Raiders of the Lost Corset (26 page)

“I promise,” Damon said. “I mean, how could I, Smithsonian?

I didn’t know the dead woman or her intimate thoughts, her dying declaration. You have all the cards here.”

“And most of them are blank. But remember, it’s my story, not DeadFed dot com’s story.” But this meant Lacey would need to write most of the story before she got back to Washington.

“Actually, I’m very relieved nothing more happened to you, Lacey. The damn thing is probably cursed anyway,” Damon said with a straight face.

“He’s right,” Brooke jumped in. “We could have been killed.”

“But we weren’t,” Lacey pointed out.

“So what are we doing tomorrow?” Vic asked.

“Damon and I are going to visit the major spy sites in Paris!”

Brooke lit up like a Christmas tree. “You know, like the Spy Tour in D.C.? Places where famous spies defected, documents changed hands, traitors got executed, all that stuff.”

“You’ll join us?” Damon said. “Maybe we’ll run into this Russian. Might be interesting.”

“We wouldn’t want to cramp your style,” Vic said, much to Lacey’s relief.

“Right. We have plans,” Lacey said.
Boy, do we have plans.

“There’s a big movement to restore all the Romanov artifacts to Russia,” Damon said. “Just the kind of recovery project to appeal to an ex-KGB spy. Maybe that’s why they’re on this case.”

Maybe Damon’s ravings are right,
Lacey thought suddenly.
I
see Kepelov now!
He had materialized somehow while they weren’t looking. She watched him out of the corner of her eye, slamming down shots of vodka at the bar as if he were in a saloon somewhere in Siberia. There was no sign of Griffin. Her flesh crawled at the thought of Kepelov tailing them. He looked oddly pathetic in a rumpled brown ill-fitting suit and, oddest of all, dark red leather cowboy boots.
At least Tex isn’t wearing his Hawaiian
shirt.
He kept checking the door as if he expected someone.

Brooke, who was sitting opposite her, didn’t see him, and Lacey didn’t want to create a scene. Vic would simply throttle him, Damon would try to interfere, and they would all wind up in a French jail. And who knew if Brooke’s friends at the American Embassy could save them?

Lacey’s first instinct was to locate a weapon; she wondered which piece of the elegant silverware would be the deadliest. She ordered herself to calm down and wait to see if he made a move.

She would show no fear, she decided, so much easier with Vic by her side, and rejoined the conversation.

Kepelov, however, must have given up his surveillance, because the next time she glanced his way, while deciding between the chocolate mousse and the crème brûlée for dessert, he was gone. Lacey reached over for Vic’s hand. He squeezed hers back and she felt a rush of relief. Maybe she wouldn’t have to decide which piece of cutlery would be appropriate for self-defense. She imagined her mortification to be caught stabbing someone in a fancy restaurant in Paris using
the wrong knife.
It wasn’t an eti-quette challenge for which she was prepared. She ordered the crème brûlée.

After the fattening dessert course, Brooke and Damon finally said good night, still glowing. Lacey and Vic lingered lazily over digestifs for half an hour. Even their very correct waiter had warmed up to them ever so slightly, going so far as to offer the happy couple a fleeting smile. Vic leaned in for a kiss. Lacey closed her eyes, awaiting a kiss sweeter than all the desserts in Paris.

Then the shooting began, a volley of sharp popping sounds outside the front windows of the restaurant. Vic immediately pulled Lacey down to the floor, keeping the table between them and the windows. Lacey could tell by his face and the fact she was on the floor that the sounds were gunshots. She realized they sounded just like the shots she had heard in Dupont Circle last month when a woman had been gunned down before her eyes. Vic put his arms around her and pulled her close. She felt her heart plummet. This must have something to do with Kepelov being there. But was it Kepelov doing the shooting? And whom was he shooting at?

“Just because we heard shots, it doesn’t mean you’re involved,”

Vic whispered into her ear. “They have street crime in Paris too.”

“I need to tell you something, Vic.” He lifted an eyebrow at her.

“I saw Kepelov in the restaurant, earlier, but then he was gone.”

“Good to know. First, don’t jump to conclusions. Second, let’s get out of here, calmly and quietly, without attracting attention.

We’re just two fools in love sitting on the floor in a restaurant in Paris. Perfectly ordinary behavior.”

