10 Lethal Black Dress (5 page)

“Johnson, you don’t want to sit here, do you? Why, you and
Smithsonian might kill each other, which would be embarrassing, considering
she’s here with a homicide detective. Want to switch? You do, don’t you?”

He nodded helplessly. “Do you mind, Congressman? The other
table has the
real
writers.”

“Musical chairs? Just like Congress.” Daggett appeared to be
used to being moved around. He grasped Lacey’s hand gallantly in parting. “Ms.
Smithsonian, I do hope we meet again soon. You can tell me all your secrets.”

“You stole my line, Congressman,” she answered and they both
laughed.

“You guys are leaving? But this is the cool kids’ table,” Tony
cracked.

Peter Johnson didn’t look back. Lacey breathed a sigh of
relief. She wouldn’t have to deflect his sour vibes all evening. LaToya settled
right in next to Lamont, and everyone else moved in turn.

“That guy give you any trouble?” Lamont asked Lacey.

She gave him an elaborate shrug. “He’s out of shape.”

“Don’t let that fool you,” LaToya said. “Johnson once ran the
Marine Corps Marathon.”

Lacey swiveled in her chair to take another look. “No way.”

“Before your time,” Tony said. “I’ve been seeing him at the
health club around the corner, too. He once pitched for
The Eye
’s
softball team. Before he switched to pitching doughnut holes.”

Johnson, an athlete? That was hard to believe. She pushed the
thought of him away and turned back to people watching. She spotted Damon and
Brooke seated at a table across the room, one considerably closer to the dais.
She wondered how Damon had snagged those seats.
Must be a conspiracy,
Lacey
decided. He was buddying up to his table mate, Matt Drudge of the
Drudge
Report
, who was also wearing a little black hipster fedora, a match for
Damon’s fedora. Apparently they were standard issue this year for the
alternative press.
Must be the same conspiracy.

She noticed Mac frowning at her. “I remember that blue
dress,” he said. “Last time you wore it you nearly got yourself killed.”

And yet I survived. And so did my Gloria Adams gown
.
“That was last time, Mac. Nothing’s going to happen to this dress tonight.”

“Wait. There was another famous dress adventure? One I didn’t
know about?” Lamont asked.

“Before we ever met, Detective,” Lacey said.

“There’s always another dress story with Lois Lane here,”
Tony added.

“You got another wacko dress thing going on? Here? Tonight?”
Mac inquired, his bushy eyebrows gathering like storm clouds.

“Oh, yeah,” Lamont jumped in. “Not the one Smithsonian’s
wearing, though. The one Courtney Wallace is wearing. It’s a good story, even
if it ain’t true.”

“It’s nothing, probably,” she said. “But part of it is true.”
Everyone stared at Lacey, then at Lamont. He picked up the narrative.

“First, the two of them got into a hissy fit.”

“It was not a hissy fit. Exactly.”

Under his shiny dome, Mac’s bushy eyebrows started dancing.
They had questions. “And?”

“Fine. Wallace wanted to interview me on camera for
her
story on vintage couture. I refused. I’m not a celebrity. I’m not public
property or fair game for her ambush sound bites. I’m a working journalist.
Theoretically, I’m her competition, though I wouldn’t dignify her with that
title. And she’s already had plenty of my input, through my columns in
The
Eye
. She seems to have read my stuff closely. Very closely.”

“This is that Wallace woman on Channel One, the one
who’s been copying your stuff?”

“You know about that, Mac?”

“Heard about it from my girls, Lily Rose and Jasmine. Never
thought they’d care so much about clothing.”

“Everybody cares about clothes,” Lamont said. “Wallace is
apparently wearing some fancy antique gown tonight. We were watching when some
waiter took a dive and spilled a tray full of champagne all over her. Show them
the picture.”

Lacey pulled out her camera and displayed the picture she
took of Courtney in the aftermath.

“Gives new meaning to the term drowned rat,” Tony said.

