Raiders of the Lost Corset (12 page)

“I’m very good at what I do.” He straightened up and stared at her. “You’re quite good at stabbing bad guys, so I understand.”

“Only two! I only stabbed two of them.”
Must everyone always
bring that up?

“Alas, your mother and sister helped you out of that jam before you could stab the third one. I was counting on it. Three stabbings would look so much more impressive on your résumé as a semi-professional assistant jewel retriever.”

“Not funny. And why would I need to stab anyone anyway?”

“This project could get difficult. We should be working together, not against each other. There’s another chap interested in the egg or whatever it is as well, a hard case, a hit man, ex-KGB —”

“KGB!” she yelped. Several people stared.

“Shall I get you a microphone? The chap in the back corner didn’t hear you.”

Lacey lowered her voice. “How do you know that?”

“Word gets around in the jewel-retrieving biz. He’s a nasty bit of work, I hear.”

“And you think I’m loony enough to get involved with you and this —? What’s this spy’s name?”

“He goes by the name Gregor Kepelov. One of his names, at any rate. You may have seen it on DeadFed.” He drummed his fingers on the table.

“Here’s a news flash, Nigel Griffin. Take DeadFed with a grain. Two grains. Of anything you like.”

He shrugged. “Kepelov surfaced a couple of months ago in the U.S. Why? Well, when he’s not killing people, he hunts for Fabergé eggs, or anything Romanov, for private Russian collectors, who pay well. Very well. Kepelov is not above — Well, he’s not above anything, or so I’m told.”

“Oh, my God! Are you telling me this is why Magda was killed? Some idiot was looking for a nonexistent Fabergé egg?”

Magda, you fool!
She had said she always thought her grandfather had stolen a Fabergé egg, until she inherited his diary and discovered it was the corset.
Who knows how many people heard her say
the words “Fabergé egg”?

“I didn’t say he killed her, but if he did — Well, the thrill of danger, eh?” He swigged the last of his latte. “You and I need each other.”

“You don’t seem all that concerned.”

“Me? I’m a pro. Nerves of steel and all that.” He yawned. “Besides, Kepelov doesn’t know me, I haven’t run into Kepelov, and I don’t have the egg. Yet.”

Either he really doesn’t know it’s a corset or he’s stringing me
along.
Lacey stood up and wiped her hands. “Well, neither do I.

Nor do I want a Fabergé egg. So long, Nigel Griffin.”

“Remember, my partnership offer is still open. You probably know things you don’t even suspect you know. All those late nights, just you and Magda and her little stories? I’ll be in touch.”

“I won’t be home.” She walked out the door. “Mythological beast indeed.”

Chapter 11

“We may have trouble,” Lacey told Brooke that evening. “So you can back out now if you want.” She was standing on Brooke’s front porch under a yellow light after paying her cabdriver. She had changed taxis twice to make sure she wasn’t followed.

“Back out? What kind of friend do you take me for?” Brooke answered the door barefoot in a T-shirt and jeans. Her blond hair had escaped its braid. “I’m packing now. You can help.”

“I have to go home soon and pack myself. But I want you to consider the option of staying home instead of going to France with me.”

Brooke waved her inside. “What’s going on?”

Lacey’s friend lived in a redbrick town house in Arlington, situated in a little box canyon of town houses for the young and upwardly mobile. Most of Brooke’s rooms were sparsely furnished, as the young barrister had little time to decorate and spent much of her free time at either Lacey’s place or Damon’s. She told Lacey, tongue in cheek, that her nondecorating style gave the place “an airy Zen minimalist kind of look.” Lacey thought it simply looked as if no one lived there. A leather sofa and chair huddled forlornly in the big empty living room. The dining room table showed signs of life, covered with briefs and books, facing a giant wall-mounted flat-screen TV set nearly always tuned to CNN, like so many homes of Washington, D.C., news junkies.

The place was roomy and expensive, but it left Lacey cold. Upstairs in the master bedroom it was better. Lacey envied Brooke’s not one but two big walk-in closets with built-in cabinets and shoe racks and padded hangers for her expensive and beautifully tailored — though Lacey thought mostly bland — work wardrobe.

The sumptuous bathroom, with its separate shower stall and tub with built-in Jacuzzi, called to her. It said, “You’re the one who chose journalism, you chump.” Lacey knew her career would never let her afford a place like Brooke Barton’s. Not unless there were a lost — and found — treasure in her future.

