Lacey took a seat warily and Brooke followed suit. “I was just following Magda’s instructions. I didn’t know what I’d find. She was supposed to be with me. It was supposed to be a surprise.” That sounded lame even to her. “But I guess you were the surprise, right? A big, ugly surprise. And I suppose you killed her.”
Kepelov looked at her for a moment before speaking. “I wish you were a spy. You would talk less and say more.”
“Just a reporter on a story. I guess we’re done here.” Lacey stood up to leave, but Griffin blocked her way and she sat down again.
“Don’t you think we can come to an agreement, between comrades?” Kepelov showed his teeth. It was supposed to be a smile, but it had the opposite effect, that of a lion going in for the kill. “If we all cooperate to find this egg by Fabergé, there will be plenty of profit to go around. Among comrades there is no conflict.”
Lacey sighed. Brooke nervously tapped one foot, but she said nothing.
“That’s right, we’re all mates, all in this together.” Griffin took his beer from the approaching waiter, who set down several shots of something clear in front of Kepelov. The waiter looked at the women for their order. Lacey ordered a Coke and Brooke followed her example.
“So now we’re all friends?” Lacey said, lifting one eyebrow. “How do you suggest we go about being friends?”
“We share information,” Kepelov said. “Like friends do.”
Lacey glared at him. “You knocked me out. You must have searched the cellar. How do I know you didn’t find something there?”
To her surprise, Kepelov started to laugh. “Because, foolish one, if I had found something, I wouldn’t be here now with you, to share information. Like friends.” He downed a shot of what Lacey supposed was vodka. “So, comrade. Now is the time to share.”
“How long were you down there? After you dropped me on the floor?” Lacey asked calmly, privately aghast that she was sitting decorously at a table with the very pig who had manhandled her in Jean-Claude’s cellar. She knew that men had a capacity for chumming it up even after they beat the hell out of each other, but she wasn’t like that. She had a long line of vengeful Irish blood running in her veins, along with a bit of French and a few other nationalities with long memories, and she wasn’t one to forget so quickly. Kepelov shrugged, not that elegant French shrug she had admired, but a deadly cold shrug. Perhaps he was honoring some sort of male code of civility among enemies, she thought, enemies whom he would just as soon kill as have a drink with.
“Maybe ten minutes, then I left. I was done there.” His brow wrinkled.
“You left me laying there in the dirt and the spiders?”
“You are looking at this the wrong way. I was looking for a Fabergé egg. But I found nothing. A waste of my time.”
“So what do you want from us?” Brooke said.
“He’s getting to it, Goldilocks,” Griffin said nastily. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”
“Maybe you read or heard something, something small, something that didn’t even make sense, but it caught in your mind. Something the old woman said, something her idiot cousin said. Something you saw. And now that we are all friends?”
“I saw a dead dog.”
“Yes, I saw that too. A pity. I like dogs. Dogs never lie.”
Kepelov downed another vodka, while Lacey and Brooke sat with their hands on their Cokes. “You are not drinking. You think I might drug you? Put something in your drinks?”
“Someone who uses chloroform might use anything,” Lacey said.
“Chloroform? You are sure it was chloroform?” He chuckled. The vodka was doing him good. “Why would I want you unconscious again, Lacey Smithsonian? Now that we are friends and we are sharing all this wonderful information,” he said with a heavy dose of irony. Kepelov licked vodka from his handlebar mustache. He reminded her a little of Yosemite Sam with a Russian accent. She attempted a smile and hoped it didn’t look too much like a sneer.
“Since you feel that way, why not give me the handkerchief you used? As a sentimental gesture.” Lacey wanted to know what the monogram was. “Now that we’re such good friends.”
Kepelov smiled with everything but his eyes. “You are funny, you know that?” He laughed and Griffin joined in, but he made no move to produce a handkerchief. Kepelov stopped laughing and looked at his watch. He downed another vodka and gestured at the women dismissively. She and Brooke looked at each other and stood up to leave.
“This is such fun,” Griffin said cheerfully. “Old pals in Paris. Let’s keep in touch.”
“Let’s not,” Lacey spat. The jewel thief and the spy sat drinking as the women left the café.
