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Pushkin was right. The National Portrait Gallery definitely beat a typical coffee shop for their meeting. Even better, it was public and the summer visitors and school classes were out in force. Lacey was grateful for every pair of loud madras shorts paired with a Day-Glo T-shirt and oversized running shoes.
Despite the throngs of tourists, Maksym Pushkin was easy to spot, tall and attractive in a bespoke suit, looking like a menswear ad. He was standing just inside the museum shop, leafing through a large art book. He looked up and smiled as she entered.
“I hope you don’t mind this place,” he said. “It’s handy for me.”
“No, I like it. And I like getting out.”
She had no idea what Pushkin would have to say. But the feel of the live phone in her pocket, with Vic and the gang listening in, reassured her. As did the bottle of Kepelov’s knockout spray in her other pocket.
Pushkin put the art book down. “Shall we stroll? Or do you want something to drink? Coffee? We could take it out to the courtyard.”
“Strolling first. Then something cold. I’m coffee’d out.” They passed a wall of Mathew Brady’s daguerreotypes. “I would have called you if you hadn’t called me first. Why did you want to see me?”
“You have a history of getting into trouble,” he said.
He sounds like Vic. “I also have a history of getting out of trouble.”
“After you invite it in.” Pushkin smiled, but he seemed very serious for a friendly afternoon chat.
“And your point?”
“I’m not saying bad things might happen, but why kick around the dusty ancient history of Kinetic Theatre?”
“You’re concerned about a twelve-year-old show?”
“Listen to me, Lacey.” He stopped and faced her. “It was a bad-luck production. You can’t get more bad luck than the leading lady dying on closing night.”
“Unless it was opening night,” she countered. “Certainly it couldn’t be bad luck now, all these years later. Are you superstitious?”
“Me? A rational attorney?” He examined his manicured nails. “Perhaps. Perhaps superstition is part of being Russian. I’m curious, what do you expect to find in that dress? More diamonds?”
“I’m pretty sure those diamonds were a one-time thing. I didn’t get to keep them, you know.”
“What then explains your fascination with the Death costume and poor old Parsnips?”
“I’m a reporter. It’s a story. A sad one, I admit. That crimson costume has become known as a good-luck, bad-luck talisman. There’s a story there.”
“Are you planning to draw a connection to Amy Keaton?”
She felt the thrill of anticipation of possibly learning something new. No one else had brought up the unfortunate stage manager unprompted.
“What do you know about Amy, Maksym? Is there a connection to Parsnips?”
“I know nothing about her. I know how you write.”
Has he been studying my work? Reading about more than diamonds? And why?
“You find the strangest stories to explore,” he continued. “Dangerous stories. And I know that ridiculous website follows you faithfully.”
“Did you see something on DeadFed? Something new today?”
“No. Nothing today.” Pushkin continued strolling down the hall at her side. “But there’s something crazy on it every day. My firm tracks social media for some of our clients, and Conspiracy Clearinghouse is always pushing the most insane nonsense. That conspiracy maniac your friend Brooke is with, Newhouse? Sooner or later he’ll tie Amy’s death to something other than the accident it was.”
“How do you know it was an accident?”
He looked away. “The police say it was.”
Pushkin was taking a lot on faith, she thought. Or he found it convenient to say he did, especially if he was a Russian agent who might have knowledge about Amy’s death.
“So about Brooke. Is she a maniac too?”
He softened at the name. “Not Brooke. She is very sweet, very fine. Sometimes tough as nails and sometimes a little gullible.”
“Sometimes conspiracies are real.”
He laughed. “Every once in a while,” he admitted, pausing to admire a Mathew Brady portrait on the wall.
“Did you know Amy?”
“No. She started there after I went to law school. I only saw her bustling around, shouting orders, when I went to shows. But even Yuri said she was a good stage manager. He’s hard to impress.”
“You still go to the theatre, but you gave up dancing?”
“I loved it, but it didn’t pay. Except in aches and pains. I always go to their shows, I’m a donor, and I help out from time to time, teaching dance. Those who can’t do, teach, remember? And sometimes in the shop.”
“Sokolov’s costume shop?”
“Sometimes. Moving things around. Sometimes I even help paint the sets. I’ve always loved the theatre. But as I may have said, life interferes.”
Lacey mulled this new information. Maksym had worked in the costume shop. He had access to the dress. He hated Saige. He mentioned Amy without Lacey asking.
