10 Lethal Black Dress (31 page)

“You want me to make a wild assumption without basing it on
facts?” she asked. He didn’t answer.

Mac asked, “Are you taking this anonymous call seriously,
Detective?”

“I seem to remember being there at the Correspondents’ Dinner
with Smithsonian. It would take some kind of nerve to plan a twisted piece of
killing with me right there as a witness. Nor did I see her slamming into the
waiter who doused the suspect with the drinks. Smithsonian was as shocked as
anyone when it happened. I know shock. I’ve been at this a while, folks. I
listen to my gut. She felt something was up. That’s her special voodoo. Then
she goes off hunting for the origin of said dress and she found someone
switched the lining out. Then she writes about it. Keeps at it. So if she’s a
killer, she’s one crazy-ass murderer, thumbing her nose at a homicide
detective. Besides all that, she’s got a pretty good alibi for most of that
night: Me.”

“Sorry you came with me to the Correspondents’ Dinner,
Broadway?” Lacey asked.

“Hell no. It was a treat. You make it out of this alive,
imagine the story I get to tell the boys at the office. I hope this whack job
with the tip surfaces. We get calls all the time. People confessing to crimes
they didn’t commit. Cranks dropping a dime on some guy who crossed them in
traffic. Big difference here? This crime ain’t been labeled a crime. Maybe this
person knows it’s a murder and has inside information, personal information.
Maybe this person just hates fashion. Or Smithsonian. At any rate, you’re not
in my crosshairs as a suspect. No more than the rest of the world, that is. On
principle.”

“So I’m in the clear?”

“If you call being attacked with a flying rock being in the
clear,” he said.

“This is ridiculous,” Mac said. “It’s the fashion beat, not
the crime beat. Not the political beat. Not even the sports beat, which could
always get someone in trouble.”

“That’s the word,” Lamont agreed. “Smithsonian is a magnet
for trouble.”

“You took the words out of my mouth,” Mac said.

There was a beat of silence. The detective got to his feet.

“Smithsonian. Stay well. Any more trouble, you call me. Any
solid info, you call me. Any voodoo hunches, you call me.”

Lacey saluted him as he left the conference room. Mac
gestured for Lacey to stay. Trujillo made no move to go.

“I have to write a follow-up to the story,” Lacey said.

“Another one? What’s this one going to do?” Mac said. “Cause
a showdown on the street at high noon?”

“Maybe I’ll just type up my notes, until I have more.”

“It’s a plan.”

“What about Peter Johnson, Mac? He’s already tried to
sabotage my work.”

Mac breathed deeply. “He’s on leave, as you know. I would
have fired him, if I could. The Guild, you know. He’s a jerk, but I don’t think
he could do this. Lamont says the caller was a woman. Trying to put on an
accent.”

“Johnson’s not that creative,” Trujillo said. “Does he even have
any female friends he could coerce into a prank call? I don’t think he has any
female friends, period.”

Lacey wasn’t sure that made things any better. Johnson was
the devil she knew. Now there were devils out there she didn’t know.

“Listen, I have a few leads to follow. I have to get back to
work.”

“Dangerous leads?” Mac frowned.

“Just some calls. I think I found out where the dress came
from. In the beginning. I have an old magazine article and a picture of the
woman who probably had it made. If I’m right, it dates from just before the
Second World War. It might round out the story.”

“Work your leads. Aside from Johnson, you got any idea who
might be naming you in this woman’s death?”

“Not really. Courtney didn’t have a lot of friends, but she
had lots of enemies. Maybe I’m on that list now.” On Friday Lacey ran into Zanna
and Eric at the art show and slightly tipped her hand to Eve Farrand and Drake
Rayburn. She was attacked by a rock on Saturday. Coincidence? “Thaddeus
Granville hated her, but he seems to be okay with me, and I don’t see him
chasing after me in the woods with a rock like a caveman. On the other hand, he
seems to know more about fashion than anyone else.”

Mac reached for the last doughnut on the plate. “Long as it’s
on topic. By the way, you got a fashion column this week?”

“How about the high price of beauty, or something like that?”

“You got a knack. And you two, I’ve got other news. The
galleys are in.”

“The galleys? Are you talking about the book?”

“
Terror at Timberline
?” Trujillo asked.

“I have a set for each of you. I need them proofed ASAP. It’s
only two hundred and fifty pages. A walk in the park.”

“Proofreading? Snooze.” Trujillo stood up. “I hear the police
beat calling me.”

