A Crime of Fashion (15 page)

Turning my back to the view, I faced him and told myself to relax. The dizzying height was making me nervous. I took a breath and forced myself to focus on Dom instead. Quickly I brought up a subject I wanted to know more about: Rose.

Earlier I'd seen her drive off, so as an easy way of bringing the conversation around to her I asked Dom where she'd gone to.

“Spanish lesson,” he answered.

“Has she always liked studying languages?”

“No. Not especially – or, rather, not that I know of. My sister Rose is an enigma. I know she's smart and rational – she spends most of her time adding numbers – but she's also awkward and sometimes prone to hysterics. And look at her hair at the moment: one day it looks great, the next it's like a bird's nest. Why? And she's been taking Spanish lessons since last summer, but I haven't heard her say so much as
hola
. Anyway, she's a mystery to me – as if we don't have enough of those in our family at the moment.” Dom broke off, head bent over his camera. He was looking at the tiny display screen on the back of it.

“Here, look. This is more interesting – you look amazing. And this one's good too. Oh, this one's beautiful… You're definitely going to get some great shots for your book,” he said, as he stopped looking at his camera and focused on me.

His eyes were a dark green with flecks of gold and, despite living in the city his arms were tanned as if he spent his days outdoors. “We have a house in Normandy where I go on the weekends,” he said, as if in answer to my thoughts. I quickly pretended to look at the view, hoping to hide my flushed face. “If you're here this weekend you should come with me. Ellie should come too,” he said, as he moved the light meter around me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Claude approach along the platform, gaze directed at me.

“Be careful, Dom,” he said when he'd reached us. “We wouldn't want anything to happen to our new model, would we?”

Although Claude had directed his comment to Dom, who was still reading his light meter, he was smiling at me. Clearly his macabre joke was meant for my ears. “Why?” I asked. “Are you expecting someone else to disappear?”

“Absolutely. According to the newspapers, we're
all
doomed to disappear – so be careful when you're with us, or you might too.”

Did he always speak in veiled threats?

“Speak for yourself, Claude,” Dom said, as he came back to my side. “Personally, I don't plan on disappearing any time soon – and I certainly hope you don't, Axelle. In fact” – he locked his eyes on mine again – “I'm hoping you'll spend some time with me tomorrow after the Juno bag launch.” He smiled as he read the stunned look on my face. “Come on,” he teased, “what's your aunt going to show you: one fashion show after another with some modelling work in between? You're in Paris – there's a lot more to this city than just that. Let me show you around. We can meet at the launch and go from there. Presumably you'll be accompanying your aunt?”

The last thing I'd expected was an invitation from Dom. Caught completely by surprise, I struggled to find something – anything – to say.

“Listen, you don't have to give me an answer now,” he said smoothly. “Give me your number and I'll call you later.”

The last time a member of the opposite sex had asked me for my number was at Christmas. Robin Winterbottom had stopped me as we were leaving class and asked if he could call me. That evening, he did. Jenny had been beside herself with excitement when I'd answered. What with all of her hand signals and suppressed giggling, I'd had to leave the room because I couldn't concentrate on what Robin had been saying. As it turned out, the conversation didn't need much concentration: he'd called to ask if he could speak to my dad about getting some work experience at the aquarium over the holidays (my dad is head marine biologist at the London Aquarium).

Dom, on the other hand, was presenting me with an entirely different situation – one that necessitated whatever concentration I could muster. Just making eye contact was difficult – like looking into a vortex. How was I supposed to last one-on-one with him? And, if I was asking myself that question, did it mean I was already planning on accepting his date?

“Anyway, Axelle, think about it,” he added. “But right now, we need to get to work.”

I watched as he left to check the storyboard. Maybe, if I could manage to look at him for longer than a minute without turning bright red, tomorrow night would be the perfect time to ask him a few useful questions?

“I hope all the rumours don't scare you away before we've finished shooting today.” It was Philippe de Vandrille. His voice was deep and cultured, his English perfect. He looked like a character from one of those old black-and-white films they run on Sunday afternoons: the tall, impeccably-dressed foreigner. And like in the films, I thought, he probably only said witty things.

“Not at all – I find it interesting. With such a large family full of…uh…lively characters, I think it's only natural there'd be some stories to tell.” Then I added, “I'm especially intrigued by the rumours of a curse. Do you believe a curse exists?”

He seemed to seriously consider my question before slowly answering, “No, actually, I don't.”

Hmm…well, that was the end of that, I thought.
Right. Change tracks, Axelle.
“Then who – or what – is making the La Lunes disappear?” Suddenly, thinking of my aunt and what she'd suggested last night, I was struck with inspiration: “Perhaps a Merlette?”

