Raiders of the Lost Corset

by Ellen Byerrum

  Lacey drank her wine. “Okay, Vic. This is what we will do. We, you and I, will bring a homemade dessert, like you promised, because you and I are going to bake something together.”

  “Is that right?” He stroked her face with the back of his hand.

  “If it turns out great, we will share the praise, and if it turns out badly—”

  Vic kissed her forehead. “We’ll just pick up that crummy dried-out store-bought pie in the cheap tin. And a big old can of Cool Whip.” He grinned at her. Lacey groaned, a groan that turned into a giggle as he nuzzled her ear. This little test would either cement their relationship, she thought, or kill it deader than a day-old doughnut.

  Chapter 29

  “New Orleans? Smithsonian, are you out of your mind?” Douglas MacArthur Jones’s eyebrows arched dangerously into his forehead. Lacey wondered if that hurt. “Wasn’t being chloroformed by some deranged Russian enough for you?”

  On the morning after their flight back from Paris, still reeling from jet lag, Lacey sat as usual in Mac’s overstuffed office, shoehorned in among stacks of copies of The Eye and who-knew-what. Mac was eating a piece of pumpkin pie, Felicity Pickles’ autumnal recipe of the day, pausing in his tirade to appreciate the food editor’s talents.

  “Great pie, Lacey. Homemade. Felicity would save you a piece, I bet.”

  Lacey ignored that. “I don’t know if it was chloroform, Mac.” Lacey regretted that Gregor Kepelov hadn’t given her that monogrammed handkerchief he’d used. Perhaps a lab could tell her whether she’d been gassed with something safe or Brooke’s secret Russian killer knockout cocktail. Kepelov himself wouldn’t say. And now, if Griffin was to be believed, Kepelov was dead. Vic had gotten a frantic long-distance call from him that very morning, midafternoon Paris time, and he’d alerted Lacey at the newsroom. “But the story isn’t over yet.”

  “Careful, Smithsonian, you are on thin ice. You were attacked, knocked out, by your own admission. Running off to New Orleans is out of the question. Too dangerous.”

  Rats. Now I’m going to have to use the personal leave card. “But Mac, you’ve always told me to take some time off after these, um, little incidents. Some personal time. To deal with the stress?” She tried hard to look pathetic. It wasn’t working.

  “I can’t believe you still want to go looking for this crazy-ass corset that doesn’t exist.”

  “But the story—”

  “Damn the story. You’ve come down with gold fever, Smithsonian. Like one of those miners in the Gold Rush, dead in the bottom of a mine with a bullet hole in them, just for fool’s gold.”

  “They didn’t all die, Mac, and I know you’re from California, but you really don’t want to go toe-to-toe with me here. I’m from Colorado and I know all kinds of stories where miners struck it rich. I was raised on the unsinkable Molly Brown. And Baby Doe Tabor.” Lacey left out the part about Baby Doe’s bad end at the Matchless Mine, penniless and freezing to death.

  He grumbled. “I don’t like that look in your eye. Besides, you wrote the story. Finished. Done. Thirty. The end.” She knew the story was barely adequate without a satisfactory conclusion to the search. Mac didn’t seem to care.

  “I’ll take time off. Do it on my own time.”

  “To go to New Orleans?” His eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  “I hear it’s a good place to unwind, Mac. I really am jet-lagging badly here.”

  He finished off the last bite of his pie and set the plate on top of the day’s issue of the paper. “Let’s look at what you got.” He licked his fork for the remaining crumbs. “You got an address and half a smart-ass note that you say the jewel thief and the dead Russian spy didn’t know about. What makes you think this address is in New Orleans?”

  She wasn’t sure herself. Except there was a Rue Dauphine in New Orleans, though the exact address hadn’t shown up in her Internet search. Sometimes it was just a feeling, she thought, and the feeling was getting stronger. “The corset wasn’t in Normandy, where Magda thought it was. This Drosmis Berzins character probably took it. Maybe he’d helped Juris steal it, and they had a falling out over it. He emigrated to the U.S., to Mississippi, close to Louisiana. The address wasn’t in Paris. Finding a street in America that echoes a street in Paris sounds like a deliberate misdirection to me. So maybe Paris was a red herring, but what if it’s a real address? Those two old Latvian guys were old comrades—maybe they were playing games with each other.” She realized her face was set in that stubborn look she found so hard to wipe off at will. “It’s a theory anyway, Mac, why not check it out?”