“And that concerns Smithsonian greatly,” Lamont intoned.

“The dress, right? Not Courtney Wallace?” Mac was catching
on.

“Right. Here’s the kicker,” Lamont continued. “Smithsonian
thinks the champagne could have activated some kind of antique poison dye in
the dress. Hoodoo voodoo. Dangerous when wet. Sounds like a Fashion Clue to me.”

“Not the entire dress.” Lacey felt she was enduring this
teasing with forbearance and good grace. “Just the green lining.”

“Champagne does that?” Trujillo asked.

“Anything wet. Rain, water, coffee, whatever.”

“What makes you think it’s this dye?” Mac asked.

“The lining color. Brilliant green. There was once a toxic
dye called Paris Green.” She neglected to mention the smell or her headache.
Why
confuse the issue.

“Does that have something to do with Napoleon’s death?” Tony
asked.

“His wallpaper!” Claudia exclaimed. “Yes. One theory is that
he was poisoned by the wet wallpaper. It was green. At some point after his
death, they found arsenic in his hair clippings. But Napoleon was not the only
one who had a run-in with toxic wallpaper.”

“No?” Mac played straight man. “Do tell.”

Claudia had a twinkle in her eye. “In the weeks before he
died, Oscar Wilde reportedly said he and the wallpaper were fighting a duel to
the death. ‘Either it goes or I do,’ he said.”

“Sadly, we don’t know what his wallpaper looked like,” Lacey
said. “Or whether it was Paris Green.”

“We can imagine it was,” Claudia said. “Makes a better story
that way.”

“You women are all in a conspiracy,” Lamont said.

“I, for one, now can’t wait to see what Ms. Wallace is
wearing,” Claudia said, ignoring him. “Is that her up there?”

Everyone at the table shifted to see Courtney stumble against
one of the front tables. Eric Park quickly stepped in to steady her. He seemed
to be trying to get her to leave. She staggered and shook her head vehemently.

“Has she been drinking?” Mac asked.

“I didn’t see her drinking any champagne,” Lacey said. “Just
wearing it. I hope she’s okay.”

“Pretty embarrassing. Getting soaked by a waiter and losing
your cool at this glamorous gala,” LaToya said. “Motive for murder, I’d say.
That waiter better watch his you-know-what. Good thing you’re here, Broadway.”
She scooted her chair an inch closer to the big detective.

“Don’t worry, it won’t be murder,” Tony said. “Courtney will
probably just die of humiliation.”

“She doesn’t look healthy,” Claudia said. “She shouldn’t have
to be working this thing tonight if she’s sick.”

“Nice dress, though,” Tony commented. “A little limp-looking.”

“Champagne will do that,” Lacey said. “It’s vintage. The
dress, not the champagne. She’s wearing it as part of her series.”

“You don’t think that dress really is harmful, do you,
Lacey?” Claudia asked.

“I don’t know, Claudia. I told her she should get out of it
and wear something else. She wouldn’t listen to me.”

“Why would she?” LaToya said. “You’re the competition.”

“Well, then,” Claudia said. “You warned her. She didn’t
listen.”

“She looks inebriated to me. Hey, I see Hansen.” Mac stood up
and waved at the staff photographer. “Let’s have him take that woman’s
photograph. For the record.”

“Good idea, Mac. Just in case something awful happens,” Tony
said. “We are a newspaper, after all.”

“Nothing’s going to happen,” Lacey protested.
I hope.

“Long Lens” Hansen made his way over, draped with cameras and
gear, as usual. He’d gone formal for a news photographer, which meant he was
wearing his clean black jeans and black shirt and a black sport coat. He
huddled briefly with Mac. A quick nod of the head and Hansen and his cameras
were on the prowl for Courtney Wallace.

“If something does happen,” Tony said to Lacey, “and you
scoop Johnson on it, right here at the Correspondents’ Dinner, he’s going to
have a stroke. And then we’ll have to have pictures of that too.”

