Armed and Glamorous

by Ellen Byerrum

  “These thin wire superstructures were my idea.” He touched one of the wire cages awaiting a gown over a mannequin’s bare legs. “I wanted animatronics, in very subtle motion. The museum wouldn’t go for it. So when they’re dressed, the cages will give the impression of movement. Not too bad. Better than just letting a gown hang.”

  “I can see that,” Lacey said. “They’ll give every outfit some life.” It hadn’t struck her at first that they were like cages, but she saw it now. Each cage enclosed a mannequin.

  “Exactly. Life, that’s what Cecily and I wanted. So when the clothes are draped over them, they give an impression of life, of how they might drape and move and flow if Cecily were actually wearing them.” He was silent for a moment, lost in his own thoughts. He carefully adjusted one of the structures.

  Simon Edison met Cecily and her then-husband Philip Clark Ashton about five years ago at a cocktail party, he told Lacey, a fund-raising reception for a research foundation where he was working and where Philip Ashton was donating money. Cecily felt out of place amidst the scientists and politicians, and her husband was preoccupied with making some deal.

  “We got along instantly,” he said simply. “Go figure. We got to be sort of buddies.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Lots of things. Everything.” Simon seemed a little shy. Perhaps he was also uncertain how much he could trust a reporter. When Lacey asked him a direct question he had a habit of looking away and ducking his head.

  “Tell me about the fabric you made for Cecily.”

  He nodded his large shaggy head and the halo of hair waved. “She wanted something to protect her against— against the pain. And I understand pain.”

  Simon didn’t specify the source of his own pain. His shyness was written silently in every awkward piece of clothing he wore. He looked like someone who might be much more comfortable in a laboratory.

  “Was this about the voices?”

  “You know about that?” He looked surprised.

  She nodded. “Do you believe she really heard voices inside her head?”

  Simon took his glasses off and rubbed them clean with a handkerchief.

  “Well, yes. I do believe it. Let me make it quite clear, though, I assume the voices were part of her mental illness, not a government conspiracy. I believe Cecily herself came to the same conclusion, that they were probably her own voices, even though she wanted to believe they were something else.” His big shoulders slumped as he sighed deeply. “She never disassociated from reality. She was always aware, always functional, always bright and caring and— But it was awful for her to live with, whatever it was. It weighed on her.”

  “What did you make of it, Simon? The voices and the other people like Cecily?” Lacey needed to ground this story somewhere in reality, something she could make sense of. A scientist, she hoped, would be grounded in reality, facts, and logic. She took off her coat. She looked around and tried to imagine what the exhibit would look like when it was finally filled with Cecily’s treasures, all in frozen motion.

  “There are a lot of people like her. More than you’d imagine. ” Simon pushed his glasses up. He glanced at Lacey to see if she was laughing at him. She wasn’t. “But it seems to me every generation, every era, has its own mysteries and unexplained phenomena. And we all have fears we can’t escape from. Real fears get rolled up with mysteries into myth, fantasy, legend, even insanity. I suppose every culture has wrestled with their fears and mysteries, since we started drawing on walls in caves.”

  “Fear and mystery, reaching some sort of critical mass.” Lacey thought of Damon and Brooke.

  “There’s always something scary in the woods, a mystery just out of reach. We use fairy tales, magic and leprechauns, witches and warlocks, to make sense of it, to manage our fears. ‘Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren’t go a-hunting, For fear of little men.’ ” Simon removed his glasses again and looked away.

  “But why manage fear? Why not try to overcome it, live without fear?”

  He put his glasses back on and they promptly slid down his nose. “Maybe fear of the unknown has survival value. It keeps us out of the dark woods. If the dark woods are full of monsters, we stay close to the campfire and we live longer.

  So we tell monster stories around the fire to scare the living daylights out of each other. Maybe in evolutionary terms we’re safer if we’re still a little scared of the dark.”

  “You’ve thought a lot about this stuff.” Lacey imagined him out in the woods, a big Boy Scout in his rumpled uniform, telling ghost stories around the campfire. He nodded.

