10 Lethal Black Dress (21 page)

CHAPTER 27

Friday morning, which generally led
to
date
night
, always made Lacey feel like dressing up, even for her newsroom
coworkers. Unfortunately, there would be no date tonight. Vic had some kind of
urgent computer maintenance to oversee at his security firm’s offices, because
the IT people needed to do it after office hours, and he wouldn’t be finished
until late.

Unfortunately, Friday inspired many of Lacey’s coworkers to
wear their idea of “Casual Friday,” which she considered the bane of the
working world. And in Washington, D.C., achieving the ideal mix of casual yet
business-like often produced truly awkward outfits. The last day of the work
week looked like a grab bag at
The Eye Street Observer.
Casual Friday
also led to a general downward slide in standards of dress, until it
contaminated the whole week. Lacey ignored the thought and concentrated on the
big issue of the morning:
What should I wear today?

She wasn’t the kind of woman to let a new purchase hang
forlornly in the closet. Not when she had a lovely new vintage jacket she was
dying to wear. She paired her “new” gold gabardine jacket from Ingrid’s shop
with a brown tank top and a brown and gold patterned skirt that flared out and
floated around her knees. She wore a pair of kitten-heeled sandals in brown and
tan and white, and she pulled her hair off her face with a pair of gold beaded
combs and let the back fall down her shoulders, over her gold necklace. Red
lipstick added the final touch of “war paint.” She was ready to face the world
head-on once again. Aunt Mimi would have approved.

She rode into the District on a Metro car full of mismatched
Casual Friday office workers and tourists. She couldn’t be quite sure who was
who. At the newsroom, armed for the day with a stiff latte from the coffee shop,
Lacey’s first call was to Detective Broadway Lamont.

“Smithsonian, you made my morning. Does Ms. Pickles have a
delicious new dish I should be taste testing?”

“Haven’t seen her yet. This is just to let you know what I
found out about Courtney’s dress. Like you asked, remember? Three weeks ago,
the lining was white. It was not Paris Green.”

“What’re you talking about? Courtney Wallace’s Madame X
dress? That old thing? Ancient history. Unless it gets up on its hind legs and
tells me it was foul play, I am officially bored with that dress.”

“The white lining was innocuous and safe. Maybe a bit musty.
The silk was in bad shape. Shattered, but not lethal. When it was changed to green,
it became potentially deadly. Update for you. That’s all.”

He grunted. “Doesn’t prove anything.”

“Not yet. I’m writing an update for
The Eye
and I just
wanted you to confirm that the death is still officially accidental.”

“Unofficially freaking
freak
accidental. M.E.’s office
hasn’t officially ruled. Could take a week or two.” He paused. “By the way, how
do you know the lining thing was swapped out? Can you prove this?”

“I have a photograph from the woman who sold Courtney the
dress.”

“You’ve been busy, Smithsonian.”

“So have you, Broadway. You watched the Channel One tapes.”

“And they didn’t tell me anything except it was an accident.
The new lining thing is interesting. Makes for good newspaper copy. But that
alone don’t change a thing from the department’s point of view.”

“Maybe not, but it does advance the story. Do you have a
comment?”

“Not for the record. Call me when Felicity is baking some new
goodies.”

Why doesn’t she start her own fan club?
“This isn’t
about food, Broadway.”

“Too bad. I haven’t had any breakfast yet. You call me when
you got means, opportunity, a suspect, a motive, and preferably, a muffin. I
know you’re heartbroken, Smithsonian, but I still don’t see any crime here.”

“I’ll give your regards to LaToya.” Lacey hung up.
That
ought to scare him
. If something suspicious developed, Lamont couldn’t say
she hadn’t told him. She turned to her computer and started her update on the
Madame X dress alterations. One paragraph in, she received a text from Alma
Lopez.

“Meet me at G Street Fabrics at Seven Corners if you want to
know more. Eleven a.m.”

Why not just call me? Oh, that’s right, she’s not speaking
to me.
Lacey checked her watch and marched to Mac’s office. “I have to
leave to check on a lead.”

“A lot of that going on lately. What’s up?” He leaned back in
his chair and put his feet up on a tall pile of papers that Lacey suspected
were a draft of
Terror at Timberline
. “Something important? Like a
story?”

