Raiders of the Lost Corset (8 page)

“Sorry, Stel, I can never remember the punch lines.” Lacey paused for a moment, studying the pretty glass of blue liquid.

“Stella, did Magda have any enemies?”

“Nah. She was a doll. You know what a sweet old lady she was.”

“But some of her clients were a little, um, weird.” Lacey sipped her champagne.

“You talking about the leather lads or the high-priced hookers?”

“Both. And anyone else unusual you can think of. I need to know everything interesting about her. For my story. You know.”

“Don’t think so.” The slim and handsome waiter returned with Stella’s third Pink Lady and set it down. “You know those guys who are into the kinky underwear? When they go crazy, they just kill each other.”

“Don’t I know it, honey!” the waiter interjected, and winked before moving off.

“What about the call girls and the hookers?” Lacey asked.

“Anybody dangerous there? Haven’t they’ve all been arrested one time or another?”

“Some of ’em. Cost of doing business,” Stella said. “Sweet girls, the call girls, once you get to know ’em. In fact, Jolene, the really pretty blonde, did you ever meet her? No? She’s a client of mine, I do her highlights. She’s the one who introduced me to Magda. And her girlfriend Sylvania. They wouldn’t hurt Magda, they all love her! Besides, hookers only want to kill their johns. Or their pimps.” She slurped more of her Pink Lady and then choked on it. “Whoa! Wait a minute, Lacey! Are you saying what I think you’re saying? That some bastard knocked her off?!”

“I don’t know yet, Stel! Like I said, the police haven’t made a determination.” Stella gave her a look that demanded the truth.

Lacey looked away. “But yes, it’s probably murder.”

“Oh, God. But why? Why Magda?” Lacey had no answer for her. “Damn it. Damn it all to hell. Well, don’t you worry, Lacey.”

Stella’s voice rose and Lacey put her finger to her lips. Stella lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “Don’t worry, ’cause I’m going to help you this time. I’m going to help you catch the bastard.”

“No, Stella. I’m not getting involved this time.” Lacey put down a bill to pay for the drinks and slipped her jacket on.
Not
again
, she thought,
never again.
Besides, Magda didn’t ask Lacey to find the killer, only the corset. “Let the police handle it. There’s no way they can call this one a suicide. Let them do their job, Stella, we are not detectives.”

“Broken record. Like it’s your number-one hit song. ‘Not gonna do it, not gonna do it, not gonna do it.’ ” Stella smiled.

“That’s what you always say. And then you do it anyway. You know you’re gonna. And I’m gonna be there with you. Just remember, this is Stella you’re talking to. I’m your stylist. I know all your secrets.”

That was exactly what Lacey was afraid of.

Chapter 7

Brass buckles clicked beneath her fingers as Lacey opened what she considered her greatest treasure: Aunt Mimi’s trunk. The leather bands were beginning to stiffen and crack, even though Lacey tried to keep them well oiled. The trunk served as her coffee table, her center of calm, her secret refuge. She had inherited the trunk from her favorite great-aunt, and she sought out the familiar security of its contents whenever she was fatigued, worried, and lonely. At the moment, she was all three.

Magda’s murder and Stella’s pledge to help find the killer were alarming enough, but Lacey felt an empty ache inside that had nothing to do with hunger or danger or blue champagne, and everything to do with Vic Donovan. The Aimee Mann music she was listening to didn’t help, but the mournful melodies and sad stories fit her mood. She had hoped Vic would meet her in the City of Light after the big corset hunt. That wouldn’t happen now. She wondered if she would ever see him again. She forced him from her thoughts and concentrated on Mimi’s treasure chest.

The trunk was filled with Mimi’s treasured collection of vintage patterns, suits, dresses, and gowns of every description, mostly from the 1940s. Many were still attached to the fabrics Mimi had selected for them but never made. Some were partly made but not finished. They were beguiling. Some were more than half completed, some had photos clipped of movie stars outfitted in similar attire, all were intriguing. Lacey was slowly having some of the stunning outfits made for her. It was an expensive lux-ury, but worth every penny. Grateful that she and Aunt Mimi had the same taste and style and were the same size, petite with real women’s curves, Lacey loved to imagine where she would wear such beautiful clothes. The trunk brought her closer to Mimi and it contained more than its share of mystery in old letters, photos, fabrics, and memories, a time capsule from Mimi’s adventurous life. Even a short trip through the trunk left Lacey feeling better, as if she had stepped through a door into another time and place, and right now she had to get the sight of Magda’s amused dead eyes out of her mind.

