The Masque of the Red Dress Read online

  The Masque of the

  Red Dress

  A Crime of Fashion Mystery by

  Ellen Byerrum

  A Lethal Black Dress Press Book

  Published by Lethal Black Dress Press

  All contents copyright © Ellen Byerrum 2017, all rights reserved

  Cover art and book design by Robert Williams

  ISBN 978-0-9979535-8-9

  Without limiting the right under copyright above, no part of this publication may be reproduced by any means, whether electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or other, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, without the prior written permission of the author and publisher of this book.

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, names, and plot mechanics are manufactured by the author’s imagination and/or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A small theatre takes a large role in The Masque of the Red Dress, and the theatre has played a major role in my own writing journey, nearly as large as journalism. So it was a joy to revisit the stage, albeit in fiction, in this book. Many of the new characters here, even the comically self-involved playwright, come from my fond experience of being a playwright in the world of Washington, D.C., theatre.

  There are so many people who inspired me when I was a budding playwright. I must acknowledge Ernie Joselovitz and the Playwrights’ Forum, Source Theatre and Pat Sheehy and the late Keith Parker for their support of my plays. I am also grateful to Lloyd Rose for her theatrical insights and her keen critic’s-eye view of stagecraft and actors.

  The Masque explores some of the similarities between theatre and espionage, particularly relevant with Russian foreign agents in the news. While current events have been an inspiration, my fascination with Russia probably began with the Russian history class I took in high school from Professor Reg Holmes. Reg always presented fascinating and funny stories (he made Peter the Great hilarious), and he once brought an authentic Russian (in squeaky shoes) to speak to our class. Reg has also been a wonderful sounding board for my questions and is in no way responsible for my own mistakes.

  And last but never least, my husband Bob Williams, my partner, my rock, has been my constant companion, not only through this book, but in this entire publishing endeavor. You have my thanks, my gratitude, and my love.

  Ellen Byerrum online

  http://www.ellenbyerrum.com

  www.facebook.com/EllenByerrum

  Other books by Ellen Byerrum

  The Woman in the Dollhouse

  (originally published as The Dollhouse in the Crawlspace)

  The Crime of Fashion Mysteries

  (in chronological order)

  Killer Hair

  Designer Knockoff

  Hostile Makeover

  Raiders of the Lost Corset

  Grave Apparel

  Armed and Glamorous

  Shot Through Velvet

  Death on Heels

  Veiled Revenge

  Lethal Black Dress

  The Masque of the Red Dress

  The Bresette Twins Series

  The Children Didn’t See Anything

  Plays by Ellen Byerrum, writing as Eliot Byerrum

  (Published by Samuel French, Inc.)

  A Christmas Cactus

  Gumshoe Rendezvous

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  Lacey Smithsonian’s FASHION BITES

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  Lacey Smithsonian’s FASHION BITES

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  Tragic Mishap or Something More Sinister?

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  Lacey Smithsonian’s FASHION BITES

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  Breathing Drama into Fabric: The Art of Theatrical Costume

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  Seven Deadly Lenins Hidden in a Hem:

  CHAPTER 44

  Lacey Smithsonian’s FASHION BITES

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 1

  “Get your tiny white hands off my red dress, bee-yatch!”

  “It’s NOT yours! It’s not for sale!”

  “It is too mine! I just bought it!”

  At first, Lacey couldn’t see what the two furious women were fighting over so fiercely. Then suddenly a spray of dark red burst over their hands and arms in the noonday sun. Each was trying to pull some sort of scarlet object away from the other, and neither was letting go. It was turning into a tug of war.

  The crowd around them parted in apprehension, and Lacey got a glimpse of the prize. It was a dress, but what a dress. Rivers of blood-red ribbon, sequins, and beads flowed over the layers of crimson tulle, ruby taffeta, and scarlet silk and satin that flirted together in the long-trained skirt. As the women tussled over it, the garment unfolded into a full-length gown. The sleeves were sheer slashes of scarlet, and the heavily beaded bodice caught the light and glinted in the sunshine. Stiff with fabric, the thing could almost stand on its own, the mass of material resembling a blood-soaked figure.

  This bloody spectacle didn’t stop the two women struggling for this prize, a multitiered theatrical costume in a riot of red hues, supposedly worn by the actress who played the character of Death in a legendary musical production of The Masque of the Red Death.

  Fashion reporter Lacey Smithsonian decided this garment was entirely suitable for death. I hope it doesn’t become an accessory to murder, she thought.

  This tug-of-war was taking place at the annual multi-theatre yard sale in Washington, D.C., where the many theatres of the Nation’s Capital disposed of their leftover costumes, props, set pieces, posters, and miscellaneous theatre memorabilia. The crowd was full of theatre people, actors, designers, techies, set builders, costume collectors, and everyday theatre fans.

  Drama and farce were bound to happen, but mostly in the attire of the motley-dressed crowd. Lacey had dropped by this Saturday in midsummer in search of random inspiration for her fashion column, but she hadn’t expected this much drama.

