10 Lethal Black Dress
Read 10 Lethal Black Dress Online
Authors: Ellen Byerrum
Lethal
Black 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 2014, all rights reserved
Cover
art by Craig White
ISBN
978-0-9887079-2-4
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.
Ellen Byerrum online
Other books by Ellen Byerrum
(all available in Kindle Editions)
The Crime of Fashion Mysteries
Killer Hair
Designer Knockoff
Hostile Makeover
Raiders of the Lost Corset
Grave Apparel
Armed and Glamorous
Shot Through Velvet
Death on Heels
Veiled Revenge
The Bresette Twins Series
The Children Didn’t See Anything
Plays by Ellen Byerrum, writing as Eliot Byerrum
(published in print by Samuel French, Inc.
)
A Christmas Cactus
Gumshoe Rendezvous
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Sometimes
people offer writers ideas they think we should write about. My standard answer
is, “Thanks, but I have so many ideas of my own, I’ll never get to them all. So
why don’t you write that one yourself?”
But in the case of
Lethal Black Dress,
my brother
James Byerrum gave me a great suggestion which I was happy to make my own.
That’s the wonderful thing about family: You can swap your trade secrets. Thank
you, Jim. I also bothered my sister Diane Byerrum Yeoman, former chemistry
major, with endless questions in her fields of expertise. Thank you, Diane.
I’ve been fortunate to
attend three White House
Correspondents’ Dinners, and I’ve always thought: What a fabulous location for
a mystery! How could one possibly arrange a murder at the most secure,
well-guarded and glitziest event in the Nation’s Capital? This was my chance to
do just that. My thanks to my charming news sources who were my escorts at this
uniquely D.C. extravaganza.
Working as a print reporter in Washington, D.C., I’ve
frequently observed the television media in action. Certain elements in this
book are drawn from that experience. For additional insights into the broadcast
field, I am indebted to journalists Dinah Zeiger and John Henrehan. I’m also
grateful to my friend Lloyd Rose, Washington theatrical eminence, for
inspiration and trusted theatrical guidance.
As always, if any errors of fact are to be found in these pages,
please consider them all
fiction
.
Many thanks to all my Sisters in Crime, in particular, Beth
Wasson and Cathy Pickens. Your support has meant the world to me, particularly
on this book! I am so grateful. My books wouldn’t happen without friends and fellow
mystery writers, especially the invaluable Rosemary Stevens, who has always
listened to me sympathetically and offered sound advice. My humble thanks.
I am indebted to artist Craig White, who agreed to illustrate
this cover so my books can keep the smart, sassy look he created for the series
and that my readers and I love. And lastly, to my husband Bob Williams. I
simply wouldn’t have been able to make it to the finish line on
Lethal Black
Dress
without his encouragement and moral support, not to mention his
editing, proofreading, and other technical expertise (and affordable rates).
Table of
Contents
Lacey Smithsonian’s FASHION
BITES
Lacey Smithsonian’s FASHION
BITES
Lacey Smithsonian’s FASHION
BITES
Lacey Smithsonian’s FASHION
BITES
CHAPTER
1
It was a sea of black.
A seething,
humming hive of thousands of Washingtonians, wearing their idea of formal
evening dress. Against this surging mass of black-tie uniformity, one woman
alone took a stand for—
color.
Is this a convention of funeral directors? Or the press’s
biggest black-tie bash of the year?
Lacey Smithsonian wondered with a sigh.
Black, the obvious choice. Black, the safe choice. Black, the inevitable
choice, in every direction. At least there will be no funeral tonight,
she
consoled herself.
They wore black. Lacey wore blue, the color of optimism. She,
at least, was not guilty of dressing in the dark.
The evening might supply plenty of crimes of fashion to write
about, but no actual crimes of violence. Everyone would go home safely tonight.
Lacey couldn’t always make that claim when she covered the fashion beat for
The
Eye Street Observer
, but the White House Correspondents’ Dinner was surely
the most securely guarded event in Washington, D.C. After all, the President of
the United States would be in attendance, along with the Secret Service and
practically every metal detector in the Nation’s Capital.
