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Filing out of the theatre at intermission as the applause died away, Lacey overheard a few snippets of other theatregoers’ conversations.
“Weirdest show I’ve ever seen! Sexy as hell though. How did they do that thing with the—”
“That was amazing! Do they still sell soundtrack CDs?”
“Is this thing running through Halloween?”
Lacey thought Kinetic’s interpretation of The Turn of the Screw was thrilling and strange. Heavy on dance and music, and light on Henry James’s words, it was a moody and enigmatic exploration of a moody psychological ghost story. The dancers’ own bodies became walls and tables, candles and apparitions that sailed through the air. Lithe bodies writhed in tangled bedsheets, danced with pure light on staircases, and crept like shadows. Stagecraft that seemed more like stage magic made actors suddenly appear and vanish, and then reappear in two places at once. A dizzying collage of shifting lighting effects through windows and mirrors illuminated corners of the set, and the story, that were dark and foreboding. The ceaseless music veered wildly, from horror movies and Russian folk into mournful blues and jazz, and something the program notes described as “gypsy cabaret noir.” The script by Gareth Cameron was sparse and poetic, and the spare dialogue effective.
Played by the amazing Anastasia “who learned all her lines,” the nameless governess seemed lonely and timid, trapped by her surroundings, and bewildered by the children she was supposed to care for, pretty Miles and Flora. She felt the walls press in on her, the children taunted her, and the phantoms of the doomed lovers who appeared on the periphery of her vision tormented her. She became convinced the children were likewise haunted, by the evil ghosts of Miss Jessel and Peter Quint. But soon the timid governess and wicked Miss Jessel seemed to have traded places. Both women were vying with fierce little Flora to seduce the elusive Quint, and who was making violent love with whom in the tower room? Do ghosts really have sex?
And that was only Act One. Whatever Kinetic was doing, Lacey thought, they were doing it well. She wondered if The Masque of the Red Death had been a similar extravaganza. With Yuri Volkov at the helm and most of the same Kinetic creative team, it probably had the same kind of theatrical signatures, she decided. She sat back and let the story take over, and there was no more yawning.
Blinking in the lights of the lobby, Marie and Olga headed for the ladies’ room and Gregor and Vic headed for the bar. Lacey was happy to linger by one of the tall tables, waiting for Vic. Someone opened the front doors for fresh air and a few people gravitated outside, some for a smoke break. Theatre people still smoke, she noted with dismay. The breeze felt lovely.
Yuri Volkov approached Lacey with something like a smile on his face. He was either much more relaxed now that the show had opened, or he’d been indulging at the wine bar. Or maybe this was his “press night” face. He was followed by another man.
“Ms. Smithsonian. Don’t say I never did anything for you,” Volkov said.
“Okay, I won’t,” Lacey said.
“This is Maksym Pushkin. He used to be a fabulous dancer for us until he abandoned the theatre for the law.”
“Yuri is too kind. I was just okay as a dancer. And the law pays better,” Pushkin said. “So pleased to meet you, Ms. Smithsonian.”
She shook his offered hand, and the name clicked into place. He was tall for a male dancer, as Katya Pritchard had told her, and still very fit. He smiled, revealing large immaculate white teeth. His eyes were brown and his dark hair was beautifully styled. Height was always an advantage in the courtroom, according to Brooke, and he was very handsome. Lacey detected no trace of a Russian accent.
“You played Prince Prospero in The Masque of the Red Death,” Lacey said, trying to picture the photos from the old news stories. He seemed surprised she’d heard of him.
“That was a long time ago.”
“This one is a nosy reporter,” Volkov said, referring to Lacey. “Not even a theatre critic, who could do us some good.” Volkov met Lacey’s eyes and winked. “I had to let her in though, someone bought her a ticket. So what do you think of my show, Ms. Smithsonian?”
“It’s wonderful. But then I’m not a theatre critic.”
He laughed. “Then you can stay. I leave you now.” Yuri backed away and was swallowed up by a throng of well-wishers.
“You’re a reporter?” Pushkin asked. “Your name is familiar.”
“Fashion reporter,” she explained. “With The Eye Street—”
He snapped his fingers. “That’s it. You’re the one who found the Romanov diamonds.” His smile grew even wider.
“You read about that?” She wasn’t exactly surprised, but the whole adventure seemed very long ago to her.