A look of surprise swiftly passed over him. “There are no Merlettes left, I believe.”

I shrugged my shoulders and took a sip of water. “Can I ask you one last question?”

“This must be the last one, otherwise I'll start to think that this is a ploy of yours to charge us for overtime,” he said, with a smile.

“Do you have a cat?”

He raised his eyebrows. “A cat?”

I nodded. I was thinking of the CAT I'd seen in Claude's phone and while I doubted Claude's CAT had anything to do with the four-legged variety, how else could I ask the question without raising too much suspicion? For all I knew, Philippe could have been in on CAT, too.

“I haven't. Why do you ask?”

“Just something I came across,” I mumbled vaguely. My question didn't seem to illicit anything more than a cheery bewilderment from him, so I dropped it.

“Is there anything else, or may I be relieved of my interrogation?” he teased.

I thanked him, then watched as he turned and left. A moment later I was called on set.

The rest of the afternoon went by in a whirlwind of posing and face powder. Frustratingly, apart from Dom, I never got close to the La Lunes again. And even he, apart from briefly touching on Rose, had avoided any mention of his family. So much for my chance to be a detective! Argh! Maybe this whole model thing had been a mistake.

I changed into my own clothes and was standing at the bottom of the tower about to check my phone messages, when from behind me an arm reached across my shoulders and a now-familiar voice whispered into my ear, “I'll call you about tomorrow. But at the very least I'll see you at the Juno bag launch, right?”

His eyes were smiling, his mouth teasing. After a moment, I felt Dom's arm slip away. “Definitely,” I answered calmly, reminding myself to breathe.

“What are you doing tonight?”

“I'm off to my aunt's.”

Dom rolled his eyes. “I told you you've got to see more…”

At that moment Sebastian pulled up nearby. I waved to him.

“I thought you said you were going to your aunt's?” Dom queried.

“I am – with a friend.” I quickly said goodbye and then stepped right into my next embarrassing situation. You see, when I'd accepted Sebastian's offer to come by and fetch me after the shoot, I had completely forgotten that
he rides a scooter
. And, like most scooters, his could seat two people – as long as those two people were sandwiched together. Or, more specifically, as long as the front of the back passenger was squished up against the back of the driver and the former's arms were locked around the latter's torso. And you know what that means: yours truly was going to have to press what little she didn't have against Sebastian's back – while locking her arms around him.

Ellie was laughing as Sebastian and I drove off into the sunset, my painfully hunched position ensuring daylight came between my chest and his back.

We zoomed in and out of the traffic with ease. Sebastian was a confident driver and, holding onto him, I felt less frightened than I'd thought I would. Slowly I relaxed and dropped all thoughts of Dom and his family as the fresh evening air ruffled the ends of my hair and blew the back of my jacket out. Now I understood why Sebastian wore a leather jacket and biker boots.

Boots! I'd completely forgotten!

Why was I wasting my time thinking about Sebastian's boots when what I wanted was to find out about Belle's missing platform shoe? I tapped him on the shoulder and signalled to him to pull over. Thirty seconds later, he did.

“Axelle, are you okay?” He'd taken his helmet off and was looking back at me with concern.

“Yeah, I'm fine. Promise.” He raised an eyebrow at me. “But you just reminded me of something. I need your help. Would you mind making a call to the La Lune mansion for me?”

“
Oui, bonjour, monsieur
, it's the cobbler here…”

We were at the small cafe around the corner from Aunt V's and Sebastian was doing his best to sound helpful, friendly and professional. “We have one from a pair of dark green velvet platform heels belonging to Mademoiselle Belle that will take longer to repair than I thought – the velvet is rather fragile. Would it be all right if I had it delivered at the end of next week?”

There was a pause while the butler called the maid, Maria, who dealt with Belle's clothes. Presently her high-pitched voice was heard on the line. “What?” continued Sebastian. “You say that you never sent in a shoe? Perhaps someone else working in the house—”

At this accusation Maria unleashed a torrent of high-octave chirps. “Well, I have one shoe,” answered Sebastian calmly, “and as I told your colleague, I know it's Mademoiselle Belle's. We've worked on this pair before.” The high-pitched voice became slightly truculent. “I'm sorry to bother you but perhaps it would be a good idea just to have a look and make sure that the shoe is indeed hers—”

Sebastian held the phone away from his ear as Maria lambasted him in rapid French.

“I'm sure the shoe belongs to Mademoiselle Belle. Yes, I know you've said you haven't sent anything to us – yes, I realize this isn't the season for velvet…but I don't think either one of us would want to inadvertently upset Mademoiselle Belle…”

That last bit did the trick. We waited while Maria went upstairs to have a look.