“That part is certainly true.” Lacey realized that Vic was getting much better at discussing certain subjects with her, like crime and danger and trouble, and why she was always in it or around it. He hadn’t yelled at her at all. She was charmed by his cool, capable demeanor.
Paris is good for him,
she decided.
For both of us.

Most of the other diners were paying no attention, either to the two Americans sitting on the floor or to whatever had happened on the street, although a few walked to the windows to peer out. Vic paid the bill just as the police sirens wailed and an ambulance sped down the street and slammed on the brakes. He helped Lacey up and draped her shawl around her shoulders.

As they approached the front door, a distinctive woodsy rose and musk scent hung in the air, the same perfume she had smelled in her room after it had been searched. The scent that tickled the back of her mind with a half-hidden memory. She closed her eyes and breathed it in. The scent was stronger here, and the memory was closer. She was almost there, just another deep breath and she would — Yes, there it was, she had it. She finally remembered who it was that wore that perfume.

It was Magda. And Magda was dead.

Chapter 25

“Lacey?” She opened her eyes. Vic was holding the front door of the restaurant open for her.

Outside, the crisp air was a slap in the face. It shocked her fully awake and stung her eyes, which were full of tears for Magda. People were moving swiftly around them, and more official cars were arriving. Lacey held Vic’s arm as they walked past the police perimeter.

She stopped only long enough to see a crowd of emergency workers around a figure lying on the ground. She couldn’t see the man’s face, but she saw his red cowboy boots and she knew.

Squeezing Vic’s arm, she whispered, “It’s Kepelov.”

“How could you possibly know that?” He sounded a little testy.

“You couldn’t.”

“The boots, Vic. He was wearing those red cowboy boots. I saw them earlier.”

He turned and looked at the boots just as the man on the ground was surrounded. “Well, those are damned silly,” he said and started walking again. “A Russian spy in red cowboy boots.”

“We should do something,” she said, feeling helpless. “We can identify him.”

“Are you sure? You don’t even know that’s his real name. Lacey, there is nothing to do except get out of the way and let the gendarmes do their work.” She protested, and he pulled her along gently. “You didn’t shoot him. You didn’t see who shot him, and you don’t know why he was shot. And don’t tell me it was because of the red boots.”

“Maybe the French are even tougher fashion critics than I thought. But I also smelled the perfume, just now, the same perfume I smelled in my room.”

“Lacey, this is the world capital of perfume.”

“I’m just saying there’s a woman, a girlfriend of his, and maybe she —”

“You don’t even know who this alleged girlfriend is, her name, what she looks like.
If
there is a girlfriend. Frankly, Lacey, this Kepelov sounds more like a lowlife thug than KGB. Thugs shoot other thugs. Fact of life.”

At the corner Lacey stopped to wrap her shawl tighter. “He was stalking us.”

“Or someone else. He was drinking. Maybe he picked the restaurant at random. He takes one look at you and bolts.”

“That’s flattering.”

“Only because you sow terror in the hearts of men.”

“That better be a compliment, honey.”

He held her tight and kept them walking away from the scene, past the taxicabs parked at the corner. “For all we know, your thug was depressed. He failed to score this Romanov treasure, be it egg or corset, hit the vodka too hard, and decided good-bye cruel world.”

“That’s so dumb, it could be true.” They strolled along the street. Even though it was nearly midnight, the streets were full of people strolling, and some restaurants were still serving dinner.

Lacey agreed it would be awkward to go to the police. “I still feel weird leaving the scene.”

“Yeah, it’d be great to have your friend Broadway Lamont here to interrogate you.”

“Very funny.”

“By the way, sweetheart, about Thanksgiving.” Vic stopped.

“Do you have any plans?”

“Thanksgiving? How can you bring up Thanksgiving at a time like this? I’m speechless.”

“That’ll be the day. So do you have plans?” He drew her close to him and said softly, “We’ll talk about Red Boots later, when we’re sure we’re alone.”

“Vic, are we being followed?” she whispered. He shrugged and eyed the pedestrians walking past them.

“I don’t think so. Just checking. About Thanksgiving.”

“I turned my mother down. So no, I have no plans.” He didn’t need to know that Rose Smithsonian had invited him too. Throwing parents into the mix right now was too unpredictable. She drew her shawl tighter and snuggled next to him.

“You’re invited to my folks’ house, then. Lots of food, lots of room, lots of people.”

