10 Lethal Black Dress (11 page)

CHAPTER 13

Tuesday was much too pretty
a day for a
funeral. Courtney Wallace would probably have agreed.

Unlike so many transplants to the D.C. area, Courtney had
grown up right in Washington’s Maryland suburbs and went to college at the
University of Maryland. She lived in Washington, near Capitol Hill, and her
remains went home to be buried in Laurel, Maryland, less than twenty miles
away. The graveside service would be private, but a memorial service was open
to the public. Laurel was on the way to Baltimore, where Lacey planned to meet
Vic later.

To reach both destinations, however, Lacey had to maneuver
the infamous Highway I-295 through the District. It was a road where random
bullets and detached car parts flew indiscriminately. Lacey once witnessed, and
barely missed, an airborne hood from a speeding land yacht, an ancient American
station wagon rusting apart at the seams. The car swerved around her, the hood
barely latched and dancing up and down in the airflow. The careening wagon hit
a pothole and the rusty hood disengaged, flew off, and glided, spinning like a
scythe high above the line of cars, which dodged and dove all over the road to
escape. She pulled off just in time to avoid a roof decapitation.

Today, however, was relatively calm on I-295, and the lovely
vintage BMW that Vic had restored for her was purring flawlessly. It was dark
green, but not Paris Green. But the thought of Paris Green made her fill the upgraded
music system with Edith Piaf’s music. With no one to hear her, she sang along.

Once she made it through the crush of District traffic and
road construction, she was finally rewarded with the lovely
Baltimore-Washington Parkway, miles of good road, stone bridges, and lovely
spring-green trees, growing lusher every day in May. She could almost imagine
she wasn’t going to a funeral.

Lacey turned off on Fort Meade Road and swung into the town
of Laurel. She parked at a medium-sized nondenominational church, unadorned
except by large oak trees. She walked inside to what she assumed was the
sanctuary, a large, plain, wood-paneled room with a tile floor. There were no
pews, just plastic and metal chairs. There was no cross. Instead, there was a
carpeted platform on which a podium rested, and red curtains pulled across the
back wall. There were no candles or incense or stained glass. Lacey assumed
that some people liked that degree of austerity in a church, but it felt chilly
and soulless to her.

Several larger-than-life photos of Courtney were mounted on
easels on the platform, and sprays of orchids were set up in front of the
photos. With nothing else in the room to look at, the effect was rather like
the First Church of Courtney Wallace.

Chairs were set up in rows, half of them already filled.
Courtney’s coffin was not there, open for the curious to stare into and snap a
surreptitious photo of the body. Courtney’s family seemed prepared, as they
should be, for the shenanigans of which the press was capable. The family—her
mother and brother—and assorted aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends were seated
up front in the first two rows. Media cameras were placed off to the side.

Lacey hadn’t expected Courtney’s funeral to receive quite so
much media attention, but all the major news outlets had sent a representative.
One of their own had died and attention was due, if only briefly. Lacey even
recognized a stringer for the
National Enquirer
, whom she’d seen before.
He waved and smiled. Supermarket checkout stands would soon be filled with news
of the freak accident of the Paris Green dye.

The other newspapers were playing catchup today on the story
fashion reporter Lacey Smithsonian broke the day before. The local television
stations, including Channel One, mentioned it that night, without crediting her
original story. Conspiracy Clearinghouse pointed out that Smithsonian directed
the police to the green lining, but concluded that the medical examiner’s office
might have figured it out eventually. Lacey wondered. The M.E.’s office in D.C.
was notorious for not figuring things out. Oddly, Damon Newhouse was not there.
He still had a part-time day job at a trade association that kept him in
Washington. He’d tried to get on as a reporter at
The Eye
, but hadn’t
succeeded. Yet.

Lacey took a seat toward the back. A few heads turned her
way. She recognized Eric Park, Courtney’s photographer. He had thrown a sports
jacket over his dark shirt and pants. She also recognized Zanna Nelson, whose
press ID cards were hanging from a beaded lanyard around her neck. She was
apparently covering the event for the station. Zanna’s bow-shaped mouth was
pressed into a frown, and she seemed subdued as she took a seat next to Eric.

