Raiders of the Lost Corset

by Ellen Byerrum

  She was gracious when Lacey introduced herself and conveyed the sad news that Magda had died shortly before the trip. Lacey decided to save the footnote that Magda had been murdered. It might put a damper on this social call. It was the sort of information, she thought, that you could always get around to later, but you could never take back.

  “How curious life is, no? Magda’s heart gives out mere days before our grand reunion. I tell you I was so very surprised when she wrote to me. It had been so many years, you see.”

  “I know she looked forward to seeing you again,” Lacey said. “Can you tell me what she was like when she was young?”

  Madame Noir was quiet for awhile before finally speaking. “When we were girls, I was the serious student. Magda was more—playful, perhaps. It was very strict working in the shop in the old days. Magda liked to say that corsets hide secrets. I would say, of course, they hide the waist that is thick, the hips that are lumpy, the breasts that sag. Magda Rousseau would laugh and say, ‘Mais oui, all that and more.’”

  “That sounds like Magda.”

  “Oh, yes. For me, it was my work, but for her—” The old woman threw up her hands. “It was something more.” She seemed at a loss for words. Or perhaps she didn’t want to say more.

  “Do you mind if I look around your beautiful shop?” Lacey was dazzled by the lovely lingerie, pools of silk fabrics in every color. She was glad she wasn’t being harassed this time by a rogue Russian ex-spy with an odd American dream.

  “Please do. I’m sure you will find something to amuse your young man,” Madame said with a sly smile. Lacey smiled too.

  “Well, amuse isn’t exactly what I’m going for. Perhaps entice is a better word.”

  Madame Noir floated lightly around the shop, pointing out some lovely underwear sets. Lacey picked up a delicate set in sky-blue silk with lavender lace. “Perhaps you would tell me, Mademoiselle Smithsonian. A delicate question. What was it that Magda wanted of me?” Lacey glanced up at her in surprise.

  “She just told me that she wanted to visit her old friend.” Lacey didn’t know what else to say, so she focused on the lingerie. This set, one of the least expensive ones, was well over a hundred euros. She peered into a case where even pricier underwear nestled securely behind glass. A little shocked, Lacey resolved not to faint in front of this cadaverous Frenchwoman whose clientele apparently thought nothing of buying three-hundred-dollar bras.

  Madame Noir smiled, revealing yellow teeth behind dry, cracked lips. “We were friends once, it is true, but we parted badly. May I tell you the secret? I married the man Magda loved, you see. I took him away from her. Why would she want to see me, except for revenge?”

  “So there was once a man in Magda’s life?” Madame Noir nodded. Lacey was surprised by this revelation, but happy to learn that Magda had at least known love once. I thought she must be a widow, Lacey mused. This must be the man I’d sensed in her past. “And Monsieur Noir?”

  “My husband died some time ago.” The woman rubbed her plain gold wedding ring as if to reassure herself. “I am alone now.”

  “Maybe she didn’t want revenge at all,” Lacey suggested. “Perhaps she just wanted to tell you she had forgiven you.”

  “How very kind of you to say that,” Madame Noir said. Lacey had the distinct feeling that by “kind” she meant “stupid.”

  Lacey tried to frame a sensitive question about their love triangle, the who, why, and when of that long-ago love affair. “May I ask you a rather—” But Madame had her own questions.

  “What did she tell you about me? Why did Magda want to see me now?” Her eyes narrowed like a cat’s, and Lacey was afraid she was about to pounce. “What did she want?”

  “I’m sorry, Madame Noir, I don’t know. I was just going to accompany her to France. She wanted to see you again. That’s all.” Was it possible that Magda wanted to reconcile with her old friend? Or did she just want to flaunt her hoped-for treasure in this bitter woman’s face? For revenge for an old wound? And why was Madame Noir, the winner in their love triangle, so bitter toward Magda, the loser? She had no idea, and now she wanted to leave. Lacey picked up two bra-and-panty sets, one in white lace and the one in sky-blue silk. “I’ll take these.”

  “You do not want to try them on?” Madame seemed shocked at this American breach of fashion protocol, but there was no way Lacey was going to take off her clothes in a dressing room with this malevolent old crow hovering over her.