“Everybody read about that. A coup for your newspaper, as well as for you. Not to mention, exciting reading for any Russian. Sad and bizarre. Where are the diamonds now?”
“Still tied up between the State Department and the Russian government, as far as I know.”
“They’ll be tied up for some time, then. However, I predict they will eventually come to some agreement. A timetable for the U.S. to turn them over.”
“To somebody,” Lacey agreed. “But to whom? The Romanov heirs want them back.”
“Yes. But the Russian government might get there first. They have a history.”
“It’s a blood-soaked history,” she said. She refrained from making a further crack about Russia and its history, and its current activities. Annexing Crimea, for example. What would stop Russia from annexing the diamonds if they saw their chance? “And those diamonds are a blood-soaked treasure.”
Bloodstains marked the small corset in which a Romanov princess died. Bullets and bayonets had torn the delicate fabric, revealing the diamonds in their hiding place. There were rubies too, but most people remembered only the diamonds.
“It will be years,” Pushkin said. “I predict many lawsuits and finally a grand exhibit. Somewhere.”
“In Washington, at the Smithsonian, I hope.”
“And a venue very appropriately named, for their discoverer,” he laughed. “I’ll be the first in line. And what are you working on now?”
“Not diamonds. I’m interested in the costume worn by Saige Russell when she played the character of Death. Opposite you. The dress was sold at the big theatre garage sale last weekend.”
“Yuri really sold it?” He reacted with the slightest lift of his brows. “Well. Don’t expect to find a Romanov treasure in that dress.”
“Do you remember anything about the red dress?”
“Not much. Except it was very dramatic. Very red. Parsnips loved it. She gloried in it.”
“You called her Parsnips too?”
“Not to her face. It was the crew’s name for her, but it suited Saige. Poor Saige. Anyway, she didn’t really have to dance, not like the rest of us. So athletically, I mean. So her costume was much more elaborate than the rest. It was big and it was every color of red. Now, if you ask me about my costume, it was velvet, in seven different colors, for the seven rooms in the castle. That’s all I remember. No, I remember it was hot. Even hotter under the stage lights. And like Prospero, I was ready to die by the final scene. Covered in sweat every night.”
“Do you still dance?”
“Only the tango.” She realized he was probably flirting with her now. So unusual in D.C.! Or maybe it’s me, maybe I just don’t recognize flirting anymore. Except from Vic. “We came from Russia when I was a child,” he continued. “I wanted to play football like an American boy. My mother insisted that I dance. She had big plans for me. Ballet. Now I play touch football with my friends on the weekends.”
“How old were you when you came to America?”
“A toddler. My family emigrated when I was three. I don’t remember much about Russia.”
“Is your family related to the famous Boris Godunov Pushkin?”
“I wish we were. My mother tells everyone we are.”
“And you don’t dance. Except the tango. Do you still act?”
Brooke and Damon made their way through the crowd to Lacey’s side.
“No, my theatre is the courtroom,” he said, eyeing Brooke. “Hey, Brooke.”
“And he’s not bad,” Brooke said. “Hello, Maksym.”
“You know each other?” Lacey asked.
“Of course,” Brooke said. “We’ve occasionally crossed paths. Even swords.”
“She accuses me of working for the Evil Empire.”
“Only because it’s true,” Brooke said.
“She would,” Lacey said. She wondered which conspiracy theory in Brooke’s file drawer had Maksym Pushkin’s name on it.
“How are you, Counselor?” Pushkin turned on his bright white smile again. He took Brooke’s hand and held it for a moment, until Brooke extracted it. Maksym Pushkin looked huge next to the smaller Damon Newhouse, who popped up between them.
“I’m well, Maksym,” Brooke said. “I didn’t know you were a theatre lover.”
“I have unsuspected depths.”
“Oh, I suspect everyone.”
Damon stuck out his hand. “I’m Damon Newhouse. Conspiracy Clearinghouse. DeadFed dot com.”
A pause. There was an undercurrent to the conversation between Maksym and Brooke. Was there an attraction there? Was there more? Brooke had some explaining to do. Lunch would be in order.
“Ah, of course. DeadFed.” Pushkin shook the smaller man’s hand. “A very popular site. How’s the wine here, by the way?” Without waiting for a review, he turned back to Brooke. “We will have to talk soon. Ms. Smithsonian, so nice to meet you.” He smiled at Brooke and backed away through the crowd before turning around.