In the meantime, style scribe Lacey Smithsonian was taking
mental notes on the evening wear of the Fourth Estate. Even though she wasn’t there
on assignment, she could always use more fashion faux pas for her Crimes of
Fashion and Fashion Bites columns. As cameras flashed all around her in the
hope she might be a celebrity, she turned and smiled.
Be a celebrity—or just
look like one!
The legendary White House Correspondent’s Dinner was always
held on the first Saturday in May at the Washington Hilton in Dupont Circle.
Springtime in the Capital City was generally pleasant, with mild temperatures,
but tonight was windswept, rain-soaked, and chilly.
Outside in the downpour, protesters against “the liberal
media bias” were splashing around on street corners, the inflammatory messages
on their signs dissolving in the mist. They may also have been angry because
they were not invited inside the Hilton, where their journalistic adversaries
were warm and cozy.
At the Connecticut Avenue lobby entrance, people were
brushing rain off their black clothes and shaking water off black umbrellas.
The attendees looked damp and frazzled, a little less polished than when they’d
left home in their black limos and Lincoln Town Cars.
Lacey had anticipated this evening for a long time. A select
few reporters at
The Eye
were allowed to attend the Correspondent’s
Dinner every year as a reward for excelling at their beats, and this year,
Lacey was among them. She was curious to see how her fellow reporters would dress
to the nines. Turned out, they didn’t.
Maybe to the sixes and sevens.
The Washington media might be fearless in reporting the news, but they tended
to be timid in their attire. Most of the outfits that crossed Lacey’s path were,
sad to say, merely boring. The completely wrongheaded outfits were far more fun
to watch.
As usual, the Prematurely Serious ruled. In the most serious
city in the nation, caring about what you wore and how you presented yourself
to the world was considered a non-serious pursuit. Nowhere in the world were
journalists more self-consciously serious, and it showed that night.
Reporters: the know-it-alls who don’t know what to wear.
“So whatcha think about all these swells?” Detective Broadway
Lamont rumbled at her elbow.
“Swells isn’t the word I’d choose.” She stifled a laugh.
“Though swelled heads might do.”
“Got that right. Positive epidemic of swollen egos in this
city. Not like you and me.”
The homicide detective at her side was her “source date” for
the evening. The White House Correspondents’ Dinner was full of odd couples:
reporters and their sources. The longstanding rule for this event was that
members of the White House press corps brought a news source, of either sex.
Or
no sex at all.
Even though the media were not supposed to reward their
sources, or expect rewards for their work, everyone knew attending the
Correspondents’ Dinner was one of the biggest rewards in Washington journalism.
For the heavy hitters in the media, any random newsworthy celebrity of the
moment would do for a date, the splashier or trashier the better. Some years it
might be a Kim “Trashian” Kardashian. Anything to raise eyebrows. To their
credit,
The Eye
’s reporters didn’t have the clout to draw any tarnished
movie or reality TV stars. They were stuck with real sources.
Lacey and Lamont wandered through the crowd, through the security
checkpoints (where all the guards seemed to be Lamont’s buddies), and down the
escalators to the lower level where the pre-dinner cocktail parties were held,
eyes peeled for notable or quotable guests. She would have loved to have her
fiancé Vic Donovan at her side, but he wasn’t exactly a “news source.”
Detective Broadway Lamont, on the other hand, was the most interesting and
consistently helpful “official” source she had. He told her once that despite
being black and being named Broadway, he did not sing or dance. He could,
however, intimidate everyone in his path. Especially when he put his head down
and glared, like a bull right before it charged. He also looked very impressive
in evening wear. And sometimes a kilt, too, Lacey remembered.
In general, Lamont was not a fan of reporters. But he and
Lacey had forged a cordial working relationship over several murders. He
investigated them. She wrote about their fashion angles, and occasionally
managed to make her own unique investigative contributions.
