Read 10 Lethal Black Dress Online
Authors: Ellen Byerrum
“It was very good of you to call me.”
“So tell me. What have you found out, Ms.
Eye Street
Reporter?”
I knew she’d be curious.
“You know as much as I know,
Alma. Could I talk to the woman?”
“She doesn’t want to talk to you.” Alma quickly glanced past
Lacey’s head and then looked away.
“Wait.” Lacey turned around. “Is she here?”
Alma pressed her lips together in a tight line. “She wants to
remain anonymous.”
A petite woman peeked out from behind the button aisle and
walked shyly to Alma’s side. She was pretty and about Lacey’s age, with black
hair and dark eyes and a short edgy haircut set off by large gold hoop
earrings. She wore a tight black T-shirt and black cropped pants and sandals.
They stared at each other for a moment.
“Alma told you everything,” the woman said. “I don’t know
anything else.”
“I’m Lacey. What’s your name?”
“You’re not going to use it, are you?”
“My editor prefers it, but I don’t have to, in special cases.
I’ll call you a confidential source. Promise.”
“Well, don’t use my name. Please. My name is Lola Gallegos.”
“Courtney went to you?”
“I did a few small jobs for her. Before,” Lola said.
“Tailoring, some hems, ripped seams. The woman couldn’t sew on a button. She
got my name from someone. She told me at the time. I forget who. I get most of
my work from referrals.”
“She asked you to put in a new lining?”
“Yeah. She brought the material and the Madame X dress with
her the same day.”
“The Madame X dress,” Lacey repeated. It seemed that a lot of
people had read her article.
“I was surprised. This woman, I don’t think she ever saw a
fabric store. She said a friend gave it to her. It wasn’t brand-new material.
Just all folded up, in a paper sack. That sack, with the leftovers.”
“How could you tell it was older?” Lacey opened the paper
sack full of remnants and peeked inside. Lola pulled out a sliver of the Paris
Green silk with two delicate fingers.
“Feel it. It has a different feel from silk you buy these
days. Heavier. A little stiffer, maybe? Nice stuff. Pretty color. Except for
the being deadly part. I never heard about that kind of dye before all this.”
“I don’t suppose she mentioned who the friend was? Or how the
friend happened to have it?”
“Nope. They never tell me that stuff. Only that it was
vintage, so it would go better with a vintage dress.”
“Was it difficult to reline the dress?”
“Very. But rewarding. Complicated, but interesting too.
Clothes aren’t made with that kind of detail today,” Lola said. “Working on a
dress that old, that precisely put together, it was a challenge, a lesson. I
like a challenge sometimes. It was really a piece of art. No tags. So it wasn’t
factory, it was handmade. If I knew it was dangerous, I never would have taken
it on, you know. Or I would have at least charged double.”
“Why did you come here with Alma today?”
Lola ran a hand through her hair. “Alma called me, asking all
these questions. She was curious about it.” Alma snorted, but Lola continued.
“I told her, yeah, I worked on the dress, but I wasn’t going to say anything to
anybody after someone died in it. Anyway, Alma told me about you and what you
write. How you listen to the fabric. You hear what the clothes say. I thought
that was pretty cool. That’s it, pretty much. I guess I was a little curious
too.”
“Okay.” Alma turned to Lacey. “We’re done. You satisfied?”
“I’m indebted,” Lacey said. “To both of you.”
“Good. We don’t care what you do with it. Just don’t use
Lola’s name, or my name without permission. And don’t use that material in any
clothes. Course, there’s not really enough left. Just scraps.”
“That dress, the bodice, the full skirt,” Lola said, “it took
a lot of fabric.”
“It’s a gorgeous color.” Lacey stared at the scrap she pulled
out. It was soft and cool to the touch. “Thank you.”
Alma and Lola moved off into the recesses of G Street Fabrics
to purchase supplies and, no doubt, discuss the “crazy fashion reporter.” Tony appeared
at Lacey’s side.
“What have you got there, Brenda Starr? Kryptonite?
Plutonium?”
“Practically. Kryptonite is green too.” She handed him the
paper sack and he peered into it cautiously. “It’s not a gun, Tony. It won’t go
bang. It’s just Paris Green silk.”
“Unless it gets wet, right?”
“That’s right,” she said, and he tossed it back like a hot
charcoal. Lacey returned the scrap she had handled and tucked the package into
her purse.