Brooke looked mildly annoyed. At whom, Lacey wondered. Damon or Maksym? And was Pushkin a DeadFed fan? She hoped he hadn’t read Damon’s crackpot “Romanov Revengers” articles. Half of them featured Lacey and the Romanov diamonds.
“Who wants some wine?” Damon asked.
“Vic’s getting me some coffee. I think.” Vic was still at the bar with Gregor. Brooke said she’d love some wine. After Damon left the table, she whispered to Lacey.
“Tomorrow. Lunch. You and me. Debriefing.”
“I agree,” Lacey said. “Where?”
“Spy Museum. For inspiration. This little theatre is a gigantic hotbed of intrigue. Can’t you feel it?”
Nothing lit Brooke up like a conspiracy and she was glowing like a nuclear reactor. And even better than mere conspiracies: spies! Lacey assumed Russian spies would be on the lunch menu.
“Not everyone is a spy, Brooke.” Lacey tried to keep her face straight. “Only one in six Washingtonians, according to you.”
“Probably five out of six here tonight. Listen.”
Russian words were flying all around them, quickly, excitedly. Neither Lacey nor Brooke had any idea what was being said.
“Okay, there are a lot of Russians here. Russian theatre, you know. They might be discussing the show,” Lacey said. “You just want everyone to be a spy.”
“Not true. Did you hear that another healthy young reporter from Moscow who criticized government policies was found dead in a hotel room?”
“Here or in Moscow?”
“London this time. And did I mention the Russian who was thrown off a roof on election day, in Manhattan?”
“I have to admit that’s disturbing. How did the reporter die?”
“Right now, it’s all very hush-hush, and obviously, ‘natural causes’ are being blamed. But he is another in a long line of dead journalists,” Brooke said. “Journalists working on stories involving Russia.”
Thanks a lot, Brooke. A tiny finger of fear danced down Lacey’s spine. In other countries, journalists risked their lives to report the news. American reporters believed they were protected in their craft by the Constitution, and because they dealt with the truth. But the truth was also subject to interpretation, and there were unpredictable loons out there. Now, unfortunately, the loons were in control, and truth was under attack on a daily basis. Even Lacey’s fashion beat had received death threats.
“Don’t spook me,” Lacey said.
“Exactly. Spooks. Spy Museum, tomorrow at noon.”
She couldn’t help smiling as she watched Brooke glide off to join her boyfriend and fellow conspiracist. She spied Trujillo across the lobby, chatting up a blonde. There were always blondes for Tony. He seemed more interested in the woman than in joining the rest of Lacey’s inquisitors, for which she was grateful. She knew Tamsin was most likely still in her seat, as she didn’t care to mingle with the intermission crowds.
“Ms. Lacey Smithsonian? I heard you have been looking for me,” a man’s barely Russian-accented voice said, and Lacey turned around. The speaker was about six feet tall with a tight, slender frame, wearing black slacks and a black shirt. Another theatre type. He was pleasant-looking with close-cropped light brown hair and even, unexceptional features. But he had bright blue eyes, a blazing shade of blue.
Lacey realized he must be the costume designer for this show, as well as for the decade-old production of The Masque. The man who made the red dress.
“I’m Lacey. Are you Nikolai Sokolov?”
“Call me Nicky. All my friends do.” He smiled as if delighted to meet her.
“Yuri must have pointed me out to you?”
“And DeeDee as well. Forgive me for not getting back to you earlier. So much to do before press night. I was still adjusting costumes this afternoon.” He bowed slightly and took her hand in his. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Then you probably haven’t read my fashion columns,” she said with a smile.
“But I have. Very insightful, as well as humorous.”
“You’re flattering me.”
“Why lie when the truth is flattering?”
“Why indeed.” She smiled back. So many lies, so little time.
Vic arrived with a beer in hand and a decaf for Lacey. He eyed the new arrival. Gregor Kepelov was close on Vic’s heels and Marie and Olga arrived from the ladies’ room. Lacey introduced Nikolai “Nicky” Sokolov to the others. He and Kepelov evaluated each other, exchanged a few words in Russian, and finally shook hands carefully, the handshake accompanied by wolfish smiles. What’s all that about, Lacey was wondering, when someone bumped her elbow and almost spilled her coffee.
“Hey, watch it, buddy,” Vic said to the elbow-bumper.
