Raiders of the Lost Corset (28 page)

“Right. We’re not expecting to see Morrison too, are we?” Vic turned up his collar against the rain and lifted the multicolored umbrella they’d bought at the Metro station.

“I hope not, there’s nothing attractive about an old dead heroin addict. Or even an old live heroin addict. Brooke says Jim Morrison is their case study in faking your own death and disappearing.

They’re working on some story. My money is on the dead man telling no tales.”

They opened the map of the cemetery Lacey purchased at a stand outside the gates and charted a circuitous course around the winding pathways of Père-Lachaise, past its grand mausoleums and extravagant monuments to the dead, including such luminar-ies as Isadora Duncan, Maria Callas, and Oscar Wilde, his tomb and its winged figure covered with a thousand tender lipstick kisses. With their map they were a magnet for mapless tourists, including a scruffy American in a Doors T-shirt who demanded,

“Dude, where’s Jim Morrison?!”

“Dude, he’s dead!” Vic informed him, and the man wandered away, mumbling. “It’s a Lizard King fan club meeting,” Vic said to Lacey, “and we didn’t wear our fan club T-shirts. Let’s get out of here.”

But Lacey took Vic’s arm and the map and led him past the graves of Molière and Chopin to a tomb in the far corner of the cemetery, a double tomb beneath an elaborate gothic canopy. The recumbent statues of a man and a woman lay side by side, Abelard and Heloise, the tragic twelfth-century lovers whose letters left a heartbreaking romantic legacy. A bouquet of fresh red roses rested on the statue of Heloise, the woman who had spent the rest of her life in a convent but never forgot Peter Abelard, the man she loved.

Even though he didn’t deserve her
, Lacey thought. Rose petals covered the ground before the tomb, and yellow and brown autumn leaves, slick with rain. Vic put his arms around Lacey and whispered in her ear. “Not every love story is a tragedy.”

She looked up at him, not knowing what to say, hoping for a kiss, when she heard a familiar voice.

“Hey! Here they are!” Brooke’s voice echoed cheerfully

through the tombs. She was umbrella-less and soaked.

“You guys are in the wrong place.” Damon appeared from behind a stone angel, looking just as sodden as his girlfriend. He wore a grin and wiped the rain from his face.

“No, we’re not,” Lacey said. “We’re right where we want to be.”

“Ever hear of umbrellas?” Vic added.

“Left it on the Métro.” Losing an umbrella wasn’t going to dampen Damon’s spirits. He and Brooke led the way, and Vic and Lacey trudged dutifully to the nearby grave of Jim Morrison, the legendary bad-boy front man for the Doors of “Light My Fire”

fame, dead in 1971 of a drug overdose. Or not dead? Damon and Brooke were clearly in the “not” camp.

Two young Asian couples in dripping Doors T-shirts stood in reverential silence before a low, nondescript tomb strewn with bedraggled long-stem carnations. The bronze marker read JAMES DOUGLAS MORRISON 1943–1971.

Damon took a stream of digital photos. “Lacey, get in the shot,” he pleaded.

“No way, Newhouse.” She made a face. “You’re not putting me on your Web site with this story. SMITHSONIAN RIPS LID OFF LIZARD KING MYSTERY.”

“Spoilsport.”

“Spot any undead rock stars on the Métro?” Vic asked. “Morrison, Elvis, the Big Bopper?”

“Not today, but we didn’t expect any,” Damon said nonchalantly. “We’re just here to explore a successful disappearance.

That’s becoming harder and harder to do in this society.”

“True,” Brooke said, sniffling in the rain. “Jim Morrison faked his death before DNA testing. So much easier back then to stage your own death and disappear. You could easily get your hands on a birth certificate for someone who died as a child, then apply for new Social Security documents and bank accounts and credit cards in that name and voilà! Start a new life.”

“Of course,” Lacey agreed. “Who wouldn’t want to stop being a rich, famous rock star and go work in a record store somewhere?”

The two other couples standing at the grave said nothing. They merely stood in the rain holding their black umbrellas over their heads, perhaps waiting, Lacey thought, for an apparition or a revelation. Or for the long-vanished Jim Morrison to appear in disguise among them and ask, “Dude, where’s Jim Morrison?!”

Damon took more photographs from different angles. Lacey was half afraid he would lie down on top of the grave for a corpse-eye view of the cemetery. She wasn’t about to suggest it. So far as she was concerned, the very real remains of Jim Morrison lay beneath that marker.

“You guys better get out of this rain before you catch pneu-monia,” she warned. Lacey snuggled closer to Vic and felt perfectly warm.

