Her perception of Saige Russell was evolving, like Saige’s multilayered crimson costume that morphed with each change of light, revealing the skull beneath the skin. It only served to complicate rather than clarify matters. Her cell phone rang. She hoped it was Tamsin Kerr returning her call about a free ticket or two, but she didn’t recognize the number.
“Hello, Lacey Smithsonian,” the Russian-accented voice said. It was Kepelov, using an unfamiliar phone number. Lacey’s voice dropped and she looked around for eavesdroppers.
“Have you found out anything about the medals?”
“All in good time.”
“Okay. Take your time and hurry, as they say.” She leaned back in her chair. “What’s up?”
“We are going to hang out tonight.” His words weren’t making a lot of sense to her. “You and Donovan, and us.”
“Hang out?”
“I have tickets for the Kinetic Theatre show tonight. A preview, but still a chance for all of us to see the foxes in their den.”
“Tonight?” She wouldn’t have to badger Tamsin for a ticket after all.
“Da. I am assured it will be a packed house. You and Donovan will meet us, Marie and me, at the theatre. Doors open at seven thirty.”
Lacey was taken aback. She wanted to see the show, but Kepelov’s invitation was practically a command performance. What if she’d had plans for the evening?
“I don’t know if Vic is free tonight,” she said carefully.
“Ha. For you he will make himself free.” One of Kepelov’s charms was his invincible confidence. “Will be fun. Olga is coming too.” He clicked off without a goodbye.
Olga Kepelova at the theatre? Well, even Ayn Rand wrote plays.
Lacey’s computer beeped. Mac approved her article and she was free to flee. She called Vic and relayed Kepelov’s command to meet at the theatre at seven-thirty. He greeted the invitation with laughter.
“Could be interesting,” he said. “I’m in.”
“Really, you want to come?”
“Wouldn’t miss it. With the Kepelov siblings and our favorite psychic, the company is bound to be entertaining, no matter what the show is like. Bring smelling salts for Marie.”
“You haven’t asked what the show is.”
“Doesn’t matter, I’ll be with you.” His deep voice, with its slight Southern tinge, sent a wave of relaxation down her spine. She could hear him tapping on his laptop, consulting the Web for details. “Here it is: The Turn of the Screw.”
“Appropriately enough,” Lacey said. “Ghost story, two naughty children, a half-mad nanny, and the truth is elusive. What could be better?”
Change the characters to interfering coworkers and a half-mad reporter and you could be talking about ME, she thought. I’m being driven mad by the ghost of a story!
“I promise you a drink afterward,” Vic said.
“Deal. But no vodka. Bonus: Several people who worked on the production of The Masque will almost certainly be in attendance tonight. Director, costume designer, playwright, and a stage hand, now stage manager.”
“Even better. Why do you suppose Gregor wants to go?” Vic asked. “Other than the pleasure of our company and sniffing after the Soviet medals?”
“Isn’t it obvious? He’s taking an inventory of all the Russians in town. He’s peeved that I know a few he doesn’t.”
They arranged to meet at Lacey’s place and said their goodbyes. Lacey’s desk phone lit up with another call, and this time she recognized the number.
“Hello, Brooke.”
“How could you not tell me that Amy Keaton is dead?” she accused. “Murdered in her own apartment?”
“What? It doesn’t exactly say she was murdered.” Lacey glanced at Wiedemeyer’s article, still on her desk: TRAGIC MISHAP OR SOMETHING MORE SINISTER?
“Not in so many words. I can read between the lines. What’s up, Lacey?”
“The article says it was probably an accident. And you know Wiedemeyer. He gets all excited. Um, sort of like you.”
“Murder is implied. And that crazy blond woman who was fighting with LaToya is dead. And one more thing, why is he writing this story and not you?”
“As you can see, Brooke, Harlan knew Keaton. They had a relationship once. He’s overwrought. That is why this is a personal piece and running on the op-ed page, not in the news section. Also because Mac thought it was too purple.”
“Well, it is purple. But what about you? Are you ignoring this story?”
“Are you my guest editor today, Brooke?
“I should be.” Brooke sniffed in disdain.
“I’m looking into it. You know I don’t want to put out a half-baked story. Especially one that could so easily be misconstrued by Conspiracy Clearinghouse and Damon’s DeadFed gang. This story is still baking.”
Holding her phone with one hand, Lacey gathered her things together with the other and gauged how long it would take her to get home and change clothes.
“That implies there is a lot more to this story.”
“There is a little more. I’ve been interviewing people who knew her.”
“And the dress? What’s the through line?”
“There is no proof of a connection yet.”
“Yet! I knew it,” Brooke snapped.
“I’m not saying there is anything to it or not. Fact is, I don’t know.”
Lacey wondered if she should cross her fingers behind her back. Brooke was her friend, but Damon Newhouse complicated everything. Brooke was often torn between her loyalties to Lacey and to her all-things-conspiracy boyfriend.
“But why didn’t you tell me? I’m hurt.”
Brooke wasn’t hurt, Lacey knew. It was a courtroom ploy to get Lacey to spill her guts.
“Listen, Brooke, I’m sorry. I have to leave now. Vic and I are going to the theatre.”
“On a school night?”
The District of Columbia: not a late-night town. Many denizens of the District preferred to be safely tucked in by TV news time, for very Washingtonian reasons. They were due at seven a.m. the next morning in a staff meeting on the Hill, or in court, or at the office, or with their legal team. Or they were up working till all hours on documents, briefs, press releases, congressional testimony, or plausible denials. Or they were hoping to catch a glimpse of themselves on the ten p.m. news.
Or they’re hoping not to.
“I know, but Kepelov got us tickets. And listen, I have to run, I need to change before Vic picks me up.”
“Where is the show?”
“Kinetic.”
“Aha! I knew something was up. This Keaton woman worked in that nest of ex-pat Russians, didn’t she? I’ll see if I can still get tickets for Damon and me. Bet I can. See you there.” Brooke hung up.
This story was turning into a farce, but not the kind Gareth Cameron would write in blank verse. Then again, he didn’t seem like the type to write comedy. Lacey grabbed her purse and ran for the door.