“Nothing wrong with a little friendly competition,” Mac said.
“Johnson can take it.”

“Ha. Wait till the book comes out,” LaToya said, loud enough
for the next table to hear.

“What book?” Lamont asked.

“
Terror at Timberline
.” Lacey shook her head as she
said it. “Mac’s title, not mine.”

Mac yawned. He was bone tired after working many late hours
on this pet project, an
Eye Street Observer
special publication
recounting their recent adventures in and around Sagebrush, Colorado, involving
the disappearances of several young women, later found murdered and dumped on
lonely back-country roads.

Lacey had traveled to that remote Western town on a personal
errand to exonerate an old boyfriend. She discovered the crime scene where the
women met their fate, and Mac and Tony followed her to Colorado on the scent of
that story. Although the book was Mac’s brainchild, all three had been putting
in a lot of after-work hours. Lacey supplied her first-hand account, her
knowledge of the town and its historical context, Tony profiled the women who
had gone missing and the law enforcement efforts, and Mac was editing and
braiding together their accounts into a single tale. It was a long-time
ambition of his to produce a true-crime book from firsthand reportage by
The
Eye
, and he was hell-bent for leather to complete it. The book would be
available sometime during the summer, if they hit their editing deadline.

Lacey wasn’t sure how she felt about the book. She admitted
she was looking forward to seeing her name on the cover as a coauthor. However,
what she had written was much more personal than she expected and she wasn’t
sure she wanted to let her readers peer that deeply into her psyche. Mac and
Tony, on the other hand, were thrilled by the whole process.

“
Terror at Timberline
?” Lamont said. “Can’t wait to
read that one. My copy better be autographed by all three of you.”

“We’re still discussing the title,” Lacey said. “It’s a
little tabloid for my taste. And it didn’t happen at timberline, the line where
trees no longer grow.”

“I didn’t see any trees,” Mac said. “We could have been on
the moon.”

“I, for one, can’t wait to see this opus,” Claudia said. “In
fact, I’m throwing a book party for it at my house.”

That was news to Lacey. “Really?”

“Absolutely. You’ll be invited, Detective Lamont. If we can’t
celebrate our successes, what are in this business for, anyway?” Claudia
proposed a toast to the venture.

Mac seemed pleased. “If it weren’t for Lacey’s penchant for
trouble, we wouldn’t be celebrating a book at all.” The entire table clinked
their wine glasses in a toast.

As the talk turned to what a sensation the book was bound to
be (which Lacey seriously doubted), she suddenly felt uneasy. She glanced over
at the next table. Johnson shot her a look of pure venom. She felt almost a
physical jolt. She was glad they’d all gone through Secret Service security
checkpoints before dinner.
No weapons in this place tonight.

Dinner arrived, diverting the table. The Washington Hilton’s
filet with a side of grilled shrimp seemed to satisfy even Broadway Lamont. The
conversation ebbed and the wine flowed. Soon, everyone’s focus was drawn to the
head table as the lights dimmed and the show began. Lacey forgot about Courtney
for the time being, though she did notice that LaToya Crawford was managing to
scoot her chair around so she was sitting close to Lamont. Very close.

Spotlights lit the dais. The crowd hushed. Someone rose at
the center of the front table, far away. Lacey shifted in her chair to get a
better view. It was just another guy in a black tuxedo, though this one was
obviously perfectly tailored.

It was the President of the United States.

CHAPTER 5

Courtney Wallace was a trouper.
Though
suffering, she was still on her feet as Lacey exited the banquet hall after the
dinner with Broadway Lamont at her side. Courtney was still speaking into the
camera in the hallway, giving her glassy-eyed wrap-up for the evening.

“For cripes sake, Courtney, give me a break,” Eric said.
“We’re not even live now. Can we go home?”

“One more take,” she insisted, wiping her brow with a cloth
napkin taken from the dinner. “I stumbled over the beginning.” Courtney leaned
against the wall and took a breath, trying to find the strength to continue.