“I’ll kill her if she misses another cue,” the bumper said matter-of-factly to Vic. There was venom in his tone. Lacey recognized Gareth Cameron, the miserable-yet-superior playwright, in a froth over some actress—could it be Anastasia?—who had flubbed a cue. Wearing the same clothes he’d worn the other day, Cameron looked as if he hadn’t slept since then.
Probably subsisting on kombucha. And hurt feelings.
“Playwrights.” Sokolov chuckled. “Everyone knows it’s the director’s job to kill the actors! Playwrights must stand in line.” The group laughed.
“Do you think he’s drunk already?” Lacey asked.
“No, no, just press night.” Sokolov turned his head slightly, watching the playwright careen across the lobby. “Probably going to the men’s room to be sick. Our Gareth has a tender stomach.”
Lacey thought he looked more like a man heading off to confront hungry lions in the Colosseum, and fight back.
“Press night nerves?”
“Exactly,” Sokolov said. “After all, if the show is a flop, everyone will blame the playwright. If it is a great success, everyone will applaud the director. And all is right in the kingdom.”
“That’s cynical.”
“That’s the theatre.”
The lobby lights flashed three times to signal the second act would soon begin. “Nicky, I—”
“You wanted to ask me about Death’s ruby-red costume, from The Masque of the Red Death.”
“You anticipate me,” Lacey said.
“Saves time. And Yuri told me. What can I tell you? In three minutes?”
The others in the group stood by, and Lacey felt the tension increase at the mention of the dress. Vic put his hand on her shoulder.
“I was at the sale when the dress was sold,.” Lacey began. “Amy Keaton tried to keep it. But now—”
“I know. Tragic news. I wondered where she was on Monday. Not like her to miss work. I read about her unfortunate accident in the paper.” He dropped his voice. “Amy would have been right here tonight. She was very efficient. We will miss her.”
“Very sad news,” Lacey agreed. “Amy told me it was a mistake that the costume was at the sale.”
“These things happen.” He gestured as if swatting a fly away. “You met her there?”
“Sort of.”
“It was nice of you to remember her. Not many people connect the name with the woman. Poor Amy. She was very exacting. Made her a great stage manager. But she was seldom recognized for her work. As for the costume, I don’t know whether Death’s red dress was supposed to be in the sale or not. That show was so long ago.”
“You aren’t concerned about it being sold, then?”
“Why?” He lifted his shoulders and let them fall. “A rag from so many years ago.”
“Kinetic let many actresses wear the dress, for example to the Helen Hayes awards. But I heard you always had to approve them personally.”
“You have been busy, Ms. Smithsonian.” He laughed with appreciation. He seemed very different from Yuri Volkov and Maksym Pushkin. But why would I think all Russians were alike? “Yes, I always approved the actresses who wore the costume. Kinetic, that is, Yuri, always wanted the red gown to be presented at its best. For both the actress and the theatre. We have exacting standards. Also, it had to be a perfect fit for the wearer. We didn’t want to have to tailor it every time, or let someone else butcher it.”
“But now you have no costume.”
“No costume?” Sokolov found that amusing. “Kinetic Theatre has many wonderful costumes. Hundreds, even thousands. Perhaps we will start a new tradition with another outfit.” He gestured at the dozens of posters lining the lobby walls. “Perhaps we could loan out the Lady Macbeth? Such a dress! Gold and black damask, very impressive. Have you seen it?”
“I’d love to see it.”
“I will be happy to show you.”
“That would be lovely. I have so many questions.”
Sokolov glanced at Vic and then back to Lacey. “I must go now. I would be delighted to offer you a tour of my costume shop. To show you how I put together the concept for a show’s wardrobe. But maybe you’re not so very interested in theatrical costumes?”
Not interested? The offer was pure sucker bait for Lacey, and he knew it. “Of course I’m interested. When?’
“May I call you tomorrow?”
“So soon. You love your work.”
“I have a talent. Or so it seems.” He picked up her hand again for the briefest moment, leaving a card in her palm before he disappeared into the crowd streaming into the theatre. The lights flashed again and this time a set of melodic chimes sounded.
I didn’t have a chance to ask him about Saige Russell. Parsnips. She glanced at Nicky Sokolov’s business card in her hand. Next time.
Vic took her other hand. “Come with me. Act Two.”