  “I’m a scientist, I study patterns in phenomena. Elves, fairies, little men? Monsters, ghosts, alien abductions, mind control conspiracies? I wonder if they’re all just part of the same phenomenon. That’s the ultimate mind control, the way we subconsciously manipulate our own fears to control each other’s behavior.”

  Fear didn’t save Cecily, she mused. “What about Cecily’s fears?” Lacey tried to steer the conversation back to her. She realized Simon Edison might talk all afternoon if she let him. “What did she hope the fabric would do?”

  “Ah, yes, the fabric. Something to block out the pain. She said the pain came from the voices and it was controlled by them. They could strike anywhere at any time, she had headaches too, but they seemed particularly to attack the, um, female organs.”

  “Did she see doctors for the pain?”

  “Oh yes. She was in perfect shape, physically. Nothing explained her symptoms. She asked for my help. At first, I thought perhaps if she believed a high-tech fabric of some kind could help, then maybe it really would help.”

  “Aha. So the fabric was just a placebo?”

  “Well, at least that, I hoped, and maybe more. Sometimes placebos really work, you know. It’s a kind of mind control, isn’t it? Make your mind believe something works and your body follows?”

  “Cecily never told me about the fabric.”

  “She wouldn’t have,” Simon said. “She didn’t report it missing in the burglary either, as far as I know. It wasn’t in the newspapers. Cecily didn’t want anyone to think she was crazy. That was very important to her. But I wonder, if you’re really crazy, do you care what people think? I’m not a psychologist, but I don’t think she was crazy either. She just had this—crazy problem. She made it very clear she didn’t want to be associated with the ‘foil-wrapped fruit-cakes, ’ as she called them.”

  “Here’s a question, Simon. If these people really are being attacked by some kind of electromagnetic rays being broadcast all over the globe through the atmosphere, why doesn’t everyone feel them? Why don’t I? Let’s say evil agents of some shadowy government conspiracy really are targeting random people with these mysterious rays.”

  “Or nonrandom experimental subjects,” he offered.

  “Say you’re a nonrandom experimental subject. Or she is.” Lacey stood up and pointed at one of the mannequins. “A big fat mind-control ray heads straight for her at the speed of light. But just then, I walk in front of her.” Lacey stood in front of the mannequin and spread her arms to protect her. “Wouldn’t I get zapped by the ray? Wouldn’t I hear the voices and feel the pain? So why isn’t everyone in America complaining about this, and not just the ‘foil-wrapped fruitcakes’?”

  “Good question! Unless your test subjects have some sort of receiver implanted in them. But did the government secretly abduct and implant thousands of people? A bureaucratic nightmare. We’re right back in The X-Files. Monster stories. So maybe some people are simply more sensitive to that particular radiation, whatever it is.”

  “Are you saying these people hear voices because they’re just wired that way? They’re like human radio receivers?”

  “I wish I knew,” he said. “Maybe someone could have done more for Cecily.”

  “But you tried to help her, didn’t you?” Lacey said, steering him gently back to Cecily again. “You created the fabric for her.”
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  “Yes, the fabric,” he agreed. “An interesting challenge, protecting a human being from theoretical electromagnetic attacks. We’ve had radiation-proof garments for years, but they shield for particle radiation, not electromagnetic. Lead-lined suits for nuclear power plants, lead aprons for X-ray techs, things like that. Stiff, heavy, ugly stuff. The new radiationproof fabrics like Demron, a special polymer bonded to a synthetic, aren’t much better. Nothing Cecily could wear to a cocktail party, that’s for sure. Besides, you need a conductive metal to block electromagnetic radiation too, like microwaves, TV and radio, cell phone signals, the whole spectrum. And she told me the voices would stop sometimes in elevators. I went aha! You need something like a Faraday cage.” Simon stood up and led her to one of the mannequins. It wore one of the delicate metal frameworks designed to support a long flowing skirt.

  “A ‘Faraday cage’?” Lacey said, following him. “I’m going to need the subtitled version of this, Simon.” Lacey peered closely at the mannequin, and she noticed for the first time that its face was Cecily’s face. All the mannequins wore Cecily’s face. They wore several different stylized expressions, but they were all modeled on her.

