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Resisting the urge to run home and make sure everything was freshly vacuumed and the pillows fluffed for the soon-to-be-descending troupe of Russians, Lacey decided instead it was the perfect day to pamper herself—and pick up some gossip.
“Well, well, well! Look who the cat dragged in.”
Stella was at the counter of Stylettos with a freshly coiffed patron, who had apparently wanted aggressive highlights. Her hair resembled a black-and-white zebra, but the woman left looking happy. Lacey gave her friend a look.
“What? It’s what she asked for. Mine is not to question why. Mine is but to do and dye.”
“Cute, Stella.”
Stella was still channeling the Fifties and Sixties today, from her thick cat-eye makeup to her outfit beneath the salon smock. She wore her hair up, in a moderate beehive wound around with a ribbon headband. All the backcombing required for a beehive was bad for the hair, she often told Lacey. (“Totally wrecks the strands. Fractured split ends, who needs that?”) But it added a few inches to her petite height. Her legs were encased in tight red capris. Under her smock was a tight leopard-patterned bustier. No one else in D.C. seemed to dress like Stella. At least not during the day.
Together, she and Lacey looked like two ends of those decades’ spectrum. Lacey, in pink with her French twist, was prim and proper. Stella, pushing the envelope, and her Girls, in her corset top, was always the wild child.
“Look at you, Lace,” she said. “Pink wiggle dress! Very sexy, Pollyanna.”
“Hi to you too, Stella. Do you have time for a tiny trim?”
“So that’s why you’ve got the up do going on. Hiding those ends.”
“And?”
“Depends. As long as you spill everything you know about that Amy Keaton. You know, the dead woman who rumbled with LaToya last weekend?” As if Stella had to distinguish between all the dead women they might have in mind.
“Not you too.” Rumbled? Was Stella watching 1950s motorcycle movies?
“What do you mean me too? I should be first in line with the info. Me first. Stella Lake Griffin. Now, what happened?”
“The short version is I don’t know.”
“Okay, now the long version of why you don’t know and what you don’t know.” Stella examined Lacey’s hair critically, pulling the hair pins from the French twist and combing through the locks with her fingers. “You are overdue for a trim, girl. You see these ends? These ends are ragged and dry.”
“Half an inch.” Lacey measured with her fingers.
“Ha.”
“I mean it, Stella.”
“An inch, or no deal. You got an inch of damage. I will not be held responsible for these ends. Look at it my way. You’re advertising my work.”
“And that zebra-striped job I just saw?”
“A different audience.”
Drama, it’s always drama. Lacey pulled her hair back. All she wanted was to close her eyes and have her hair washed, trimmed, and blown dry into something sleek, so that every strand fell into place. Something to take her worries away. Perhaps a manicure too.
“May I put on the smock before I get the obligatory lecture?”
“Make it snappy. And we’re doing a deep conditioner too.”
Lacey donned the black Stylettos smock and Stella personally guided her to the shampoo bowl.
“I don’t have much to report,” Lacey said.
“You’ll talk, and you may remember more details, if you get a nice long head massage shampoo. I’ll do it myself.”
“You’re on.”
Stella didn’t disappoint. The massage was great, and with her head back in the shampoo bowl under the warm suds, Lacey almost forgot everything, including where she was. She started to doze.
“Hey. I’m talking to you, Lacey. Wake up.” Stella smacked her arm with a comb. “You need vitamins or something?”
“I need more sleep.” And fewer distractions in my life.
“This should wake you up.” Stella rinsed her hair with cold water.
Lacey’s eyes popped open. “Hey! That’s freezing!” She covered her face with her hands.
“Cold water’s bracing and it closes the cuticle.” She sprayed the last of the suds away. “You’re finished, and you’ve had your little nap. Time to talk.”
Stella marched Lacey back to her station and brought out the sharp scissors.
“Half an inch,” Lacey pleaded.
“You’re not talking to Sweeney Todd, you know.” The stylist paused. “On the other hand, we wouldn’t want to experience an unfortunate slip of the shears, would we? So start talking. That woman we saw: Amy Keaton.” She parted Lacey’s hair into sections and clipped them up. “She pops up like a bad penny on Sunday in Baltimore? And now she’s dead.”
“Have you been talking to Brooke?”
“Brooke keeps in touch. We’re like this.” Snip.
Lacey didn’t want Stella seeing Russian spies in every shampoo bowl. Or jump to conclusions about what might be going on. I don’t KNOW what’s going on. Or worse, announce everything she thought she knew on the Stella Broadcasting Network.