“Galleys are on my desk, with your names on them,” Mac said.
“Pick up a set. I need them back by the end of the week, no later. I mean it,
Trujillo. This is
our
book I’m talking about here! If you don’t want to
help, then I guess you don’t want your name on the cover.”

“Aye, aye, captain. I’m on it. Lead on.” Tony was right on
Mac’s heels as they left the conference room.

Lacey suspected Trujillo just wanted to make sure his section
of the book was as
important
as hers.

Lacey Smithsonian’s FASHION
BITES

The
High Price of the Pursuit of Beauty

If every dress tells a story, what
story would a poisoned dress tell? In the strange case of the Paris Green
pigment, the story says: If you
dye,
you could
die
.

In folklore,
myth, and history, the present of the pretty poison is a popular parable. Wicked
witches are forever handing poisoned apples to Sleeping Beauties. Sixteenth century
French Queen
Catherine
de’ Medici was said to have sent a pair of perfumed and poisoned gloves to a
rival, who subsequently died. But then, Catherine (and wicked witches) didn’t
have modern weapons at her fingertips.

The pursuit
of beauty through the ages—even today—is fraught with potential hazards we
ignore at our peril. We like to say that dresses have
killer style
. We
don’t usually mean that literally. But countless women throughout the centuries
have dallied unaware with dangerous modes of dressing. They have pushed the
envelope to enhance their beauty and suffered the consequences, from tight-laced
corsets that strangled them, to foot binding that crippled them, to belladonna
that blinded them, to pretty green dyes that sickened and killed.

You might think
all that is a thing of the past—but is it?

Are Fashion Hazards Lurking
in Your Closet?

While your
clothes may not contain traditional poison dyes (or then again, they might),
they could be harboring other chemicals that can damage your health. Could your
favorite blue jeans affect your human genes? Could your wrinkle-free clothes
make your skin crawl?

Nonylphenol
Ethoxylates (NPEs) are used as surfactants in clothing and can
disrupt hormones and allegedly
affect fertility.
Phthalates
are used in plastics as softeners, but they also appear in cosmetics and
perfumes. They have been associated with endocrine disruption, leading to the
development of breast cancer, obesity, and other adverse health effects
. Formaldehyde, used both to
preserve bodies and in “sizing” to keep clothes wrinkle-free, can irritate skin
and cause allergic reactions. Yikes!

But the
hazards don’t stop there. Your feet can trip you up as well.

We don’t
bind our feet anymore. Or do we?
You want to stand on your own two feet, but sometimes that’s a little difficult
with today’s fashionable shoes. They are sometimes
cruel shoes.
They are
often too high, too pointed, and too tight. They can squeeze the bones in your
feet, causing pain and numbness, a condition known as Morton’s neuroma. High
heels can permanently tighten the Achilles tendon and cause hammertoes and
bunions. There’s more, but isn’t that enough to make you pause before your next
purchase of those delectable high-heeled stilettos? Yes, they look dangerously
sexy, but your feet may really be the ones in danger.

You adore
your flip-flops. You can buy them in any color or pattern, cover them in
rhinestones, coordinate them with your pedicure, and wear them at the beach.
They’re so cute, so adorable, so easy to wear. They’re great—if you want heel
pain, plantar fasciitis, stubbed toes, sprained ankles, and stress fractures.
That is, unless you are among the lucky minority of people who can’t stand
having something between their toes. We are the flip-flops immune, and we pass
them by.

Corsets
were once all the rage, and they are once again.
I’m sure we’ve all heard about the
hazards of corsets that previous generations of women wore to create those
highly prized wasp-waist profiles and hourglass silhouettes. These whale-boned
wonders could bruise internal organs, including the liver, spleen, and kidneys.
They constricted the diaphragm, making it difficult to breathe, while creating that
tradition of romantic
swooning
that previous centuries were so famous
for. But that couldn’t happen today, could it?

Hello,
shapewear—that miracle of stretch! These skintight wetsuit-like undergarments
can also strangle your insides, just like corsets, and cause great discomfort,
as well as numbness in your legs. In some cases, they can even cause blood clots.
Additionally, they are what is technically known as
silly looking
. An
old-fashioned merry widow or long-line bra, in luscious lace, is much more
attractive and easier to wear. But whatever shapewear style you prefer, be
smart. Wear it sparingly, where and when it counts to perfect a certain look, not
every hour of every day.