Lacey took a moment to study her. Zanna was wearing a navy
skirt suit with a crisp white oxford cloth shirt. She looked professional and
appropriate, if a bit too typical. She wore black flats; the quicker to chase
down a source, Lacey thought. Her long hair was pulled back into a ponytail.

You’re not here to critique the mourners’ clothes
,
Lacey reminded herself sternly. She promptly lapsed into a reverie about that
very thing.

Very few people seemed to know how to dress for funerals.
Members of the family might wear black, but the guests couldn’t be counted on
to follow suit. They might wear anything at all. Although if the family didn’t
wear black, it looked presumptuous for a virtual stranger to do so. It seemed
to say,
I mourn your loved one’s passing more than you do.

Lacey didn’t wear black. Instead, she selected a
princess-style cocoa brown dress with sheer polka-dot sleeves. It was vintage,
though not her usual period. This was an early Fifties dress, before the decade
lapsed into its homemaker aprons and lampshade frocks. The sleeves and neckline
were edged in pale pink piping, just enough color to give the outfit a bit of
dash, but not enough to be inappropriate at a funeral. She wore brown heels,
but left some pink-heeled sandals in the car for later.

A large shadow fell over her. She glanced up at the figure
blocking the fluorescent glare. Detective Broadway Lamont had come calling.
Nothing could hide his imposing figure, attired respectfully in a navy sport coat
over a navy shirt, white tie, and gray slacks. She slid over one chair so the
homicide detective could sit down next to her.

“That’s the mother,” he said in a low voice, indicating a
woman in a dark gray suit with shoulder-length ash blond hair. She looked
careworn, but the resemblance to her daughter was there. Lacey guessed her age
at mid-fifties. Mrs. Wallace was standing next to a serious young man, who
appeared to be college age. “That’s the son.”

The youth also looked like his sister, but his hair was
darker. He was tall, a few inches over six feet, Lacey guessed. He and his
mother flashed an occasional smile at fellow mourner, but a heavy weight of
sadness prevailed. A death in the family was never easy to bear, and far worse
when the deceased was young.

Lacey lowered her voice. “Why are you here, Broadway? If you
think it was an accident, and not murder, why come to the funeral?”

“Why not? Beautiful day for a drive. Shows respect. And when
Lacey Smithsonian is involved, it’s always good for a story. I bet the boys at
the office you’d be here looking for foul play. And foul clothes. Nice getup,
by the way.”

“Very funny.” She’d like to meet those other Homicide
jokesters sometime, though not during in an interrogation. “But you have to ask
yourself, Broadway, how did this happen? Where did the dress come from?”

“What did you call it? Besides lethal. The Madame X dress?”

“It’s a copy of the Madame X dress. It looks just like it,
except for the green lining and cutouts, and raising the skirt on one side.”

“Sometimes, Smithsonian, deaths don’t get solved. Sometimes
the weirdest deaths are just accidents. They make ‘News of the Weird.’ They win
the Darwin Award.”

“Perhaps the cleverest of those ‘accidents’ are actually
murder,” she countered.

“The perfect murder? No such thing, because people aren’t
perfect.”

“Then why isn’t every crime solved?”

“Because police aren’t perfect either. Too busy. Too many
bodies. Too little time.”

The chairs were small and uncomfortable and Lamont shifted in
his seat. The hall was filling up with media types.

“It wouldn’t hurt to know the sequence of events,” Lacey
said. “After all, it still involves fashion, and fashion is my business. Not
fashion with a capital F. Fashion for the rest of us. I want to know the
stories behind the clothes.”

He sat back, twisting again in the small plastic chair. “You
get anything yet?”

“I talked to the waiter who spilled the drinks.”

“You did? I didn’t.”

“He says he was pushed.”

Lamont snorted in derision. “Course he’s going to say that.
Doesn’t want to take responsibility for his own actions. Probably just tripped.”

“Will Zephron is his name. He sounded sincere, but then he is
an actor. Maybe he was just acting sincere. And when I told him Courtney was
dead, it spooked him. He thinks he’s next. Actor, you know.”