  “I think they’ll fit.” Lacey fumbled in her purse for her credit card.

  Madame Noir stared at the lingerie and then at Lacey with a trained eye. “These will most likely fit you very well, but I must recommend a fitting.” She grabbed a measuring tape. “I must measure you!”

  “I have to meet my friends,” Lacey said firmly. “I’ll take them.”

  The old woman shrugged curtly. “D’accord! I cannot be held responsible if you are not happy.” Madame Noir seized the merchandise and carried it to the register along with Lacey’s credit card. “A very nice choice, mademoiselle. My compliments.”

  Lacey smiled stiffly. Madame Noir offered her card back and then suddenly grabbed Lacey’s wrist when she reached for it, pulling Lacey’s face close to hers. “Magda Rousseau was a crazy woman! She had crazy ideas! She said her grandfather stole a treasure, a long time ago, in the Russian Revolution. She said the old man talked in his sleep.” Madame Noir stared into Lacey’s face as if looking right through her. Lacey turned her wrist, but the old woman held her fast. “Magda swore she would find it one day. She hated me because I took her lover. She swore revenge on me. I am very poor, mademoiselle. I have no pension. No husband. I can give her nothing. You must tell me: Did Magda find her treasure? Let her have it, and leave me in peace!”

  “I’m sorry, Madame Noir. There is no treasure. I only came because I thought you were her friend, you would want to know she had died.” Lacey spoke very calmly. “Now let me go.”

  “But of course.” The woman released her wrist. “Désolée. I forget myself. Pardon, mademoiselle.” She curled her mouth into a cold smile. She finished wrapping the lingerie sets in floral tissue paper and slipped them into a small black bag with embossed gold lettering. “Will that be all, mademoiselle?”

  Lacey calmed herself, trying not to be furious with this embittered old woman. She noticed that several bottles of perfume for sale at the register had been disarrayed in their brief struggle. Madame Noir was quietly straightening the display.

  “No. One more question, Madame. Magda wore a certain perfume, it was very distinct. I don’t know the name. Perhaps she wore it when you were friends. Do you remember?” Lacey felt herself flush. “But never mind, after all these years she couldn’t have still worn the same—”

  Madame Noir pulled a stopper from a delicate amber bottle and offered it to Lacey. “Is this it?”

  The familiar woodsy rose scent was overwhelming. Lacey felt her stomach rise. She wanted to run from the store, but she resolved not to lose her self-control. “Yes, thank you. That’s the scent.”

  “Shall I wrap it up for you? Will that be a charge to the same card?”

  “No, thank you, Madame. But the name of the scent, please?”

  “It is a very old-fashioned scent. Forêt de Rose.” She put the stopper back in the bottle. “She always wore it, a long time ago. It was her favorite.”

  “Merci, Madame, I’m so sorry that Magda couldn’t be here to see you herself.” Magda would have known what to say. She would have put the old woman in her place.

  Madame Suzanne Noir pulled herself up very erect and pale. She was once again the consummate saleswoman. “It is of no importance, Mademoiselle Smithsonian. We all die. Some sooner than others. Au revoir.”

  Lacey bolted from the lingerie shop, her heart beating wildly. Vic was just emerging from the elegant menswear shop next door with a sack. She slipped her arm into his. He turned to her with his brilliant smile. “Hi, everything okay?

  “Of
course.” She snuggled into his arms. “Never better.”

  He frowned. “Are you sure?”

  “I was just frightened by a scary underwear saleswoman.” Lacey couldn’t believe she’d spent so much money with that old harridan. She hoped desperately her new underwear would fit. She must have been mesmerized into buying it. How could she ever return them if they didn’t fit?

  “Yeah, I hate it when that happens. How scary?”

  “Several hundred dollars’ worth.” She showed off the chic little bag she carried and his eyes grew wide.

  “Whoa. Now I’m scared too.” He peeked in the bag and smiled. “That must be about a hundred dollars an ounce, honey. Can I see about two ounces of that later?” Lacey blushed happily. Vic tucked both of their packages into his black leather backpack.