After a few minutes she came back on the line, her shrill timbre muted to a frosty acceptance that, yes, indeed, one platform shoe was missing. After a few reassurances that the shoe would be ready by the end of next week and some more of the high-pitched chirps, Sebastian hung up.

“How'd I do?” he asked, grinning.

“Perfect,” I smiled – and I meant it.

“At least now we know that the shoe really is missing. Maria never sent it out for repairs and she's the only one who ever touches Belle's clothes – Belle only handles her clothes when she's wearing them. So, as it's not on its shelf in the dressing room, it has to be missing.” He paused for a moment before continuing, “And surely Maria would have noticed – and said something – if the shoe had been missing for some time. It's tempting to think that the shoe must have gone missing at the same time Belle did…but why would someone need
one
green velvet platform shoe?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “That's what we've got to find out.”

“Are you ready?” After the call to Maria, we'd both felt a spot of ice cream was in order, and, while Aunt V's freezer was well-stocked – giant scallops, consommé, sorbet, even a duck or two – ice cream, plain, creamy, white vanilla ice-cream, she most certainly did not have. So we stayed in the cafe.

“I'm all ears,” I answered as I dug my spoon deep into the small mountain of whipped cream and hot chocolate sauce that topped the ice cream.

Sebastian pulled a small black notebook from the pocket of his leather jacket. He opened it and, from the inside flap of the tiny cover, took out two slips of paper and pushed them across the table to me. They were carefully cut newspaper photocopies. Just a few lines long, they read:

Le Figaro

Paris, France

le 23 février, 1904

16ème arrondissement – La femme d'Émile Merlette, Thérèse Merlette, d'un fils.

And:

Le Figaro

Paris, France

le 17 juin, 1915

16ème arrondissement – La femme d'Émile Merlette, Thérèse Merlette, d'une fille.

“Are these birth announcements?” I asked.

“Yes they are. The names of the newborns aren't given but I've confirmed the boy as being Hector Merlette and the girl is his sister. And, believe it or not, apart from his death certificate, this was the only record of his existence on file.”

“What? Nothing else? No marriage licence? Or birth certificate of a child? Or divorce, even?”

“Nope. Nothing. Nada. Hector was born into wealth and privilege and then fifty-six years later he died, penniless and broken. It's just like your aunt told us. And between those two events not much happened – at least not officially.”

“Hmm…and I hardly think Hector was the sort of person to do something unofficially, if you know what I mean.” I sat silent, my ice cream pushed to the side.

“Axelle…?”

If Sebastian was right – that Hector Merlette died without a wife or child – then the summer love story between Hector's sister, Giselle, and the handsome imposter, Pierre Roux, suddenly took on a new importance. Because if she and Pierre had had a child…and if that child knew that the La Lune fortune was built on the back of his or her uncle's stolen designs…

I held my breath as I finished my thought. There were a lot of “ifs”, but the more I turned it over in my mind, the more I felt convinced that Giselle's life held a key to the disappearances. And obviously I wasn't the only one who thought so: why else would the letters have been hidden in haste in a chimney flue?

Well, one thing was clear.

“Earth to Axelle?”

I'd better not let those letters out of my sight.

“Axelle, are you listening?” I nodded as Sebastian finished his last spoonful of ice cream before continuing. “Unfortunately, I was unable to find anything else about Hector's sister either. Like I said, I don't even know her name – that would have meant going to a different department and I ran out of time. I'll go tomorrow. I definitely think she's worth tracing—”

“Giselle.”

“Giselle? Giselle what? Is that where you think she is?”

I shook my head and smiled. “No – it's not
where
she is. It's
who
she is. It's her name.” I took the two letters out of my bag and handed them to him, finishing my ice cream while he read them.

“Wow,” he said quietly as he leaned back in his chair and handed them back to me.

“Exactly. At the very least, it gives us something to follow up on.”

We sat silently for a moment, each of us busy with our thoughts. Then Sebastian flashed me his wicked grin and asked, “Have you read the others?”

Shaking my head, I pulled the packet out of my bag and placed it on the table. “No. But I'd say now is the perfect time. Although, before we start, it might be a good idea to order some more ice cream, don't you think?”

Monaco, 28th August, 1930

Maman,

I know you'll be shocked to read this letter – although, even you must have seen that things were bound to end this way. All my life you've called me flighty. Perhaps – but as this letter shows, in matters of the heart I am not. Despite your greatest efforts to dissuade me I've remained fast to the only person I feel has ever understood me. Monsieur Pierre Roux and I are married – there, now you know. He planned everything. Eventually I'll go back north with him to help him with his business affairs but, for now, we plan on travelling a little.