The bedroom was in an uproar, with clothes covering most horizontal surfaces, but something seemed different. “You’ve changed things,” Lacey commented. Brooke’s utilitarian beige ripcord bed-spread had been replaced by a sumptuous pale moss-green brocade comforter and cushy extra pillows. A new chaise lounge in a creamy gold velvet looked positively decadent by Brooke’s standards. And the walls were no longer white but a soft sage color, the woodwork painted bright white.

“Do you like it?” Brooke asked, throwing herself on the chaise.

“It’s gorgeous,” Lacey said. “A complete mantrap.”

“Just what I was aiming for. Speaking of men, are you sure we can’t take Damon along?”

“Not a good idea. Really.” Lacey felt herself go pale. “We’ve gone over this.”

Brooke sighed and rose from the chaise. “Spoilsport. Okay, you’re the fashion reporter. Tell me what to wear. Paris in November? That’s when it drizzles, right? How does that song go?”

“You’re not focusing, Brooke. I said we have trouble. Usually news of a charming mysterious stranger and a dangerous former KGB agent would have you delirious with conspiratorial glee.”

Brooke focused in a hurry. “Did you say KGB?”

Lacey gave her the thumbnail version of her coffee shop encounter with Nigel Griffin. “So he gave me some mumbo jumbo about being a jewel retriever, a freelance soldier of fortune type of thing. But I think he’s a jewel thief.”

“Is he handsome?” Brooke asked, obviously tapping into the Hollywood fantasy that jewel thieves are urbane and sophisticated.

“He’s not Cary Grant, but he’s okay for a Brit. Not my type. Smooth but shallow.”

“A handsome British jewel thief? Intriguing. And you say shallow like it’s a bad thing. Something Griffin, you said?”

“Nigel Griffin. He wants to get his hands on the corset. He wants me to help.”

“He knows about the corset?”

“No, actually he thinks it might be a Fabergé egg or something.”

“Fabergé egg? Interesting. Do you think this character is dangerous?” She held up a red sweater for Lacey to approve for Paris.

“Everyone is dangerous, and just how much do you intend to pack?” Lacey nixed the sweater — it was the wrong red for Brooke’s coloration. “We’ll only be there a week.”

“You’re right. Tell me about the KGB spy.”

“He’s an out-of-work hit man. Dangerous, according to Griffin, who’s probably a liar.”

“Do you have a name?”

“Gregor Kepelov. That’s all I know. Ring any bells?”

“No bells. And what kind of reporter are you?” Brooke held up a gray sweater for approval. “Haven’t you Googled him yet? Or checked DeadFed?”

“No, you’re the Google queen here. After a day at work, I am sick of Googling. That’s all Griffin told me, and you don’t look your best in gray.” Lacey figured if the name Gregor Kepelov was known on the Web, Brooke would have picked up on it from her obsessive reading of the DeadFed Web site. “Griffin was just playing with me, a fishing expedition to see what I know. For all I know, he’s the ex-KGB guy himself.”

“Kepelov.” Brooke flew to her laptop, which was under a stack of jeans, turned it on and logged onto DeadFed dot com’s allegedly secure subscriber server. Brooke had full privileges. She typed for awhile, while Lacey took her ease on the chaise and admired Brooke’s new decor.

“There’s nothing on a Gregor Kepelov, as a name or a code name or a cover name. No known KGB guys with a name like it.

There are several Gregors, but I think it’s a pretty common Russian name. Nothing on any Nigel Griffin, either. Maybe a phony name?”

“Maybe Kepelov is really good,” Lacey suggested. “Or maybe it’s all just a lie by Mr. Griffin calculated to, I don’t know, scare me into telling him everything I know.”

“We’ve got to send this Griffin character off in the wrong direction. It’ll be fun!”

“If I contact him now with some phony clue, it’ll be obvious that I’m trying to play him.”

Brooke turned from her computer. “I guess so. But if he can’t trust you, wouldn’t he have to go check it out anyway?”

“Trust me. It’s better to play dumb. And he may be smarter than he looks. Or acts.”

“Maybe you’re right. But he is a man. Men can be fooled.

Therefore Griffin can be fooled. A syllogism.”

“We’ll be on the plane tomorrow. All we really have to do is get on without him. He can wander around town here looking for me. We’ll have a head start in France.” Lacey looked at what Brooke was packing and realized she would have to take her friend’s wardrobe choices into her own hands. She began a colorful “Pack” pile and a colorless “Leave” pile. “Please add some color, Brooke, we’re talking Paris here, not Washington! Remember: Woman does not impress by Burberry alone. And Brooke, it really could be dangerous. The trip, not your clothes.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll bring lots of money. If nothing else, we’ll buy our way out of trouble. And we can buy new wardrobes too. In Paris.”