“Take it easy, Stella.” Lacey glanced down to see how much hair was floating to the floor. Snip.
“What does LaToya think?” Stella asked.
“She thinks I’m going to make sure the costume she bought doesn’t retain any bad vibes. Any bad fashion juju. And the last time I looked at my job description, that wasn’t in it.”
“But who else could do it, Lace? No one. You’re everyone’s go-to fashion guru. You got that EFP thing going on. Still, why blame the dress when it’s some person who put the bad vibes in it in the first place?”
“Right.” Lacey yawned.
“You still got custody of that burgundy bitch of a dress?”
“Sort of. It’s in a safe location. Vic knows.”
Stella tapped a fingernail on Lacey’s nose. “No sleeping. You know what I think? It’s all tied up with that theatre.”
“You think?”
“I’m sorry we couldn’t make it last night. To the theatre. Me and Nigel.” Stella never struck Lacey as a playgoer. Rock concerts, yes. The theatre, no. “Brooke told me about it and it sounded cool. Well, interesting anyway. Unfortunately, I had to close up late. And to tell you the truth, I’m not so big on plays and that kind of thing. Especially when I got Nigel waiting for me at home. And we’re still in that newlywed phase. ’Course he knows all that Shakespeare stuff, ’cause he’s English and it’s like a law or something over there.”
“Right. English law. Don’t worry, you didn’t miss that much.” Except Marie’s Red Ghost.
“We were busy last night, anyway. You know how I may have mentioned my clock is ticking?”
“I remember. You really want a baby?”
“I want a baby, Lacey!” Stella gazed in the mirror above Lacey’s head for a moment, perhaps envisioning the perfect baby. Or the perfect baby bump. “So maybe I’ll go to the theatre when I’m old.”
“And when you need a break from the kids.”
“That’s right.” With the conversation turning to babies who would have “Nigel’s awesome hazel eyes,” Lacey hoped she was off the hook for the moment about Amy Keaton and the red dress. Stella concentrated on cutting the back of Lacey’s hair straight.
“You know, you could try something new, Lacey. Like layers.”
“No layers. I see women with layers and it looks like some feral animal chewed off the ends.”
“That’s not what I’d do to you. It would be cute.”
“No layers. No short hair. I mean it.”
“Spoilsport.”
Lacey gazed into the mirror to monitor the snipping and caught a glimpse of Lady Gwendolyn with her bottom deep in a massaging chair, her toes in hot soapy water. Her eyes were closed and she looked transported. For someone who previously had no sense of style, since meeting Stella Lady G had become a fashion fiend. She’d tossed many of her tweeds in favor of chic linen suits. But it was summer. Winter would tell if the makeover had really taken hold. She looked very different, stylish. Lady G’s English overbite, however, was still English.
“How’s it working out with your mother-in-law? She’s here a lot.”
“She’s a doll. Strangest thing, Lacey, it’s like having a real mom. Yeah, I know I got a mother and we haven’t even fought since the wedding. Course we haven’t talked either—knock on wood. But Lady G and me? Who’d of ever thought we’d get along so great? It’s like a miracle.”
“And how’s Nigel?”
“He’s a doll too. Who’d of thought a year ago, I’d be here today and happy?”
“Who indeed.” Lacey thought of the past year. Stella’s marriage. Lacey’s engagement. “How’s your leg coming along?”
“Better. Course I can’t wear high heels all the time anymore. And that grieves me, Lacey. It really does.”
She glanced down at Stella’s feet, laced up in a pair of black leather boots with a small heel and a lot of ankle support. Stella had broken her leg in a frightening confrontation last winter with a woman who was obsessed with Nigel. On that cold and snowy day at Great Falls, Brooke had brought a gun, but in the end she couldn’t use it. With Stella’s life at stake, Lacey had used the gun. The memory still gave them both nightmares, and it left Stella with physical scars. It could have been worse.
“But I could have died. Lots of us could have.” Stella said what they were both thinking. “Instead, I got the man of my dreams and a perfect mother-in-law. That other bitch, she’s getting prison.”
Stella picked up a piece of Lacey’s hair and watched it fall. “Everything Nigel and I have been through has just brought us closer together.”
“I can tell. I’m really happy for you, Stel.”
“Hey! New subject! Notice something new?”
Lacey gazed around the salon. Three elaborate period wigs that Stella had scored at the theatre sale were perched on wig stands in the front window: Cleopatra, Marie Antoinette, and Queen Elizabeth I. The faces were painted with exaggerated makeup to approximate the period of the wig. At least a theatrical version of the period. Stella’s handiwork, no doubt.
