10 Lethal Black Dress (4 page)

“Don’t worry about me, Lacey. The dress will dry. Eventually.
Besides, who cares? It’s just an old dress. So what if it gets ruined?” She
picked up the front of the black satin skirt and wrung it out in the sink. The
lining clung to her legs.

Just an old dress
. Lacey took a deep breath. “It’s not
that. It’ll take forever to dry in this humidity. The dress might be making you
ill.”

“Really? That’s really what you think?” She rolled her eyes
and squeezed more liquid out of the skirt. “I think it’s making you sick with
jealousy that I look so good in it. You’re not the only one who can rock
vintage, you know.”

But Courtney wasn’t looking good. Despite her fresh makeup,
her skin was shiny. She took out her powder and wiped a brush across her nose
and cheeks. Her eyes had an unhealthy gleam.

“It’s the lining. The emerald green lining,” Lacey
persevered. “Don’t you smell that? That garlicky smell must be coming from it.
When it’s wet, Paris Green has that same aroma. I mean, according to what I’ve
read.”

“You’re crazy. There’s no smell. It’s in your head.” The
pungent aroma of garlic filled the ladies’ room.

Lacey sighed. She’d assumed that because the woman was,
theoretically, a journalist, she would listen to facts.

“Listen, Courtney, depending on how old the dress is, or the
lining, it might contain Paris Green, which was created in—”

“You wouldn’t give me the time of day before and now you’re
giving me a lecture on fashion history? That’s rich, Smithsonian.”

Nobody likes a know-it-all. Cut to the chase, Lacey
.

“Fine. If it is Paris Green, the dress could be dangerous.
The dye is toxic when it gets wet. It may have even killed Napoleon Bonaparte.”

“Really? Did Napoleon wear a green dress? If J. Edgar Hoover
could twirl in a pink tutu, then anything is possible. But I’m hotter than
either one of them.” She looked feverish. Lacey knew she wasn’t going to win
this one, but she had to try.

“Some people believe the dye was used in Napoleon’s wallpaper
on Saint Helena, which was very humid. When it gets wet—or even just damp from
humidity—the dye releases something called arsine gas. Arsine, as in arsenic?
It can kill you, or at least make you sick.”

“Likely story.” Courtney was fussing with her damp hair.
Lacey could see drops of pale green liquid on Courtney’s exposed leg. “How
could I trust anything you say about my dress? And how would you even know
that?”

Now I remember why I try never to talk to this woman.
“I
know this because I do my fashion research.”
Bitch
, she added silently.
“And I don’t know for sure. But I do know I’m getting a terrible headache in
here. Aren’t you? Wouldn’t you rather take the dress off and be safe?”

“I’d rather take some aspirin. And a dry martini. Nice try
though. Actually, it’s something I might say on the air. ‘Take the dress off
and be safe!’ I’ll have to use that sometime. But I have no reason to trust
you, Smithsonian. None at all.”

“Trust your instincts then. How are you feeling right now? A
little queasy? The hotel might have something you could wear. A uniform. Or
maybe someone here tonight wore a trench coat that would fit you.”

“That would make you happy, wouldn’t it? Making me look
ridiculous. Me, on camera in a maid’s uniform and a trench coat at the fanciest
event of the year. You’d love that!”

Maybe a little
. “I’m trying to help. You could get
sick. Very sick.”

“I don’t need your help. I’m not wearing some damn uniform or
someone’s old raincoat. I paid a fortune for this dress. I don’t believe for a
minute that it’s toxic.”

“No, I guess that’s just you.”

Courtney missed the jab. “Sometimes, Lacey, a dress is just a
dress. Even a vintage dress.” Courtney’s green eyes seemed to glitter. Her
cheeks were bright red beneath the powder.

“Fine, Courtney. Some people would rather be sorry than safe.
And maybe the dress is just wet. Maybe that smell is your perfume. Maybe
nothing will happen.”
Other than starring on the YouTube TV Bloopers
Channel, the Champagne Shower Edition, featuring Courtney Wallace.
“Good
luck out there.”

Lacey escaped the ladies’ room. Lamont was waiting for her
outside the door.

“You took your sweet time.”

“What are you doing out here, Broadway? Picking up
actresses?”

“Thought there might be bloodshed, the two of you in there
together. Least some hair pulling.”

“Sorry to disappoint. How about some fresh air?” Lacey
noticed Eric Park was leaning against the wall with his camera rig at the
ready, waiting for Courtney to emerge. Eric spotted her too.

