10 Lethal Black Dress (24 page)

“Lacey thinks it’s possible her death was not an accident,”
Eve said.

Drake looked alarmed. “Not an accident? You’re not saying
someone was after her?”

“I’m just looking at what happened,” Lacey said. “Courtney
had a bumpy year. Someone planted poisoned information that damaged her career.
Journalistic hazard. People try and use us all the time. But what if someone
also engineered the poisoned fabric? Maybe the same someone.”

“Don’t look at me. I don’t know anything about fabrics and
dresses.” Rayburn laughed nervously and sloshed his beer.

 “Someone was playing dirty tricks last year,” Lacey said.
“And it wasn’t Granville.”

“Just because it couldn’t be proven, doesn’t mean Granville
wasn’t up to his usual nasty tricks. He’s always guilty of something. Only not
this time. Apparently not, I mean,” Drake finished awkwardly.
For coming on
so smooth,
Lacey thought,
this guy sure rattles easily.

“Drake has a point,” Eve said. “And the senator did win.”

“Just barely. Not to mention the collateral damage.”

Drake took a deep breath and patted Eve’s hand. “If you ask
me, Granville came out of it pretty sweet. He’s making a lot of money with all
his media-bashing lectures. He goes on TV to play the celebrity victim on talk
shows. Besides, Courtney and I weren’t really going out then. I mean, we’d gone
out a few times. We didn’t make it exclusive until later and that didn’t last
long.”

“You were dating when the scandal broke.”

“Off and on.” He swallowed some beer. “Not exactly dating.
You know.”

“Hooking up?” she asked. Drake nodded, looking away.
Granville
was right
, Lacey thought. “Were you her source for that story? Knowing it
would fall apart and discredit her?”

“No! Besides, what a risky maneuver that would have been! You’d
have to be out of your mind to try that. Anyway, I mean, Courtney was always
asking questions. She was a newshound. But she didn’t know what ‘off the
record’ meant, and she was careless. I assume she overheard some crazy rumor
and just ran with it.” He looked as panicky as anyone could with a forehead
full of paralyzing Botox.

Drake echoed what Tony told her: Courtney reported whatever
she heard, without confirmation. Motive for murder?

“Maybe someone didn’t appreciate her lack of discretion.”

“What are you getting at, Lacey?” Eve demanded. “Someone
planned all of it, all the way back? And if Courtney was a target for being on
the investigative team, then I could be a target now too?” She looked
conflicted, horrified at the thought of being in someone’s crosshairs, but
intrigued by the attention.

“Who knows? I’d watch my back if I were you, Eve. You have to
look at all the possibilities to get to the heart of the story.” Lacey thought
she’d given them something to think about, but nothing they shouldn’t have
thought about already. “I have to run. Thanks for the chat.”

What did I get here?
Except gossip about Drake
Rayburn’s unnaturally smooth forehead, and the impression that he might not be
the brightest graduate of lobbying school. He certainly acted like a man with
things to hide, but then he was a Washington political operative, so that came with
the territory. If he was the one who planted the fateful scandal story, knowing
it would be discredited, his target was probably Swansdown or Granville, not
Courtney. After all, he was working for Swansdown’s opponent. Or was damaging
Courtney along the way just a twofer?

Eve, on the other hand, was very bright, and very careful.
And a little afraid. Of what? That Lacey would scoop her on the story? Or find
out something more damaging? Or was she dogging Lacey’s steps and worried Lacey
would find out?

“Hey, one last question,” Lacey asked as she stood to go.
“Did you two take a trip up to Baltimore after Courtney’s funeral service? To a
little vintage store?”

“No! No, we didn’t. Not us.” Drake and Eve shared a guilty
look.

Lacey walked to the door of the tavern without a backward
glance.

Jealousy was always epidemic in Washington, D.C. Lacey
thought of Peter Johnson, trying to sabotage her story out of pure jealousy,
and her stomach turned. It might not be exactly the same situation, but Lacey
and Courtney might have had something in common.

Among its aliases, jealousy is called the Green-Eyed
Monster. Was the Green-Eyed Monster that hunted Courtney that particular shade
known as Paris Green?