“The Masque. Tell me about Saige Russell. I heard she wasn’t popular.”
“No. Not at all. First, she wasn’t Russian. Not everyone in the production was, but she didn’t work as hard as the rest of us. The Russians worked their asses off. And Gareth too. So neurotic. He was the one who started calling her Parsnips, or maybe it was the techies. But we all did, behind her back. Somehow it made her easier to deal with. I have no idea what Nicky saw in her.”
“Gareth said she couldn’t learn lines.”
“Yeah, she had some kind of dyslexia when it came to memorizing. That is not an asset in the theatre. She could dance competently, but not superbly. Not lighter than air, like Katya.”
The Katya Pritchard Lacey had spoken with didn’t match that description. It was hard to imagine her as a dancer at all. “Katya was lighter than air?”
“Believe me, she was lovely.” He smiled at the memory.
“You dated?”
“For a while. People said we looked good together. I thought so too.”
“She told me she was attracted to Nikolai too, but Saige got there first.”
“Isn’t that always the case? Perhaps she was lucky she didn’t get the part. Look at what happened to Parsnips.”
“That’s what Katya said.” She wondered what he would think if he could see Katya now. “Did you keep in touch with her?”
“No. I’ve heard she’s changed a bit.”
A bit? Much more than a bit. Perhaps Saige’s death killed a lot of Katya’s dreams. Of a life in the theatre. Of Nicky Sokolov. They were silent for a moment.
“Hey, I’m thirsty, Lacey, how about you?”
“Sure.”
They picked up cold sodas in the café and entered the majestic Kogod Courtyard at the center of the Portrait Gallery’s massive stone building. The space was always a welcome surprise, a retreat, a calm place to sit with a cup of coffee, ice cream, or even lunch. The wavy glass ceiling high above allowed the sun to shine through and kept the rain and snow out. Lacey sat on the wide edge of a cement planter and Pushkin joined her.
“I don’t mean to drag up painful memories,” Lacey said when they were settled. “I’m simply trying to write a story about a dress.”
“Just the dress? That production is a decade old. Old history, old news.”
“Are you warning me away?”
“Is that even possible?” He lifted his soda and drank deeply.
“No. I’m afraid that would only make me more interested.” She sipped on her cold root beer.
“Just like your friend Brooke, I guess.”
“We’re not quite the same.”
“I’m going to tell you something, Lacey, and then I will deny I ever said it. This is off the record. This is not for your story. This is for your safety. Your safety. Do you understand?”
She felt her eyes go wide and she took another gulp of root beer. “I do. Off the record.” But I hope Vic and Turtledove are getting all this. “Go ahead.”
“I saw something that night. After the show. Something that has always made me wonder.”
“The night Saige died?”
Pushkin nodded. He put his face in his hands. Lacey didn’t know if it was an act, but she was listening. That was her fatal flaw, she knew. She always stayed for the last act. She had to know the ending. Hopefully without becoming part of it.
“What did you see?”
He lifted his eyes and stared at the glass ceiling high above. “After the last performance, I just wanted a moment on stage alone. Don’t ask me why. I guess to breathe in the theatre, one more time. I loved it, you see.”
“A moment alone?” The big Washington attorney who had once been a dancer.
“Without all the others. Without that stupid annoying Parsnips. I stood there in the dark, and I heard something. People talking softly, behind part of the set, the castle. They didn’t realize the lights were creating silhouettes. Or they thought they were alone.”
“Were they taking that last quiet moment, like you?”
“That’s what I thought, at first. It was funny. All the actors taking their last center-stage moment, each thinking they’re alone? The ghost light was on behind them. I saw their shadows on the walls. I was waiting for them to leave, so I could have my moment. So I retreated into the darkness, where I was sure I couldn’t be seen. Then the shadows climbed the stairs to the top of the tallest platform. It was supposed to represent the tower of the castle.”
“Saige? Who was with her?”
“I couldn’t tell. I didn’t know who they were. I was an accidental voyeur.”
“What did you see?” Lacey felt a terrible anxiety rise in her chest. She reached into her pocket and touched the spray bottle. “There were definitely two people?”