  This particular claret-colored gown of contention was caught between Lacey’s fellow Eye Street Observer reporter LaToya Crawford and her smaller-yet-pugnacious opponent, a woman Lacey didn’t know. The crimson garment threatened to wind up in bloodshed or layers of torn tulle, or both. Lacey considered the prize. She couldn’t blame the contenders. This costume begged to be touched. Now, that is the power of a spectacular dress.

  Lacey wasn’t sure whether to pull out her reporter’s notebook or stand ready to help LaToya, her compatriot at the paper. Or to try to separate the two, but she couldn’t see a way to get between them and survive. And was the red dress strong enough?

  LaToya seemed to be winning, inch by inch. The oth
er woman was no match for her, who at the moment resembled nothing so much as a fierce Amazonian warrior, tall, beautiful, and black. Her pale frizzy-haired blonde adversary was shorter by a good five inches and pudgily out of shape. Yet she held on, red-faced and sweating.

  “They sold it to me,” LaToya said through gritted teeth. “It’s mine.”

  “It was a mistake!” The other woman huffed and puffed and pulled. “We’d never sell this dress! It wasn’t supposed to be on that sale rack. You’ll be sorry!”

  Empty threats, Lacey thought. Theatre people.

  “You’ll be on that rack yourself if you don’t let go of MY DRESS!” LaToya dug in her heels for one last hard yank, and the prize was hers. She emerged victorious, red gown in hand, shaking off her conquered rival. The smaller woman backed away defeated, grumbling under her breath, rubbing her chafed hands.

  The stunning ruby ball gown at the center of the struggle was connected to a vague theatre world rumor. Lacey tried to remember: something about the leading lady supposedly dying. During the show? After the first performance? Wearing the red dress? Or was it a different show? She couldn’t recall the details. Anyway, that wasn’t the dress’s fault, was it?

  LaToya surprised Lacey, but not by fighting over the dress. LaToya was a determined reporter, capable of relentlessly running down any news source for a hot story. However, LaToya Crawford was the last person who would go to the mat over clothes that had been worn by someone else. She had told Lacey as much, just before the red garment reached out and mesmerized her.

  Love happened that way, unexpectedly yet passionately. The fact that this was a dress and not a man didn’t matter. LaToya had fallen and fallen hard. She was in love with the red dress. And now she had fought for it and won.

  You just never know about love, Lacey thought.

  THIS SATURDAY MORNING in June had started off calmly enough. The annual multi-theatre “yard sale” of leftovers from the city’s smaller playhouses was a treasure trove of oddities and eye candy, with rows of tables full of props, racks of costumes, piles of furniture and entire stage sets. There were custom-made props, such as giant kitchen spoons and forks from someone’s avant-garde production of Lysistrata, a cut-in-half dining room table from a comedy of manners, and dilapidated thrones from various historical epics. Like a jam-packed antique store, it was hard to know where to look first.

  Most in the District, even the tourists, knew about the big theatres, the Kennedy Center, the National, the Warner, Arena Stage, and Ford’s, where President Lincoln was shot. However, there were many other lesser-known theatres in the Capital City, dozens of smaller playhouses and theatre troupes with a variety of approaches, from edgy political drama and new minority playwrights to improv and sketch comedy, from children’s theatre to big musicals and intimate cabaret shows. More than one theatre specialized in Shakespeare, another in George Bernard Shaw, and another in bilingual shows in Spanish and English. They offered new works and novel takes on classics, showcases for struggling actors, and even venues for emerging playwrights. Every year or two some of them cooperated on this yard sale, held in a parking lot just off Fourteenth Street Northwest, a central location for many of the theatres.

  Lacey had come not to buy, but to eye, the costumes, the shoes, the one-of-a-kind hats and gowns and outfits made for imaginary characters and real-life actors. She wondered whether anything there could really be suitable for a modern woman’s closet, or just for parties and events, such as masques and balls.

  Lacey had a headline or two in mind for her “Crimes of Fashion” beat: Emptying the Costume Shop. Selling a World of Dreams. There might even be a “Fashion BITE” in it: Actors Will Wear Anything! On stage, they certainly would. Or nothing at all, if the part or the director called for it. Lacey had seen enough of those sans-clothing shows on D.C. stages. She preferred shows with wonderful costumes to shows full of shapeless pasty naked bodies, no matter how dedicated to their art.

  This June morning she feasted her eyes on glorious stage stuff. Bloody heads from Shakespearean productions nestled with angel wings and skulls, stage makeup, false noses and fake beards and wigs. Prop swords battled with magic wands. All because Tamsin Kerr, The Eye’s theatre critic, had tipped Lacey off to the sale of what she called “woebegone fripperies,” theatrical detritus no longer needed or filling up cramped storage spaces. This style scribe adored woebegone fripperies.

  At last Tamsin herself arrived on the scene, yawning and hefting a large cup of coffee.

  “Where did you get your brew?” Lacey inquired.

  “Over by the swords and sorcerers. Somebody was smart enough to set up a snack bar.”

  “Maybe I’ll get some coffee.”