Don't try to turn back the clock, Maman – it's too late. I'm free, I'm happy, and that's all I've ever wanted. Should you insist on intruding upon our married life we'll have no alternative but to close our door on you for ever.

Anyway, be happy – if not for me, then at least for yourself. After all, you still have good, dependable Hector.

Giselle

“She really has a way with drama,” I said. I couldn't wait to tell Jenny about Giselle – it was exactly the kind of story she loved.

“I'll say.” I watched as Sebastian ran his hands through his hair. “I wish I could have met this Pierre, though. I'd like to know whether he really was as nasty as he sounds or just totally misunderstood.”

“I'd say he must've been the nasty sort – I mean, Giselle was sixteen! Even back then that was young! I bet he thought she was loaded.”

Unfortunately, the next letter confirmed my worst suspicions:

Épaignes, 17th February, 1931

Dear Hector,

My dear brother, your kind letter touched me, it really did.

I'm sorry things have turned out as they have – if only you knew how much! But I can't go back. Something in me changed for ever the day I met Pierre and it changed again the day I finally saw him for who he truly is. I'm afraid the picture isn't pretty. I know, I know – Papa and Maman tried to warn me. But, honestly, I don't believe it was him they were trying to warn me against as much as what he represented. Can you understand that distinction?

Anyway, I've made my bed, as the saying goes… But there's more to it than that, Hector (isn't there always?). Before you start thinking that your little sister enjoys wallowing in her troubles, it's not Pierre that keeps me here. I'm expecting a child, Hector – that's what keeps me here.

The baby is due at the end of March. Finally I'll have someone to share this hell with – and someone worth staying sane for. I told you that Pierre's uncle owns the inn, didn't I? The inn that Pierre claimed was his own prosperous hotel and casino. (Another lie I swallowed whole – not that it matters now.) Anyway, his uncle is unwell – very unwell. And if Pierre carries on drinking as he does, he'll no doubt be unwell soon too. But with my newly formed sense of survival, I'm pushing to take charge. My spirit isn't entirely crushed yet. You see, I'm finally that which our parents always wanted me to be: a responsible married woman.

Forgive me, Hector, for that last sentence. I don't mean to sound sarcastic, but I know you'll be kind and remember me as the carefree girl I was and not the bitter woman I'm rapidly becoming. I think you'll understand that there is no longer any possibility of reconciliation between my former life and my present one – and judging from what you've told me, our parents feel the same. The baton is in your hand alone now, Hector. You always were so kind and good, so responsible. They can count on you at least to be a solace to them in their old age.

By the way, did I ever tell you how Pierre knew about me? The Rozières' staff had stopped at his uncle's inn on their way to Deauville. To make a long story short, they spoke loudly, he overheard, and a plan was hatched to “marry an heiress”. I saw him drunk for the first time after Papa's cable reached us in Monaco. When he read that I was to be disinherited he – well, never mind what he did. It was the beginning of the end.

I'll let you know when the child arrives.

Love always,

Giselle

The child did arrive. The next letter, dated a few months later, confirmed that. A healthy son named Jacques was born to Giselle and Pierre Roux.
You are now an uncle!
wrote Giselle to her brother. Apart from that, and the briefest of greetings, the letter said nothing more of interest. By the next letter, however, a lot had happened – not least the destructive force of World War II, the events of which couldn't help but colour the next decade of Giselle's life:

18th September, 1946

Dear Hector,

So much has happened, I don't even know where to start. I haven't heard from you in so many years… Of course, I'm not exactly the most regular letter-writer either…

I'll start with the good news: you have a niece! On April 18, 1942, I had the most beautiful daughter. I know every mother claims their daughter is the most beautiful, but my dark-haired little moppet really is. She has enormous eyes of the most striking colour – and like a Hollywood mother, I've named her after them: Violette. Her father has eyes of a similar colour.

If you remember Pierre you'll know his eyes are not light. So I'll tell you what everyone here thinks, but doesn't dare say. Namely, that Pierre is not Violette's father. Daniel, her father, is an Englishman. He was stationed not far from here until the Liberation, and not long after he arrived he began to come round regularly with smuggled goods for Jacques and I. Of course I wasn't about to turn my back on butter, milk and fresh meat (even a ripe cantaloupe – don't ask me where he found it!). Jacques became his little shadow and I…well, I fell in love. Don't shake your head in judgement before I've stated my case – your little sister hasn't descended quite as low as you think!