Raiders of the Lost Corset (21 page)

“We’re meeting our mothers for lunch.” Brooke showed her watch. “We’re already late.”

He bowed slightly, not at all offended. “Perhaps another time.
Au revoir.
” He turned to go.

“Pardon me again, monsieur, but is there more than one Rue Dauphine?”

“Ah,
mais non,
here is the only Rue Dauphine in Paris.
Désolé.
”

“Have the street numbers ever changed?” she pressed. “Could an address this high have been here once, years ago? Say, thirty or forty years ago?”

The Frenchman laughed. “Oh, no, Rue Dauphine is a very old street. Why change the numbers? We all would get lost, not only the pretty American tourists.” He checked his own watch. “
Au
revoir,
mademoiselles.”

“Come on, this is no time for romance.” Brooke pulled her away down a little side street. “It’s not here. You heard the man: no such address.”

“If it isn’t here, it isn’t in Paris,” Lacey said. “It can’t be.”

“We have to debrief. Regroup. Make a new plan.”

“Regroup? Brooke. Reality check. This is it. There is no other Rue Dauphine. And no such number on this Rue Dauphine. It’s too high. End of debriefing.”

“Maybe it’s written in invisible ink. Or some kind of code.”

“Right. A code. Let’s call the CIA.” Leave it to Brooke to look for a secret code. “This is what we know.” Lacey counted out on her fingers. “Rue Dauphine, but a bad address. Seek and ye shall find. Genesis 3:19. ‘Dust thou art,’ et cetera. It’s more like a nasty joke on old Juris, Magda’s grandfather, than a code. Maybe it’s a joke on us too: ‘Seek and ye shall find nothing but dust on the Rue Dauphine.’ ”

“Let’s try word association,” Brooke suggested. “Let’s see the original note.”

“It’s in Latvian! What kind of word associations do
you
have in Latvian?”

“I don’t know; you’re the writer. The wizard with words.”

“The wizard is fresh out of words.” Lacey looked at the map book again. “Here’s my new plan. I’m walking
that
way.” She marched purposefully up the Rue de St. Andres des Arts.

Brooke perked up and fell into step beside her. “Okay, where?”

“The Cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris. We look like tourists, let’s act like tourists.”

“So what are we going to find there?”

“Peace. The peace that passeth understanding.”

“Wait, you don’t have a clue?” Brooke’s face fell. “Really?”

“That’s right. We’re out of clues, out of luck, and out of ideas.”

Lacey shrugged as if releasing a burden from her shoulders.
I’m
getting the hang of this shrugging thing.

“But what about the story, the corset?” Brooke shook her curly red wig. “There’s got to be something more we can do.”

“There is,” Lacey said. “Light a candle and pray, you heathen Protestant you. I’ll show you how.”

“Candles? If it’s dark in there I’ll fall asleep. Can we get some coffee first?” She yawned.

“Sure, why not? May I present the Ile de la Cité?” Lacey led Brooke across the bridge, the Pont Saint-Michel, and took a detour past the Conciergerie, where Marie Antoinette was imprisoned before she was beheaded by the guillotine. The imposing building had been part of the royal palace until the late fourteenth century, she read to Brooke from the guidebook. So many French edifices seemed to have the same life cycle, Lacey mused. They began as monasteries or palaces, then became prisons, and finally museums.

“Come on, Lacey. I can’t keep my eyes open much longer.”

They stopped for refreshments at the Café Quasimodo, near the Cathedral of Notre Dame.
Obviously somebody had a sense of
humor,
Lacey thought. Inside, the throng of tourists made her feel more at ease, less like she stuck out in the crowd like a sore thumb.

There was more than one sore thumb in this crowd. The harried waiter took little notice of them, bringing their coffee and an eclair for Brooke and slapping
l’addition
down at the same time. Lacey thought she must be nearly invisible in the glasses and dark hair, as if she might move among these tourists unseen and leave no footprints. But she realized she didn’t want to feel like a ghost for long. She too often felt like a ghost back in D.C.

They drained their cups and left the crowded café, dodging an American family of six with a crying baby and a busload of retired couples wearing loud matching sweaters. As they approached the Cathedral of Notre Dame, Lacey tried to imagine the hunchback Quasimodo tolling the bells and demanding sanctuary for the gypsy Esmeralda, the love he could never have, and Abelard and Heloise writing their passionate love letters. Another tragic love affair. A sudden image of Vic Donovan’s smoldering green eyes flickered before her, but she pushed it aside.
I brought you here for
some peace, damn it,
she told herself crossly,
now don’t ruin it!