The eyes
are the mirror of the soul.
We want them to be big and beautiful. Belladonna, derived from deadly
nightshade, was used by women during the Renaissance to dilate their eyes,
giving them that sexy sixteenth-century come-hither look. Belladonna could also
result in blindness, not to mention brain damage. While this herb has some modern
medicinal applications as well, it can be deadly if misused.

Today,
contact lenses are a godsend for both eyesight and beauty. However, if they are
not used correctly, they can damage your vision, cause eye irritation, and
infections. And that isn’t very pretty, is it?

Fashion’s
fools follow every fad, whether good or bad. These fools are never the best
dressed, because they don’t listen to their instinct: the little voice inside
that says, “That thing looks ridiculous on you! And it’s killing me!” Listen to
your inner voice. Be aware of what you wear and how it affects your health, as
well as your style.

Don’t be
fashion’s fool.

CHAPTER 38

The woman on the other
end of the
phone, Lizzie Howard Ferguson, the granddaughter of Betty Lionsgate Howard,
sounded a bit confused.

“Are you talking about Gran’s funky old dresses?”

The woman lived in a small town in Oklahoma. She had cleaned
up her grandmother’s house in Richmond, Virginia, after she died. Ingrid
Allendale helped Lacey track down the estate sales people there, and they led
her to Lizzie Ferguson. Lacey conjured up a picture of a no-nonsense Midwesterner
who had fallen far from her grandmother’s southern debutante tree. That tree
was probably a magnolia, Lacey reflected, which might not flourish in dusty
Oklahoma.

“Yes.” Lacey was primed to take notes, but she had no notes
so far. This conversation wasn’t promising. “A black gown with a white lining.
It resembled the John Singer Sargent
Portrait of Madame X
.”

“Is that a movie or something? Doesn’t ring a bell. Let me
think. Those dresses—they were beautiful, but so old. And tiny. Gran was tall
and skinny. Who could wear them? I mean, I was born a size twelve. And I was
never a dress-up kind of kid.”

“Were there a lot of them?” Lacey asked.

“She held on to a half dozen or more. Real fancy stuff. Jackets,
dresses. Sentimental value. I guess she had a different kind of life down there
in the South. After she died, we moved all her things to a storage unit. My
brother and I finally went back and cleaned her stuff out a few months ago. We
got stuck with it. Took us a while to get around to it. My mom was no good at
cleaning up messes. She moved to Florida to kick up her heels. Too delicate for
real work.”

“And the clothes?”

“Consigned them to the estate sale ladies. That’s where you
got my number, right?”

“Right.” Lacey sighed a little and thanked her.

“Tell me, you actually write about old dresses?” Lizzie Ferguson
sounded a little amused. There was incredulity in her voice, too.

“Among other things. I’m a fashion reporter in Washington,
D.C.”

“Washington, D.C. My goodness. Takes all kinds, I guess. I
work in a medical lab. I wear scrubs most every day. We don’t dress up much.”

“I suppose not. I will be writing more about the Madame X
dress. You realize that someone died in that dress?”

“Yes, I got that, that’s pretty fascinating, but as you explained
it, that wasn’t Gran’s fault. Sounds like it’ll turn into an urban legend or
something. It’ll be all over the Web, I guess.”

Lizzie Ferguson clearly wasn’t going to lose any sleep over
this story. Perhaps there were advantages to working in a lab, wearing scrubs,
and not caring about clothes.

“You could look at it that way. I want to describe the
history of the dress, and I’ll include some information from the old
Mademoiselle
magazine
article your grandmother was in.”

“You actually have a copy of that. I heard about it. I never
saw it. Don’t read much. Don’t have time.”

Lacey rubbed her head. “Do you like fashion?”

“Fashion.” The woman on the other end of the phone laughed.
“That would be Gran. Not me, and not my daughter. She just wears black. Dyed her
hair blue. Sleeved her arms with tattoos, though I keep telling her that’s just
flirting with infection and hepatitis C. I try to keep my mouth shut about her
looks. I’m just happy she washes her hair.”

Alas, too many women settle for C&C: Clean and Comfortable.
“You’re very understanding.”

“I try. I named her Karen. She hates it. Now, she goes by
LaVonya. LaVonya Galore. I have no idea what that’s all about, but I just let
it ride. My LaVonya is what she calls a ‘neo-burlesque’ artist. She’s had two
or three different stage names.”

“Maybe she’s just trying to find herself,” Lacey suggested.
“Wouldn’t your daughter be interested in her great-grandmother’s dresses?”