“God, I’m starved,” Brooke said on the sidewalk, the tension finally getting the better of her nerves. “Aren’t you starved? Obviously, we didn’t dare eat or drink anything those thugs could have slipped something into. Let’s get out of here. My hands are shaking. Aren’t your hands shaking? Where do you want to go?”
Lacey was too angry to speak. She let Brooke chatter her nerves away and swaggered down the sidewalk of the Avenue Maine with a sense of bravado, determined to reclaim the afternoon and put this experience behind her. She was caught by the window of a lingerie shop. It was calling her. Frenchwomen were said to set great store by their lingerie, Lacey had heard. Bras and panties had to be sexy, they had to match, they had to be exquisite and expensive. And here they were. This obviously called for some serious firsthand research. She eyed the gaudily corseted mannequins in the window.
Brooke sneezed. Across the street there was a tabac, that odd French combination of a tobacco shop and a drugstore, where she told Lacey she would try to find more allergy medicine. “I’ll meet you in the lingerie shop in fifteen minutes. I want to check out some garter belts too.”
“I’ll do reconnaissance. Don’t be long, Brooke, then we’ll find a restaurant.” Lacey strolled into the store. After a few mandatory pleasantries in French with the saleswoman, she was left alone to browse. All about her were lovely and delicate garments in sherbet shades of peach, lime, and blueberry. Her hands immediately reached toward a blue lace bra and panties set. She picked it up, admiring the workmanship and the beautiful re-embroidered lace.
“So, Lacey Smithsonian.” A soft voice came from behind her. “Are we not friends now? You seemed so upset, I wanted to remind you: I did not kill you. And I did not kill the old woman.”
Kepelov had materialized behind her in the store. She whirled around, angry that she had let him sneak up on her again. “And I’m supposed to thank you for small favors?” Sociopath! She looked for Griffin; she didn’t see him. “And if you didn’t kill Magda, who did?”
He shrugged nonchalantly. “That is very pretty, the blue lace. Would be very sexy on you.”
Lacey dropped the underwear as if it were on fire. Her hands itched to slap him. What the hell is he doing in this shop anyway? This is female territory! “You left me on the ground unconscious, covered in dirt and bugs!”
“Only spiders. How was I to know you do not like spiders?” Kepelov’s expression was bemused. Even his blank blue eyes seemed to hold a hint of amusement.
“Are you crazy, or do you know women who actually like sleeping with spiders?”
Kepelov gave her a weird grin that made her think maybe he did. “The world is full of all different kinds of women.”
“Why are you following me? I have nothing for you. That coal room in Normandy was the end of the trail for me.”
“Then why are you here in Paris?”
“Because it’s Paris, you bonehead! I’ve never been to Paris! I’ve wanted to see it my entire life.”
“Ah. You should see Moscow.” He moved closer and she backed away. “We could work together, you and I. Find this treasure. A Fabergé egg would make us both very rich, even after bribing all the people we would need to bribe. Do you have any idea how rich?” Lacey ducked between racks of garter belts. Kepelov handled them appreciat
ively, but his gaze never left her.
“What about your pal, Griffin?” And where the hell is Brooke?
He snorted. “Nigel is sometimes useful, but we are acquaintances only. He’s a fool.”
“And why should I throw my lot in with you?”
“Because I am resourceful, and not a fool. I would rather not discuss my particular talents, but you have seen the Spy Museum in Washington, D.C.? Some of my lesser work is on display there. Under other names, of course.”
“You should really be having this conversation with my friend Brooke. She loves this stuff. So tell me, are you really KGB?”
“Ah. KGB is no more. Perhaps you heard? Disbanded in 1991. Turned into something else. Never the same again. No more USSR either, eh? I am currently between engagements.”
“Don’t look at me to fill your time.” What the hell does he want with me? She turned her back on him to pick up some pretty cream-colored nightgowns. Maybe ignoring him would make him go away. She was wrong. The saleswoman was carefully giving them space, as if they were just another squabbling couple selecting some naughty nightie for a romantic tryst.
“I have a dream, Lacey Smithsonian,” he said. She wondered why he kept using both of her names: Maybe it’s a Russian thing, she thought. “It is the American dream, my dream, to buy a big ranch and settle down. In Texas.”