“We’re fine,” Brooke protested, sneezing violently.

“Let’s warm up and get a glass of wine,” Vic said. “There’s sure to be a café nearby.”

“It’s medicinal.” Lacey was about to herd them back down the path when a familiar figure in a sodden trench coat emerged from the foggy drizzle, clutching a broken black umbrella. He looked cold and soaked and miserable, as if he’d crawled from a soggy crack in the earth.

“What is wrong with you bloody people?” he shouted. Griffin’s accent was unmistakable.

“Nigel.” Vic sighed. “Never one to miss a drink, are you?”

“Are you at all aware that it’s a dog’s mess out here today?”

Griffin didn’t seem happy to see them. “And what are we doing out here in this bloody boneyard?”

“Isn’t this your native weather?” Lacey asked. Griffin snorted.

“Rain is good, it keeps the crowds away. But unfortunately not you.”

“Why are you following us again?” Brooke demanded. The silent mourners at Morrison’s grave moved closer.

“Put a lid on it, would you, Blondie,” Griffin said. “You’re lucky it’s me. You better hope the rain keeps the shooter away.”

“What did you say?” Damon was instantly alert. “What shooter?”

“I came all the way out here in this god-awful bloody weather to warn you that Rasputin’s been shot,” Griffin complained. “And all you can do is give me grief. At least buy me a drink.”

“ ‘Rasputin’?” Brooke asked. “You mean, Kepelov, your partner?”

“How did you know where to find us?” Lacey asked.

“Your little pet concierge in your hotel told me. Of course I had to drop a few euros to get him to open up. Pompous little bugger.”

Lacey was pleased Monsieur Henri had forced a bribe from this irritating Brit. Henri was easy, but he wasn’t cheap. “If I buy you a new umbrella, Griffin, will you go away?”

“I came out of the goodness of my heart to warn you there’s an assassin about.”

“So Kepelov is dead?” Lacey asked, a little ill at ease. She had feared he was dead.

Griffin looked at the broken spine of his umbrella, decided it wasn’t that bad, and held it up again. It didn’t help. “Don’t know, actually. Shot, though. Not his fault if he’s not dead. And here you are barking at me. Shoot the messenger, Smithsonian, why don’t you.”

“The goodness of your heart, Nigel?” Vic scoffed. “Where did you steal a heart, the Paris sewer?”

Griffin barely had time to look offended before Brooke jumped in. “Wait a minute, back to the shooting. Kepelov was shot? Where was he shot? When?”

“Outside your bloody restaurant. Last night.”

“Oh, my God,” Brooke said, putting it all together. “The shooting just after we left the restaurant?” She looked at Lacey. “Did you know?”

Lacey shrugged. “Maybe a little.”

“You knew and you didn’t tell me?” Brooke fumed. “I have to learn it from this twit?”

“I didn’t want to spoil your plans, what with the ghost of Jim Morrison and all. What can
we
do about someone shooting Kepelov? Besides, that’s all I know.”
Except the perfume
, she thought. But this was France. As Vic said, everyone wore perfume.

It was everywhere.

“But Lacey, you’re supposed to tell me
everything.
” Brooke whirled on Griffin. “So why are you telling us? Or did you just come to upset everyone?”

Jim Morrison’s silent Asian mourners found this whole scene very entertaining. They whispered among themselves. Griffin threw down his useless umbrella in exasperation.

“I’m telling you because someone could be trying to kill all of us, you stupid cow!”

Brooke stood openmouthed. Vic stepped forward to correct Griffin’s manners, but Damon was closer. The short but wiry Newhouse packed a surprisingly powerful punch. He landed a right to Griffin’s chin and followed it with a quick left to his gut.

Griffin doubled over, shook his head, and fell to the ground, pretty much as he had when Vic had punched him the day before.

Griffin seemed to have a gift for annoying people, and Lacey wondered whether he got himself punched in the guts every day.

“Don’t you talk that way to a lady, you coward,” Damon spat.

“Now get up and fight.”

Griffin sat rubbing his chin thoughtfully. He made no move to get up. “No. I don’t think I will. You two chaps start without me.”

Chapter 27

Brooke gave Lacey a thumbs-up. “The old one-two. Oh, Damon, I’m so proud of you.”

“Very impressive, Newhouse,” Lacey admitted. Damon nod-

ded, his nostrils flaring. He was kind of a nutcase, Lacey thought, but he backed his convictions with action.