“I don’t think so. She’d rather be bare naked on stage than
get dressed up all formal. Kids these days, there’s no call for fancy dresses
and all that folderol. They just take up space. If I gave her those old
dresses, they’d just end up in my basement. I’ll tell her about your article.
She can look it up online if she wants.”

The debutante gene had not been passed down, apparently.
Lacey ached to meet a little DNA from vivacious Betty Lionsgate, who joined the
Navy and served in the war, but still cared about what she wore.

“Your daughter sounds like a free spirit.”

“Is that what you call it? I thought it was called How to
Irritate Your Mother. Well, I gotta go. You have a nice day.”

“You too.” Lacey clicked off and stared at her notebook. It
was a blank page.

Fashion wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea. But that woman had no
regard for her grandmother’s treasured clothes, even though they were an
essential part of her family history. The phone call just made Lacey sad. She
thought about something as precious as Aunt Mimi’s trunk being sold at a
rummage sale, tossed carelessly in a storage unit, or worse, dumped in a
landfill. Lacey thrummed her fingers on her desk. She decided she was too busy
to worry about the demise of dress-up culture and the Decline of Western
Civilization.

She searched for and found a number for a Gerhardt Hopewell
in Sarasota, Florida. She called and left a message, explaining who she was and
that she wanted information on his ex-wife, Jillian Hopewell. She hoped he was
the right Hopewell. She didn’t mention Courtney Wallace, or the silk lining, or
the possible Paris Green connection. It would be better to explain those things
in person, even if it was on the phone. He texted her back within minutes. He
was out of town and couldn’t speak with her until tomorrow.

Next on her list was Eric Park at Channel One News. He seemed
happy enough to hear from her.

“Hey, Eric, any news on the video clip of Courtney? Is it
going to surface?”

“No way. The suits here at the station are adamant about it
not being released. And frankly, I’ve looked at it a couple of times and
there’s nothing much to see, I’m sorry to say. Unless you like watching
Courtney in full meltdown mode.”

“Darn. Nothing?”

“Not that I can see. I’ve really enjoyed your stories,
though. Heard you had a chat with Eve on Friday?”

“News travels.”

“She wouldn’t talk about it though.” He laughed. “Not that
she ever tells me anything.”

“It was off the record. And really there was nothing much to
talk about. By the way, did you and Zanna or Eve happen to take a trip up to a
vintage store in Baltimore last Tuesday, after Courtney’s funeral service?”

“Not me. After that, I was editing footage all day. No idea
where Zanna went afterwards. And Eve was in and out. Why?”

“Oh, someone I know saw a couple of reporters up there. I
just thought it might have been you guys. Anyway, I saw Eve on Friday, just
before I saw you and Zanna at the gallery. On Saturday, someone threw a big
rock at me in Riverbend Park. That was my big weekend.”

“You’re kidding! Somebody attacked you? I don’t believe it.
Are you okay? You sound okay, I hope you are.”

“I’m good. Eric, what I want to ask you is absolutely not for
release. To anyone.”

“Not even to Eve?”

“Not to anybody. Just between us.”

“You don’t want me to tell anyone? Not fair.” He sounded
amused. “This is TV. We tell people stuff.”

“I know. But I really need to see your footage of the waiter
running into Courtney. I know you’ve watched it, but maybe fresh eyes will
catch something new.”

She was taking a chance, asking for his help. Eric couldn’t
have pushed the waiter, he was filming Courtney when it happened. But that
didn’t mean he couldn’t be in league with the person who did.

 “I had to watch it. I’m only human and human means curious.
But there’s not much in it but Courtney. Courtney and a bit of the waiter.
Besides, it’s Channel One footage. I couldn’t just walk you into the editing
room over here. People would talk.”

“Come on, Eric. It’s worth a try. Please. There must be a
way.”

He paused. “You know, sometimes the strangest things show up
on YouTube. We’ve all been waiting to see it happen with this clip. Who knows
if it’s even possible. But maybe today it will magically appear. If it does
turn up there, I promise it’s not going to tell you much.”

“It could turn up on YouTube?”

“The whole clip. Unedited. Unauthorized. I’m just saying it
could happen. You know Washington. It leaks like a sieve.”

“That it does. So my roof could be leaky today?”

“I’d say it’s cloudy with a chance of leaks. Pack an
umbrella.”

“I’ll be hoping for rain.”

“After lunch would be good. You might look for a YouTube
channel with the words ‘leaky roof’ in the name. Nothing else.”

“Got it. Thanks, Eric.”