“Your parents?” She had a sudden pang of panic. She hadn’t met his parents. She’d been wondering whether she ever would. And now she knew they were “comfortable.”
Vic’s rich parents.

What on earth will they think of me?
“I don’t know.”

“Don’t worry. They’ll love you. I have orders to bring a guest. I want it to be you.”

“But you said your parents
loved
your ex-wife, Montana.” Vic had sworn she was out of the picture, but Lacey suspected Montana might still have other ideas.

“Maybe not
loved,
exactly. They, um, felt sorry for her.”

“I don’t know, Vic, suddenly meeting your parents is just plain scary. And throwing in the holiday is loading the dice. If they don’t like me I’ll have ruined their Thanksgiving, not just some random evening. They’ll hate me.”

“They’ll like you! They don’t bite. And you couldn’t ruin one of my mom’s dinner parties with an atom bomb.”

“Famous last words.” She realized she was tired, they both were. This was not the evening to start a silly fight over being
included
in his family’s holiday plans, of all things. “Ask me again tomorrow, Vic. Please?” The little hotel beckoned, safe and warm and ghost-free, and Lacey and Vic picked up the pace for the next few blocks until they were back at the Hotel Mouton Vert.

Upstairs in their room, she sat down on the bed and kicked off her heels. Vic sat on the floor beside her and lay his head on her lap. Lacey hugged him close.

“I just hate not knowing what happened,” she lamented. “Is he alive? Is he dead? Who shot him? Why? I should tell Brooke.” She reached for her phone, but Vic put his hand on hers.

“You’ll just get her all wound up, both of them. They’ll be up all night surfing the Web for news. In French,” Vic said. “Save it for tomorrow.”

Lacey let him unzip her dress and she peeled it off, revealing her flashiest red underwear.

“Just relax, Lacey. Let me rub your shoulders.” He kneaded her tight muscles with his strong hands. She willed herself to let go of her worries.
Oh, this is helping.

“I’m thinking you have a lot of useful skills,” she said, as he un-hooked her bra.

“You’d be surprised.” He started kissing her and didn’t stop.

A knock on the door the next morning woke Lacey up. She threw on her black silk robe and staggered out of bed. “Who is it?” she asked through the closed door.

“It’s Brooke.”

Lacey opened the door a crack and peered out. “What time is it?” Brooke was entirely too awake and cheerful. Her hair was braided. She was wearing jeans, running shoes, and a gray hooded sweatshirt that said YALE in letters at least a foot high.

“Why don’t you just wear a sign that says JE SUIS AMÉRICAINE?”

“I am American. Who needs a sign?” Brooke leaned on the door, pushing it open a bit more. She peered in at a sleeping Donovan. “Oh, you guys aren’t up yet?” She grinned.

“No, and I’m going back to bed right now.” Lacey started to shut the door.

“Hey, did you know there was a shooting last night outside the restaurant? Right after Damon and I left. Did you guys hear anything?”

Lacey opened the door a bit wider. “We heard gunshots. What do you know about it?”

“Not much,” Brooke said. “That was all Monsieur Henri could tell me.”

Lacey slipped into the hall and shut the door gently so they wouldn’t disturb Vic.
If I tell her it was Kepelov, I’ll get sucked into
the deadly vortex of DeadFed dot com.
“So what are you going to do today?”

“This morning we’re going to visit locations on the Champs Elysées and the Palais Royale from the movie
Charade.
You remember, Cary Grant, Audrey Hepburn, murder, intrigue, romance. It’s one of your favorites too, I know. You guys should come along.”

Lacey eyed Brooke’s outfit du jour. “Sans Audrey’s fabulous wardrobe by Givenchy.” Lacey momentarily thought about those beautiful suits Audrey Hepburn wore in
Charade
, all those three-quarter-length sleeves designed to be worn with long gloves.
Très
elegante.

“Well, I’m dressed for speed. I have to be able to move to play hide and seek,” Brooke insisted. “Spy versus spy. Us versus Kepelov.”

“I have a feeling he won’t bother you today.” Lacey had no idea if Kepelov were still alive. Part of her hoped he was, the silly man with his silly mustache and his absurd American dream. She also reminded herself that he had stalked her, attacked her, and knocked her out. And he was just plain weird, if not a complete lying sociopath.