“You look awful,” he protested. “They’re not even going to
use this footage. You wouldn’t want them to. Go home. Get some sleep.”

“She does look worse,” Lacey whispered to Lamont.

“Flu. Going around,” he answered. The flu was always going
around.

“I hope so,” Lacey said. “Not that she’s sick, but that
it’s—something else.” Working in the District of Columbia could wear down
anyone’s immune system. And inevitably, the Washington workaholics soldiered
on, not caring who else they might infect.

The banquet hall emptied out quickly. Even the Secret Service
was gone: The President had departed the premises. The barriers had been taken
down and the metal detectors removed. Lamont paused to stare at the obviously
sick television reporter.

He warned Lacey, “Don’t give me no more of that ancient dress
with a poisoned past business. You sound like your buddy Newhouse. Next you’ll
be telling me it’s haunted.”

Lacey shuddered. “The flu,” she agreed. “Probably just the
flu.”

Courtney grinned bravely into the camera. She tried to find
her words, but they came out garbled. This take was worse than the last one.
She slumped against the wall, closed her eyes, and slid down to the floor,
unconscious. Eric lowered his camera.

Lamont was already on his cell phone to 911, barking
instructions. A few dinner stragglers stopped and gawked.

“Give her some air, people,” Lamont commanded and they
obeyed. He knelt at her side to check her pulse. Lacey stayed with him, and
LaToya materialized, eager to be part of the action. They waited for the ambulance
to arrive. Lamont fixed Lacey with his detective stare.

“Paris Green, huh?”

“A remote possibility,” Lacey said.

“Beautiful color,” LaToya asked. “This is the Paris Green you
were talking about?”

Lacey nodded. “I just hope it’s not the color of death.”

Lamont glared at her. “Color of death, my ass. It’s the damn flu.
She worked herself into this state. Flu, stress, that wacky scene with the
waiter and the champagne. And if it’s that crazy dye of yours, then it’s got to
be some kind of bizarre once-in-a-lifetime accident.”

“Certainly once in her lifetime.” LaToya smiled her most
inviting smile at Lamont. He rocked back a step. “Hey, green isn’t really my
color. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.” She went to reclaim her coat from the
coat check as sirens headed their way.

When the paramedics stormed onto the scene, Lamont briefed
them on the situation and the background. Lacey, at his elbow, took her
opportunity to point out the extremely slim chance of a copper arsenate dye
reaction or arsine gas as the cause of Courtney’s illness.

“Garlic smell, possible arsenic toxicity. Duly noted, ma’am,”
was all the head paramedic said. He reached for a respirator just in case, and
turned his attention back to the still-unconscious Courtney.

Vic Donovan found Lacey and Lamont standing at the side
entrance of the hotel, watching as Courtney was being lifted into the
ambulance. He put his arm around Lacey’s shoulder and kissed her.

“What happened?” he said.

“I thought we were going to meet upstairs in the lobby bar,”
she asked.

“I heard sirens. I figured you’d be involved somehow,” Vic
said. “And here you are. Troublemaker. And I mean that in the nicest possible
way.”

The rain had stopped. The media protesters were long gone. She
felt calmer just seeing him there and feeling his arm around her shoulder. She
thought he was the most dashing-looking man she’d seen all evening, even though
he wasn’t in evening clothes. He was wearing the Bentley’s leather jacket Lacey
had given him for Christmas. With a deep breath, Lacey realized how tense she
had been.

Lamont shook Vic’s hand. “Donovan, you going to take
Smithsonian off my hands now?”

“Hey, Broadway, you agreed to be my source date,” Lacey
protested. “You had a great time, admit it.”

“I am honored to be your source date, Smithsonian. I wouldn’t
have missed it,” Lamont said. “That is, the dinner, the President, the ladies
in their fine, fancy dresses, the whole song and dance. Not to mention this
sideshow with the Wallace woman. Experience tells me I should have expected
something wacky to happen this evening.”