“If something good happens, I mean good as in
news
, I
want an on-air interview.”

“With you? Not Eve?”

“No Eve. Who says I don’t deserve a shot on camera, instead
of behind it?”

Everyone in this town has ambitions.

“Okay. Ground rules: If something newsworthy comes from
anything I might or might not find on YouTube today, I talk on camera to you,”
Lacey said. “And only you. And only after I release my story. But watch out,
Eve might have a fit.”

“Eve is temperamental. I wouldn’t let it bother you.”

After clicking off with Eric and writing up her column and
some fashion news briefs about a fashion show and a new collection at a
boutique, Lacey went to lunch at one of her favorite secret lunch spots. She
was careful to avoid any place where she might run into Brooke, Damon, Broadway
Lamont, or anyone from
The Eye
. It was a tiny respite.

Back in the office after lunch, she contacted a fiber
forensics expert, Rebecca Paulson, who used to work at the Smithsonian
Institution and now was a freelance consultant and writing a book about
Colonial dress. They had spoken on the phone once before, for an article Lacey wrote
on early American textiles of the Colonial era. They’d never met in person, but
this time, Lacey had something to deliver face to face.

Paulson agreed to a quick meeting at a coffee shop on P
Street near Dupont Circle, about six blocks away. Although it was hot and
steamy, Lacey was glad to get outside again, and she had just enough time to
walk. She wanted to limber up her sore muscles. She grabbed her purse and the
painting and waved good-bye to Mac as she dashed past his office door.

Halfway to Dupont Circle on Connecticut Avenue, she stopped
suddenly and looked around. She felt as if she were being watched. She saw
nothing, other than sidewalks full of her fellow Washingtonians.

You’re being dramatic
, she told herself.
You don’t
have time for that
. She knew Vic had Turtledove watching her. She didn’t
see him, or feel his comforting presence. That was probably a good thing, she
decided. If she didn’t spot him, no one else would.

Lacey arrived first at the coffee shop and ordered an iced
decaf mocha. She grabbed the only available table. It was in the window, which
gave her a view of P Street.

Rebecca Paulson breezed in the door as Lacey sat down. She
bought a large bottle of water and strode over to Lacey’s table. In person,
Paulson was a trim woman on the tall side, with glossy brown hair and round
tortoiseshell glasses that gave her a sort of whimsical intellectual air, like
a scholarly schoolgirl. A queen of Geek Chic. She wore a white blouse, gray
skirt, and clogs, perfectly suited to lab work.
And yet much better than
scrubs.
Paulson had a brisk but friendly manner.

“Hello, Lacey? I recognized you from your column. Thanks for
calling me again.”

“My pleasure.” The recognition was not really a pleasure. Since
Mac had insisted on putting a photo on her column, random people now squinted
at her, wondering how they knew her. They knew they’d seen her somewhere, but
couldn’t place her. It could be awkward. “Have a seat. It’s so nice to meet you
in person.”

“Me too. I read your columns all the time, they make me
laugh.”

“Glad to hear it. That’s usually what I’m going for.”

“You said you wanted a fabric comparison?”

“If it’s possible.”

“It’s possible. What do you want compared?”

Lacey pulled the painting from her tote and one of the green
silk scraps she received from Lola Gallegos. She unwrapped a corner of the
painting to show Paulson the green silk it was painted on.

“You can take it out of the frame, if you need to. There may
be some extra fabric tucked up in the back.”

“Probably won’t be necessary,” Paulson said. “And you want to
find out what, exactly?”

“To see if they’re a match or not. This silk scrap and the
silk in the painting.” Lacey didn’t provide any context or back story. She
didn’t want to influence her analysis by suggesting they were connected. “And
anything you can tell me about the samples’ ages or origins, or anything
unusual about them. That would be of interest too.”

“Can do. I’ll put them under the microscope. After I complete
my examination, maybe you can tell me what it’s all about.” Rebecca smiled and
stood up, tucking the painting under her arm and the silk scrap in her bag.

“Do you know how long it will take?”

“I’ll call you as soon as I finish.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Is this life or death?”

Interesting way to put it.
“It could be,” Lacey said.

Rebecca nodded. “No problem. It usually is in D.C.” She took
a swig of her water, screwed the cap back on, and gathered her things. Every
movement was efficient. She said goodbye and walked swiftly out the door and up
the street. After her whirlwind meeting, Lacey was in no hurry to get back to
the newsroom. She sipped her mocha, savoring the chocolate in it.