“I guess the water balloon fight is off,” he said with a
smile.
“You got that right, buckaroo.”
He bought her a latte at the bookstore next door and they
discussed Courtney and her fatal fashion disaster. Tony applauded her
investigative instincts. Lacey was dissatisfied. What did she really have?
Not
much.
The dress itself came from an innocent source. The deadly
lining material came from the victim herself and had been changed by an innocent
seamstress. There was no way to tell it was dangerous when wet just by looking
at it. Lola Gallegos didn’t know, nor did Alma Lopez. The occasional needle
prick or scissor mishap was as dangerous as the sewing business usually got,
leaving aside what happened to Alma and her shop. Lacey now even had the
leftover silk, in telltale Paris Green. But no suspects. Not even proof of
deadly intent.
Courtney hadn’t even believed it when Lacey warned her about the
dye. In fact, she was highly annoyed. Even if she’d listened, would she have
believed the danger was real? After all, the fabric was old. She might presume the
poison had lost its punch. And who could predict getting drenched in a sudden
champagne storm?
That was the question.
Someone
could indeed have
predicted that storm. Because—if Lacey was right—someone arranged for the Paris
Green silk, and that same someone arranged for the champagne shower.
Who was
this someone?
Remembering the phone call from Veronica at Killer Stash,
Lacey turned in her chair and stared into the bookstore. She felt as if someone
was watching them.
“What’s up?” Tony asked. “You act spooked.”
“Making sure no one followed us here.” She explained about
Veronica, the odd couple who asked about her at Killer Stash, and the possibility
of other reporters trailing her for a piece of the story.
“Don’t think so. First of all, this story’s interesting, but
it’s not ‘all that.’ No blood? No suspects? Takes someone with a really quirky
brain, like yours, to even follow the clues. And I can guarantee you no one
could keep up with Mustang Sally through that Seven Corners traffic out there.
I’ll prove it on the way back. Let’s hit the road.”
Back at her computer at
The Eye
,
Lacey returned to the Crime of Fashion story she started writing that morning.
Lethal
Black Dress Altered Before Broadcaster’s Death
By Lacey Smithsonian
The Eye
Street Observer
has
learned that the lining of the dress worn by the late television broadcaster
Courtney Wallace at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner was replaced in the
weeks leading up to her death. The new lining was colored with the toxic Paris
Green dye blamed for Wallace’s death, the dye that turned Wallace’s black gown
into her now-notorious
lethal black dress
.
The
original lining of the Madame X gown was white silk and was still intact when
Wallace purchased it, according to the owner of an Alexandria specialty vintage
shop where the dress was last sold. Decades shop owner Ingrid Allendale told
The
Eye…
Lacey asked Hansen to photograph the material she brought
back with her, and after he’d finished she put one small scrap of the pretty
green silk in a plastic baggie and tucked it in her purse. She didn’t know
whether she would have a use for it. The rest she stuck in her locking file drawer.
She sent Hansen’s best photo of the fabric scraps and Ingrid’s inventory
picture of the original dress to Mac, who was soon peering over her shoulder,
reading her draft copy.
“You’re saying that, in a way, Wallace was apparently
responsible for her own death,” Mac said. “You’re looking into where it came
from? Seems to leave some loose threads, doesn’t it? Pun intended.”
He glanced at Felicity’s desk, but the offerings were sparse.
He settled for half a blue-sprinkled doughnut from today’s test version of Wiedemeyer’s
groom cake.
“There’s got to be more to the story,” Lacey agreed. “I don’t
know if I can find it. After all, Courtney’s not talking.”
He nodded. “Stay on it, as long as there’s a fashion angle.”
“You’re all heart, Mac.”
At least Johnson isn’t here to
screw up my story.
“That’s what they tell me. Curious though. This Wallace
woman. She wins an Emmy and lives. She gets caught peddling a phony scandal
story, and that doesn’t kill her. She tries to walk a mile in your high heels
on the fashion beat, and before you know it, she’s dead.”
“How many times have I told you this beat is deadly?”
He ignored her. “Are there any cookies around?”
The sound of flip-flops smacking the newsroom floor
interrupted them. Mac and Lacey stared at Harlan Wiedemeyer, who was wearing
the flappy footwear. His Casual Friday bulky jeans and fire-engine red,
extra-large, Washington Nationals T-shirt didn’t do him any favors.