“Dramatic type, huh? Actors are a pain to interview.” They
fell into a silence of separate thoughts. Music began, a mournful bagpiper, and
the crowd hushed. A middle-aged minister in a simple gray suit opened with a
prayer. He made a few appropriate comments about Courtney Wallace and her love
of the news business, including the highlight of her career—winning an Emmy Award
for investigative reporting. He invited people to share their memories of the
deceased.

It was curious how death laid not only regret and sadness at
your feet, Lacey reflected. It also elevated the deceased in people’s eyes. Death
was often a “good career move” for artists and writers who never attained fame
in this life, but made their name in the hereafter. Courtney would now always
be young and beautiful, a woman who could have gone further, perhaps even
achieved greatness, but for her life being cut short by tragedy. She would
never grow old.

Courtney’s brother, Richard Wallace, took the podium.

“When I think of Courtney, it is never on the news or as a
television reporter. Not as a star or an Emmy Award winner. I remember my big
sister at home, playing in our sandbox with dirt on her face and skinned
knees—”

Lacey made a mental note to tell Vic.
If anything ever happens
to me, do not allow my family to speak.

A soloist sang “Amazing Grace,” a song that always left Lacey
cold. The bagpiper concluded with another Celtic tune, mournful but beautiful.
Television lights and cameras caught it all, and then it was over. The mourners
were invited to partake in refreshments in an equally uninspiring room next
door.

“What’s he doing here?” someone said, pointing to a newcomer
at the door.

Lacey followed the pointing finger. Thaddeus T. Granville,
the political operative who was the victim of Courtney’s erroneous exposé,
stood at the back of the room. Heads turned, as did cameras. The crowd hushed.
Lacey was surprised by his presence at her funeral, particularly after what
Tony had told her about the scandal. She edged close to hear what he was saying
to a TV reporter. More reporters approached him with questions. His sudden
appearance sent a ripple through the crowd. Nearly everyone in Washington had
heard, or heard of, the damning news on Channel One, but few had seen the correction.
Granville’s reputation remained tarnished.

Granville was a former congressman from Louisiana with an
unmistakable Southern-fried style and a drawl to match. Lacey thought he looked
remarkably like Mark Twain, a resemblance that surely must have been
cultivated. He was sixtyish, with a barely controlled head of curly graying
hair, thick eyebrows that seemed to fly away from his eyes in wings, and a
bushy mustache. His suit was a somber gray, but dandified by a pink shirt, pink
bowtie, and pocket hanky. He cut quite the figure for the TV cameras. Lacey pulled
out her notebook and pen.

“No hard feelings. Not now,” he was telling a Capitol Hill
reporter. “Courtney Wallace was impulsive and young. She apologized to me
personally for her unfortunate inaccuracies in reportage, and that is all water
under the bridge. Now she’s dead. A terrible accident. It’s very sad. Very
sad.”

Granville didn’t look particularly sad, though. There was an
air of triumph about him. It struck Lacey that he was quietly dancing on his
enemy’s grave, still managing to look gracious at the same time. Something
Courtney might have done in his place.

Perhaps Granville was ready to raise his profile. With his
timing and his presence, he was going to get air time on the news stations in
Washington and Baltimore. He clearly had the media hanging on his words for a
few precious moments. Lacey hadn’t planned to write a story about the funeral,
but she jotted down notes on what Granville said. When he left she slipped
outside and, in the shade of an oak, called Mac. She gave him Granville’s
quotes. She returned to the church hall.

Most of the media quickly departed. They had gotten their
story on Courtney, and a bonus with Thaddeus T. Granville. The crowd was
halved. Lacey approached Courtney’s mother and offered her condolences.

“She was so young and beautiful,” Mrs. Wallace said, lost in
a memory. “So bright, so full of promise.”

Her brother Richard nodded in agreement. Something like
exasperation crossed his face. “You’re the one,” he said. “You wrote the story
about that horrible dress.”

“I did, yes.”

“How does a thing like that happen?”

“I don’t know. I’d like to find out.”

“You’re the only one who wrote about it,” he said accusingly.
Lacey didn’t know if that was supposed to be a good thing or a bad thing.