Raiders of the Lost Corset

by Ellen Byerrum

  “Thirty minutes!” She jumped out of bed. “Are you crazy? I have to shower and dress!” She looked in the mirror. “And put on makeup. And do something with my hair.” Lacey ran into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

  Vic laughed and followed her. “Shall I wash your back?” He looked dangerously handsome, dressed or undressed, and more than half ready to jump back in the shower with her.

  “Go away! Shut the door!” He backed out of the bathroom laughing and let her shower by herself. It was her quickest shower on record. She returned to the room with a fluffy white bath towel wrapped around her.

  “I like it. Let’s go! You’ll stop traffic on the boulevard in that outfit.” He turned back to the mirror and started putting a knot in his tie. The crisp white shirt and patterned blue tie made him look elegantly sexy, and she briefly wondered why she rarely paid attention to what most men wore. Probably because most men didn’t look like Vic.

  She would have loved to stop and simply stare at him, at the wonder of having him there in her room. But she didn’t have time. She dashed to the tiny closet. “How fancy is this place we’re going to?”

  “Not too fancy. It’s a place to see and be seen. You’ll think of something. After all, you’re the queen of the style page.”

  She selected the burgundy dress that she’d worn in Mont-Saint-Michel. “I’m not the queen here in Paris, darling, but maybe this will do.” She was glad she had brought it with her.

  He stopped tying his tie and turned to look at her. “That’s the first time you’ve ever said that to me.”

  “Said what? ‘This will do’?”

  He put his arms around her. “‘Darling.’ I like the sound of it.”

  She kissed him quickly and smiled up at him as she put on her diamond earrings, the ones he had given her, only a couple of months and a lifetime ago. She tried to concentrate on getting dressed. With Vic’s eyes on her it would be far too easy to get undressed and end up back in bed. But then they’d starve.

  “‘Darling.’ Isn’t that a French word?” she said. “I’ve been taking lessons, chéri.”

  Chapter 24

  Dinner was lovely, until the shooting. But of course that didn’t happen until after dessert.

  The restaurant that Vic had chosen, La Something or Other on the Boulevard du Montparnasse—Lacey missed the name in the excitement—was very ooh la la in that dazzling French art deco way, from the huge glass dome over the dining room to its tall painted pillars, their murals painted by artists like Chagall in the Twenties, Vic said, in exchange for drinks. Mosaic tiles covered the floor in intricate patterns. The aroma of fresh bread filled the air. After that amazing afternoon with Vic and a nap in his arms, it seemed to her like a dream, as if they had walked into a French movie set where Cary Grant was about to romance Audrey Hepburn over an elegant dinner.

  Vic and Lacey arrived first and were ushered to their table by a very severe maître d’ who pulled out Lacey’s brown velvet chair with mathematical precision. He handed them menus and disappeared with a curt nod of his head. In an instant the busy man was back with their dining companions. “Isn’t this nice,” Brooke gushed as she was seated. “I read Josephine Baker used to hold court here.” She looked flushed and happy. Damon was glowing. Lacey didn’t have to ask how her friend had spent the afternoon, and she hoped Brooke would show the same restraint, despite her glow. Come to think of it, Lacey thought, Vic and I are probably glowing too.

  For dinner, Brooke had chosen a snug black sweater and skirt, and in honor of Damon’s arrival, she wore her thick blond hair down and tousled, a seductive right-out-of-the-bedroom look. Damon matched her black-on-black look in his formal cyberpunk journalist mode, jet-black suit and charcoal silk turtleneck sweater, and his trademark tiny black-framed glasses tried vainly to add a mature air to his boyishly handsome face with its trim little black goatee. But to Lacey he still resembled a baby beatnik looking for the Lost Generation. The thin and pale Damon Newhouse was cute and au courant, but he was no match for Vic Donovan. Lacey found it very hard to stop staring at Vic. His midnight-blue bespoke suit fit him like a glove and made her want to reach out and touch him. She bit her lip and kept her hands to herself.

  Her own burgundy dress with its snugly fitted curves and flowing skirt netted admiring glances from men in the room, and Vic reached over and touched the diamond earrings. “Very pretty. I’m glad you still like them.”

  “I like them even better now that you’re here to see them,” Lacey smiled back.