  “Only if you like it dreadful. I do.” Tamsin tilted her cup and swigged.

  Tamsin might be sleepy at this early hour, not quite noon, but she was still intimidating. Actors who caught sight of her backed away and whispered to their friends about her latest reviews. The theatrical crowd parted for Tamsin, whose reputation exceeded even her height, which was nearly six feet.

  “I can think of better things to do on a Saturday morning, Smithsonian,” she said.

  “Most Saturdays, yes,” Lacey agreed. “But I wouldn’t miss this. Thanks for the tip.”

  “There might even be the slightest chance of a story in it for me, but I doubt it. Nevertheless, Hansen will be toting a camera or two.” Tamsin squinted at a gaudy display of Elizabethan caps and moved on, yawning. She enjoyed the occasional “transformative production spun from the minds of geniuses,” she told Lacey, but there were also years of watching bad plays, puzzling direction, and egregious acting. Not to mention the playwrights. “Dear God, the playwrights.”

  Tamsin defied the June heat in black jeans and a severe long-sleeved black shirt. This theatre critic would never be seen in something as frivolous as cutoffs and a tank top. Tamsin’s dark cloud of curls floated around her shoulders. Her blue eyes were discerning. Lacey admired Tamsin’s dedication to her own interior style critic, but she could be an enigma. She wasn’t a regular fixture in the newsroom. Being on the theatre beat made Tamsin a bit of an outsider, and her late deadline for reviews meant she filed her stories after most of the staff went home. Actors and directors feared her. Reporters didn’t understand her, and they assumed she had a “soft beat.” Hard news reporters tended to be snobs about their own political, finance, and international news beats. For the most part, Tamsin ignored the other reporters as well, considering them lesser beings. Lacey was an exception.

  “It’s not easy being different,” Tamsin once said to Lacey. “Yet when you get down to it, it’s one of the few things that matter. The anonymous are not remembered.”

  Lacey’s position at the newspaper rested somewhere between the two worlds. Fashion reporting was considered frivolous, and yet newsworthy mysteries and murders seemed to follow Lacey’s beat like a lonely puppy. Reporters dismissed her daily work, but they were jealous of her scoops.

  Like Tamsin, she had her own reputation to live up to, as the paper’s fashion reporter, the “style queen.” She could never simply toss on a pair of old shorts and a T-shirt and just go.

  When the weather turned hot and humid in Washington, it was difficult to dress well. Linen was a favorite in D.C., but in the steamy heat linens collapsed into a puddle of wrinkles. Lacey favored vintage clothing from the 1940s, which suited her petite and curvy figure. Summer clothes from the period were rare and fragile, and she was reluctant to wear those cherished items except for special occasions. Instead, she chose newer clothes with a strong retro vibe.

  Today, she settled for a crisp apple green cotton skirt and a patterned sleeveless blouse. A brimmed straw hat shaded her pale skin and blue-green eyes and protected the fresh blond highlights in her long honey-brown hair. For unexpected purchases she carried a tote, which contained a partially frozen bottle of water. It would eventually melt, but it would stay cold.

  Todd “Long Lens” Hansen, The
Eye’s head staff photographer, caught up with them, ready to work, with cameras and camera bags slung over his shoulders. The laid-back, sandy-haired, long-legged lensman wore his usual jeans and blue work shirt. He made his way to Lacey’s side.

  “Hey, Hansen.”

  “Hey, Lacey! I’m here at Tamsin’s beck and call, but I’m here if you need me. What kind of pictures do you want?”

  “Colorful, newsworthy, and anything that isn’t me.” There were too many old photos of Lacey in embarrassing situations in Hansen’s files. “I do not want to be humiliated today.”

  “Ah, don’t be a poor sport. We’ve gotten some great photos together.” He grinned and lifted his camera. “Me with my zoom lens and you with your—

  She blocked the lens with her hand. “I get it. Have a good time and remember I’m not the focus. There are lots of cool costumes and props to photograph. Like that tinfoil spaceship over there.”

  “No killers today?”

  “Killers aren’t everywhere,” Lacey said.

  “They are everywhere,” Tamsin interjected. Her caffeine was kicking in. “You just don’t know who they are. Yet. They are like spies. And you, Smithsonian, have known more than most people.”

  “Spies or killers? And I do not.”

  “Both. And the evidence is empirical.”

  Killers? Lacey had met a few, over the past year or two. As for spies, they were everywhere in the District of Columbia. The Spy Museum claimed that every sixth person in the city was working for one government or another. And since the contentious elections, with Russian interference tilting the electoral scales, people were tense. Distrustful. The media was under fire by the administration and vice versa, and it was a daily struggle to remain sane. There were days when Lacey’s fashion beat felt to her like a sanctuary.

  “Like that crazy Russian friend of yours,” Tamsin continued.

  “Kepelov?” Lacey uncapped her semi-frozen water bottle. “You never know. He’s ex-KGB or FSB or something, but he wears cowboy getups and wants to settle down on a ranch in Texas. He’s totally pro-U.S.A. I think.”