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“A muscular show” was Gregor Kepelov’s considered opinion after it was all over. “Very powerful. Obviously the second act was a metaphor for mind control.”
Lacey didn’t think that was the subject of the play. However, she granted that Kepelov’s interpretation had merit. According to Gregor, the ghosts on stage represented deception, illusion, and confusion, what he said was called in Russian maskirovka, a deliberate masquerade of misinformation, so that in the end, the governess didn’t know if she was crazy or being haunted, under attack from within or without. And neither did the audience. It was up to each of us, he said, to discover the truth.
As they walked, Gregor was practically shouting over the storm, which had finally broken and was pouring down sheets of rain. The heat and humidity tangled head-to-head and scattered thunder and lightning across the city. The wind blew umbrellas inside out and skirts upside down. Lacey didn’t mind, the wind was soothing in its fury. It felt good after the heat.
Gregor had insisted they needed to share their reactions after the show, and Vic was up for it. They agreed on the bar at the Tabard Inn, not far from the theatre. It was only four or five blocks away, and as usual in D.C., once the cars were safely parked, everyone agreed it was foolish to move them. And also as usual in D.C., everyone had an umbrella. Or a cowboy hat. What was one little rainstorm?
The five dropped their umbrellas inside the door and tucked into a snug corner at the Tabard, decorated with dark wood and sofas. The Tabard was a classic D.C. establishment, comprised of three old townhouses, creating a warren of interesting spaces. If only I can keep my eyes open.
“It’s lovely, no?” Olga said without irony. She wiped raindrops off her face with a napkin. “A brisk walk in the rain after a hot day. Reminds me of Moscow. And no one followed us. I was on guard.”
Vic and Gregor ordered the meat-and-cheese board for them to share. Marie gathered her soaked curls and wrung them out over her shoulder. Lacey twisted her rain-frizzed hair into a knot and pinned it out of her face. She leaned her damp head on Vic’s shoulder. What a day.
“What I like most about the play are the ghosts,” Olga was saying as they settled in. “Like life. Life is full of ghosts.”
Marie sat close to Gregor and hugged his arm. She looked sleepy too. “I loved the ghosts too! So exciting and strange, yet so familiar. But there was that one ghost in a red shroud, remember her? Toward the end? I’m not sure what she was doing there. Has anyone read the story? Who was she? She seemed so sad and lost.”
There was a pregnant silence. They all looked at Marie. Lacey caught the eyes of everyone around the table before she broke the silence.
“Marie, we didn’t see anyone in red,” Lacey said quietly.
“Perhaps you saw something else,” Olga suggested. “There were so many shadows, all those effects with light and—”
“No, I saw her. Why, she was just as plain as day. Oh dear. I didn’t realize she was a ghost. I don’t generally see them, you know.”
“She was wearing red?” Gregor asked.
“Yes. But it’s not what you’re thinking, sugar, she wasn’t wearing that red gown, the costume with the medals, and she didn’t wear a mask. Just red cloth, like a shroud. What did you say her name was, cher? The dead actress?”
“Saige Russell,” Lacey said. “Her real name was Patience Russell. Although they called her Parsnips behind her back.”
“If there was a ghost,” Vic said, always the sceptic, “and I am not saying there was, we don’t know it was Saige Russell. Aren’t theatres always supposed to be haunted? I mean, look at Ford’s, with the ghost of Abraham Lincoln.” His lifted eyebrow told Lacey he thought this apparition was the ghost of Marie’s Valium.
“Or else Saige is a ghost who loves red.” Lacey liked that image. “If that was Saige, I guess a woman’s favorite color survives the grave.”
“I really thought she was part of the show,” Marie said sadly. “Perhaps she was merely smoke, an afterimage, the last wisps of a lost soul. She seemed to be looking for someone, but it wasn’t me. She had nothing to tell me. Sorry.” Marie looked even more exhausted now.
“Ha. What do ghosts know anyway?” Olga asked briskly. “They are dead. And not reliable.”
“But beautiful,” Lacey put in. “At least on stage.”
“I thought the on-stage ghosts were exceptional,” Vic agreed.
“Dancing ghosts,” Lacey said. “Ghosts having sex on the staircase.”
“Spies and mind control,” Gregor asserted. “Though I wish I could have seen your ghost in red, Marie.” There was another pause.
“Have you found out anything about the Lenins?” Lacey asked Kepelov, speaking very softly. Their corner was secluded, but in Washington, even walls had ears.
“In a word, no,” Gregor said. “You think I go around asking obvious questions? No. I carefully assess situation. Tonight was advance reconnaissance.”
“And what did it tell you?”
“Not as much as my gut. Gut says caution. There are secrets in that theatre that are not in the plays, not on the stage.”
Olga dismissed him with a wave. “Gregor. You are merely being Russian, and it is Russian theatre. Of course there are secrets.”
“What are you saying, Olga? Putin is growling like bear. Agents are everywhere. Spies and ex-spies are dropping like flies.”
“You’re sure Kinetic is a hot bed of spies?” Vic asked.
“Yes,” Gregor said. The waiter arrived with their appetizers, and they fell silent until they were alone again. “Audience too. Many Russians.”
“So you overheard something in Russian?” Vic pressed.
“I overheard many things. All very innocent,” Gregor said. “This is how I know things are not so innocent.”
“I hate it when Brooke is right,” Lacey said.
Olga seemed unimpressed by her brother’s gloomy assessment of Kinetic. She lifted a glass of vodka to Lacey in salute.
“You were big success tonight, Smithsonian. Everyone is fascinated by Lacey Smithsonian. To you!”