  “Lacey,” Damon said, “so good to see you in one piece.” He cocked an eyebrow at her.

  One glance at Damon and she knew that Brooke had spilled the entire story. Lacey gave her friend a look. Maybe she didn’t tell him about the corset, Lacey hoped. The corset is the best part.

  “How did it feel to be chloroformed and dumped on a dirt floor in a cellar full of spiders?” Damon continued. Vic looked on with bemused interest.

  She hated those journalistic “how did it feel” questions. “How do you think it felt, Damon? If you want a firsthand example, I’m sure it could be arranged.”

  “If I were you, Damon, I’d take her word for it,” Vic counseled.

  “Lacey, chill! Please, just a question,” Damon said. “No need to go all radical on me.”

  “Sounds like everyone’s hungry,” Vic said. “Why don’t we order before we bite each other’s heads off?” Everyone dutifully picked up their menus.

  “I had to tell him, Lacey. About the egg, you know?” Brooke said, giving Lacey a look.

  “Ah, yes, the Fabergé egg,” Damon said. “Do you happen to know which one of the missing imperial eggs it’s supposed to be? It doesn’t really matter—in the long run, any one of them would be worth millions. But it would help my story. Authenticating detail.”

  “To help your story, Damon, I would never tell you. But off the record, I have no idea which egg it might be.” Lacey had seen pictures of the Fabergé eggs that had been auctioned off several years before. They were gorgeous and absurd objects, preposterously delicate yet intricately bejeweled. “Brooke told you we didn’t find it, right? We hit a dead end?”

  “Yes,” he said soberly. “Of course. I was just asking. I thought perhaps you would have been curious enough to ask Magda Rousseau what she was sending you chasing after.”

  Brooke touched Damon’s hand. “To be fair, Damon, it’s been a nerve-racking couple of days. I’m just glad we remember our own names.”

  He looked at her fondly. “I’m just glad it wasn’t you in that cellar.”

  While Brooke, Damon, and Lacey bantered, Vic consulted with the smartly dressed waiter, whose air of superiority went well with his starched white shirt, many-pocketed black vest, and long white apron. During a pause, Vic broke into the conversation. “I took the liberty of ordering appetizers and wine. Escargot and pâté. Is that all right?”

  Lacey shot him a grateful look and squeezed his hand. “I have to freshen up. Brooke, are you coming?”

  Damon looked over at her. “You look fine.” But Lacey was up already and Brooke was following. “It’s a girl thing, isn’t it?”

  “Yes it is,” Lacey stage-whispered in his ear. “The secret world of women behind the pink doors of the ladies’ room. Don’t you wish you knew what it was all about, Damon? The clandestine rituals? The secret ceremonies? It’s a conspiracy.”

  “We’ll be right back,” Brooke announced brightly. She kissed Damon on the head and whispered, “Don’t worry.”

  Vic patted Damon on the back. “It’s a girl thing. Have some hot bread, Newhouse.”

  As she and Brooke passed through the doors, Lacey thought, Thank heavens for ladies’ rooms and their secrets. Entire dark conspiracies of deep global import were conducted in ladies’ rooms every day.

  “Can you believe our guys came all the way to Paris just to see us?” Brooke said, staring at herself dreamily in the mirror. She fingered her hair and sighed happily. “And how did you sp
end your afternoon, Lacey?” She winked.

  “We’d both better plead the Fifth. And did you tell Damon the whole story?”

  Brooke snapped to attention. “Lacey, I wouldn’t! I couldn’t. Attorney–client privilege. But I could tell him what’s been happening here, because I didn’t say I wouldn’t, and besides, those other creepy characters were all talking about Fabergé eggs. You notice Damon didn’t say ‘Romanov corset,’ did he? And for all we know, it might really be a Fabergé egg. I figured I could tell him anything they said. And who knows what blabbermouths they might be?”

  Lacey had to admit Brooke was right. What other people said was fair game. At the moment she didn’t care if the Fabergé egg story got out. In fact, it might take the heat off the corset story, at least until she had a chance to check out the Rue Dauphine in New Orleans. Assuming Mac would let her go. But she decided not to tell Brooke about the Louisiana connection yet. The French Quarter might be another dead end, and Damon with his keen ears and the fastest keyboard on the Internet was always listening in and getting the story wrong. He was sure to expand on the facts, blow them all out of proportion, and add equal parts nonsense. And Brooke looked so happy it seemed cruel to dangle another likely disappointment in front of her.