“When did you start wearing flip-flops to the office?” she
asked him.
He looked puzzled. “It’s Friday. It’s almost summer. Duh.
What’s the problem?”
Lacey would have said
your big hairy toes
, but she
refrained. Felicity, who generally wore frumpy-dumpy black pumps, was also
slapping the floor with flip-flops. Her white legs hadn’t seen the sun in months.
She was wearing bright blue culottes, a white T-shirt and a bright blue sweater
with kittens embroidered on it. The kittens wiggled when Felicity inhaled. No
one had worn culottes in years. Or those particular kittens on sweaters. Lacey
was transfixed.
Felicity was carrying a platter of some kind of
almond-cream-filled pastry. Mac’s focus zoomed from her feet to the tray in her
hand. He took one and sauntered off.
Lacey, however, could not take her eyes off the sky-blue
toenails and fingernails of the food editor. Apparently Felicity had spent her
lunch hour getting a manicure and pedicure.
At least they’re not beige.
“What do you think, Lacey?” she asked. “I’m trying blue nails
to match the blue band in my wedding dress.”
“When you look back at your wedding photos in years to come,
Felicity, I hope you will be kind to yourself.”
“I think they’re adorable.” She admired her hands and licked
pastry icing off her fingers.
“It’s your wedding. You have the right to wear whatever you
desire.”
Felicity grinned. “Blue it is.”
I blame Casual Friday.
Casual Friday is the Devil.
Lacey flashed forward to the wedding of Felicity and Harlan
Wiedemeyer. She could imagine the headlines:
Queen of Cookieland Marries King of Krispy Kreme!
Happy Couple to Hold Court on Sugar Mountain!
Before technology transformed the journalism game, a
newspaper reporter competing for a scoop would have to race back to the
newsroom with the story, type it up on a clattering manual typewriter, confirm
it by phone with her sources, get it past her cranky editor, and take it to
press, after which a giant machine would mate her story with ink and newsprint,
and a newsboy would hawk it on a street corner the next morning. But these
days, Lacey’s scoop would be online in a matter of minutes, as well as in the
next day’s printed paper. Other media could then choose to pick it up, copy it,
run with their own story, or ignore it, but in any event, it was still her
scoop.
Within minutes of the updated story hitting the wire, her
phone started ringing. Brooke was the very first.
“Do you just sit staring at the screen until my byline pops
up?” Lacey asked.
“No way. I have you in my alerts. I get pinged every time you
update a story.”
“Impressive,” Lacey acknowledged, even as she found this news
intimidating.
“I know. I love technology.”
“You too? That makes one of us.”
“You didn’t tell me about the latest development,” Brooke
said. “And what fun, a new vintage store for you to explore. Did you buy
anything?”
“Maybe.” Lacey brushed imaginary lint from her lovely new
vintage jacket.
“So why didn’t you call me? Sharing is caring!”
“I just found out about the fabric today, Brooke, and I was
on deadline. Just finished writing it up. Obviously.” The previous night, after
she discovered Ingrid’s shop, Lacey was busy with Vic, playing Clue, and other
games for two. That was no time to update friends.
“Okay, theoretically let’s say I forgive you,” Brooke breezed
on. “Incidentally, I also have something else on my mind. There’s a new art
exhibit opening at that gallery, you know the one, in Old Town tonight. You’ll
love it. With Stella away, we mice can play. And I can pump you mercilessly
about everything you know.”
“The Somerset Gallery? Tonight?”
“I know it’s Friday, and it’s last minute. But Damon is busy
tonight catching up on DeadFed business. And I can’t look at another brief
today. Vic can come along, if he wants to.”
“Vic’s got a work thing too. I’m not going to see him until
tomorrow.”
“Then it’s just us. Girls gone wild. Well, semi-wild.”
A chance to turn off her brain, grab a glass of bad art
gallery wine, ogle bad art, and put this whole Lethal Black Dress story on the
back burner? Quality downtime with her wackiest best friend?
Well, one of
the wackiest.
“Love to. What time?”
She arranged her rendezvous with Brooke for six-thirty and
clicked off the phone. It rang again. Lacey didn’t recognize the number.
“Hello?”
“My dear Lacey Smithsonian, I knew you could do it,” a
distinctively deep Russian voice said. “You have advanced the story. Bravo.”
“Kepelov, you’ve been reading my stories again.”