“Me? No way. I’m more adrift on this story than ever.” Lacey was not the type to think that people whispering—especially in a foreign language—were discussing her. It startled her when people quoted her column. She picked up a cracker and some cheese and popped it in her mouth.
“You missed all the looks in your direction, all the talk?” Olga asked her.
“To be fair, Olga,” Gregor pointed out, “the talk was in Russian.”
“Apologies.” Olga didn’t look apologetic. “I am spontaneous translator in five languages. I forget not everyone is.”
“The diamonds, Smithsonian. The Romanov gems in the corset. Your discovery of the gems was in the air tonight. You have an ability, the EFP,” Gregor said. “You beat even Gregor Kepelov to that treasure. I salute you, like Olga. And now with the Lenin medals, you have done it again.” He lifted his glass to her.
“But what exactly have I found? And what does it mean?”
Another pause. I’m always stopping conversations tonight.
“Marie, I just want to know, do you sense any danger for Lacey?” Vic finally asked. Lacey was surprised. Vic the Skeptic had come a long way in his opinion of their friend Marie. He might not completely believe in Marie’s powers, she knew, but he didn’t quite disbelieve either.
“No, cher. I am quite blank right now.” Marie closed her eyes. “I don’t even know why the crimson ghost was part of the show.”
“Don’t worry, Victor. She is Lacey Smithsonian,” Gregor said. “Danger walks by her side wherever she goes. And yet leaves her untouched.”
“That’s not exactly comforting,” Lacey said. She took a sip from her cranberry and seltzer.
“It’s not exactly news either,” Vic said.
“Not every Russian émigré is dangerous, however.” Gregor paused. “I, for example, am paragon of American democratic values. Olga as well. However, there is cause for concern. You know of the Russian billionaire who was beaten to death in a Washington hotel?”
“Yes.” Brooke had already filled Lacey in on that story, and DeadFed was running wild with it.
“And the reporter in London? And the Russian who died on election day? And many more who handled a certain damaging dossier on a certain moron of a politician. They are dead, but the Kremlin is alive and well, here and in Moscow.”
“We like to think the problems of the past do not follow us. But is not true,” Olga said. “Old Soviet Union may be dead, but still haunts us. Like the red ghost.”
“What does all that have to do with the red dress, and LaToya’s break-in, and Amy Keaton’s death?” Lacey asked, exasperated.
“I hate coincidences,” Vic said. “Coincidence is usually an illusion.”
“Victor is right,” Gregor said. “There is a connection.”
Marie snuggled against Gregor’s shoulder. Lacey had never seen her look so peaceful, and she was glad that her favorite psychic had taken the night off. And a Valium. Or there would be fainting now for sure.
“Okay. By now, everyone in Washington knows I’ve been asking about the red dress,” Lacey pointed out. “At least everyone connected with Kinetic.”
Marie opened her eyes. and addressed Lacey. “It was your destiny, cher. And this is as well. Remember you have friends who will do whatever they can to protect you.” She closed her eyes and promptly fell sound asleep. I hope that doesn’t count as fainting. Gregor adjusted her head gently on his shoulder.
“Fear not, Lacey Smithsonian, we will discover who it is, who opened the Lenin medals, who delivered the poison needles,” Kepelov promised. “The Delivery Man.”
“Or woman,” Lacey said.
He nodded. “Or woman.”
“What about the red dress?” Lacey asked. “What happens if the Delivery Man finds out where it is?”
All eyes, except the sleeping Marie’s, were on Vic. He smiled. “On the theory that he or she, or they, were watching you during the show, sweetheart, I had the dress moved to a secondary location during The Screw.”
“Turtledove?” She knew he was reliable. He’d had a hand in moving Aunt Mimi’s trunk out of her apartment when Lacey feared its contents were at risk. She trusted both men with her life.
“Not mentioning any names. But it’s handled. I got a text at intermission.”
“Smart move, Victor,” Gregor said. Olga nodded.
“It’s as secure as it was in our offices. Possibly more. And if anyone does breach our security, they’ll get a surprise.”
“What, you moved it to Fort Knox?” Gregor asked.
“Almost. Company secret.”
“Did Turtledove think it was silly to move it?” Lacey asked him.
“No more than usual, sweetheart.”
“Not to worry, Smithsonian,” Gregor assured her. “We have a plan.”
Uh oh. “What kind of plan?”
“To keep you safe. To be ready when the Delivery Man arrives, which he will, sooner or later.”
Brooke would love all this spy stuff. Too bad I can’t tell her anything. And damn, Kepelov thinks I’m a target!
“She has the ExtraFashionary Perception,” Gregor continued. “Whoever put the medals in the hem of that dress is no doubt aware of her interest in the dress, and her abilities.”
“There is no way to be sure of that, Gregor. Some of those medals could have been in there for years,” Vic pointed out. “Our so-called Delivery Man might be long gone.”
“Despite that, it is true,” Olga said. “Lacey Smithsonian will be a target.”
“You’re exaggerating my super-powers,” Lacey said tiredly. “All of you.”
“You have a gift, Smithsonian.”
“Or a curse.”
“And me.” Vic lifted one beautiful dark eyebrow at her. He stood and reached out his hand for her, and she took it. It was time to go. He put money down to pay for their share of the bill.
“Like Boy Scout, Smithsonian,” Gregor cautioned her at the door, “you must be prepared. You are the flame that draws the moth.”
Normally statements of that kind would keep Lacey up all night. But she was too weary and this all felt too fantastic.
“Don’t worry, Gregor. I have my own personal Boy Scout.”