Lacey grinned at her. “Funny, why didn’t I think of that?”

“And Daddy knows the U.S. ambassador there. He’s already in my cell phone. Now, what did you say I should pack? Subtle, right? Subdued and inconspicuous? Like a spy?”

“Well, Brooke, you may dress to disappear into the drizzle if you like. But not me. I plan to dress to make Paris sizzle.”

Lacey planned on dressing for an adventure. And dressing like an adventuress.
When handsome jewel thieves follow you around
and beg to buy you coffee and a Danish,
she thought,
it’s too late
for anonymity. Might as well knock their eyes out.

Lacey Smithsonian’s

FASHION BITES

Bored With Dress for Success? Try for Adventuress Instead

You dressed for success, but where has it gotten you? Your own cubicle next to someone dressed just like you in a cubicle just like yours? You’ve got the same safe suit, the same knock-off bag, the same pair of pumps you both snagged at Filene’s Basement at the same sale. You call that success?

The working world is not exactly the fantasy we dreamed of in college, is it? Once upon a time we thought life would be an adventure, exciting, stimulating, fulfilling. Don’t forget fulfilling. Possibly even fun. Well, it can be, if you approach it the right way. As an adventure.

But perhaps you feel invisible. Your clothes are fading away and taking you with them. No one can see you, you’re so well hidden in your dress-for-success camouflage. Your shoes match the carpet, your skirt blends into the chair, your blouse copies the curtains. Where’s the real you concealed behind the corporate camo? Unless your secret ambition is to star in a remake of
The Invisible Woman
, you and your wardrobe need a shot of pure adrenaline.

Need a little adventure? My advice: Dress like an adventuress. An adventuress knows that the right clothes can change your attitude faster than your attitude can change your clothes. To find the adventure in life, sometimes all you need to do is dress for adventure and let it find you. Let’s look at three basics in every adventuress’s rolling suitcase.

• A trench coat, of course. Well-worn and rakishly scruffy or brand-new, it should fit perfectly, whether you’re built like Ingrid Bergman or Sydney Greenstreet. These days it even comes in daring postmodern pinks and blues and greens, not just the traditional World War I khaki. Long or short, the trench coat is dashing, versatile, and ready for a trip to the office or around the world. Even to Casablanca. (“For the waters,” of course.)

• Sunglasses. Every adventure calls for a sleek pair of sunglasses. They protect your eyes and keep your secrets. No secrets to keep? They’ll even keep that secret, too. Slip on your shades and
voilà!
A woman of mystery. Think
Thelma and Louise
or Kathleen Turner on the beach in
Body Heat.
Just try to stay out of trouble this time.

• A scarf. A sophisticated adventuress needs a bright and colorful scarf, and she actually knows how to tie it cleverly. (Or she fakes it.) Not only does it liven up that same old suit, it blows in the wind as you speed away in your convertible up the hills of Monte Carlo like Grace Kelly with that handsome jewel thief Cary Grant at your side. Don’t have a Cary Grant type handy? Let your beautiful scarf fly; he may find you.

Adventure is, of course, whatever you want it to be. Living your life on your own terms and with your own style can be the biggest adventure of all. Just imagine looking the way you’ve always dreamed you’d look when you open the door to that big moment and say, “Come on in, I’m ready.” And imagine a confident, self-possessed woman striding down the street to meet that big moment, so intriguing that heads turn as she passes by. Who is that adventurous woman?
It’s
you!

Chapter 12

“Brooke, stop looking for spies! You look too much like a spy yourself.”

Lest they be followed to Europe by the mysterious Griffin or Kepelov or suspicious persons unknown, Lacey and Brooke had taken great care not to be tailed to the airport at Dulles. Lacey was now carefully assessing the other passengers as they stood in line to go through security. She had seen no one she knew aside from Brooke, whose excitement at joining this adventure was palpable. Nevertheless, Lacey was half afraid Damon Newhouse or one of his DeadFed operatives would appear out of nowhere.

Brooke was still under attorney-client privilege as per Lacey’s stipulation. She swore she hadn’t told Damon a word about their real plan, but she warned Lacey that Damon might suspect there was more to this trip than just a Paris pleasure jaunt to heal Lacey’s heartbreak.