“Yes, and I heard, um, intimate sounds. Laughter. They were making love, up on the platform. I looked away. I knew even then that it isn’t wise to know everything in this town. That what you know can hurt you. I was embarrassed too, and I couldn’t leave without making a noise, the stage there was creaky, so I just stood there, listening. It was excruciating. I waited in the dark, waited for them to finish, stop and go away. Then I heard something fall. Something heavy. So loud it made me jump. So loud I knew it wasn’t good. After that, there was no noise, no screams. I peeked out. The shadows were gone.”
“Saige?” Lacey held her breath.
“I waited a long time before I left my hiding place. At least it seemed like a long time. Maybe only a minute. Until I heard the theatre doors open and close. Until I was sure everyone was gone. Then I crept out of the dark. Saige was lying there on the stage. She was broken, dead.”
“An accident?”
“It could have been an accident.”
“Do you think she was with Sokolov when she fell?”
“Maybe it was Nicky. And maybe not. I couldn’t tell, and Saige was always playing around. There were lots of guys around Saige. Never me, in case you were wondering. I don’t know who it was, and I don’t really want to know.”
“If it was an accident, why didn’t the person she was with tell the police?’
“A million reasons. It would cause problems.”
“If Saige fell, why didn’t she scream?” That bothered Lacey. “Not even a gasp?”
“I don’t remember hearing anything but the sound of— Of the impact.”
“Why didn’t you go to the police?”
“I’ve wondered that myself. I think I was embarrassed. Confused. Shocked. It was late. I was expected at the cast party.”
Yeah, wouldn’t want to miss a great party because of a nasty little death.
“That’s awful.” Lacey must have looked shocked.
“I know. But I thought someone else would report the accident. The person who was there. Whoever it was.”
“Unless it was murder.” And maybe she didn’t scream because she was already dead when she fell? Lacey stood up. Maxim grabbed her arm and held her.
“I don’t know! I will deny everything I have just told you. You have no proof of what I’ve said.”
Except for a couple of guys listening in. Lacey said nothing. He let her arm go. There would be a bruise.
“As I said, I don’t know exactly what happened. All I know is that Saige Russell wasn’t alone when she died. And if it wasn’t an accident? People can die from knowing too much in this town.”
He let the thought hang in the air.
“Are there Russian agents involved with Kinetic Theatre?” she asked.
He looked startled. “What? Is that what Brooke says?”
“I’m asking you.”
“It would be ridiculous to answer that. If you so much as suggest that in print, I will deny every word. That I ever even talked to you. Do you hear me, Lacey?”
So much for deep background.
“I do.” She gazed at Maksym Pushkin. There wasn’t a hair out of place. He looked perfect. He used his calculatingly handsome smile on her.
“Please don’t pursue this story. For your own good.”
He grasped both of her hands in his. They shared a long silence. Lacey’s thoughts were spinning too fast to grab hold of them.
She noticed a bustle of activity in the far end of the courtyard. Among the tourists, catering staff were hauling in bars, glassware, and flowers.
“I didn’t know the courtyard here could be rented,” she said.
“Yes. It’s very convenient.”
“Have you been to parties here?”
“Quite a few. The one they’re getting ready for tonight is for my firm and our clients. I have to go back to the office, but I’ll be back here this evening.”
“What exactly does your law firm do?”
“We have a lot of international clients. Mostly private sector, from Ukraine and Russia and other Eastern European countries. We help them through the legal and financial hurdles in establishing successful business relationships in the US. It’s mostly pretty boring.”
Boring? The lion’s den of Russian oligarchs? “It must be helpful to be fluent in those languages.”
“Yes, it is. Essential, actually.” Pushkin had warned her off, but to what gain? He’d only made her more determined to come out of this with the right answer. And he must have known that’s what he was doing. Why?
She spotted Will Zephron, the actor who bought the tuxedo at the theatre sale. Still working in catering, he passed Lacey with a wink, carrying an enormous glass vase with dozens of long-stemmed red roses. She smiled at him and he paused to give her a quick hug, and to eye her companion, before hurrying on, balancing his burden. More of these extravagant flower arrangements followed him. Tall tables were wrapped in burgundy cloth and tied with silver ribbons. Someone was spending a lot of money on this affair.
“You probably have some very nice appetizers,” she said to Pushkin.
“Especially if you like caviar.”
“Not particularly.”
“I must return to my office for a meeting, but I’ll be back for the reception. You’re very welcome to attend, if you like. As my guest. We can talk more. I don’t remember anything we said here this afternoon.” He smiled again.
“You must be a great lawyer, Maksym. But I don’t speak those languages. And I have places to go, people to harass.”
