Raiders of the Lost Corset (40 page)

“So you
are
partners, you lying skunk,” Lacey said. “Was he actually going to shoot you?”

“We make lousy partners, more’s the pity,” Nigel said. “And I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“Shut up, you idiot,” Kepelov gasped, his face contorted in pain. Lacey wondered how many bullets he’d taken in Paris, and yet he’d followed her all the way here. It must have taken super-human will. But he looked completely subdued now with Vic sitting on him and twisting his arm.

“That wasn’t exactly my plan, sweetheart,” Vic said, his jaw set. “Didn’t I tell you to stay put and don’t move?”

“Well, yeah, but I couldn’t. Stella could have been shot. What was your plan?”

“Look behind you.” Lacey turned around to see the smiling face of a man she knew as Turtledove, his code name among Damon Newhouse’s Conspiracy Clearinghouse crew. He winked at her. Turtledove had family in the bayou country, and Stella had mentioned he was in town to play a gig at the Spotted Cat, the little jazz club in the Faubourg Marigny near the French Quarter.

When he wasn’t playing his trumpet, he was in private security.

Lacey knew she could trust him with her life, just as she would Vic. He was flanked by two equally large and impressive men who looked quite a lot like Turtledove, as if they might share his family’s diverse ethnic stew. Turtledove whipped out handcuffs of his own, and they took over babysitting Kepelov.

“
That
was my plan.” Vic stood up. Lacey clung to him and kissed him with all her might.

“Good plan,” Lacey said when she caught her breath. “Turtledove, good to see you.
Really
good to see you.”

“My pleasure. Sorry we missed the excitement.” Turtledove hugged the ladies and shook hands with Vic. “Meet my cousins.”

They nodded silently and shook hands. Stella eyed the cousins invitingly. She seemed to be contemplating switching sides. Turtledove manhandled Kepelov to his feet with one hand while the cousins managed the skinny, out-of-shape Griffin. The two of them looked like tree trunks next to a droopy twig.

“Gently, please. Force is not necessary, gentlemen, as you can see.” Griffin indicated the handcuffs. “I am already subdued. Quite subdued. Perfectly bloody calm.”

“Shut up, imbecile,” Kepelov growled.

“What do you want to do with them?” Turtledove asked, holding Kepelov at arm’s length. His biceps barely strained. “Police?

FBI? Toxic waste disposal? Or just feed ’em to the gators?”

“I like number four, but let me make a call first,” Vic said, pulling out his phone again.

Before he could punch in a number, the sound of boots crunching on the gravel pathways of the cemetery broke the silence.

Everyone turned to stare at the new arrival.

Chapter 37

Tony Trujillo, the cop-beat reporter for
The Eye Street Observer
, rested one black lizard-skin boot on the top step of a whitewashed tomb, looking relaxed and curious.

“Mac said I should keep an eye on you, Lacey. Keep you out of trouble. And here you are, taking the cemetery tour. Hey, Vic!

Long time no see, man. Stella, howdy! And it’s Forrest Thunderbird, right?” Trujillo knew Turtledove by the name on his business card. He shook hands all around, except with those too handcuffed to shake hands. He eyed Griffin and Kepelov curiously.

“ ‘Keep an eye on me’? Are you kidding?” There was danger in Lacey’s voice. “Mac didn’t tell me you were going to show up.”

“He thought it would be a nice surprise. You know how Mac loves surprises.”

“Nice surprise, my aunt Mimi! He doesn’t trust me.”

“Who wouldn’t trust a fashion reporter? But you know how it is, Lois Lane. Even Superman says, ‘Trust but verify.’ ” He smiled his lazy Southwestern smile. “He doesn’t want you to come back in a box.”

“You’re just here to steal my story.”

“To
share
the story, Smithsonian. Double byline. Mac got all cranked up about it. Thinks he’s been neglecting your occupational safety and health.” Trujillo glanced from Griffin and Kepelov to Turtledove and his cousins, and back to Vic and Lacey and Stella.

“Did I miss anything? Fill me in.”

“No way! This is my story! It’s great that Mac finally believes there’s a big story here,” Lacey said. “But you are not poaching on my territory.” She held the box close to her chest.

“Whatever. Your story is a feature. A personal journey. ‘I was there, in the cellar and on the battlements,’ et cetera. That’s cool,” Trujillo said, “but I can bring some objectivity to the story, the kind
The Eye Street Observer
is known for.”