“Gregor, please. I always read the Crimes of Fashion news.
Not before I met you, of course. Now, I do not miss it. If a body falls in the
woods and no one is there to see it, does it wear a designer dress? Lacey
Smithsonian will know. Today, look at me: Fashion plate. Okay, you cannot see
me right now, but trust me. I am one very stylish guy.”
Lacey closed her eyes.
Kepelov: Threat, menace, or nutcase?
“Why are you calling me, Mr. Stylish Guy?”
“The material, of course. The poisoned fabric you have
received from your clueless seamstress. I wish to purchase it from you after
the story is finished.”
Lacey opened her eyes and wondered where she’d put her Advil.
“No, Kepelov. Gregor. You are a ghoul. That fabric is a killer. Besides, it’s
just scraps, and it’s filed. Filed and forgotten.”
“Too hot to handle? And yet I, Gregor Kepelov, have a use for
it.”
“Involving profit, no doubt.”
“Capitalism. Is American way of life.”
And death?
“It’s not really mine to give or sell.
Definitely not. It’s part of an ongoing investigation.”
“If you change your mind, call me. Please. And Marie has a
message for you.”
“What’s the message?” Maybe Marie would be free tonight and
she could join Lacey and Brooke at the art gallery.
Girls Night Out
.
“She says: Stay safe. Green River is flowing. That is all.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“And what does that mean, exactly?”
“No idea.”
“Thanks, Gregor. I’m sure that will come in handy.”
Lacey hung up and the phone rang again. Another number she didn’t
recognize. She picked it up reluctantly. “This is Lacey Smithsonian.”
“Is it true?” Eve Farrand demanded. “This is Eve Farrand.”
“That’s a nice preamble,” Lacey said. “Hello, Eve.”
“I’m talking about Courtney’s dress. The lining was altered
just before she died, according to your story. Is that true?”
“No, obviously not, I write all sorts of errant nonsense just
to confuse people. Of course it’s true, Eve. I assume you read my story online.
Didn’t you see the photo?”
“Yes, I saw it.” Her voice deepened into phony intimacy.
“Lacey, you and I just want the truth, don’t we? It’s very convenient, don’t
you think, you finding this obscure vintage store and your unnamed seamstress?”
Aren’t we chummy all of a sudden, journalist to
journalist!
“Convenient? It wasn’t convenient at all, it took some
digging. Investigative work. And my unnamed source is going to remain unnamed.
But Ingrid’s shop is located in Del Ray in Alexandria. Open to the public, as
it says in my story.”
“Sorry for how that sounded.” She didn’t sound sorry. “I just
mean, Courtney was one of our own. We take her loss personally at Channel One
News. You and I should be working this story together, don’t you think? If
there is a story beyond this.”
Invite a broadcast reporter in on my scoop? Sure, I’ll
simply hand it to you on a silver platter. What nerve!
Of course Eric Park
had asked the same thing, but they had bonded over coffee and gossip. And she’d
only promised (jokingly) to tip him off if she thought he was in danger.
Lacey didn’t want to play this game with Eve. Still, she
needed to be cautious about what she said, and what she might learn. Did Eve
have a larger hand in events than she was revealing? Maybe she was probing to
see if Lacey was holding back information. And there was the remote chance that
Eve knew something more and didn’t realize it. If so, maybe Lacey should play
the game. A game of her own.
“The truth. You’re right, Eve. That’s the main objective for
all of us.” She checked her watch. It was almost four. “It’s a little early,
but why don’t we meet for a drink or coffee, and discuss this?”
“I hope there’s a way we can work together on this.”
“Who knows?”
“I’m seeing a friend in Georgetown at five. We could meet
there a little beforehand. Martin’s Tavern on Wisconsin?”
“I know Martin’s. If you’re seeing Drake Rayburn, I’d like to
meet him too.”
“Oh.” There was a pause. “You know about Drake?”
“I saw you together at Courtney’s funeral service. I’m a
reporter. I
notice
things.”
“Well, don’t spread it around, okay? We’ve been keeping a low
profile.”
“I see,” Lacey said.
By showing up together at her funeral? And the
Correspondents’ Dinner? Maybe they left in separate motorcades.
“He’ll be there at five.”
“I’ll see you at four-thirty, then.”
Lacey hoped she could kill two birds with one stone.
Not literally, of course.