“You’re playing with me, aren’t you?”
“No, no, it’s true. I like big sky country.”
“That’s Montana, not Texas.”
“Ah, it’s all big sky country in the West. Like Siberia. Only hot. Someday, I will invite you there for Texas barbecue. We will laugh about all this.”
“Oh, I’m already laughing,” she said grimly. “Good luck finding that egg, Tex.” Lacey fled to another aisle. Kepelov shrugged and picked up a sheer black nightgown to admire it. He gestured for the saleswoman, handed it to her, and followed her to the desk to purchase it. He smiled at Lacey. He’d better not think he’s buying that for me, she swore under her breath, or I’ll make him choke on it.
“So you do have a girlfriend,” Lacey commented acidly. “Is this for ‘Long and Leggy’ or ‘Short and Chubby’? What’s the lucky lady’s name?”
“I am a very popular fellow, but I never kiss and tell. Do you think she will like this?”
The tag said it was more than two hundred euros. Is this for the woman who sleeps with spiders? He must like her a lot. “Very naughty, Tex.”
“Excellent.” Kepelov smiled again. “Good to have advice from a fashion expert.” The saleswoman began wrapping his purchase. Lacey caught a glimpse through the shop window of Brooke approaching, and she ran out the door to meet her. She had lost all interest in this particular lingerie shop, and she didn’t even want to visualize Kepelov with his naughty Spiderwoman.
Chapter 18
When Lacey and Brooke returned to the Hotel Mouton Vert that evening, Lacey detected a lingering scent of perfume in her hotel room, a woodsy rose scent with a hint of musk. It wasn’t her own scent, nor did she think it belonged to the maid who had cleaned her room. It was vaguely familiar and it made her feel ill at ease. There was a memory connected to it somehow, but she couldn’t place it. Someone wearing a rose scent had been in her room while they were out.
The signs that someone had gone through her things were subtle too, but they were there. Whoever searched the room was careful; it was apparent Lacey wasn’t supposed to know. Her clothes in the drawers and in her suitcase were only slightly out of order, left slightly askew, as were her toiletries in the bathroom. The clothes she had hung up were spaced just a little too evenly on the rod. But her camera, her notebook, the diary, her cell phone, and her passport case with the torn note were all in her purse. They had been with her all along.
There was a knock at the door. “Lacey, it’s me, Brooke. Are you in there?”
She opened the door. Brooke silently motioned for Lacey to follow her into the elevator. Grabbing her bag, Lacey locked the room and followed Brooke. She pushed the first-floor button. “I gather from these precautions that someone’s been in your room too? Besides the maid?”
“I wasn’t sure at first, but the Scotch tape I put on my drawers was broken.”
“You put tape on your drawers?” Lacey was tempted to comment on Brooke’s usual paranoia, but she held her tongue. Paranoia didn’t seem quite so inappropriate now.
Brooke nodded. “Of course. Don’t you? How did you know there was an intruder?”
“A scent of perfume. A woodsy rose, I think. And my things were disturbed. Not much, but I don’t think housekeepers have time to rummage carefully through guests’ suitcases.”
“Perfume. Good catch, I didn’t notice that. My allergies are still acting up.”
“It’s November, how can you have allergies?”
“Leaf mold. It happens every fall.” Brooke paused, then opened her hand to reveal a tiny round disc with a broken wire trailing from it. “Best of all, Lacey, I found a bug.”
Lacey felt her eyes open wide. “Are you sure?”
Brooke proudly pulled what looked like a fountain pen from her purse. “Of course I’m sure. I brought a mini radio frequency scanner with me.” She waved it like a magic wand.
“Where did you get that thing?”
“A friend.” Obviously, finding the bug justified all the trouble Brooke had taken in bringing her toys to France. “Damon will be so pleased.”
“Pleased that our rooms were searched?”
“No, silly, pleased that we’re on to them, that the scanner worked.” She examined the thing in her hand, waving her scanner pen as if she were Tinker Bell. “This is the only one I found and it’s a bit out of date—might be obsolete KGB stuff—but there could be more.”