“Ha!
The Eye
has never been known for objectivity,” Lacey fumed. She caught a glimpse of Vic. His mouth seemed to be fighting a smile, and losing.

“Always a first time,” Tony said. “Besides, I’m here, I got my orders too, so let’s deal.”

Lacey knew when to yield to her editor, but she’d be damned if she’d let Trujillo muscle in on her story without working for it.

“Fine. Follow along, Tony. Try to keep up.” She carefully documented the scene and the principal characters with her digital camera, and she was surprised to see Trujillo had brought one too.

They both took photos of the unopened box from the crypt from every angle. Lacey wondered why Mac hadn’t also sent her Hansen, the long-legged staff photographer, who was usually up for anything and took direction much better than Trujillo.

Vic and Turtledove decided Kepelov and Griffin would be kept amused by the cousins for the rest of the afternoon, until some decisions could be made. Turtledove would start a tab for their entertainment expenses, and either Vic’s security company or
The
Eye
would cover the costs. “No problem,” Turtledove assured him with a wink. “They’ll dig my cousins’ bayou tour. Tourists love an up-close look at the gators.” Kepelov kept a stoic silence and a grim look on his face.

“All right, Donovan, this little joke has gone far enough,” Griffin protested as one of the cousins took his arm. “I’ve had a belly-ful of your Yank barbarity.”

Vic grinned at him. “Don’t let the gators get a belly full of you, Nigel.” Lacey shot Vic a questioning look. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, it would be animal cruelty to make an alligator eat these two rotten apples.”

“You hear that, mate,” Griffin said to Kepelov, “you’d gag a gator.” Kepelov grunted.

Turtledove’s cousins took the two prisoners in hand to march them out of the cemetery. Stella’s loyalties seemed to be divided for all of a minute, then she pecked Griffin good-bye. “You’re going to be totally okay, Nigel. Maybe we’ll party later. The handcuffs are so
you.
”

Vic and Trujillo found the screwdriver and hammer Dante had left behind and Lacey prepared to open the metal box.

“At least let us see what’s in the bloody box!” Griffin shouted as he was being led away.

“Up to Lacey,” Vic said. “Maybe you should say ‘pretty please.’ ”

Griffin glared back. “Bloody hell. All right! Pretty bloody please, Smithsonian, please open the bloody box. Please.”

“Only because your plea has moved me,” Lacey said, with a smile at Vic.

Vic set the box on the concrete apron of a tomb and tapped the screwdriver gently into the gap under the lid with the hammer.

One twist of the screwdriver and the lid gave, but he left it shut and handed the box to Lacey. Lacey lifted the lid. The box contained only a handwritten letter on one sheet of unlined writing paper, lying flat in the box. Lacey lifted out the note with Trujillo’s Swiss Army knife tweezers and demonstrated that the box was otherwise empty for Griffin and Kepelov’s benefit, and for Trujillo’s camera. She showed the note to Vic and laid it carefully back in the box.

“So what is it? What’s on the bloody paper?” Griffin whined, quivering with curiosity.

“Maybe it’s a
clue
,” Lacey said. “Maybe you’ll have to read about it in the paper. In
my
story,” she said, arching an eyebrow at Trujillo, who just grinned at her. She waved good-bye to Turtledove and his cousins. Turtledove winked at her and the three men turned and marched their two captives away, Griffin still fuming and complaining, Kepelov as silent as the tomb.

The note was brown and brittle, and Lacey was afraid it might crumble, but it was readable, and,
thank God
, Lacey thought, it was in English. She read the note aloud as Vic and Trujillo and Stella peered over her shoulder:

To Whom It May Concern,

If you’re reading this note, you must be the person
Drosmis said would come looking for the thing he asked
me to hide for him.

Although I promised him I would hide the corset in this
tomb, I knew it would be damaged or destroyed before too
long. I cannot think that is what he intended. Therefore I
have stored it in a safe place.

Come see me at my shop, Passion Flowers on Royal Street, and I will turn it over to you. If you have come all
this way from France to find it, you deserve to have it.

Sincerely, Madeline Demaine.