  They were meeting Brooke and Damon at the Basilica of Sacre-Coeur, the crowning glory of Montmartre. Passing by a block of pretty houses across from the Lapin Agile, said to be Picasso’s favorite cabaret, they saw scrawled across the side of one house in huge painted letters the lovesick declaration of some unknown French swain: AGATHE JE T’AIME. Lucky Agathe, Lacey thought.

  They were breathing a little harder by the time they approached the top of the many steps of Sacre-Coeur. The Basilica atop the hill, with its striking domes of white stone, reminded Lacey of a whitewashed castle looming against the sky. Tourists, students, and worshipers milled around the church, admiring one of the finest views of Paris. Lacey spied Brooke and Damon at the top of the steps and stopped to take a picture of them silhouetted against the Basilica.

  “You’re late,” Brooke said, rushing down the steps to meet them with Damon close behind.

  “Ten minutes,” Lacey replied. “I have a good excuse.”

  “Thirteen minutes,” Brooke corrected, pointing at her watch. “I was half afraid you’d been shot and killed by Kepelov’s phantom assassin.” Several people who must have spoken English turned to stare. She lowered her voice. “So what’s your excuse?”

  “A run-in with a scary old friend of Magda’s,” Lacey said, catching her breath. “‘Friend’ may not be the right word. And I bought several hundred dollars’ worth of sexy French lingerie.”

  “Cool! Can we see it?” Damon said. Brooke smacked his arm. “Hey, babe, it’s research.”

  “Do your own research, buddy,” Vic suggested with a grin.

  “Grow up everyone! It is research for me,” Lacey said. “Fashion research. Have you been inside the Basilica yet?”

  “Not without you,” Brooke said. “We were keeping watch.”

  “No sign of Nigel Griffin,” Damon said, “no word on Kelepov, and no telling who else in this city, or even in this crowd, might be a foreign operative.”

  “No telling,” Vic agreed. “Maybe even us. Shall we go in?” They started up the last few steps together. A sudden breeze caressed Lacey’s cheek and brought with it a rich wave of Forêt de Rose, Magda’s perfume. She felt dizzy, and a little tickle of fear went up her spine. Does everyone in Paris wear that damned scent?! She stumbled on a step and grabbed Vic’s hand.

  Above them there seemed to be some kind of commotion. She looked up to see a white-haired man lose his balance and slip off the very top step. “Hey! Stop—!” he shouted in English. The expression on his face was sheer shock as he tumbled head over heels down the stone steps straight at her. Lacey blinked. She seemed to be reacting far too slowly.

  A pair of strong arms lifted her off her feet and swung her out of the way just as the man careened past her down the steps, taking several other people with him as he fell. “Oh, my God, Vic.” She was shaking in Vic’s arms. “He came straight at me.”

  Vic made sure she was all right and left her with Brooke before he and Damon pounded down the steps to the crumpled heap of victims writhing below. Several people were unconscious and bleeding, but the white-haired man was conscious and shouting for help. The others had broken his fall. Lacey heard Vic tell him to lie still, help was on the way. He was protesting loudly in English that he hadn’t lost his balance at all.

  “Pushed! I was pushed! Some bastard pushed me!” The man’s leg was twisted beneath him at an unnatural angle. He told Vic he felt hands on his back and a swift vicious shove. “Some son of a bitch did this on purpose!” Unfortunately he hadn’t seen who had pushed him down the stairs, nor did he have a clue who it might be or why. He was still swearing from pain and anger when the paramedics and the gendarmes arrived and Vic and Damon stepped away. The white-haired man and several others were carried away to the ambulances.

  Vic and Lacey made very brief statements to a gendarme hastily canvassing the crowd for witnesses. Neither they nor Brooke or Damon had seen anything but the man’s fall. No one in the crowd stepped forward to point to a culprit or to claim responsibility. Tourists shrugged and resumed their business of enjoying the spectacular view, but for Lacey, the charm had gone out of her last day in Paris. Paris was still lovely, she thought, but her first trip abroad had so far included a mugging by chloroform, a dead dog, relentless stalking, room searches, electronic bugs, the ghost of a lonely chambermaid, a shooting, the unsettling Madame Noir, and now an innocent bystander launched in her direction like a missile.

  “Are you okay, sweetheart?” Vic seemed quite willing to hold her securely in his arms until she stopped shaking.

  “It’s time to go home now,” she said.