“Wacky? What happened?” Vic said.

“Not completely sure yet.” Lamont gave him a thumbnail
description of Courtney Wallace’s misadventure and Lacey’s suggestion of the
possibility of a poison dye. Not without a skeptical grimace or two.

“I just said it was a possibility,” she said. “That’s all I
said.”

“You believe that, Broadway?” Vic asked.

Lamont laughed, a big booming peal of a laugh. “Absolutely
not. Except when Smithsonian is involved, I don’t discount crazy.”

“Crazy is always a good bet,” Vic said.

“Hey, not my fault,” Lacey reminded him. “I didn’t spill
anything on her.”

“No one’s saying it was your fault. And I look at it this
way: there’s always a silver lining. I can’t wait to tell the guys at the
office your latest theory.” Lamont started to walk away. “You two have a fun
evening. I’m leaving before any more mayhem happens.”

“You’re going to meet LaToya at one of the hot after-parties?”
Lacey inquired.

Lamont squirmed inside his big tuxedo. “I don’t know,
Smithsonian. She’s one very tasty-looking lady, but just between you and me and
the fencepost, when I see her coming I don’t know which way to run.”

It was Lacey’s turn to laugh. “Time to decide. I see a yellow
dress coming this way.”

Too late. LaToya found the big detective and locked her arm
in his with a mile-wide smile. Lamont gave Lacey a shrug and a worried grin and
went along peacefully.

“You don’t have to go to a big after-party?” Vic asked her.
“Not even
Vanity Fair
?”

“That low-rent ruckus?” She snuggled into his arms. “No way.
You’re stuck with me.”

The legendary
Vanity Fair
and Bloomberg joint after-party
was the most coveted invite of the evening, right after the Correspondents’
Dinner itself, but no one from
The Eye Street Observer
was invited.
Lacey assumed Claudia Darnell would certainly find her way into the bash.
Claudia knew everyone who was anyone in Washington, and she’d have some
handsome senator or ambassador lined up as her after-party date.

Lacey was glad the dinner was over, and she had no interest
in another party that didn’t include Vic Donovan. She was tired and a little
deflated. Not just by her confrontation with Courtney and the worrisome
aftermath, but by the emptiness of the celebrity worship she’d witnessed all
night. Some of those celebrities were rock stars, TV actors, or movie stars, people
who were legitimately famous, whether you loved their last epic or not, but
others had done nothing to merit attention. They were simply famous for being
famous. Or infamous.

Vic took Lacey to Firefly, a restaurant and bar on New
Hampshire Avenue, just off Dupont Circle, for decompression. And a nightcap.
She leaned back in their booth, gazed at the birch tree décor and the huge tree
trunk in the center, and ordered a coffee with cognac. Vic made it two. She
felt the evening’s anxiety slip off her shoulders. It was nice to have someone
else’s shoulders to lean on.

“Want to talk about it?” Vic caught her eye and smiled.

“Not me. Broadway covered the basics.”

“I wish I’d seen that waiter-broadcaster collision and
champagne spill. Not often you see a Charlie Chaplin moment like that. And then
Lacey Smithsonian mentions a toxic antique dye no longer used. And there is the
slightest, remotest, barest hint of a possibility the dye could still be
present in this rare vintage dress?”

“The lining, not the dress. It’s the right color for Paris Green.
Just the lining.”

“The lining. The color. The collapse. A fashion clue? Your
specialty?”

Only Vic could tease her this way and still let her know he
was completely on her side. Lacey was still trying to believe there could be
some other cause for Courtney Wallace’s sudden illness—exhaustion, anxiety,
public pratfall, overwork, the flu. But Lacey’s instinct, her nose for nuance,
the thing her friends called her ExtraFashionary Perception, said the most
improbable cause might be the right one. Her EFP was vibrating and she was
suddenly interested in telling Vic all about it.

“Don’t mock the fashion reporter, darling. You want fashion
clues? I got your fashion clue right here.”