  “Why do you have to check it out?” Mac burped and thumped himself in the chest. Lacey spotted his Maalox half hidden on the desk and handed it to him. “What’s the real reason?”

  “I made a promise to Magda Rousseau.”

  “You gotta stop making promises to dead people.”

  That’s what Vic said. “It’s on my list of New Year’s resolutions.”

  Mac drank Maalox straight from the bottle. “New Year’s is a month and a half away. Plenty of time for you to get into more trouble.”

  “I resent that.”

  He rubbed his chin and played with a pencil on his desk, letting her squirm. “I can’t stop you from taking vacation time, Smithsonian. Or running around and causing trouble for people in New Orleans whom you haven’t even met yet. Wiedemeyer would call them ‘poor bastards.’ But if you find yourself knee-deep in a real story on this thing, this imaginary artifact, The Eye would be interested, particularly if that maniac Newhouse and his Web site are going to be following you around like an addicted gambler tracking a long shot.”

  “He doesn’t know.”

  “That’s what you think.” Mac raised his eyebrow. “He’s probably put a global positioning tracker in your purse. But we want the factual, readable version of the story. Not the lunatic fringe version.”

  “And this is leading to what, exactly?”

  “If you get the story, The Eye will pay for the trip.”

  “If I don’t?”

  “Then it’s on your tab. One more thing, Smithsonian.”

  “Yes, Mac.” She rose from her chair, sensing the interview was at a close.

  “Stay safe.”

  “I will.” She reached for the door handle.

  “I mean it, Lacey. I always mean it.”

  “I know you do.” She was halfway out the door. “Thanks.”

  “When do you leave?”

  “Day after tomorrow.”

  “God help you. God help New Orleans. God help us all. Maybe you should bring that crazy friend of yours with you, the hairstylist.”

  “Stella? I don’t think so; she has to work.”

  “Too bad. She could bring her camera.” Lacey wondered whether Mac would ever let go of certain memories, like the time Stella snapped Lacey Smithsonian with a sword cane in her hands, fending off an attacker at a black-tie ball. Mac had run it on the front page.

  “Stella would be so proud to know you care.”

  “Get out of here, Smithsonian. Call if you need any help.”

  She smiled and waved bon voyage and backed into the hall, straight into Tony Trujillo. His black lizard-skin cowboy boots screeched to a halt.

  “I want your fashion beat, Lacey.” He was smiling, but he had a faint air of irritation. “I’m tired of you snagging all the good stuff. I’ll wear a little black dress and high heels if I have to.”

  “Oh, please, Trujillo, has crime in D.C. come to a standstill? How many people have been murdered in the District since Magda? A dozen? Besides, you read my story: I wound up flat on my back looking like a fool.”

  He grinned. “Interesting picture.”

  Thank goodness nobody has a picture of that. “I’d love to chat, Tony, but I’ve got to pack.”

  “Pack? You just got back from Paris! Now where?”

  “Vacation. I need some time off.”

  “Hold the phone, Lois Lane. I’m calling for rewrite. Let’s
talk. May I interest you in a cup of sludge?” He indicated the kitchen, where the coffee was burned black and thick and disgusting. “On second thought, let’s swing past Felicity’s desk and see what’s cookin’.”

  Trujillo steered them to Lacey’s corner of the news world in the LifeStyles section. Felicity was absent, but one large slice of pumpkin pie was left undefended, next to a stack of paper plates and plastic forks and a notepad. Felicity always asked the journalists who doubled as her food tasters to give her feedback. They were just happy to get fed. Trujillo grabbed the last piece and asked Lacey politely if she wanted some before taking the first bite.

  Normally Lacey would refuse, but with an important Thanksgiving dessert to come up with, she changed her mind. “Just a bite.” She stuck a fork into Tony’s pie and nibbled on a bite. Had Felicity come up with the magic recipe, a pumpkin pie to melt a mother’s heart? She considered for a moment. Nope, this isn’t it. Lacey tossed her fork in the trash can.

  “What’s up with that?” Tony asked, pulling his plate away from her. “You never eat Felicity’s stuff.”