“Fashion clues,” she called them. Lamont called it her
“high-heeled hoodoo” and “fashion voodoo.” He claimed to find her ability
amusing, when he acknowledged it existed.
“So what do you think of that?” He indicated a tiny, ancient
woman with a cloud of white hair. “The old dame? Looks like she knocked over a
jewelry store? Ain’t that one of your Crimes of Fashion?”
Lacey followed his gaze. He’d focused on Pepper Valencia,
reigning grand dame of the Capitol press corps. The elderly lady was in a
floor-length black velvet gown with a high neck and long sleeves. Over it, she
wore what appeared to be the entire contents of a vein of turquoise—huge
turquoise and silver bracelets, long turquoise earrings, a thick belt of silver
and turquoise, and a heavy squash blossom necklace. It was a mystery how Pepper
could stand up straight and carry the load. Yet she was erect as a flagpole and
seemed to be having a wonderful time.
“Her?” Lacey said. “Oh,
her
. Oh no. She gets a pass.”
“A pass? What for? She’s got a rock for every wrinkle.”
“And a year for every rock. She’s nearly ninety and Pepper
Valencia didn’t get to be the elder stateswoman of the Washington press corps by
being a shy wallflower.”
“Convince me.” Lamont didn’t look impressed.
“Pepper’s survived decades of Presidents and Congresses. She
makes no excuses. She tells it like it is and she wears whatever she pleases.
But it works. See how she stands out in this crowd, even though she’s all of
five-foot-nothing? She is rocking all that turquoise as if she owned the mine.
I think she’s fabulous.”
“Fabulous, huh?”
“Yes. Besides, I don’t pick on tough little old ladies. They
scare me.”
He chuckled, but his attention span was short. His head was
already swiveling in the direction of an extremely tight purple dress trying to
make its way down the corridor. Barely contained inside the grape-colored
sheath was one of this year’s hot television actresses and most of her ample
curves. Her dress was inappropriately short and loud, and her white blond hair
was an apparent homage to Marilyn Monroe, though that’s where the resemblance
ended.
Lacey observed that the curse of Lycra did not afflict only the
stars. It exerted its evil stranglehold even on the posteriors of the press.
Many Fourth Estate females were wearing dresses that were long, black, and
stretched as tight as a coat of paint.
It was only the occasional rebel
that provided a welcome shock of color in this somber and ill-dressed crowd,
like bits of brightly wrapped candy among the licorice.
Some of the “candy,” however, was well past its sell-by date,
Lacey decided, eyeing an out-of-date floral number with puffy sleeves and a
full skirt, perhaps once a prom gown or a bridesmaid dress. Its occupant was
out to prove that, indeed, she could rock that frock again, despite the fact
she should not—and certainly not to the Correspondents’ Dinner.
The men, of course, wore black tuxedos, most of them rented
and many of them ill-fitted. They grumbled about procuring the required black
tie attire for the dinner, while at the same time admiring their spiffed-up
reflections in every shiny surface.
Lacey’s escort, Broadway Lamont, appeared at his most
distinguished, in a black shawl collar tuxedo, crisp white shirt, and
traditional black bow tie and cummerbund. It fit him perfectly, a major
tailoring accomplishment on his massive frame.
“Snappy tux, Broadway,” she remarked to the big man at her
side.
“I own it, too,” Lamont rumbled with a grin. “Try renting a
tux in my size some time. You’re looking pretty snappy tonight yourself.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You don’t look like someone died, at least.” He had noticed
the monochrome color palette too. “That one of your fancy, schmancy, vintagey
things?”
“Yes, it is. Fancy
and
schmancy.”
Lacey always followed a different fashion drummer. She had
chosen color, and her most treasured vintage gown. Heads turned when Lacey
strolled by in her Gloria Adams original. The shimmering blue flattered her
pale skin and enhanced her blue-green eyes.