Entering the Cathedral, Lacey made the sign of the cross.

Brooke peered around like an interested visitor from another planet, scanning the crowd for Griffin or Kepelov. Lacey inhaled the warm aroma of burning candles and basked in the colored light filtering through the stained glass of the glorious rose windows high above. She dropped money in the box, lit the candles, and contemplated the cool serenity of the vast sacred space of the Cathedral. They found room in a pew near the back and sat down, Brooke yawning by her side. Lacey tapped her on the shoulder.

“How can you be sleepy?” Lacey asked. “This the land of lovers, the Three Musketeers, the Revolution, the Arc de Triomphe. The City of Light. Land of wine and cheese. The guillotine. Perk up.”

“Yeah, it’s inspiring.” Brooke yawned again and wiped her eyes. “I didn’t sleep much last night. I was afraid I might talk in my sleep.”

Lacey felt her mouth drop open. “What on earth do you think you’ll spill? Who really killed JFK? Vince Foster’s assassins? Names of the dead aliens in Area 51?”

“You laugh.” Brooke sniffed. “What if I said something about the Romanov corset?”

“I can’t believe you lay awake worrying about these things,”

Lacey said. “You did the sweep in our new rooms. No bugs. Who would hear you mumbling about the corset?”

Brooke stifled another yawn. “And mostly I couldn’t sleep because, well, I miss Damon.”

“Oh. Of course you do.” Lacey felt a sudden pang of guilt. Not only was she half of a couple in full breakup mode, she was keeping other couples apart. She was a carrier of the breakup bug. And in her clownish tourist disguise, Brooke wasn’t even getting to enjoy the famous French flirtation. “Maybe it was the ghost who kept you awake,” she said, hoping to cheer her friend up, and herself too. “What do you think, should we try to contact the spirit of Marie?”

Brooke’s spirits rose at once. “Maybe she saw who searched our rooms! Maybe we could communicate with her!”

Lacey thought about the lights that flickered off and on at the Hotel Mouton Vert. “We’ll invite our ghost-loving concierge, Monsieur Henri. You do believe in ghosts, don’t you, Brooke?”

“Of course I believe in ghosts. I came to church with you, didn’t I? And I believe in you, Lacey. I don’t want to spoil this day for you,” Brooke said. “I know you’ll think of something brilliant.

Something about the corset. Something we’ve missed.” She yawned deeply.

Lacey suddenly felt empty and defeated. She stood up and shouldered her bag, and she gave her sleepy friend a hand up.

“What we’ve missed is that we really are clueless. And if you think I can solve every mystery that comes my way, you have been reading too much DeadFed dot com.”

Brooke smiled at the very mention of her boyfriend’s Web site.

“You’re right. We’re both clueless. Maybe I’ll be smarter after I get some sleep. Call us a cab, mademoiselle.”

Lacey’s wig was beginning to make her scalp itch, and her tiny glasses were hurting her nose. She couldn’t wait to shuck off her tourist disguise, and a plan was forming in her mind for a solitary stroll through the streets of Paris in search of inspiration while Brooke napped. She smiled.
At least it’s a plan.
She lit two more candles, one for each of them, before heading back to the hotel.

Lacey looked up toward Heaven, somewhere in the direction of the stained-glass windows high above them in the immensity of the Cathedral. She said one more fervent prayer.

I feel like a complete fool here. You got any bright ideas?

Chapter 20

They caught a cab and were back at the hotel by one. Brooke went straight to dreamland in her room, after another scan for bugs. And after promising she would wake her up if she had any random brilliant thoughts, Lacey exited to her own room across the hall. It seemed very peaceful. There was no hint of a woodsy rose perfume, no bugs, and no ghosts.

She stripped off her depressing tourist costume, feeling happy to be free of the dowdy garb, and quickly changed into black slacks and a fitted black-and-red sweater that showed off her curves. She freshened up what her Aunt Mimi would call her “war paint,” making her eyes smoky and sexy and her lips a deep red.