CHAPTER 30

The Somerset art gallery was
on lower
King Street in Old Town Alexandria, just blocks from the river. Although it looked
small from the street, the space was deceptively large. Located in a historic
building with wide plank floors and handsome molding, the rooms rambled back to
the alley and into the storefront space next door. For this warm spring
evening, the colonial-era fireplace focal point was filled with an extravagant
bouquet of flowers.

Visiting an art gallery always made Lacey feel arty, and her
chandelier earrings fit her mood. She changed into comfortable black slacks, a
black silk top, and sandals, and because it was a little chilly, she added the
beautiful vintage gold jacket. She walked the mile to the gallery in the heart
of Old Town. Brooke would be happy to give her a ride home after dark. The young
barrister was no doubt breaking speed limits on the George Washington Parkway,
but Lacey still beat her to the gallery.

The exhibit featured the work of three artists, one
established, one new to the scene, and one who had almost disappeared from
memory, all local to Northern Virginia. Lacey wasn’t familiar with any of them.
One painted childlike landscapes that played with perspective, featuring tall
skinny trees and whimsical creatures. Another’s work was aggressively abstract,
and the third had made her reputation as a ‘modern Impressionist,’ at least
according to the notes next to the paintings.

A table near the entrance held refreshments, the ubiquitous
art gallery wine, cheese, and crackers. Lacey picked up a plastic glass of
white wine that was not terrible, but not good either. She briefly wondered why
so many receptions offered mediocre chardonnay.
Perhaps because it’s cheap
enough to give away.
On the other hand, the cheese was excellent.
Aha
,
she noted from a small sponsorship sign,
the Cheesetique scores again.

Bright lights drew her attention to the rear of the gallery,
and Lacey followed the lights. The gallery director was being interviewed on
camera by two more of her favorite persons of interest. Zanna Nelson might not
have what it took to be a star broadcaster, but she was wielding the microphone
and Eric Park was her cameraman.

I can’t seem to get away from these people.
Lacey
watched until they wrapped it up. Who was following whom? Were they the mystery
“copycats” who followed her to Baltimore? But Eric Park would have mentioned
that to her, wouldn’t he? Or was it Nelson with some other partner? Or Eve and
Drake? They’d all look a little “boring” to Vintage Veronica at Killer Stash.

Lacey waved to Eric when their few seconds of on-camera time
were over and the bright video lights were turned off. His hands were full of
equipment, but he acknowledged her with a smile and a nod. Zanna Nelson handed
Eric her mike and stopped short when she saw Lacey.

“Hey there, Smithsonian. We seem to be crossing paths these
days. That’s quite a jacket. Looks old.”

“Vintage is the term. What’s the story here tonight?”

“Just another gallery opening. Feature for tomorrow morning’s
Wake Up Washington,” Eric said. “You’ve been busy with that dress story. White
lining? Green lining? I thought you were going to tip me off.”

“I said I’d tip you off if you were in danger,” Lacey
countered with a smile. “Wear any green dresses lately?”

“What have you two been up to?” Zanna asked, looking from one
to the other.

“We had coffee yesterday,” Eric said, laughing. “Waiting for
Eve to get manicured. Beige, you know.”

“Interestingly enough,” Lacey said, “this jacket came from
the collection of the same woman who first owned the Madame X dress.”

“No way!” Eric’s eyes opened wide.

“So is that what you call a fashion clue on your beat?” Zanna
reached toward the jacket, but pulled her hand back. “Better be careful this
one hasn’t been dyed with poison too.” She checked her watch. “Gotta run. We
have to get back to the station. Come on, Eric.”

“Lacey, we’ll talk,” Eric yelled over his shoulder on their
way out the door. He sped up to match Nelson’s trot.

“Lacey!” Brooke rushed in through the front doors moments
after they rushed out, looking flushed and lawyerly in her navy pinstriped
suit, relieved by a yellow blouse and matching pocket hanky. “Sorry I’m late.
The Parkway was a parking lot.”

“You’re not, really. I just got here. I walked along the
river. First relaxing moment all day.”

“Hey, great jacket. I sense the sexy vibes of your latest
vintage purchase.”