“Where did you find it?”
“Under the lamp next to the bed. It’s obviously a quick and dirty job. They didn’t go to any special lengths to plant it.” She looked disgusted. “I mean, what do they take us for, a couple of airhead debutantes?”
By the time the tiny creaking elevator made its way downstairs, Lacey had decided to request new rooms. But as they reached the first floor, Brooke hit the button to return to their floor. “This was just a diversion. We have to go back and see if there’s a bug in your room.” Lacey sighed. “Turn on the radio loud while I do the scan,” Brooke said, “so they won’t hear anything.”
Back on their floor, Lacey put the key in her lock and opened the door again. Brooke went to work with her mini scanner and soon nailed the bug, in the same location. Whoever had placed the bugs was predictable. Brooke shook her head at their buggers’ naïveté. Lacey wasn’t entirely convinced that the small round discs were bugging devices. Sure, they looked like some of the displays at the Spy Museum in Washington and at the Spy Store, Brooke’s favorite electronic toy store. But perhaps Brooke was simply disabling the Hotel Mouton Vert’s security system or something? Brooke rolled her eyes.
“Okay, we’ll settle this. I want to smell your room,” Lacey said.
Sure enough, the faint scent of woodsy rose wafted gently on the air in Brooke’s room. It was definitely the same scent, the same person. “Can you smell that?” Lacey asked.
“Smell what?”
“The scent. It’s the same as in my room.”
“I can’t smell a thing. Decongestant hasn’t kicked in yet.”
Back downstairs, Lacey told one Monsieur Henri Colbert, the hotel concierge, that she had taken a nap and had a terrible dream that her room was haunted, and she simply couldn’t stay in there. It was the best pretext she could come up with on short notice. And Brooke assured him that she too would feel better on a different floor, near her friend. Monsieur Henri was unperturbed.
“But of course: Marie. It was no dream, mademoiselle. It was our ghost, the resident spirit of the Hotel Mouton Vert. I am so sorry, but really she is entirely harmless.” He straightened his vest and smiled a little sadly beneath his trim mustache. Lacey and Brooke shared
a stunned look. “Her name is Marie, a very tragic story. A tragic love affair. She becomes lonely. She means no harm. She is drawn to ladies who are in love, so they say. Perhaps she is longing to be near a happy love story, a happy ending. She is a romantic ghost. Très triste.”
No wonder I haven’t actually met her, Lacey thought. No happy endings in my romantic life. Perhaps Monsieur Colbert was himself in love with Marie, she wondered, or at least with her legend.
“I can give you other rooms, mademoiselle, but I cannot guarantee Marie will not visit you again. If she has formed an attachment to you—” He shrugged.
“All the same, two other rooms please,” Lacey said. “I’d rather not bump into Marie.” He nodded agreeably, as if he heard these requests every day.
“Does Marie show up in a lot of your rooms?” Brooke asked with interest.
“Most often the floor you are on, where she died. Of a broken heart,” he hastened to reassure them. “No violence. But she has been known to visit any room in the hotel. She was a chambermaid here, many years ago.” Henri assured them they need only move their bags to their new rooms on the third floor and turn in the old keys. If they needed assistance, he would be happy to arrange it. They declined his offer.
“Does Marie wear perfume?” Lacey asked, feeling a little foolish. “Has anyone noticed any particular aroma when she’s around? Or after she’s left?”
Henri frowned. He couldn’t recall any reports of a ghostly perfume. “But if you hear a woman crying and there is no one there, ah! It is poor, poor Marie.” He sighed as he handed her the new room keys.
“I can’t believe he’s trying to make me feel guilty over hurting a ghost’s feelings,” she whispered to Brooke as they headed for the elevator once again.
Lacey didn’t want anyone, living or dead, rummaging through her things. A new hotel room would help ease the feeling of intrusion, she thought, even though it was almost identical to the one she had just left, decorated in shades of blue instead of rose. Brooke’s was done in yellow and gold instead of green. And she was satisfied that whoever had searched their old rooms hadn’t found what he or she was looking for. Certainly not a Fabergé egg or a bloody corset.
Raiders of the Lost Corset Page 15