“Hey, I’m Eric. Courtney’s camera crew. Is she okay in
there?”

“She says so. But I don’t believe she’s feeling too well.
She’s pretty pissed off, and she wouldn’t let Zanna Nelson or me help. She’s
being really bitchy.”

“Oh, she’s fine, then. That’s just her personality.”

“You got my sympathy, man,” Lamont said. “Have a good night.”

Broadway Lamont pointed the way to the patio door, through another
cocktail party. The crowds opened for them. They passed through the door to the
patio beyond as their fellow partygoers parted like a sea around Lamont. He
could have been mistaken for a bouncer, or a bulldozer.

A new waiter appeared at their side with a fresh tray of
drinks. Cameras flashed and the cozy media hug that is the White House
Correspondents’ Dinner closed in behind them.

CHAPTER 4

“This may sound crazy,” Lacey
started
to say. She swallowed deep breaths of fresh air. The rain had stopped, but a
fine mist still hung in the air. Lacey didn’t even care if her hair exploded
from the humidity, she could always pull it back in a twist. She looked at
Lamont and wondered if she should go on.

“I
hope
it sounds crazy,” Lamont said. “I came for the
floor show, and Ms. Courtney Wallace gave us a hell of an opening number. I
want to hear all the crazy you got. Catfight in the ladies’ room?”

“No, Broadway, not a catfight. But I have a funny feeling.”

“Funny feeling, like clothing voodoo funny? Or whacked-out
broadcast reporter funny?”

“Maybe I’m just hungry.”

“I hear you. When do we eat?” Lamont’s appetite was as large
as he was. Whenever he dropped by the newspaper, ostensibly to speak with Lacey
about a case, she suspected he was really there for the food editor’s
delectable daily dishes.

“There’s something wrong with that dress. Courtney’s dress.”

“Are we back to that? That’s your crazy feeling? I say
there’s something wrong with that woman. Period.”

“The dress. I think it could make her very, very sick.” It
sounded ridiculous, even to Lacey.

“I’m listening.”

“Have you ever heard of Paris Green?” She knew better than to
give Lamont the whole fashion history lesson. “A very old dye, no longer used. It’s
made with arsenic. The thing is, it’s fine when it’s dry, but when it gets wet,
it releases a toxic gas.”

“Wet, like ‘getting doused with champagne’ kind of wet?” He
inclined his head toward her.

“Yes. Like that. The lining of that dress, the part closest
to her skin, is bright emerald green. It’s the right range of color for Paris Green.”

He swallowed the last of his wine. “Never heard of it. How
toxic we talking here?”

“No idea. Not a chemistry major. But if the lining of that
wet dress is poisonous and it’s soaking her skin all night and she won’t change
into something else—”

“You know, Smithsonian. I got all the respect in the world
for the way your brain works.”

Really?
she thought.
Since when?

“But this time,” he went on, “I think your imagination might
be running overtime. You know how nuts that sounds, getting sick from some
old-fashioned dye and a splash of champagne? Well, that’s some crazy freak accident.”

“If it was an accident,” she said.

“Now you think it wasn’t an accident? You think the waiter
who plowed into her did it on purpose?”

What were the odds that someone who wore a vintage dress with
a Paris Green silk lining to a cocktail party would wind up dripping wet?

“You’re right, Broadway. It’s completely implausible that
something like that would still exist in this day and age. The dye was banned
decades ago. Nobody uses it anymore, so far as I know.” Her headache was almost
gone and she was feeling better in the fresh air. “Maybe it’s just Courtney’s
unique personality.”

“You got that right. Smithsonian, I’m thrilled we’re sharing
a memorable fashion moment here, but when’s dinner? I’m starved.”

Lacey glanced at her Movado watch, a gift from her absent
fiancé Vic, who was never far from her thoughts.

“Right now.”

“Now you’re talking.”

Milling their way into the ballroom for dinner was an
exercise in that favorite Washington pastime: celebrity spotting. Of course in
the District of Columbia, innumerable politicians, pundits, and media figures
counted as celebrities. Some people even counted in multiple categories,
like Barbara Walters. Lacey scored early, spotting the most famous D.C. couple
in a “mixed marriage,” Republican Mary Matalin and Democrat James Carville,
going down the escalator as she and Broadway Lamont were heading up. Lamont
spotted pundit George Will chatting with them. A trifecta.

