Raiders of the Lost Corset

by Ellen Byerrum

  “Wait a minute, Brooke,” Lacey said, checking her nearly empty refrigerator. “How can you just take off for Paris at the drop of a corset stay? Aren’t you a hard-charging young barrister with a full plate of important clients?” She reached into the fridge for Brie, wine, and baguettes. Nothing like setting the mood, she thought. And the only other food in her kitchen was popcorn.

  “Oh, please, quel bore. My current clients would put an insomniac in a coma. We are talking about adventure and murder and Romanovs. And a century-old secret. And Paris.”

  “Actually it’s supposed to be in a farmhouse somewhere near Mont-Saint-Michel.”

  “I love Mont-Saint-Michel! And Paris, and the lost corset of the Romanovs. I love everything about it, and I love you for calling me. This adventure calls for teamwork, Lacey.” Brooke had forgotten the boring brief she had written that afternoon and was mentally soaring on the heady fumes of a good story. “We make a great team. Your instincts, my legal know-how. And Damon’s—”

  “Damon can’t come,” Lacey insisted. “Just you and me. Attorney–client privilege.” She sliced the bread and Brie, placed it on a tray, added a bunch of grapes, and handed Brooke a plate.

  “But he’s—”

  “He’s a sweet boy, Brooke, and your boyfriend du jour, I know, but he’s a madman masquerading as a journalist.”

  “I know he has a reputation, but you’re wrong,” Brooke pleaded. “He can be trusted.”

  Trusted was the last thing that Damon Newhouse could be, Lacey thought. “He likes to mock me, to ruin my reputation. In print.” Lacey remembered the many times Damon had made sport of her on his Web site, Conspiracy Clearinghouse, a.k.a. DeadFed dot com, the notorious repository of all things related to Washington conspiracy theories and every kind of unsubstantiated rumor and speculation with which the Nation’s Capital was so rife.

  “Oh, no, DeadFed is a mission for Damon, an important one. And he has nothing but respect for you.” Brooke grabbed a piece of cheese. “The truth is out there.”

  “No, the truth is subjective, and there are a thousand and one fantasies out there. Anything you like. Damon stocks a veritable grocery store of tall tales.”

  “You say that now.” Brooke chewed merrily.

  “I know you love him.” Lacey tried to be gentle. “He’s a doll, but—”

  “Okay. Forget Damon for a moment,” Brooke said, licking her lips. “Are you sure you don’t want Vic there?”

  “It’s over.” Lacey settled in on her velvet sofa, balancing the Brie and a baguette, and leaned her head back.

  “No more Vic? No! I don’t believe it.”

  “My heart is not a football,” Lacey said. Even so, her heart said she was a fool. She would just have to teach it a lesson.

  “I could have Damon talk to him,” Brooke offered.

  “Keep Damon away from Vic!” Lacey sat up straight. “He’d try to convince Vic I was kidnapped by, I don’t know, android congressional pages and held ransom for the plans to a top-secret new hybrid vehicle run on tidal energy from the full moon. Or something.”

  “Android congressional pages? Could be true, I’ve seen those pages. Not human, the lot of them.” Brooke sipped her wine. “But do you think the man-to-man thing might work? We could try it.”

  “Thanks, but no. If Vic Donovan can’t work up the gumption to see me himself, I don’t want an intervention. After all, there are men in Paris. Frenchmen. I’ve heard stories.”

  “Yes, but Frenchmen are only fling-worthy, and you don’t believe in flings. I really think Damon and I could help. And if Damon came with us to Paris—”

  “No, no, no. I know you mean well, but you and Damon together are nuclear. Radioactive.”

  “Well, certainly between the sheets. Did I tell you about the time we—”

  “Too much information, Brooke. And we’re starting with one dead body already.”

  “Ha. You’re a fine one to talk about being nuclear. Look at you, another dead source!”

  “Hey, it’s not like I knock them off myself. That’s poor form for a reporter.”

  Brooke broke off a piece of baguette and gestured with it. “My point is that they are dead. This time, you’re way more involved. You’re privy to the murder victim’s secrets. You were the last one to see her alive. You may have gotten there mere minutes after the killer left. He, she, whoever it is, may have seen you and thinks you saw them. You’re in danger.”