  “You’re not mad, are you, Lacey? Damon is my soul mate.”

  “But he’s so not your type: He’s not a gray-flannel trust-fund attorney.”

  “That’s why I love him.”

  Lacey drew a comb through her hair. “I understand how you feel, so I guess as long as nothing about the corset slips out, it’s okay. But for heaven’s sake, don’t make me sound so pathetic! Knocked out cold in the coal room? Spiders and dirt? Yuck.” Lacey washed her hands again to wipe away the feel of the cobwebs.

  “You told Vic, didn’t you?” Brooke sniffed.

  “Vic can keep his mouth shut. But Damon and you and I are going to have to come to an understanding about whose story this really is.”

  “No problem. He adores you. You’re his hero!”

  “Now that’s scary.” Lacey rolled her eyes and opened the ladies’ room door.

  The pâté and escargot arrived just as they returned to the table. Between bites, Lacey gazed around the room. Her attention was caught by a woman wearing a houndstooth suit that made Lacey’s eyes hurt. The suit had a peplum set off by a shocking-pink ribbon and a ruffled skirt. Apparently not content with this outrageous abuse of houndstooth, the woman wore a pair of matching houndstooth stilettos. Even Brooke and Vic looked over with amusement.

  Lacey forced her attention back to the table as the remains of the appetizers were whisked off and replaced by salads and later by their entrées. Vic had the curried lamb, while she had the beef in a wine sauce. Brooke and Damon indulged in the salmon with some sort of cream sauce.

  Finally Damon and Lacey hammered out an agreement. She would write her story about Magda and the spies who loved her, or at least coveted her alleged treasure, whatever it was. Newhouse would link Conspiracy Clearinghouse to her story and provide his own crackpot commentary, claiming freedom of the press. But he swore he wouldn’t step on her story or write anything on it at all until he returned to D.C.

  “I promise,” Damon said. “I mean, how could I, Smithsonian? I didn’t know the dead woman or her intimate thoughts, her dying declaration. You have all the cards here.”

  “And most of them are blank. But remember, it’s my story, not DeadFed dot com’s story.” But this meant Lacey would need to write most of the story before she got back to Washington.

  “Actually, I’m very relieved nothing more happened to you, Lacey. The damn thing is probably cursed anyway,” Damon said with a straight face.

  “He’s right,” Brooke jumped in. “We could have been killed.”

  “But we weren’t,” Lacey pointed out.

  “So what are we doing tomorrow?” Vic asked.

  “Damon and I are going to visit the major spy sites in Paris!” Brooke lit up like a Christmas tree. “You know, like the Spy Tour in D.C.? Places where famous spies defected, documents changed hands, traitors got executed, all that stuff.”

  “You’ll join us?” Damon said. “Maybe we’ll run into this Russian. Might be interesting.”

  “We wouldn’t want to cramp your style,” Vic said, much to Lacey’s relief.

  “Right. We have plans,” Lacey said. Boy, do we have plans.

  “There’s a big movement to restore all the Romanov artifacts to Russia,” Damon said. “Just the kind of recovery project to appeal to an ex-KGB spy. Maybe that’s why they’re on this case.”

  Maybe Damon’s ravings are right, Lacey thought suddenly. I see Kepelov now! He had materialized somehow while they weren’t looking. She watched him out of the corner of her eye, slamming down shots of vodka at the bar as if he were in a saloon somewhere in Siberia. There was no sign of Griffin. Her flesh crawled at the thought of Kepelov tailing them. He looked oddly pathetic in a rumpled brown ill-fitting suit and, oddest of all, dark red leather cowboy boots. At least Tex isn’t wearing his Hawaiian shirt. He kept checking the door as if he expected someone.

  Brooke, who was sitting opposite her, didn’t see him, and Lacey didn’t want to create a scene. Vic would simply throttle him, Damon would try to interfere, and they would all wind up in a French jail. And who knew if Brooke’s friends at the American Embassy could save them?

  Lacey’s first instinct was to locate a weapon; she wondered which piece of the elegant silverware would be the deadliest. She ordered herself to calm down and wait to see if he made a move. She would show no fear, she decided, so much easier with Vic by her side, and rejoined the conversation.