  “Sue me. I have to bring a dessert to Vic’s folks for Thanksgiving dinner. I need ideas.”

  “Whoa! Last time we spoke the romance was off. Now it’s back on and you’re going under the microscope at his folks’ house? Quick work, Smithsonian.”

  “You really ought to write a gossip column, Tony.”

  “How can I, when you always keep me out of the loop?”

  “I’ll leave it up to your imagination.”

  Trujillo laughed and took another bite of pie. “You really don’t want to do that. I have a dirty mind.” He dug in again as she sat down at her desk and plowed through her inbox. “So where are you going on vacation?”

  “Just away for a few days. No place special.”

  “Why so evasive?” He sat on the edge of her desk and she pushed him off. “This story must be really good. Who’s dead now?”

  “Leave me alone, Tony.”

  Trujillo showed no intention of doing so, but Mac emerged from his office and crooked a finger at him.

  “Saved by the bell,” she laughed as Trujillo took one more bite from his plate and ran to answer their editor’s call. Lacey grabbed her purse and headed for the door while the coast was clear.

  Chapter 30

  As Lacey walked up Connecticut Avenue to Dupont Circle, she realized that the feeling she’d had when she awoke from the attack in Jean-Claude’s cellar was still haunting her. She had flashbacks: a monogrammed handkerchief coming at her, a chemical smell she couldn’t name. The feeling of spiderwebs across her face and in her hair clutched at her too often, bringing back the dank aroma that surrounded her in the darkness, that awful feeling of helplessness. Sometimes she jerked suddenly as if someone were behind her. Lacey was finding it difficult to rid herself of the feeling.

  If she were a man, she thought, she would just slug down a few whiskeys, pick a fight, and beat the hell out of some unsuspecting stand-in for her attacker. The more she dwelled on being knocked out in the cellar, the more it bothered her. She knew she had to stop thinking about it.

  She contemplated a trip through Aunt Mimi’s trunk later that evening to change her mood. Lacey realized that not all mysteries are meant to be solved in one lifetime. She thought of Aunt Mimi’s quest to find out what happened to her friend Gloria Adams, who had disappeared during World War II. Mimi never found out. That puzzle was left for Lacey, more than half a century later. She just hoped the answer to the lost Romanov corset would not be withheld from her.

  But first she had something to do. Because she was a woman, and therefore not as self-destructive as a man, rather than a bar fight in a saloon, she had booked an appointment with her stylist, Stella, at Stylettos in Dupont Circle for a trim and a touch-up of her highlights. Looking good was her favorite form of revenge, and she hoped it would dissolve the memory of spiderwebs stuck in her hair. Maybe with a chorus of “I’m Going to Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair” from South Pacific.

  “About time you showed up, Lace,” Stella greeted her at the front desk of Stylettos. “Look at that mop.” She grabbed Lacey’s hair and shook her head. “Holy cow, you need the works.”

  “Good to see you too,” Lacey said.

  “What? You never call, you never write. I don’t even get a postcard from Gay Paree!”

  “I was pretty busy.”

  “Ha!” Stella began by shampooing Lacey’s soon-to-be-improved hair. “So, I see you got into more trouble over there in France. You needed me, Lace.”

  “You read the paper! I’m so pleased.”

  “Very funny. I always read your stuff. It’s the rest of the paper I can’t stand.”

  “I came out in one piece.” Lacey shut her eyes as Stella sprayed water vigorously.

  “I shoulda been there, Lacey, I coulda helped.”

  “Thanks for the offer. I’m sure you would have helped.” Lacey could just imagine Stella punching Griffin herself. But what about Kepelov?

  “And I can see you need my help now.” She examined Lacey’s hair like a forensic scientist. “Take my word for it, you’re looking stressed.” Stella never was shy about her clients’ flaws. “I think your hair’s got jet lag. And your skin looks, hmm, I don’t know. Distracted, maybe. Or confused. You been conditioning like I taught you?” Lacey’s stylist frowned and pointed her rat-tailed comb like an interrogator.

  Lacey peered in the mirror. She did look a little stressed, she thought. At least Stella wouldn’t see the glow she felt inside and draw any conclusions about whether there was a man in her life in Paris, and whether that man was Vic Donovan.