“Wow. I like what you’ve done with them. Have you tried them all on?”
“Totally!” Stella’s grin exposed her inner imp. “They’re getting lots of action after hours, and Nigel loves them too. He gets to be with a new woman every night. Well, a new woman from the neck up, you know.”
“Do I really want to know all this?”
Stella laughed. “The Cleopatra’s my fave so far. She was a complete temptress. Without the asp, if you know what I mean. What a weird way to die. Snakebite? And speaking of dying, what do you think happened to Amy Keaton? I haven’t forgotten about her.”
I was afraid she hadn’t. “Police say it was an accident.”
“Ha. That’s what the paper said.” Stella snipped one more piece of hair. “I want the story behind the story.”
“That’s all I have.”
“It’s weird, Lace. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“What do you mean?”
“That Keaton woman looked like the last person on earth to go crazy over a dress. I’m not being mean when I say she was dumpy. Clothes, hair, grooming, attitude, what a mess. On the other manicured hand, LaToya is always styling. What a contrast in types. I wish I’d taken a picture.”
Pictures! How could I forget? Lacey gave herself a mental head slap. Todd Hansen was there on assignment last weekend, taking pictures of the theatre yard sale. Tamsin had used some with her piece in The Eye. Had he caught LaToya and Keaton fighting over the dress? If so, why hadn’t he told anyone? Time to find out.
“You’re working on it, right?” Stella prompted. “You’re not giving up?”
“No, but I’m a little stalled. I’m trying to find out more about the dress and the first actress who wore it. I’d like to find out why it wound up on the sales rack. If that leads to Amy Keaton, then it does.”
Stella grabbed her hair dryer. “Now you’re talking.” She hit the switch and the dryer whined. It was too loud to talk anymore. And when Lacey’s hair was finished, Nigel arrived to escort his ladies away. Lacey was off the hook and looking fabulous.
Too bad it’s not Friday already.
***
FRESHLY COIFFED AND window shopping in Dupont Circle on her way to the Metro, Lacey was interrupted by a phone call from a number she didn’t recognize.
“Ms. Smithsonian? Lacey? It’s Maksym, Maksym Pushkin. We met last night at Kinetic.”
After discussing him with Brooke, this was unexpected and a little spooky. Were his ears burning? Is there a hidden microphone somewhere?
“I remember you, Maksym. What’s up?”
“You’re still interested in The Masque of the Red Death?”
“Always.”
“I don’t think I gave you a satisfactory answer.”
“Well—” Not satisfying the press was a time-honored tradition in D.C., and anywhere politicians and lawyers dwelled.
“Perhaps we could discuss it further.”
“Why not?” Lacey always wanted to know the whole story. Maksym Pushkin might have an interesting take on Kinetic, and according Brooke, he was a possible spy. Lacey was willing to bet he was interested in her attorney friend. If she was right, perhaps he wanted to ask Lacey about Brooke, and Lacey might have some conversational leverage. In fact, she realized, she must have. Or else Pushkin wouldn’t be calling me.
“The phone is so impersonal,” Pushkin said.” Could we meet in person?”
“Is tomorrow soon enough?”
“Tomorrow is fine for me.”
“Tomorrow afternoon? I have an interview in the morning.” With Nicky Sokolov.
“Would the Portrait Gallery be convenient?” he asked.
“That’s an interesting choice,” she said. It was a public place, which was good. So far, Lacey believed Pushkin was probably harmless, but she wasn’t about to meet him in a secluded environment.
“My offices are just a block away from there, and the Gallery is more interesting than a coffee shop,” he explained. She agreed. They set a time to meet and signed off.
The Portrait Gallery was across the street from the Spy Museum. Lacey suddenly wondered if Pushkin had caught sight of her there with Brooke earlier that day. Outside the building, perhaps?
It didn’t really matter. Lacey far preferred face-to-face meetings and interviews to phone or email. Body language, facial expressions, and gestures were always telling. Besides, leaving the office was a perk of her beat. External inspiration was better than waiting for ideas to hit her over the head while staring at her computer screen.
Her phone beeped again. She had a text from DeeDee Adler: Amy Keaton had been cremated. Her brother was taking her home in a box and if there was a funeral service, it would be family-only. DeeDee didn’t know yet whether a memorial service would be held later at the theatre. She said she would text again if they got around to planning something.
Lacey doubted it. Amy Keaton is gone, and Kinetic is moving on.