The dress was new, yet old: timeless, a recent recreation of
a vintage design. The designer, Gloria Adams, who disappeared during World War
II, was an old friend of Lacey’s Great-aunt Mimi. Lacey found a packet of letters
and the Adams pattern in Mimi’s trunk, filled with vintage materials and
patterns and partially sewn outfits. The finished gown flirted with the limits
of the infamous Rule L-85, the US government clothing regulations instituted
during the war to save fabric for the troops. But the design and the delight
were in the details.
Gloria never saw the dress made, but she had specified silk
in Morning Glory Blue, the color of those early-morning blossoms. A small
sample of blue fabric was found attached to the pattern. Lacey’s friends
located a matching silk and shepherded the dress into reality for another event.
The bodice was low but not scandalous, and it featured a sparkling beaded
midriff with a pattern of shooting stars. The designer original fit Lacey like
a glove, as if it had been intended for her all along. A hug from a different
era, it was a big beautiful fantasy of a dress. When she slipped it on before
the dinner, she had forgotten how beautiful it looked. She silently thanked
both women, Gloria and her aunt, as if they were guardian angels. Lacey took
the dress and the silk as gifts from a time, and a woman, long past.
Despite her excitement at simply being there, Lacey felt a
hazy, oppressive atmosphere in the crowded Hilton. Perhaps it was due to the
one-hundred-percent rain outside, and the ninety-percent humidity inside. The
cocktail parties were held inside small suites, each with two doors, one to the
inside hallway, and the other leading to the patio outdoors. That patio should
have been full of partygoers as well, but the torrents of rain kept them
inside. Tonight, the only people outside, hugging the walls to keep out of the
spray, were the smokers. If the rain didn’t keep Lacey inside, the pollution
surely would.
A lot of women’s hair was exploding into frizz in the
humidity. Lacey’s honey-blond Rita Hayworth waves were firmly under control,
thanks to a tanker-truck portion of “product.” But the oppressive feeling
lingered.
“Uh oh, here comes trouble.” Detective Lamont barely lifted
his chin in the direction of the intruder. “Courtney Wallace. Channel One News.
Glossy piece of pretty poison. You know her?”
Lacey’s eyes followed his chin. “I thought she was too deeply
disgraced to cover an event like this. I wonder who her latest victim is.”
They both stared at the chirpy blond broadcast news reporter
sashaying her way across the room. Although calling Courtney Wallace a
reporter
was too kind, Lacey thought. Wallace was a prepackaged TV personality on
Channel One (their slogan: “One For All”).
She had large green eyes, a
wide mouth with gleaming Chiclet teeth and chiseled features. Her golden hair
was long, thick, and wavy. She was the girl next door gone rogue, wielding a microphone
like a cudgel.
Wallace’s claim to fame was that she had won an Emmy for some
now-forgotten, hidden-camera “gotcha” story. Forgotten, that is, by everyone
except Courtney, who mentioned it at the drop of a hat. People ducked out of
her way and dodged her microphone. The yellow-haired talking head had already
made an enemy of Broadway Lamont, capturing an off-the-record comment with a
hidden microphone and then misquoting him out of context.
Yet here she was, covering the dinner with live updates and a
cameraman. No doubt hoping for a soupçon of scandal.
Infamous for poaching other reporters’ stories, Courtney had
also been treading on Lacey’s fashion turf. Her ongoing video feature on
“Vintage Through the Decades” was a direct steal from Smithsonian’s Crime of
Fashion columns. For the past week, Courtney had been reporting nightly on local
shops where Washingtonians could inject some creativity into their wardrobes
with great vintage pieces and looks.
During each short segment, she showed off a vintage outfit of
her own: Courtney sporting a classic sweater set from the Thirties, Courtney
shimmying in a “lampshade” dress from the Fifties. This accomplished two goals:
producing a story and promoting herself. But from what Lacey had seen, she
showed no real understanding of her outfits or their context, or that the
clothes people wore revealed a multitude of stories, attitudes, and histories. Courtney
Wallace was just playing dress-up for the camera.