“Let me tell you about it.” Lacey showed it off for Brooke
and held forth on the stitching, the beading, and the versatility of her
new-yet-old gabardine jacket.

Brooke and Lacey had been fast friends ever since Lacey had arrived
in D.C. four years before. At the time, Brooke seemed quirky but almost normal,
for a conspiracy-obsessed Washington lawyer. What’s a little conspiracy between
friends? However, since falling for Damon Newhouse, Brooke, who once held
whatever Lacey told her in confidence, was turning into Damon’s eyes and ears.

“Any
new
news?” Brooke asked.

“Depends on what you mean by news. Everything I know is in
today’s paper.”

Lacey wasn’t about to share with Brooke her new idea that
Courtney may have been targeted by persons unknown long before the White House
Correspondents’ Dinner. She’d hit Eve and Drake with it, to gauge their
reactions. But she didn’t want to see Damon use it on DeadFed before she had a
chance to explore her theory.

“Uh huh. Not even a scrap of gossip?”

“After this week, my brain is empty. What’s up with you? Are
you all right?”

“I don’t know. I’m feeling bored, Lacey.”

“With Damon, or the lack of a good new conspiracy to pursue?
Tired of time travel? Bored with Bigfoot? ”

“You can joke. I’m never bored with Damon. We’re on the same
frequency, somehow. I guess I just need a change of pace. A vacation.”

“Is that why you suggested the art show?” Lacey asked. “A
mini vacation for the evening?”

“More or less. A client sent me a postcard for the exhibit.
She’s a collector, so it won’t hurt for me to look prepped, knowledgeable. When
I realized the Somerset Gallery was right here in Old Town, I thought of you.
And you and I haven’t gotten together recently. I miss you.”

“Me too. I’m glad you suggested it. This is such a pretty
place,” Lacey said. “Do you know any of the artists?”

“Nope. I don’t get modern art anyway. Or post-modern art. No
use pretending. I know what I like when I see it. I like paintings to look like
something.” They stopped to contemplate an abstract canvas, a spray of crimson
on a pavement-gray background. “I’d rather not look at something that resembles
blood spatter, unless it
is
blood spatter. And then only if it proves my
client didn’t do it. If I had such a client.”

“I’m with you. Who needs pointless blood spatter? You might
as well watch TV and destroy your attention span. But I do like those.” Lacey
strolled over to a dreamy landscape, one of the Impressionist paintings. “Look
at the colors. No blood spatter in this.”

“I can get behind this one,” Brooke agreed. “It reminds me of
someplace. But I have to stand back a bit. And squint my eyes. Oh, very nice.”

Lacey was drawn to the landscape. There was a river in the
painting, a ribbon of bright emerald green. Marie Largesse’s cryptic warning
about a green river, delivered via Kepelov, echoed in her head. But how could a
random painting fit the jigsaw puzzle of a deadly dress?
It’s just the color
,
she told herself.

There were those who claimed that no one, with all of the
twenty-first century’s technology at their fingertips, had managed to find an
exact match for the legendary emerald hue of Paris Green. Yet the brilliant
greens of this landscape came close. They evoked the shimmering green of the
lining of the Madame X dress.

“What does the program say about the artist?” Lacey asked.

Brooke read from her brochure. “ ‘The artist, Jillian
Hopewell, followed in the footsteps of the great Impressionists. Inspired
particularly by Cezanne, she worked diligently in her relatively short life to
approximate the master’s color palette and his love of the color green.’ It is
very green.”

“Is that it? That’s all?”

“Just that the artist died almost three decades ago, in her
forties, and lived and worked in Great Falls, Virginia. There are five pieces
of hers here. You like it?”

“I do. Very much.”

“This one costs two thousand dollars,” Brooke said. “Shall I
have them wrap it to go?”

“I believe I can admire it from afar.”

Lacey picked up a brochure and a postcard for herself. Brooke
returned to the refreshment table for some cheese. She took a sip from her
plastic glass of chardonnay and blinked. “Oh my.”

“That’s what I thought,” Lacey said.

“I don’t know where they get that stuff. But they serve it
everywhere.” She put the glass on the cleanup tray and glanced back at the
painting that Lacey admired. “You know, that color reminds me of Courtney’s
dress.”