At the Correspondents’ Dinner there were always those “news
source” guests who could only be considered publicity stunts. Lacey spotted
rock star Ozzy Osbourne and his wife Sharon, guests of one of the showier New
York publications. Ozzy hid behind his dark sunglasses and long, stringy hair,
while the formidable and slightly scary Sharon Osbourne glided grandly in a
gown worthy of the Evil Queen in Snow White, all sapphire blue satin and deep décolletage.
Among the names Lacey heard in the excited buzz of the cocktail parties were
Miley Cyrus, Jennifer Lawrence, Lindsay Lohan, Lady Gaga, and a gaggle of trashy
Kardashians.

Keeping an eye open for any of the above, Lacey wondered how
many celebrities cared even a fig about Washington or politics, or even knew
where they were or why they were there. All they seemed to care about were
their inch-long eyelashes. Among the television actresses, Lacey’s favorite
outfit so far was an above-the-knee white dress with a flouncy feathered skirt.
It made her look like an ostrich. Her legs were appropriately long and skinny
and she shed feathers in her path.

Most amusing to her was a photo op lineup of at least three
sets of actors and actresses who were playing the President and First Lady on
current television shows, although with more glamour and less gravitas than the
real thing.

Male Hollywood heartthrobs were also on display. Brad Pitt
and George Clooney were surrounded by female fans wherever they went, though
Lacey thought Clooney looked smaller than he did on the big screen. On the
other hand, and on the opposite end of the political spectrum, Tom Selleck
appeared larger and grumpier. They both seemed slightly pained by all the
attention. She thought she might have caught a glimpse of the entire heavily
bearded cast of a cable hunting show, but she couldn’t be sure.

Lamont nudged Lacey and they caught another peek of Wallace,
back on her feet and berating her poor cameraman, Eric. Courtney was clearly on
the hunt for more celebrities and still striking out. She caught Lacey and
Lamont looking her way and turned her back. The woman really didn’t look well.
Stress
,
Lacey told herself. Courtney was just having a rough night.

Lacey and Detective Lamont had already gone through the
Secret Service security checkpoints and metal detector station to get into the
pre-dinner parties, but now there was an additional check of their tickets against
the List, just outside the banquet hall.

The Eye
Street Observer
had purchased two tables
for the dinner. Unfortunately, second-tier newspapers like
The Eye
never
received the prime tables. Those were reserved for the major newspapers,
The
New York Times
and
The Washington Post
and their kind, and frothy
lifestyle magazines like
Vanity Fair
, which also vied for the most
outrageous guests. They specialized in bringing the latest D.C. scandal
victims, bad boy rock stars, and hot-right-now television personalities, many
of whom had no conceivable serious link to news in the Nation’s Capital.
The
Eye
was exiled to the back of the room, as far away from the head table as
possible. Lamont was heading confidently toward the tables in front of the dais
when Lacey steered him back to humble Newspaper Siberia.

Peter Johnson, the Capitol Hill reporter, was already seated
at their table. She suppressed a groan and wondered briefly who could have put
them together.
Did they really want bloodshed?
Johnson was the last
person she wanted to see, at this dinner or anywhere else. It was mutual. When
he caught sight of Lacey he looked like he’d swallowed something sour.

Johnson was tall, and though he was on the thin side, he
managed to look soft and pudgy. Lacey heard his only exercise was loitering in
the halls of Congress and hefting mugs of coffee. He wore a respectable black
tuxedo, but he’d already managed to spill something on the lapel. His shirt was
a plain white button-down, rather than a tuxedo shirt, and his bowtie was
crooked. His comb-over was sticking up, and he peered gloomily at her through
his crooked glasses.
Johnson was geek before geek was chic.

For tonight’s event, Johnson had a minor congressman in tow,
one Representative Purvis Daggett, from a Deep South state. Lacey wasn’t quite
sure which one. Daggett’s accent was thick as barbecue, but his tuxedo ensemble
was pristine. Lacey recalled him as a minor player on one of the budget
subcommittees, but a major-league fundraiser for his pet causes. Johnson
pointedly ignored Lacey, leaving her to introduce herself and Lamont to the congressman.

Daggett put out his hand. “Ms. Smithsonian, a great pleasure.
I do believe you were the reporter who broke the story on Esme Fairchild?” he
said. “Tragic story. Poor child.”

“Yes, it was very sad.” Lacey was flattered the congressman
remembered it. Johnson seemed to choke on something. “Do you need some water,
Peter? Perhaps some champagne?” She smiled brightly and Lamont laughed.