  “Of course I’m in danger, I live in the D.C. metropolitan area. Anthrax, terrorists, snipers, cabdrivers, the Beltway, the Virginia Department of Transportation. But this is an adventure and I want it.”

  “Rousseau’s killer might go after you next.”

  Lacey lifted her wineglass. “In that case, I’m going to Paris before I die. Just remember, you might be in danger too,” she said. “You can reconsider the trip.”

  “It’s a chance I’ll have to take.” Brooke’s eyes glittered.

  “Stella volunteered to come too.”

  “Good God! No!” Brooke and Stella didn’t get along. “That blabbermouth would get you killed for sure. Stella knew Magda, didn’t she? Does she know about the Romanov corset?”

  “Not yet. Or else the story would be everywhere, swapped among customers between the highlights and the haircut. If Stella knew, it would be on the Web by now. Damon would be all over it.” Lacey moved to the French doors to her balcony overlooking the Potomac. The view of the river was her favorite part of the apartment. “I’m not sure who knows what about this thing. Magda said I’m the only one who knows, but I’m not sure. Leaving the body covered in cheap jewels doesn’t sound like just a coincidence to me.”

  “Obviously a message,” Brooke said. “But what?”

  “I’ll still be writing the story for The Eye. But I’m telling everyone I’m on vacation.”

  “Good idea. That’s what I’ll tell everyone too. You’re heartbroken and I’m going to help cheer you up by going to Paris with you to help you pick up hot Frenchmen.”

  “Ease up on the sympathy angle, would you?” Lacey returned to her sofa.

  Brooke breezed on. “I have tons of vacation time coming that I never get to take.” She wiped her fingers delicately on her napkin and poured herself more wine.

  “Your boss can spare you?” Lacey asked archly.

  “Daddy?” Though she sometimes felt constrained working in the family law firm, Brooke Barton found there were many advantages in being associated with the firm of Barton, Barton & Barton. “Oh, I think so. There’s nothing I can’t fob off on the junior partner.”

  “Your brother Benjamin?”

  “Of course.” Brooke laughed.

  Lacey handed her a copy of the itinerary. “You can take Magda’s room at the hotel. We’re on the same floor. The Eye is cheap, but there was no way I was going to share a room.”

  “Cheap! You’re in a two-star hotel. The Eye is so cheap it squeaks!” She refilled her wineglass.

  “Big deal. Who wants some big, anonymous American-style hotel? If you want to stay at another hotel, be my guest.”

  “No way. We need to stick together, babe. I can rough it for once in a mere two-star.” Brooke leaned back into the sofa cushions and stretched like a contented cat. “What do you think is hidden in the corset? Diamonds, rubies, emeralds? The diamond-studded imperial back-scratcher?”

  “All of the above. They had ungodly amounts of jewels,” Lacey said, remembering the remnants of Romanov wealth she had seen on display at Marjorie Merriweather Post’s Hillwood Museum in D.C. “You should see the crown the Empress Alexandra wore at her wedding. It’s just solid diamonds. A hundred or more. At least one carat each. Looked like it came out of a giant gumball machine.”

  “Whose corset do you think it was?”

  “I assume you mean if it really exists and it isn’t some figment of Magda’s fevered imagination?”

  “Yeah. That’s it. Whose was it? Out of four daughters and one empress, whose?”
/>   “The latest book I’ve read on the Romanov execution said that no valuables were found on Princess Marie. No corset on her, supposedly. The author—a man, wouldn’t you know it—theorized that her family was mad at her for flirting with a Bolshevik guard and withheld her fancy underwear.” Lacey cleared away the dishes. “Yeah, that makes a lot of sense. I can hear them: ‘Now you’ve done it, Missy, we’re hiding your underwear! No corset for you, my girl.’ Remember, these were very reserved people. Practically Victorian. It’s not like they’re going to let a teenage girl go braless. Not even with the noose practically around their necks.”

  “Absolutely,” Brooke agreed. “Only a man could come up with such a ridiculous premise. More likely they’d make her wear two corsets. And a chastity belt.”