Reminding her of a pirate’s treasure chest, the trunk added just the right panache to her shabby-chic living room. Lacey lifted the heavy lid and steadied the top. A whiff of decades-old lavender sachets wafted up delicately and tickled her nose, evoking her Aunt Mimi. She wondered what Mimi would do. Would she abandon Paris as a lost cause, or grab this once-in-a-lifetime chance with both hands?

Go, girl, trust your instincts. That’s what feminine intuition is for,
isn’t it?
Lacey imagined her saying.
Don’t forget your war paint!

Of course Mimi would be on her side. Lacey lifted out a black-and-white photograph of Mimi in her early thirties. She was a beauty who never married, although she had plenty of boyfriends and one long-term romantic relationship that the family wasn’t supposed to know about. Lacey looked quite a bit like Mimi with her high cheekbones and expressive green-blue eyes. But while Mimi’s hair was a vibrant auburn, Lacey’s was a light brown with subtle highlights, courtesy of Stella.

Lacey set aside the photo and lifted a special garment left to her by Aunt Mimi, a tarty black lace and satin number with seven stays and twelve hooks and eyes. A corset in the style known as a Merry Widow, it was wrapped in tissue tied with pink ribbons. Lacey couldn’t imagine how women in the Forties and Fifties had worked up the nerve to buy such things. She had nearly died of embarrassment being fitted by Magda for her new blue satin corset, and Mimi’s Merry Widow was at least as racy. It sucked in the waist and ended at the top of the hips. Lacey had worn it several times under a couple of her vintage outfits to get just the right hourglass silhouette. Literally it was breathtaking, and with the garters and stockings attached, it made her look like Bondage Bar-bie. Only the whip was missing.

Lacey thought of the baby-blue satin confection of a corset Magda had insisted she needed and which Stella thought was appropriate funeral attire. While Stella was interested more in the naughtiness factor, heavy on red and black and
va-va-va-voom
, Lacey’s custom corset was delicate and pretty. With the right skirt, it might even be appropriate evening wear. Corset tops were everywhere these days and Stella was right, underwear had somehow become outerwear. Lacey had even attended a wedding where the bride’s gown was a corset top paired with a full satin skirt. It was demurely sexy and romantic, and it had also succeeded in giving the petite bride actual cleavage, a dream come true.

Lacey went into her bedroom and pulled the slim box from the top of the closet. She lifted the lid and carefully removed the blue tissue paper covering it and appreciated the sexy garment. It was truly one of a kind. Lacey loved pockets and Magda happily complied with her whim for a secret pocket stitched into the corset. It was so slim that only a folded bill or two would fit inside.

She and Magda had discussed how jewels could be sewn into a corset without the agony of bumps and bulges gouging into the wearer’s skin. Lacey didn’t see at first how it could be done. But it was possible, Magda said, if there were layers built into the corset, perhaps a quilted layer with the jewels laid flat, then more layers sewn on top or inside. She had thought about it for a long time; she told Lacey the comfort level also depended on how tightly laced it was. If the Romanov girls had been losing weight in their long captivity by the Red Army, there would be more room in their clothes to hide jewels. It sounded mad, yet plausible.

With Magda gone, Lacey was now seized by a sudden fierce desire to tell the whole story, legendary lost corset and all, to someone. She felt as if she might burst. Lacey rationalized that if she were in Paris alone and danger reared its ugly head, someone ought to know, someone who would understand the situation and could be reliably sworn to secrecy, unlike Stella. Someone who was bound by attorney-client privilege, and not by the gossipy soapsuds of a shampoo bowl. She had to speak to Brooke Barton, Esquire, her friend and occasionally her lawyer. Lacey lifted the receiver and dialed.

“You can’t go alone, Lacey. It’s simply not safe.” Brooke’s voice was tense, but Lacey knew it wasn’t fear but excitement that it betrayed. “I’m going with you! When do we leave?”

Brooke had raced right over to Lacey’s apartment overlooking the Potomac River upon hearing the news that Magda Rousseau was dead and possibly murdered. She was still in her attorney-gray suit of the day, her blond braid coming loose. She kicked off her shoes and inquired whether there was anything to eat or drink.

“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 insom-niac 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.