Mac was always casually, and badly, dressed, so it was hard
to tell if Casual Friday meant anything to him. He wore rumpled khakis and a
Madras plaid short-sleeve shirt, topped with a zip-up sweater vest in mud
tones. Formal black socks duked it out with his garish running shoes with neon
green and orange stripes. A red-and-white Washington Nationals ball cap perched
proudly on his desk. He actually wore it, and not just on game days—when he
wasn’t wearing his new Stetson. Lacey averted her eyes.

“Possibly. I might find out something else about the Madame X
dress. Something I apparently can’t get over the phone.”

“You’re still on that dress thing?”

“Call me obsessed. Obsessed with the dress.”

“Who are you talking to?”

“Alma Lopez.”

“Where’s my Maalox! Isn’t she the one who got her seamstress shop
trashed? From your last little misadventure? She was not happy with you. Or
this newspaper.”

Lacey avoided his gaze and stared out the window overlooking
Farragut Square. “Yes, my former seamstress. She’s, um, warming up to me.”

“Probably warming up to burn you at the stake. I’m sending
Trujillo with you.”

“It’s not necessary.” Lacey folded her arms in self-defense.
“I don’t need Tony on this, Mac, it’s my story.”

“Ha. You got another true crime of fashion? Possible murder?”

“I didn’t say
murder
.”

“You don’t have to say it, you think this death is
suspicious. It’s written all over your face. Yeah, that expression, right
there. You can’t let this thing go and now you’re off all alone to— Where are
you off to?”

“Alma wants me to meet her in Falls Church. A fabric store.”

“Thought she was never going to talk to you again.”

“I got lucky. She might have an idea who altered Courtney
Wallace’s dress.”

“Lucky.” His bushy eyebrows lifted, but he was interested in
spite of himself. “Smithsonian, you got a bad track record for getting into
trouble. Don’t bother arguing. It’s a known fact. You be careful this Alma
Lopez doesn’t stick a pair of knitting needles in you. I want you and Tony to
buddy up on this.”

Lacey tried to protest, but he stopped her with a glare. He
stood and marched toward the inner window of his office that overlooked the
newsroom, his eyes finally settling on his quarry. Mac stepped outside his door
and hollered for Trujillo. Then he reached for the Maalox bottle on his desk
and took a swig.

“I thought you were trying to cut down on that stuff,” Lacey
said.

“How can I, with you around?”

#

Tony insisted on driving Mustang Sally. Lacey agreed
grudgingly, because it simplified the trip to Falls Church, Virginia. It would
take too long to Metro back home to Alexandria and retrieve her car, or to take
the Metro out to the East Falls Church stop and grab a cab to Seven Corners.
And his black Mustang convertible was a much cooler ride.

“Nice threads, by the way.” Tony was possibly the only man at
The Eye
who would notice. “Hot date tonight?”

“Nope. Just trying to eradicate Casual Friday,” she said.
“One Friday at a time.”

“Good luck with that. You tilt at windmills too? Astride your
mighty winged pig?”

“Constantly. And she’s a very well-dressed pig.”

Tony was wearing black denim pants, black shirt, and a light
leather jacket. Black lizard-skin cowboy boots featuring stitched longhorns
were his footwear du jour. He liked to look as sharp as Mustang Sally.

G Street Fabrics was a mecca for seamstresses, a local chain,
the best fabric stores in the area. Once located on G Street in Northwest D.C.,
they had moved to the suburbs years before and kept the name. Alma specified
the store at Seven Corners, a shopping center at a major seven-way intersection
that tangled Northern Virginia traffic converging from every direction. Tony
didn’t let Seven Corners scare him. He gunned Mustang Sally up Arlington
Boulevard. Lacey closed her eyes and hung on for dear life.

“Hey, we made it in record time,” he said, pulling into the
parking lot.

“No kidding.” Lacey unhooked her safety belt. “I’m more
impressed with the fact we aren’t dead. You could wait for me in the coffee
shop.” Lacey pointed to the Barnes & Noble bookstore next door.

“No way. Mac said to stick close. You are not getting out of
my sight line.”

“It’s not dangerous, Tony,” she argued. “It’s a fabric store.
I’m just meeting a source. And you have a conflict of interest on this story,
remember?”