  Kepelov, however, must have given up his surveillance, because the next time she glanced his way, while deciding between the chocolate mousse and the crème brûlée for dessert, he was gone. Lacey reached over for Vic’s hand. He squeezed hers back and she felt a rush of relief. Maybe she wouldn’t have to decide which piece of cutlery would be appropriate for self-defense. She imagined her mortification to be caught stabbing someone in a fancy restaurant in Paris using the wrong knife. It wasn’t an etiquette challenge for which she was prepared. She ordered the crème brûlée.

  After the fattening dessert course, Brooke and Damon finally said good night, still glowing. Lacey and Vic lingered lazily over digestifs for half an hour. Even their very correct waiter had warmed up to them ever so slightly, going so far as to offer the happy couple a fleeting smile. Vic leaned in for a kiss. Lacey closed her eyes, awaiting a kiss sweeter than all the desserts in Paris.

  Then the shooting began, a volley of sharp popping sounds outside the front windows of the restaurant. Vic immediately pulled Lacey down to the floor, keeping the table between them and the windows. Lacey could tell by his face and the fact she was on the floor that the sounds were gunshots. She realized they sounded just like the shots she had heard in Dupont Circle last month when a woman had been gunned down before her eyes. Vic put his arms around her and pulled her close. She felt her heart plummet. This must have something to do with Kepelov being there. But was it Kepelov doing the shooting? And whom was he shooting at?

  “Just because we heard shots, it doesn’t mean you’re involved,” Vic whispered into her ear. “They have street crime in Paris too.”

  “I need to tell you something, Vic.” He lifted an eyebrow at her. “I saw Kepelov in the restaurant, earlier, but then he was gone.”

  “Good to know. First, don’t jump to conclusions. Second, let’s get out of here, calmly and quietly, without attracting attention. We’re just two fools in love sitting on the floor in a restaurant in Paris. Perfectly ordinary behavior.”

  “That part is certainly true.” Lacey realized that Vic was getting much better at discussing certain subjects with her, like crime and danger and trouble, and why she was always in it or around it. He hadn’t yelled at her at all. She was charmed by his cool, capable demeanor. Paris is good for him, she decided. For both of us.

/>   Most of the other diners were paying no attention, either to the two Americans sitting on the floor or to whatever had happened on the street, although a few walked to the windows to peer out. Vic paid the bill just as the police sirens wailed and an ambulance sped down the street and slammed on the brakes. He helped Lacey up and draped her shawl around her shoulders.

  As they approached the front door, a distinctive woodsy rose and musk scent hung in the air, the same perfume she had smelled in her room after it had been searched. The scent that tickled the back of her mind with a half-hidden memory. She closed her eyes and breathed it in. The scent was stronger here, and the memory was closer. She was almost there, just another deep breath and she would—Yes, there it was, she had it. She finally remembered who it was that wore that perfume.

  It was Magda. And Magda was dead.

  Chapter 25

  “Lacey?” She opened her eyes. Vic was holding the front door of the restaurant open for her.

  Outside, the crisp air was a slap in the face. It shocked her fully awake and stung her eyes, which were full of tears for Magda. People were moving swiftly around them, and more official cars were arriving. Lacey held Vic’s arm as they walked past the police perimeter. She stopped only long enough to see a crowd of emergency workers around a figure lying on the ground. She couldn’t see the man’s face, but she saw his red cowboy boots and she knew.

  Squeezing Vic’s arm, she whispered, “It’s Kepelov.”

  “How could you possibly know that?” He sounded a little testy. “You couldn’t.”

  “The boots, Vic. He was wearing those red cowboy boots. I saw them earlier.”

  He turned and looked at the boots just as the man on the ground was surrounded. “Well, those are damned silly,” he said and started walking again. “A Russian spy in red cowboy boots.”

  “We should do something,” she said, feeling helpless. “We can identify him.”

  “Are you sure? You don’t even know that’s his real name. Lacey, there is nothing to do except get out of the way and let the gendarmes do their work.” She protested, and he pulled her along gently. “You didn’t shoot him. You didn’t see who shot him, and you don’t know why he was shot. And don’t tell me it was because of the red boots.”