  They were on the plane back to America before Lacey felt safe enough to relax. The couples had swapped seats so Brooke and Damon, both feeling feverish from their wet afternoon in the rainy cemetery, could sit together, and Lacey and Vic sat together several rows behind them.

  Just before she could doze off on Vic’s shoulder, Lacey remembered his Thanksgiving dinner invitation, which she had tentatively accepted. She felt her anxiety rising about Vic’s invitation to his parents’ house. Great. Something else to worry about. I escape Paris with my life only to end it all at Thanksgiving. Indicative of her basic shallowness, she thought glumly, the first thing she worried about was what to wear. This meeting was so important. She wanted them to like her. She sighed. This may be a bigger problem than just a wardrobe decision.

  Vic’s folks lived in McLean, Virginia, a very well-to-do suburb full of wealthy politicians and lobbyists and CIA bureaucrats. She assumed the “comfortable” senior Donovans were wealthy, sophisticated people; she hoped they had high standards for holidays. Lacey believed that if you drag out the good china, you dress up. You don’t wear blue jeans with the good china. A sophisticated soirée in McLean might have its charms. It might play to her strengths, she realized.

  “What’s the dress code for Thanksgiving dinner?” she asked.

  “My mother likes people to dress, but it’s not way formal. More semiformal.”

  “What are you wearing?”

  “Um, slacks, sweater, blazer, that sort of thing. I mean, if you want to go really casual, Mom won’t throw you out or anything—”

  “Casual? You must be kidding. What will your mother be wearing?”

  He shrugged. Clearly this was a question he didn’t address very often. “You know, a dress or something. I don’t know. Maybe slacks. Is this a big problem?”

  “I don’t know what to wear,” she whispered.

  “The fashion icon of The Eye Street Observer is worrying about what to wear? Say it ain’t so!” Vic laughed. Lacey glared at him, but she couldn’t help smiling. “How about some wine for Madame Fashion Reporter’s nerves?” He opened a small bottle of Air France’s finest screw-top Cabernet for her and poured it into two glasses.

  Lacey took a sip of wine. “Let’s proceed to question number two. What should I bring?” Lacey imagined Vic saying, “Not to worry, just bring some flowers or something.”

  “I said we’d bring dessert.”

  “Dessert? Are you crazy? You said we would bring dessert?” Homemade dessert! For a big family Thanksgiving! She just stared at him.

  “Sure. Why? My mother
doesn’t make desserts. Not like your mom. But she loves sweets.”

  Lacey was appalled. “A dessert like my mom makes? Surely you aren’t suggesting I whip up a big bowl of Rice Krispies and chocolate and marshmallows and graham crackers and maraschino cherries and gummy bears and—”

  “Whatever. Anything you like. Sweeten her up. She’ll love you, darling.” Lacey sank down in her seat and covered her face with her hands. “It’s okay if you can’t cook, you know, we’ll just pick up a—”

  “I can cook,” she snapped. “I just don’t do it very often, that’s all. I can ride a horse, too, but I try not to do it every day.” In fact, once in a while she even indulged in baking. But she didn’t want the secret to get out. It was bad enough being the fashion reporter: If her editor found out she could cook too, he’d expect her to go brownie-to-brownie and tart-to-tart with the evil Felicity.

  “We’ll pick up a pumpkin pie at a bakery. No problem,” Vic assured her. “She’ll never know the difference.”

  Lacey rolled her eyes. “Men! Of course she will, how could she possibly not know?”

  “That’s what I do. She always says, ‘Yum, great pie.’”

  “Because you brought it! Vic, dearest, store-bought pies come in those little aluminum tins. Everyone knows that!” Vic looked unconvinced. “I can’t believe you want me to start off by lying to your mother with a store-bought pie. I can’t believe you would suggest that. Do you want this woman to hate me?” Even if Vic didn’t have a clue what this was all about, Lacey did. This was an audition: She would be trying out for the role of Vic’s girlfriend, with his mother as the show’s producer. She could just see Vic’s mother smiling that cool producer’s smile, saying, “So nice of you to read for us, dear. Don’t call us, we’ll call you. Next!”

  “Don’t worry. She’ll like you.” Vic nuzzled her cheek warmly. “How could she not?”