“We were all saddened by her untimely demise, especially
seeing as how young Esme was an intern on the Hill,” Daggett continued to
Lacey, studiously ignoring Johnson. “She seemed so full of promise. Sometimes,
I’m sorry to say, we let our interns flail around without the proper guidance
in this town’s political snake pits, such as she found herself in. Your story
did her tragic demise justice, I must say.” He had obviously been in a few
political snake pits himself. “Were you on that case by any chance, Detective?”

“Not my case,” Lamont said. “The body was found south of
Alexandria in a park, Huntley Meadows. The department does appreciate it on the
rare occasion when Smithsonian finds murder victims outside of the District.
Lacey here is like a dowser. Instead of water, she finds dead bodies. And
fashion crimes. Sometimes even when they’re invisible to the naked eye.” He
grinned.

“Thanks for the ringing endorsement, Broadway.”

Daggett winked at her. He looked around the room and eyed the
distant dais. “You know, I have been to a great many of these events, but I
don’t believe I have ever been seated quite this far away from the President.
Perfectly all right by me, you understand, he and I don’t see eye to eye all
that often anyway. I’d be just as happy if we were dining out in the hallway.
Or across the street.”

“Which we practically are, Congressman,” Lacey said. The
three of them shared a small laugh. Johnson looked mortified that Lacey and
Lamont were charming his “date.” He silently played with his silverware and
gulped down ice water.

Cops reporter Tony Trujillo joined their table with his news
source for the evening, an attractive police department spokesperson.
Unsurprisingly, she was of the young single female persuasion. The only
surprise was that she was a long-haired brunette and not a blonde, Tony’s usual
specialty. She wore a tight black dress and Tony was stylish in a crisp black tuxedo.

News editor Douglas MacArthur “Mac” Jones arrived next, with
The
Eye
’s publisher Claudia Darnell at his side. The two of them had apparently
excused themselves from bringing sources. Mac looked slightly grumpier than
usual at being there. Although he was a mix of African-American and Caucasian,
Mac hailed from California and Lacey knew he still found Washington puzzling,
with its intricate strata of racial, political, and social classes. He would rather
be at home with his wife and daughters, he told her, than at this “dog-and-pony
show.” It was a sure bet he’d leave right after dinner and pass on the
post-event parties.

On the other hand, Claudia Darnell would undoubtedly be
around for the entire evening. A woman of a certain age, which Lacey assumed
was late fifties or early sixties, Claudia had the money and the moxie to keep
the years away and the men close at hand. She looked ravishing, as usual. Her
pale silver blond hair was arranged in a French twist, and her sleek fitted
dress was bright red, a shade she favored.
Another rebel in color.
Diamond
studs adorned her ears, and around her throat she wore a jeweled choker of
rubies and diamonds, all real. She out-sparkled the jewels.

Claudia Darnell had survived her own Washington scandal, and
like a phoenix, had risen from the ashes to spite the town that once turned on
her. She wouldn’t have missed making her annual appearance at the White House
Correspondents’ Dinner. However, Lacey thought she read in Claudia’s expression
dismay at the distant placement of
The Eye
’s tables. It must have felt
like a slap in the face, being seated so far away from the dais and so close to
the door. They did, however, have a great view of the color guard.

The paper’s other designated table included a few veteran staffers,
well-respected writers with terrible taste in clothes.
These guys are
writers! Couldn’t they look up “black tie”?
On the female side, a chubby
legislative reporter wore a stretchy black dress with sparkly flowers over an
apple-shaped figure that should not have been subjected to tight polyester. It clung
to her lovingly. As a fun fashion bonus, her dress left a trail of glitter
everywhere she went, much like the actress with her ostrich feathers. Another
female reporter wore a fuchsia dress in a shiny faux satin with a full skirt
and puff sleeves, from somewhere south of the Island of Lost Styles.

Luckily, LaToya Crawford, the Metro reporter and one of the
few
Eye
scribes with a sense of style, showed up with her source guest,
a handsome D.C. city official. LaToya was black and beautiful. Her trademark
was her long jet-black pageboy with a patent leather sheen. Tonight she was
wearing a canary yellow satin sheath that hugged her bodacious curves. Her eyes
were made up like Cleopatra. LaToya always turned heads, but tonight her head
turned at the sight of Detective Broadway Lamont.

He, in turn, resembled the proverbial deer in the headlights.
A giant buck deer, about to become a trophy. Lacey knew the detective was
afraid of nothing, except possibly LaToya. She took one look at her seat at
The
Eye
’s tables in Far Siberia and turned to Peter Johnson. She put her
hand on his shoulder, her purple nails digging in like daggers.