  “Maybe she was thought to be corsetless because someone had already found her corset and spirited it away,” Lacey continued. “Someone like Magda’s grandfather, Juris? And maybe his Latvian buddies helped or covered for him. After all, the scene was total chaos. Drunken slaughter. Horrible.” A silence fell over them for a few moments while they pictured the victims’ awful final moments amid the pandemonium that set in among their executioners.

  “So it was Princess Marie’s corset,” Brooke said. “Maybe.”

  “It’s a theory.” Lacey shrugged. “Or maybe it’s Magda’s dream-weaving, or her grandfather’s lies. My money’s on the latter. Grandpa Juris is dead: Dead men tell tall tales.”

  “Some people think such an object would have almost magical powers.” Brooke’s eyes took on a glow with the intoxication of a lovely conspiracy theory. “A holy relic of the Romanovs’ martyrdom. Sort of like the lost Ark of the Covenant. Obviously there are those who might want it destroyed, and those who would kill to get their hands on it—”

  “Hold on, counselor, you are a confirmed ‘conspiromaniac.’ Step away from the corset, ma’am.”

  “Even if the corset doesn’t have supernatural properties, it would be worth millions. Millions and millions.”

  “We have to play it very cool,” Lacey warned, wondering if it was such a good idea to have told Brooke after all. “And we can’t discount the possibility that someone unrelated to the corset killed Magda. Her clientele also included hookers and kinksters. And those crazy theatre people. Perhaps someone wanted to kill her with a theatrical flourish.”

  “An actor?” Brooke said. “But you’d never kill your seamstress, your stylist, or your attorney, right? No matter how often the thought might cross your mind. Especially an actor. It would be bad karma.”

  “We’ll play it cool, Brooke. Fun, frivolous, female. We’re just two crazy American chicks on vacation, remember?”

  “Right on, chica.” Brooke stood up and retrieved her shoes and purse. “I’ll make a list of what I need to take. Camera, recorder, cell phone, laptop, GPS, BlackBerry, iPod, blow-dryer, battery chargers, outlet adapters—”

  “Don’t you think we should travel light?”

  “It’s all light.” She fumbled her keys out of the bottom of her large plaid Burberry bag. “Don’t let me forget my night-vision goggles.”

  “The essentials, Brooke. Don’t pack the whole spy store.”

  “Not to worry, Lacey, it’ll be such fun. It’ll be an adventure, a mission to seek out the truth, a raid on the secret of the century. Raiders! That’s it, we’ll be the Raiders of the Lost Corset!”

  Lacey let Brooke out, then sagged against her door. She wondered if she should have decided to go alone. Raiders of the Lost Corset indeed. Have I lost my mind?

  Chapter 8

  The following morning, the security guard at The Eye called a still-groggy Lacey Smithsonian to the front lobby to meet a visitor. This was odd, as she didn’t generally have surprise guests. On the fashion beat, her sources usually were preceded by publicists waving glossy photos.

  As she stepped out of the elevator in the lobby, the surprise visitor was a woman with a mop of strawberry-blond curls and a flapping khaki raincoat. She hurled herself toward Lacey.

  “She’s dead!” Analiza Zarina grabbed Lacey’s arms. “Why? Nothing bad ever happened to us until Magda started talking to you, and now she’s dead!”

  “Wait a minute, Analiza, I only found her. That’s all.”

  “I don’t believe you! This is all your doing!” Analiza’s Latvian-accented voice rose to a shriek. The guard came rushing over.

  “Everything okay here, ladies?” he asked. Analiza released Lacey and stepped back, glaring.

  “Maybe we could get out of the traffic here. Somewhere we can talk.” Lacey and the guard ushered the distraught woman into an empty break room and Lacey poured black coffee into two paper cups. The guard left them alone, with a word in Lacey’s ear to call if she needed help. Hot coffee could be a good defensive weapon, Lacey decided, if Analiza went ballistic and leapt for her throat. The woman still had a manic look in her eyes. Her reddish tousle of curls was as slapdash as her makeup, with a streak of blush across her cheeks and flecks of mascara below her lashes. She was usually quite attractive in a disheveled and distracted way, but she wasn’t living up to her potential today. They sat nervously across from each other at the coffee-stained table.