* * *

Royal Street ran through the French Quarter just on the other side of Bourbon Street from Rue Dauphine. It was close enough to walk, the metal box with the note and Berzins’ crypt nameplate tucked safely into Lacey’s tote bag, her hand in Vic’s. She should be feeling lighter than air, she thought, to have survived that con-frontation in the cemetery, but she wasn’t. A feeling of dread descended on her as they turned up Royal with Trujillo and Stella close behind and walked silently the last few blocks to the boutique called Passion Flowers. Lacey realized it was the shop she had peeked into the day before, the one with the extravagant and slightly absurd 1920s dresses, across the street from the exclusive custom hat store. Today the elegantly garbed mannequins were still stationed in the windows, eternally greeting passers-by in blank-eyed silence.

They entered the store, an oasis of cool, calm, and quiet. The walls were a deep pink, and the floor was covered with an antique floral carpet, red roses on a deep blue background. The ceiling was covered in rose-colored grosgrain ribbon. The effect, Lacey thought, was charming and old-fashioned, and as feminine as a century-old copy of
Godey’s Lady’s Book.

“Lacey, how long will this take?” Tony cracked. “It’s so frilly and froufrou in here I can feel my testosterone level crashing.”

“Be a man, Tony.” Vic smirked. “I got extra if you need it.”

“Feel free to wait outside while I get the story,” Lacey invited him. “Breathe in some gator pheromones.” Trujillo looked puzzled, but he leaned on the counter while she strolled around the shop, admiring the vintage evening gowns guarded by a velvet rope and a pair of green velvet Victorian armchairs. A ledge along the wall displayed a collection of antique hats and hatboxes, an old-fashioned padded dressmaker’s dummy, and beaded and brocaded evening purses.

Lacey was about to lift the rope and sneak into the gown area when a pretty blonde in a 1930s vintage navy dress with a white satin collar emerged from the back room. The woman could have taken her place next to the mannequins in the window. “May I help you?”

“I hope so.” Lacey pulled out the metal box and showed her the note she had found in the City of the Dead.

As the woman peered into the box and read the note, a look of dismay crossed her face. She turned to Lacey. “I’m so sorry!

Madeline Demaine is my mother. I’m Nicole Demaine. I own the shop now.” She offered Lacey her hand.

“Lacey Smithsonian. I’m a reporter from Washington, D.C.

May I speak with your mother, please? It’s very important.”

“Oh, that would be impossible,” Nicole said. “You see, she has Alzheimer’s. Where on earth did you find this note?”

“That’s such a long story, but I’m very interested in finding the corset she mentions,” Lacey pressed. “Do you have any idea where this ‘safe place’ of hers might be?”

The woman ran her hand through her hair. “Mama barely recognizes me — she doesn’t even know I’m her daughter anymore.

Sometimes she thinks I’m her sister who died fifty years ago. Most days, I have no idea what she’s babbling about. And I don’t know where she might have hidden a corset for someone. Why hide a corset anyway?”

Nicole perched behind the front counter on a tall stool and moved aside a display of fancy vintage linen handkerchiefs. Lacey set the box on the counter. Vic and Trujillo stood silently. Stella had become deeply involved with the racks of frilly vintage frocks.

“Did you ever know someone named Drosmis Berzins?”

“Oh my, yes!” Nicole beamed. “He was a friend of my mother’s. He gave her the money to start Passion Flowers. She was always grateful to him. He was such a nice man. Cutest accent. I used to call him Uncle Bertie.”

“What was their relationship?”

Nicole smiled. “If you’re suggesting an intimate relationship, I have no idea. I was pretty little when he died.” Nicole Demaine peered at the note again. “If I knew what Mother was talking about, I would of course turn it over to you, like she says. It’s obviously Mother’s handwriting.”

“Would you happen to have any vintage corsets here?” Lacey asked.

“We only carry dresses and accessories, I’m afraid. But I could give you the name of a good corsetiere. Corsets are getting awfully popular again, have you heard?”

“It would be quite old, an antique, from about 1917.”

“I would be happy to honor any debt of my mother’s, but I have no idea where it could be.” Nicole spread her hands. “I know the entire inventory by heart. There is nothing like that here. And there is no safe or secret closet or attic or anyplace she might have hidden something. I’m afraid I haven’t helped you very much, have I?”

“Thank you anyway,” Lacey said.
The corset is gone,
she thought.
Vanished into the recesses of an old woman’s shattered
mind.
“Perhaps he didn’t really want it to be found,” Lacey said, amending silently,
the bastard.
Nicole Demaine went to help a customer. Lacey turned away from the counter.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” Vic said.