10 Lethal Black Dress (25 page)

One thing that stood out was Jillian Hopewell’s admiration
for Cezanne, who often used Paris Green in his art. Lacey pulled that thread on
the Internet and found that Cezanne’s chronic ill health was attributed by some
to the toxic pigment. Several days before he died, he had been working outside
for hours in a downpour. He collapsed and never recovered. His death was
attributed to pneumonia. But Lacey wondered if there was another contributing
factor.

Simple pneumonia—or Paris Green?

CHAPTER 31

It was late Saturday morning
when Lacey
stopped at her favorite deli in Old Town and packed a picnic lunch into the car:
a variety of sandwiches, ham and brie, roast beef, mozzarella and tomato,
chicken salad, potato salad, pickles. She added chips and apples and sodas, and
a couple of brownies for dessert. She loaded it all into her little BMW and
drove to Vic’s townhouse. She surprised him.

“You want me to see the bluebells? I think I already saw one
once.” Vic greeted her at the door, yawning, barefoot, and shirtless, in
nothing but a pair of old jeans that fit in all the right places. He was sleepy
from babysitting his company’s computers half the night. His dark hair still
damp from the shower, it curled around his neck and one dark curl fell over his
forehead.

She almost lost her desire for a romp in the woods. There
might be other romps to be had. She kissed him, backing him up to the door.

“Late night?” she asked.

“Yeah. System crash.”

“What about
my
system? I had no one to crash with. Besides,
you’re not the tech guy.”

He rubbed his eyes. “No, but we geniuses in the security
business have to guard against even the hint of someone planting a bug in the
computer. Or spyware, or whatever. So even though I trust these guys, I had to
hang out with them till the cows came home. And you? Have a good time with
Brooke last night? Plotting something? Zombie takeover of the world?”

“Been there, done that. But I kept thinking about you. So I
packed this great picnic. You and me?”

“And the mosquitos?”

“Lounging on a plaid flannel blanket under the trees. And bug
repellent.”

“Dining in the wilderness. I get it. The bluebells are
calling you.”

“Come with me, Vic, honey. Just the two of us.”

“Promise?”

She kissed him. “Cross my heart.”

“When you put it that way… I guess I’m coming along. How’s
the car?”

“Full of goodies. And I’m driving.”

It was a pretty drive up the river and through the woods, and
past the ever-proliferating suburban mansions. The week’s hard rains had
cleared away the thick humidity of early summer, and the scent of the
fresh-washed woods was delicious. She and Vic emptied the trunk at the tiny
parking lot of Riverbend Park, with the Potomac River gleaming in the sun just
a few yards away. He lugged the cooler.

“What did you pack in here? Gold bullion?”

“Just the food. And drinks. It’s full of ice.”

“For the record, ice is heavy.”

Lacey picked up the blanket and tote bag with plastic
glasses, plates, and silverware. They marched to the picnic grounds. She was
just happy he was here with her, and it was a beautiful day.

The Potomac at Riverbend was deceptively flat and serene,
just a mile above where it tumbled over the wicked rocks at Great Falls. Down
by the river, the delicate blossoms of the Virginia bluebells were small, but
the plants grew thick and they wound through the woods, creating rivers of
larkspur blue among spring-green leaves. There would be time for a picnic and a
walk around the park, up the river and over the hills, past the little pond in
the woods.

They opted against setting up on the lawn, which was still
soggy from the week’s rains. Lacey spread her flannel blanket from the trunk of
her little BMW over a picnic table. She sat on the bench and watched her fiancé.
Her heart caught when he grinned at her. She set the table and laid out the
feast.

“Good stuff. Why, Lacey, are you trying to seduce me?”

“I don’t have to try, big fella.”

“You remembered the potato salad?”

“And potato chips, just in case.”

“A woman after my heart.”

“Sorry, no fries. Just so you know, Vic darling, it is not a
federal law that you must have some sort of fried potato with every sandwich.”

“Says you. I’ve got Irish in my blood, I need my spuds. This
looks wonderful. What’s the saying about the way to a man’s heart? Through his
stomach?”

“Let’s just keep the organs in their proper places.” Lacey
was glad the park seemed so quiet and uncrowded. She wanted Vic to herself.

“You brought enough for an army.”

“I wasn’t sure what you wanted. I can always take the
leftovers to work. Feed them to Felicity, for a change.”

She opened an herbal tea and poured it into a plastic goblet.
Vic gazed into the green distance behind her.