  “A Faraday cage is basically just an enclosure or shield of conductive metal. You use it to block electrical fields and electromagnetic radiation, either coming in or going out. Doesn’t have to be solid metal, a metal mesh will do, and you can control which frequencies you block by the size of the mesh, like in the door of your microwave oven in the kitchen. Some elevators are partial cages, that’s why your cell phone signal drops out. Your whole microwave oven is a good Faraday cage. An aluminum foil beanie is, let’s say, a very primitive Faraday cage. But metal mesh is much better.”

  “Metal mesh?” Now she had the picture. At last they were back in her universe. “Designers have used fine metal mesh in haute couture for years. Gold, silver, bronze, aluminum. It can be draped so it flows over the body beautifully.”

  “Exactly. I found a way to bond a radiation-blocking polymer to a very fine metal mesh. Cecily funded the research. I added the conducting polymer to shield from ionizing radiation and UV protection. I developed the new polymer and the bonding technique, put it all together. I have a patent.”

  “Can you describe it for me, Simon? Simple picture, not a chemistry lesson.”

  “I thought the best sample was really quite beautiful.” He closed his eyes and his hands moved as he talked, as if they were caressing the fabric. “It was a very soft gold mesh material, sheerer that anything I’d worked with before. Turned out really well. I had just enough to make something the size of a shawl. Gold is a terrific conductor, and the clear polymer backing layer gave it some body. It was less sheer than the mesh by itself, so it didn’t make a woman look quite so, um, naked.”

  “And that was the sample that was stolen?”

  “Yes, when she wasn’t using it as sort of a shawl she kept it hidden in that vintage makeup case she loved so much. She said the sample really helped, and she liked the look and feel of it. She was amazed. I was too. We were getting close to creating something really special. But then . . .” Simon picked up his overcoat. He suddenly seemed anxious to leave.

  Lacey touched his arm. “I realize Cecily’s death probably stopped everything in its tracks, but—”

  “You don’t understand, Lacey.” He backed away from her, almost colliding with a mannequin. “It was before she died. We had . . . sort of a falling out. I’m ashamed to admit we weren’t really on speaking terms when she was killed.”

  “Over the fabric?”

  “Not really. It was more than that.” He ducked his head and looked at the floor. “I was in love with Cecily. Pretty pathetic, huh.”

  “I see.” Cecily loved the wrong men. The wrong men loved Cecily. “Did you tell her?”

  He nodded. “It went badly. She didn’t want— I told her she didn’t have to love me back, but . . .”

  “Oh, dear.” Lacey said it softly. Simon stopped talking. He pulled out his wrinkled handkerchief and wiped his eyes. “When did you tell her how you felt?”

  “When I gave her the material. Just before Christmas. I was pretty proud of it, it was so beautiful, and I thought maybe that was a good time—”

  Lacey could imagine the scene, poor gawky Simon Edison offering Cecily the fruits of his labor, the magical mystery fabric. Unfortunately, he also offered her his heart. Cecily might not have dealt with that very well. In her own way, Lacey suspected, she probably treasured his kid-brotherly friendship more than she did the men she used and dallied with. But had the thought of sweet awkward Simon as a lover embarrassed her? Offended her? Or worse, amused her? Had she laughed at him?

  “Simon, I’m so sorry,” Lacey said.

  “I didn’t expect her to fall in love with me, but I wanted her to understand that I would always be there for her. Who knows, maybe eventually . . .” A new note crept into Simon’s voice, one of frustration or anger. “I understood her better than anyone, but she didn’t want to see me anymore. She insisted on wasting herself on all those idiots. They weren’t all handsome, they weren’t smart, or even kind to her, and they weren’t worthy of her. But she never looked at me that way.”

  Simon’s voice cracked. Lacey didn’t know how to comfort him. He took a deep breath. “Well, the fabric was a success with Cecily, even if I wasn’t. She told me it seemed to block some of the attacks, the voices and the pain. She would tie it around her head, like a beautiful golden gypsy. She wanted a lot more, enough to line several outfits with it. But I refused to make any more of it for her. I was still furious with her.”

  “And then her house was burglarized. Simon, did you have anything to do with the burglary?”