“Yes, it does. A bit.”

They examined Jillian Hopewell’s other paintings. All
landscapes, some larger and some smaller. All featured heavy doses of green.

“I’m curious, Lacey. Where did you hear about Paris Green in
the first place? I never heard of it before your story in
The Eye
, and I
read all sorts of bizarre stuff.”

Lacey shrugged. “College. I took a class on costume history
from the theatre department. I took it as a lark, as an antidote to all those
dreary math requirements freshman year. And I loved it. It was a great class.”

Lacey explained to Brooke that she’d found the course
fascinating, every minute of it, from sumptuary laws which forbade certain
clothing to various classes and sexes, to the strange career of Paris Green,
also known as copper acetoarsenite. Bits and pieces of clothing and costume lore
stayed with her, and after Broadway Lamont confirmed for her that Courtney’s
dress lining was dyed with the toxic pigment, Lacey had done a little more
research.

Paris Green was so called, supposedly, because it had been
used to kill rats in Paris sewers, but it was also lethal to everything from mosquitos
to human beings. Throughout the nineteenth century it was found in fabric dyes,
artist’s pigments, wallpaper, fireworks, and even candy wrappers, and in
pesticides well into the twentieth century. But Paris Green was too dangerous.
It had been off the market in any form for decades.

However, if a landscape painter like this Jillian Hopewell got
her hands on the basic ingredients, perhaps she could have mixed it herself.
After
all, where there’s a will, there’s a way.
Lacey had watched a video on
YouTube demonstrating how to make Paris Green and other highly toxic pigments.
Maybe
not the most dangerous thing on YouTube,
she decided,
but it’ll do.

Lacey looked again at the Impressionist painting of a river
in the woods in springtime. It wasn’t set in Cezanne’s world, but closer to
home. When she stepped further away, spots of blue became flowers, almost a
carpet of them. It reminded Lacey of Riverbend Park, on the Potomac River
upstream from D.C., which erupted in the spring in masses of blue flowers:
Virginia bluebells. The bluebells would be thick in the park right about now.
Maybe she could convince Vic to see them with her.

“I suppose you’ll be looking at everything through green
lenses now until you figure it out,” Brooke said. Her inner prosecutor was popping
out. “Isn’t that right?”

Lacey smiled. “I think I know where this landscape was
painted. That’s all.”

Riverbend Park lay above Great Falls on the Virginia side of
the Potomac. And while sunny weather on a spring weekend would bring the crowds
out to Great Falls, Riverbend was much less well-known, a little more remote, a
little more secluded.

The last of the sunlight was sifting through the front
windows of the gallery. Lacey could probably make the trip to Riverbend Park
tomorrow, she realized. Her weekend was free of
The Eye
and Vic promised
he was all hers Saturday and Sunday. A picnic among the bluebells might not
solve the mystery of where the artist’s pigment came from, but perhaps she
could see that familiar landscape from the artist’s perspective. And forget
about The Dress for a while. After all, even if the dress was somehow deliberately
engineered to kill Courtney, the motive seemed obviously personal. There was no
reason to suspect someone was systematically targeting Channel One
broadcasters, or anyone else, no matter what Eve and Eric might worry.

“Yoo-hoo. Calling Planet Lacey. So where is it?” Brooke
interrupted her reverie.

“Riverbend Park, up above Great Falls.”

“You can tell me all about it over dinner. How about that
Thai restaurant by the waterfront with the great mojitos?”

“The one overlooking the river? I love that place.”

“Let’s go. I have to get the taste of this cheap wine out of
my mouth.”

#

Later that evening, back in her apartment, Lacey searched the
Internet for Jillian Hopewell. Information on her was scant. There was a very brief
biography on Wikipedia, consisting mostly of the information that was printed
on the postcard. The artist was born in Virginia, traveled the world, and
returned to her roots before she started painting. There was nothing about her
background. Her Impressionist paintings featured locations in Virginia, where
she made her home, and the best known were her “Riverbend Series of landscapes.”
She was never famous, but she was remembered among Virginia artists and
collectors and had carved out a small, satisfying career. Or at least that’s
the way it sounded.