“By the way, why are we here?” he said. “Still on the Madame
X beat?”

“Off the beat today. I just want to let my mind wander. And
my feet.”

“Good. Not that I don’t love hearing about patterns and
fabrics and killer dye.” He picked up half a roast beef sandwich. “Tasty. You
make good deli, darling.”

“I’m the best.” She selected a ham and brie sandwich.
“Actually, I need inspiration. I need the bluebells. I need to think. If you
close your eyes just a bit, you can imagine this whole scene as a painting.”

“That painting is getting crowded. We’ve got company.” He
stared at something beyond her shoulder.

He’s kidding.
She frowned, but didn’t look. “Don’t
tease me.”

“I wish.” Now Vic was frowning.

“Inspiration! Always a good idea.” The speaker was Russian.
He was directly behind her.

“Kepelov?” Lacey spun around to see Gregor Kepelov in a polo
shirt, plaid shorts, and a pair of running shoes. Perched incongruously on his
large round head and short cropped hair was a cowboy hat.

“At your service, Smithsonian. Donovan, good to see you.”

Just behind him was Marie Largesse. In this setting, the
woods, the flowers and the river, Marie looked like a fugitive from a Russian
fairy tale. Or at least what Lacey assumed to be a Russian fairy tale. Sweet-faced
Marie was lush and zaftig, and her long black hair, curlier than ever, fanned
out as if electrified by the river’s current. Her eyes were large and dark and
her lips red. She wore a dress of blues and purples and, in case it was chilly,
she carried over her shoulder her prized possession, a hand-embroidered Russian
shawl given to her by her fiancé. It had been handed down through the Kepelov
family and was said to be haunted. Marie was not Russian, she was part Cajun
and hailed from New Orleans, but she said she could feel the lives of the Kepelov
women stitched into it.

What are they doing here?

“Now, cher, don’t get mad at me,” Marie said. “I told Gregor
you’d be here. Crashing your party was my idea.”

“And you knew—how?” Vic asked.

Marie tapped the side of her head and smiled.

“Right. Psychic,” Lacey said. “Then you probably knew this
was supposed to be a romantic afternoon for us. Not that you’re not welcome.
You want a sandwich?”

“Some things are more important than romance,” Kepelov said.
“Though I love romance, life is more important. We are here to protect you. Not
that Victor Donovan is not a great protector. Marie convinced me to come.”

“Thanks a lot, Marie,” Lacey said. Marie laughed and sat next
to her on the bench. The newcomers eyed the spread.

“Potato salad?” Kepelov asked. “What kind?”

“Help yourselves,” Vic said, amused. “Lacey brought enough
for everybody. She must be psychic too.”

“Y’all didn’t know why you brought all this, did you?” Marie
said. “Now you know.”

No brown-bagging it this week
, Lacey thought.

Kepelov selected a chicken salad sandwich and made himself at
home. “It is good to be with friends. You don’t say it on the outside, Lacey
Smithsonian, but you know we are good friends. Our lives are entwined. You, me,
Marie, Vic, all of us. Stella too.”

“Kepelov, you’re beginning to sound just like Marie,” she
responded. “And you’re right, I don’t really say it on the outside. Or the
inside.”

“Okay. We’re all friends. We knew that already,” Vic added.
“But can we get to the point? What’s this about protecting Lacey?”

“Marie had another vision,” Kepelov said matter-of-factly,
munching one of their sandwiches.

“I’m so sorry, Marie. Did you faint?” Lacey asked. She felt
Vic beside her tense ever so slightly.

“No, no, not this time,” Marie said. “I am learning from Olga
and Gregor how to stay with the vision but keep my distance, and not be so
afraid that I lose consciousness.”

“Olga scares her more than the spirit world,” Gregor said.

“Gregor, cher, Olga scares everyone, even you. And, Lacey, I
became very dizzy and frightened for you. You were caught in a green river.”

“I’m sorry, Marie. I know you mean well, it’s just—” Lacey
gazed at the bluebells. “How could anything seem threatening on a day like
this?”

“Yes, I know, a perfect afternoon for a stroll with the one
you love. I felt compelled to warn you.”

A phone call wouldn’t do?
Lacey wondered.

“I thought in person was best,” Marie said, as if answering
the unasked question.

“Okay. What was the vision?”

“Paris Green. You were being washed away down the river. In a
river of that color green.”