Brooke aimed her digital camera at the downed Brit and waved Damon into the frame. “Smile, Damon!” He stood over Griffin and grinned like a hunter who had bagged a trophy game animal. She clicked and clicked. “I can’t wait to upload these to the Web.”

“What is it with you bloody Yanks? You’re a bunch of barbar-ians,” Griffin complained from his seat on the ground.

“Not really, Nigel,” Vic said. “We’re sensitive guys. We’re just sensitive to overbearing foulmouthed cowardly bullies like you.”

“Foulmouthed? Me? What did I bloody say? Try to be helpful, this is your thanks.”

“You’re not going anywhere until you apologize to the ladies.

And to all Yanks everywhere,” Vic said. He turned to the ladies.

“Anything else he should apologize for?”

“I have a list, but that will do for now,” Lacey said.

Griffin rolled his eyes heavenward and then grudgingly apologized. Damon extended a hand to pull him up, and the Brit hesitated, then took it. The two couples of Jim Morrison’s Asian fan club applauded, apparently pleased with the show. Lacey wondered what they had made of all that.
Probably thought we were
feuding over what was the all-time greatest Doors song.
They smiled and bowed and then marched off, their umbrellas retreating in the mist.

Ten minutes later the five of them, Vic, Lacey, Damon, Brooke, and a chastened Griffin, found themselves sharing a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and a basket of hot bread in a small pink café.

A waiter was hanging up their wet coats. Brooke’s teeth had stopped chattering and her braid was drying. Vic was questioning Griffin, Lacey was taking an occasional note by hand with her fountain pen, and Damon was tapping away on a BlackBerry like a madman. He was no doubt planning to file a story and try to scoop Lacey.
That’s all I need. How could I explain that to Mac?

She realized she had to find a way to file a story immediately with
The Eye. Damon throws one punch and now he thinks he’s got a
scoop? No way, this is my story!

“What’s the status of Kepelov?” Vic asked.

“I have no frigging idea, mate. Dead for all I know. I didn’t send flowers.” Nigel looked for his cigarettes. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Yes, we all mind,” Brooke said. “And it’s my turn to punch you this time.”

“It’s Paris, for pity’s sake! You’re practically required by law to smoke here! Bloody hell. Bunch of clean-air fascists.” He groaned and put the pack away.

“So who shot Kepelov?” Vic asked again. Griffin shrugged and reached for the wine.

“And why did you feel compelled to tell us?” Lacey asked.

“Why not just run for it?”

“Thought you might know something. Obviously wrong,” Griffin sniffed. “I’m interested in saving my own skin, thank you very much, even if you lot could care less about yours.”

“Tell us what you know.” Vic leaned back and crossed his arms.

“Make it good.”

“Or what? You’ll let the girls have a go at me?” Griffin whined.

“Cruel and inhuman, that would be.”

“You better hope we don’t have a go at you,” Brooke said.

“I told you, Nigel, we have nothing on an imperial Fabergé egg,” Lacey said. “The coal room was it, the big clue. That’s all Magda told me about. She said nothing about a Fabergé egg.”

Griffin drained his wineglass and filled it again. Everyone else was still on their first glass.

Vic put his elbows on the table and leaned in to Griffin. “So if Kepelov didn’t have the Fabergé egg, why kill him? And if he knows something, why not just follow him to it?”

“I don’t know. He was a lazy bastard sometimes. Maybe someone thought he wasn’t being bloody efficient,” Griffin suggested.

“Whoever he worked for. Russians and you Americans are simply obsessed with efficiency. Take an afternoon off and they send in the bleeding assassins. Not like we English: One thing you can say about us, mate, we don’t bloody care. ‘Have another pint, mate, there’s always tomorrow.’ ” He tore off a piece of bread. “I assumed he was working for some Russian collector. You know the type. Wants to repatriate all the eggs back to Mother Russia. Revive the Empire, bring back the Czar, all that rot.”

Damon was nodding his head. “Absolutely. There’s a huge movement out there, just beneath the surface, Russians yearning to restore the monarchy. They want to find all the Romanov relics, symbols of their power. Maybe Kepelov was no good, slacking off, so they cut their losses.”

“What if more than one unknown Russian collector had hired more than one spy to steal back the egg?” Brooke asked, touching Damon’s arm. “There might be more than one team racing after this thing.”

“You’re right,” Damon said. “Kepelov might have been too good, getting too close, so the competition took him out.”

“Do you ever listen to yourself, Damon? You just said Kepelov was shot because he was no good, and shot because he was too good.” Lacey laughed. “So how close was he or wasn’t he to this nonexistent egg?” she asked Griffin.