“I have no interest at all, much less a conflict. Fabric is
not generally a lethal weapon. Except when it is, Ms. Lethal Black Dress.” Tony
matched his steps to hers. “That’s always the way with you comic book heroines.
Take kryptonite, for example. It’s not dangerous until it is dangerous. Until
you have a homicidal maniac gunning for you. That’s when it’s dangerous and
newsworthy. And I guess you’ve forgotten the famous Beltway Snipers? Seven
Corners was one of their shooting galleries. So I go where you go, Wonder
Woman.”

“You’re just jealous. You’ve already bowed out of this story.
No double byline, remember?”

“But if you become the target of a mad sniper, then
you’ve
got the conflict of interest, and
I’ve
got a big story.”

“That’s convenient. And untrue. I can always write a feature
on being shot at while
very
well-dressed,” Lacey said, while Tony held
the door for her.

G Street Fabrics was in the basement level of the shopping
center, accessed via an escalator. There were no windows down below, which gave
it the feeling of a bunker, a very large, fabric-filled bunker. Tony was
mesmerized by the rows and rows of bolts of fabric. He stationed himself on a
chair nearby, where he could keep an eye on her and the front door, without
cramping her style with her source.

Lacey wanted to wander through the aisles of materials, the
bolts of brightly colored cloth and patterns, the raw material of fashion. She
told herself to stay on point, but she was soon lost in contemplation of how
various fabrics would look in several of Aunt Mimi’s unfinished patterns.
If
I only had a seamstress.

Alma found Lacey deep in thought in the silk aisle. As
always, Alma was striking, in dark jeans with high heels, topped by a crisp
white tailored shirt and a wide belt cinched at the waist. Her sleek dark hair
was pulled back into a ponytail, tied with a scarlet scarf. Her makeup was
minimal, but her lips were bright red and large silver hoop earrings completed
the look. She was carrying a small white paper sack.

“Alma, hello,” Lacey said. “Nice to see you. Why are we
meeting here?”

“I have things to buy here and I don’t want you in my house.
Not after the last time. You are
mala suerte
.”

“Okay, okay, I get it. I’m here. What do you have for me?”

“I made a few calls.”

“Anything turn up?”

“It seems that a friend of a friend of a friend of mine did
some work for this Courtney Wallace woman.”

“Your friend is the one who switched out the lining?”

“She did. It was a big job, a couture gown like that,
complicated pattern, and not much time. The old white lining was shredded. Came
apart in her hands.”

“And the replacement lining fabric, the Paris Green silk?
Where did she get it?”

“Supplied by the customer.”

“Courtney Wallace brought the material with her? Are you
sure?”

“That’s what she said. The friend of a friend.”

“What’s her name? This friend of a friend?”

“She doesn’t want you to have her name. Here.” Alma thrust
the package into Lacey’s hands. “Call her Anonymous.”

“I don’t understand.” Lacey peeked inside and pulled out
several pieces of brilliant emerald silk. She gasped at the richness of the
color. Tony jumped up from his chair at Lacey’s gasp. Lacey warned him back
with a look.

“This is the material that was left over,” Alma said. “It may
be pretty, but it’s poison. It already caused that woman’s death. My friend of
a friend doesn’t want it. I don’t want it. You’re so interested in this, you
take it.”

“It’s only dangerous when it’s wet,” Lacey said. Alma glared
at her. “Of course I’ll take it. I appreciate this, Alma. Did this other
seamstress have any idea where Courtney found it?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask her. She just told me this
Courtney woman was in a hurry to have the dress finished. That’s no surprise.
Everybody is always in a hurry to have their sewing finished. No one comes in
and says, ‘Take your time.’ People like Lacey Smithsonian come in and say, ‘Can
you make my crazy friend’s crazy wedding dress even crazier? And can I have it
yesterday? And by the way my friend’s
loquisima
stalker will come and
try to kill you?’ Oh, wait, you didn’t tell me that part.”

“I’m so sorry, Alma. Your creations have always been quite
lovely. ”

“The price of beauty can be too high.” Alma wore her superior
expression.

“Yes. Much too high,” Lacey agreed. “Particularly in this
case. Thank you so much, Alma.”

Alma lifted her shoulders, then dropped them. “I had to get
rid of this evil fabric. My duty.”