Her highlighted hair, freed from Brooke’s itchy wig, flowed down to her shoulders. Lacey saluted herself in the mirror, promising herself a wonderful solo outing on the streets of Paris. She felt much more like herself again. Brooke was a dear, but her obses-sions and paranoia were cramping Lacey’s style. Believing that at least half of looking good is attitude, Lacey felt she could now go toe-to-toe with any French femme fatale.

Grabbing her red leather jacket, her purse, and her map, she checked with the concierge for directions and headed for the Métro. Her first target: the Eiffel Tower. Lacey knew if Brooke was making up for a sleepless night she would have at least a couple of hours on her own. And if any Frenchmen wanted to flirt with her, bring ’em on,
chérie. Mais oui!

One nagging thought intruded on Lacey’s good mood. She

would have to give up on Magda’s dream of a lost Romanov corset, if it was a corset, as truly lost.
Once something is really
gone,
she told herself,
accepting its loss should bring a measure of
peace.
She had done her best to make Magda’s last wish come true.

She had traveled all the way to France, she had followed up on
136

Ellen Byerrum

Magda’s only lead, and she had even found a brand-new clue, or half a clue. It had led her nowhere. But she had tried.

By the time the Métro train rushed to a stop, Lacey had mentally absolved herself of blame. She was free! If life were a musical, she mused, this would be a moment to break into song. A tap-dancing-up-the-stairs number, à la
An American in Paris.
Alas, she had never taken those dance lessons, but she was dancing in her heart.

Feeling lighter than she had since she arrived in France, Lacey emerged from the subway at Ecole Militaire, practically skipped down the Parc du Champ de Mars, and was rewarded by the rivet-ing sight of the symbol of Paris familiar from all the photographs, the Eiffel Tower, a monument to structural steel, the sweat of untold workers, and the eccentric vision of Gustave Eiffel. It stood massive and proud with its multiple latticed layers, looking both monumental and as airy as lace. She breathed a sigh of relief; she felt almost giddy. Standing still for a moment, she savored the sight. Like any tourist on vacation, she pulled out her camera and took photos.
Ah, Paris.
If only she could ask someone to take her picture here.
That’s me at the Eiffel Tower, Mom, it’s the tall thing
behind me.
But of course that was the whole point of this outing, to see a little bit of Paris entirely on her own.

“Smithsonian! There you are! Wait up!” Griffin’s oh-so-

English accent came from somewhere close behind her and it scraped her nerves like a cheese grater. This was not the way she intended to see the city, with a British barnacle on her butt.

Her moment of solitary elation suddenly deflated, Lacey

whirled around to see his lanky figure running to catch up with her.

He was thin, but he sure wasn’t fit. He was wheezing as if he’d run a mile. She snapped his photograph with his mouth open and eyes shut.

“Why do you have to walk so fast?” He was out of breath.
Out
of shape. A smoker.

“What the hell do you want?” She wasn’t feeling very friendly toward Griffin. She tucked the camera back into her leather bag and resumed walking briskly toward the Tower.

He tried to match her steps as they quickened. “Thought we could talk. Quietly. Without. That. Bugger. Kepelov,” he gasped.

“Good Lord, slow down, would you?”

“Oh, you mean your
buddy
, Kepelov?” She stopped short and turned on him. “Why? To give you another chance to search my room? Wasn’t it enough the first time?”

“What the devil are you talking about?”

“Your little plan yesterday, you and Kepelov. Waylaying us? All that blather about working together? Just to keep us busy long enough to send your accomplice into the hotel, search our rooms?

What’s the matter? Didn’t find anything?”

“Look, Smithsonian, I had no part in anything like that, you have to believe me.” She snorted and resumed charging ahead.

“Hold on! Someone actually tossed your rooms? I had no idea.

Must have been Gregor’s little scheme.” Griffin sounded genuinely distressed. “He’s a bloody bastard. Really.”

“What’s the matter, didn’t he tell you? He doesn’t trust you either?”

“Don’t blame me.” He advanced on her and she started walking.

“So who is she?” Lacey tossed the question over her shoulder.

“Who?”

She stopped and faced him. “The woman who searched our rooms. Who is she?”

“I have no bloody idea!” Griffin leaned over and coughed, trying to catch his breath, his hands on his knees. “None at all. How do you even know it’s a woman?”

“The scent of a strange perfume was wafting through the room when I returned. It’s a woman. Or you.” Lacey didn’t tell him the aroma was just on the edge of a memory that she couldn’t quite recall. “I’d say it must be her signature scent.”