  His mouth dropped open in surprise. “No! I only found out about it when she called me. She was frantic. She begged me for more fabric. We fought on the phone, we ended up saying some terrible things. Words that can’t be taken back.” He closed his eyes to shut out the memory. “It was as if Cecily built me up and then broke me into pieces.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “I locked up the formula, all the patent information, and my notes, and went to London for the holidays. I have a sister there.”

  “Did you ever see Cecily again?”

  Simon was slow to answer. Too slow, Lacey thought. “No, I thought about it, I wanted to, but I didn’t. Now she’s dead. I can’t forgive myself.”

  “Who killed Cecily?”

  He sighed. “Could be Philip, could be anyone. Don’t look at me like that! I could never hurt her, not like that.” He shook his head emphatically. “Look at me, I’m a scientist. I live in a lab. Understand, if I were going to kill someone I’d need to study it like a chemistry problem, formulate hypotheses, develop a complex plan, and then probably abandon the whole idea in disgust. But I could never kill Cecily. And I’ll spend my life wanting to apologize.”

  “You still could develop the fabric. There are people who would want it. If they thought it worked. People you could help.” Simon turned away from her and struggled into his rumpled overcoat, yet another item of clothing that seemed set against him. He needed his own magic fabric, Lacey thought. She handed him her business card. “I’d like to write something about her efforts to develop the fabric, and yours. Call me. When you’re ready.”

  “I don’t know.” He stared at the card and smiled sadly. “She’d like that. She wanted to leave something behind, besides all those closets full of clothes. She always wanted children, but Ashton wouldn’t hear of it. The miscarriage was hard on her.”

  “When did that happen?” New information! Lacey tried not to register surprise. A typical Washington source, dropping the bombshell on the way out the door.

  “She became pregnant a couple of years into their marriage, ” Simon said. “She was in heaven, but he said he’d never raise another child at his age. His first family didn’t turn out so well.”

  “Funny, I didn’t think I could hate that
guy any more than I did, but what do you know? Now I do,” Lacey said.

  “It was an accident, riding a horse in one of their stupid fox hunts. She didn’t want to ride, but Ashton made her. I’ve always wondered if maybe he spooked her horse on purpose. Whatever it was, it did the trick, she lost the baby.”

  “That’s terrible.” Lacey felt weighed down by the burdens of Cecily’s life, losing a baby, losing her husband, losing her place in the world. Finally losing her life. “Do you think she’d want your miracle fabric to be lost forever too?”

  “I’m not ready now. Maybe someday.” Simon started for the door.

  “Simon, before you go. The fabric. What is it called?”

  He looked a little sheepish. “Well, the other samples just had lab numbers. But I’ve been calling it— Don’t laugh. Celestine. It sounds, I don’t know, heavenly. Celestial. And it reminds me of Cecily.”

  Lacey nodded thoughtfully, and Simon Edison hurried out, leaving her alone in the museum. She gave Cecily’s mannequins one last long look and gathered her things. Maybe someday she would write about Cecily and Simon’s magical mystery fabric. But not today.

  On the cab ride back to The Eye, Lacey called Detective Jance, the Falls Church detective who grilled her the day the body was discovered. He seemed annoyed by having to talk to a reporter. That didn’t surprise her. He was a busy cop with important things to do, and she was a fashion reporter asking irrelevant questions. She apparently didn’t even make a convincing suspect anymore. He managed to work in a casual insult about her Sunday feature article on Cecily Ashton.

  “I learned more about ladies’ shoes and handbags and clothes and closets than I did about the deceased, for crying out loud,” the detective said. “And all those ‘accessories’! When I talk about ‘accessories,’ it’s usually in relation to a crime.”

  Lacey refrained from pointing out that Cecily’s accessories were very much “in relation to a crime.” The Ashton woman had “more money than sense,” Jance went on to opine. As for Lacey’s article, it didn’t shed any light on the murder, and that was that. Yes, the detective had also checked on her burglary. Nothing new there, no tips, no stolen goods recovered. Jance seemed to be in a rush to get her off the phone. Is there a football game I’m interrupting? she wondered.