“Undoubtedly.” He reached out and took her arm gently. He rubbed the spot that was beginning to bruise. “I’m sorry. Be careful, Lacey. I don’t want to see you hurt.”
He released her and turned and walked away. She sat back down, feeling shaky. She finished her root beer and watched the party preparations, mentally adding up the costs of the décor and caterers. She came up with the grand sum of Yowza! Those Russians were rich, very rich. By her accounting, Maksym Pushkin must be rich too. He was certainly telling the truth about one thing: This paid better than being a dancer.
He had warned her away from the red dress story. Warned off a reporter. Never a smart thing to do. A good lawyer should know better than to even try that. So had he made up the story to see how she would react? Or was it true? Pushkin said he was at the theatre the night Saige died. If he was there when her body fell, was it because he was involved as more than a bystander? Perhaps he was the one up on the platform with Saige?
Something moving at a rapid pace caught her eye. Gareth Cameron? The Kinetic Theatre crowd was feeling like a very small private club. Their sad-sack playwright cruised past, wearing the same outfit she’d seen him in last, with the addition of a preppy blazer. Shabby, but raffish.
“Gareth, what are you doing here?”
“Smithsonian?” He stopped suddenly and considered her. “I could ask you the same thing. You seem to be everywhere I turn. I’m here to seek inspiration and edify my soul with art. And food.”
“You’re here for this Russian shindig?”
“I’m early. I heard there was free food. And until my fortunes reverse, I rely on the kindness of strangers. And their free party snacks.”
“But you have a new hit show. The Turn of the Screw. Right?”
“Yes, but you know what they say about the theatre. ‘You can make a killing, but not a living’? So I try to take advantage of these little grants in aid to the arts. Maksym told me there would be plenty of appetizers.”
“I’m sure they can afford it.”
“Absolutely. And some of the lawyers at my trade association will be here. They’ll think I’m working overtime. Win-win.”
She couldn’t blame him. She enjoyed seeing people with too much money spend it on lavish parties for party crashers. Too bad she wasn’t dressed for a party. And she had work to do.
“Gareth, I wanted to ask you something. Did you go to the cast party for The Masque?”
“The cast party? I made an appearance, after we did some quick TV thing, Maksym and Yuri and I, but it was a blur for me. You have to understand, the entire experience was an overload of emotions. It was, after all, my first play.”
“I heard Saige never made it that night.”
“Are you still on about her? I mean, why? She’s not worth it. But to answer your question, no, she didn’t show up. I was relieved there’d be no diva moments from her that night. We hated each other by that time. I think everybody hated her.”
“Enough to throw her off a platform?”
“What are you talking about? Come on, these are actors. They don’t actually do anything.” He shook his head as if to clear it of the thought. “It was a shock to find out the next day that she’d died in that bizarre accident. I’ve often wondered if it really was an accident.”
“What do you mean?”
“Suicide, of course. Perhaps she finally realized what a bad actress she was and decided to go out at the height of her career. It wasn’t going to get any better than it was that night. She’d never get a decent role again.” He plucked a leaf from the nearest plant. “I would have made sure of that. She’d practically ruined my play. It was a hit in spite of her. The problem as I see it? Taking a swan dive off that stage set would hardly be a reliable way to kill yourself. Typical Saige, doing it wrong. I guess it worked though, and it did have a nice dramatic touch. One of her few really dramatic moments, I have to give her that. If it was suicide.”
“You never wondered if someone engineered her accident?”
He frowned and crushed the leaf between his long fingers. “Funny, I didn’t. I suppose I never thought she was important enough for someone to murder, dramatically speaking.”
“You hated her.”
“Obviously, but it wasn’t exactly a grand passion. I had better things to do.”
“Like putting the moves on Katya?”
“Katya? Please! I was interested in Yuri! I thought you knew.”
“Really? Did you get anywhere with him?”
“Sadly, no. Yuri is in love with Yuri. And the theatre. Although he had a minor thing for Katya. And at one time I thought he had a thing for Saige, because why else would he have cast her as the Red Death, I mean, really, anybody could see she was hopeless, although she looked great in that red dress, and another thing about—”
Gareth Cameron was still rattling on, waiting for the “free” appetizers to arrive, when Lacey gathered her things and hopped down off her perch on the planter.
The theatre, Lacey thought. Just one big happy family.