They all looked at the broad, quiet river. There was a thick
layer of floating pollen on the calm places. It created a bright green haze on
the water, like one of the shades in Jillian Hopewell’s Riverbend painting.
Lacey’s spine contracted with chills. She willed them to go away. The chills
laughed at her and stayed. The river up here looked placid enough, but it was
deceptive. The current swept relentlessly downstream toward the dangerous rocks
of Great Falls.

“Tell me more about the vision, Marie,” Lacey said. “Please.”

“Well, let me recollect.” Marie closed her eyes and took a
deep breath. “You were walking in this park. Among the trees. Among the
bluebells. And a lovely but poisonous cloud of emerald green liquid—you know,
if clouds could be liquid—came upon you violently, and pushed you. You fell and
skidded down the hillside into the water. Now, when I say a cloud, I think that
image represents something else. Could be a person, could be—I don’t know.
Something else.”

That was the problem with Marie’s psychic visions, Lacey
thought, they were a visual puzzle. They could mean anything. Or nothing at
all.

Vic drew Lacey close. “Where was I?”

“You were following her, to your own doom, sucked down into
that place from which no one returns. I started to choke, you see. I couldn’t
breathe because you couldn’t breathe. I pulled out of it. So that was all I
saw. But I didn’t faint.”

Lacey reached out and squeezed Marie’s hand. “Thank you.”

On the one hand, Marie’s prophesies always seemed crazy,
except when they were weather predictions. On the other hand—her crazy visions
did sometimes come true.

Kepelov cleared his throat. “You told Victor you were
thinking.” His cool blue stare was unsettling. “Thinking about what? The
dress?”

“I came to be with Vic. I’m a little tired of that dress. And
who knows, the medical examiner’s office will probably have it destroyed,
eventually.”

“But you have some of the lining material. And not to worry
about the dress. I am in negotiations.”

“What negotiations?”

“With family of dead woman. Museum I know is very interested
in the dress. Middleman position is tricky, but often pays handsomely.”

“You approached Courtney’s family to buy the dress she died
in?” Lacey was appalled. “I can’t believe the M.E.’s office would actually let
it go. It’s dangerous! And you want to buy it from them? How could you?”

“This is a problem? The family do not want the dress.
Understandable. But they have a right to demand it. If they have a good lawyer,
and a good reason, and now they do. Yes, Mrs. Wallace said many things about the
dress. She hated it, it is evil, it should be destroyed. And I, Kepelov,
pointed out that Courtney Wallace would not want her legacy to disappear after
death. The dress is part of her legacy. A lesson, a warning. Her mother started
to listen. She changed her mind. She is working with me.”

“You have some Russian nerve there, Kepelov,” Vic said with a
smile.

“True. I am not shy. Also I can be charming,” Kepelov gave an
elaborate shrug. “Courtney Wallace—her death was tragic. But! She died young
and beautiful and well-dressed and doing what she loved. Approximately. Her
Madame X dress, if displayed appropriately in proper setting, can tell that
story. What better legacy for Ms. Courtney Wallace? Better she should be
forgotten?”

“Lacey,” Marie broke in, “her spirit wants to live on in
memory, and she wants the truth to be found. She has no problem with thousands
of people at a museum seeing that dress and learning about her death. She was
in the public eye in life, after all. She doesn’t want to leave it.”

Very convenient excuse
.

“Also consider. At time like this,” Kepelov continued, “her
family needs money. Her insurance policy from her work? Won’t last forever.”

“You know this how?” Lacey asked.

“General knowledge.”

“You’re a ghoul, Kepelov.”

“Gregor, remember?” He took no offense. “Not a ghoul. A
middleman who can make some good come out of a bad end for all concerned. Her
story is a cautionary tale for the world: Don’t wear poison dress. Don’t get it
wet. And perhaps: Watch the waiter when you have enemies.”

Lacey snorted. “Who’s the buyer?”

“You will be happy to hear. Famous American museum.” He
beamed at them. “I resisted urge to sell to Russian museum, run by ex-KGB
acquaintance. Old friend, but the trust is gone.”

“Aha! The Crime and Punishment Museum?” Lacey prodded.

“Cannot confirm or deny until it is done deal, as they say.
Are you going to finish that potato salad?” Vic handed it over. “Tell us why we
are here, Lacey Smithsonian.”

“Can’t I be here just because it’s beautiful and the weather
is perfect for a quiet, romantic evening?”