  “Jeez, Lacey, I really wish I’d been there for you. I figure Paris wasn’t so good for you, what with being chased by all those bad guys. And your snooty pal Brooke was no help, right?”

  “Oh, it wasn’t all bad.” Lacey closed her eyes and a picture of Vic came into focus. An image of Vic one afternoon in Paris with the shadows dancing on the walls of their room and he was just about to—She opened her eyes to a sharp tap on her shoulder. Stella was staring suspiciously at her in the mirror.

  “Hey, what’re you smiling about? You look like the cat that ate the canary.”

  “Nothing.”

  Stella grinned. “Yeah, right. First, we’re gonna get some high-lights in your hair. And second, Miss Mona Lisa, you’re gonna to tell me what that smirk is all about.”

  Stella foiled Lacey’s hair and painted on the chemicals while she worked Lacey for the facts like a pro. Lacey had to give her credit: If she had any journalistic discretion at all, Stella would make a heck of a reporter. And she had a secret weapon no reporter could match: She gave a fabulous head rub. Clients getting their scalps massaged while leaning back in Stella’s shampoo bowl often found themselves unburdening their souls as if under a truth serum, but Lacey knew the secret. She resisted the hypnotic urge of Stella’s magic fingers. She insisted to Stella that she just needed a few days off, in New Orleans. She repeated it all the way to the rinse-off and the haircut.

  “You got yourself knocked out in that basement. It wouldn’t have happened with me there,” Stella was saying. “I wouldn’t have left you alone. Your pal Brooke says, ‘I got you covered, Lace,’ and where is she when you need her? She’s in la-la land.”

  “Brooke had an asthma attack or something.” Lacey often felt she had to defend her friends to each other, but she knew Stella and Brooke would never see eye to eye.

  “Yeah, she’s delicate,” Stella sneered. “Me, I’m tough.” Beneath her scrappy little exterior, Stella also had the scrappy heart and soul of a street fighter, Lacey had to give her that. Stella foiled Lacey’s roots, let her highlights process, then rinsed her off and dried her hair enough to cut. She moved Lacey back to her station to begin her trim. “So this vacation. You’re going to New Orleans just to hang out? You? Ha. You’re going to New Orleans on the story, aren’t you?

  Stella’s downright spooky sometime
s, Lacey thought. “I’m taking a few days off. I’m going to New Orleans to rest.”

  Stella laughed. “Tell me another. Nobody goes to New Orleans to rest. Trust me. And I know you ain’t caught Magda’s killer yet.”

  “I’m not looking for Magda’s killer. You know I’m letting the police handle it.”

  “That’s what you always say. But Conspiracy Clearinghouse says different and so do I.”

  Lacey hadn’t seen the story, but she could imagine what it said, in various shades of purple prose. “I am not as in love with danger as you think I am. I am a very sane person.”

  “I didn’t say you were in love with danger, Lacey, it’s in love with you. It follows you around.” Stella pursed her bloodred lips. “You know what you need?”

  “Oh, for some reason I’m sure you’re going to tell me.” Lacey closed her eyes and heard Stella’s scissors snipping away.

  “Protection.” Stella turned Lacey’s head to check the cut. “I should go with you.”

  Lacey’s eyes opened wide. “What?”

  “You need someone to keep you out of trouble.” Stella squeezed her shoulder. “I know you don’t think I can keep a secret, but I can. Sure, I got a big mouth sometimes, but I’m the soul of discretion. You can trust me, Lacey.”

  “I know that, Stel.” I know you think you can be trusted. Lacey was not in a position to dissent too much with Stella’s scissors in her hair.

  Stella finished her wizardry with a blow-dry. “Look at the facts. I know my way around New Orleans. Bourbon Street, Café du Monde, House of the Rising Sun. And you need backup.”

  “Backup? You sound just like Brooke.”

  “I ain’t nothing like Brooke!” Stella spun Lacey’s chair around and handed her a mirror. “What do you think?”

  Lacey looked at her hair. It was brighter, trimmer, more alive. “It looks fabulous.”

  “Of course,” Stella acknowledged her genius. “But I’m talking about the trip.” Stella pulled the plastic cape from around Lacey’s neck and set it aside. “Your friend Brooke fell asleep in the car while you were being doped and groped in the cellar. Your words, in your story.”