  “You didn’t kill her?” Analiza glared suspiciously at her.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Analiza! She was barely alive when I got there. I called 911, but she died before they arrived. I don’t know who killed Magda. She wouldn’t tell me. Or couldn’t.”

  Analiza choked on her coffee. “She was alive when you got there?!”

  “Alive. And where were you, by the way?”

  “Out buying red thread. For the Red Riding Hood costume. How we ran out, I don’t know. We always have thread, but not the red, not yesterday. Why, what do you think?”

  “Just asking.” Lacey raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t the police talk to you yet?’

  “Of course they did. Stupid men. What did Magda tell you?”

  “She told me she was poisoned.”

  “Poisoned?” The woman’s hands shook.

  That information was already in Lacey’s story posted on the paper’s Web site. The printed version would appear the next day. “Magda warned me not to drink the wine. But she didn’t say who gave it to her.”

  Analiza considered her coffee, then took a sip. “That’s ridiculous, why wouldn’t she tell you who it was?”

  “I don’t know,” Lacey said, thinking that if Magda had only told her, it would have made everything so much simpler. “Maybe she didn’t know. What do you think?”

  “I think she was crazy, but she didn’t deserve to die. You two were going to France on some wild adventure.” It was an accusation. “I’m sure she told you some crazy story.” Analiza looked at her hands and began to pick nervously at her remaining nail polish.

  “It was a fashion story. A corsetiere returns to her beloved Paris. Corsets in haute couture.”

  “I know better than that,” Analiza said. “Magda liked to run her mouth. It was more than that.”

  “Like what?” There was no response. “Yes, she liked to talk. She was full of stories.”

  Analiza seemed to make up her mind about something. “I’m her business partner, you know. I inherit everything.”

  “The shop, you mean?” Perhaps a motive for murder, Lacey thought, if the shop were a real money maker. Magda had confided that it was a living for the two of them, but not much more.

  “Everything. If you have anything of Magda’s, you must give it back to me.”

  “What would I have of Magda’s?” Lacey asked, thinking of the secret diary. But I don’t have Magda’s diary, Lacey thought, I onlyhave my own English version. She made that for me. And Analiza will have to ask for it by name before we’re having that discussion. Analiza silently studied her coffee. “I don’t know who killed her, Analiza. I’m sorry.”

  Analiza drummed her fingers on the table. “You have a reputation for getting involved in other people’s business. Too involved. But Ma
gda thought you were smart. So are you going to look for Magda’s killer?”

  “I’m not a detective. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  Analiza set her cup down. “That’s good. The police should do their job for a change.” She put her hand in her coat pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, which she thrust at Lacey. “She liked to read your column. Here. It’s an obituary. Can you get this in the paper?”

  Lacey smoothed the paper out. There was a scant handwritten paragraph on Magda Rousseau. Birth date. Death date. A corsetiere, born in France, moved to America, settled in D.C., well-known in her trade. “So few words for an entire life.”

  Analiza shrugged. “It’s enough. The memorial is tomorrow.”

  “So soon?” Lacey wondered about the autopsy and toxicology tests. The D.C. medical examiner’s office was not known for such speed and efficiency. “Have they released the body?”

  “No. They won’t tell me when. By the time they are through with Magda Rousseau, no one will remember her.”

  “I’ll be there,” Lacey said.

  Analiza stood up and walked out of the room without saying good-bye.

  Lacey ran her hands through her hair and sighed. “Nice way to start a day.”

  Trujillo popped his head into the break room. “Fan of yours?”

  “Eavesdropping, Tony?”

  “News gathering, Smithsonian. It’s in the job description, you know.” He smiled a very bright smile for so early in the morning, moved the rest of his fit and muscular body into the room, and poured himself a jolt of java.

  “What did you hear?” Lacey asked, grimacing at a swallow of her bitter coffee.

  “You mostly, trying to smooth some ruffled feathers. You look a little ruffled yourself.” Trujillo reached out and smoothed back a lock of her hair. She swatted his hand away.

  “I don’t need a bodyguard.”

  “Don’t worry, no charge.” He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “So, speaking of bodyguards, I’m trying to convince Mac to let me go to Paris to keep you out of trouble.”