Raiders of the Lost Corset

by Ellen Byerrum

  “I don’t think I used the words ‘doped and groped.’”

  “Whatever. Anyway, I got your back. Trust me, Miss Word-smith, it’ll be faboo.” Stella unbuttoned her Stylettos smock, revealing a pair of red capris and a red bustier with pink and orange trim. And Lacey noticed there seemed to be a healthy amount of blue on her eyelids. With her new sleek jet-black hair, Stella looked positively vampy.

  “You’ve really turned up the color volume on that outfit.” Lacey shielded her eyes.

  Stella grinned with pleasure. “I been taking your advice.”

  “My advice?” She wondered what “Crimes of Fashion” advice her stylist had twisted now.

  “There’s too much black, beige, and gray in this town, according to your column.”

  “I’ve never seen you wear gray or beige.”

  “This is true,” Stella agreed. “But you gotta admit, I have a serious thing with black.”

  “Color is good,” Lacey agreed.

  “And New Orleans is the kind of place where you can let your colors fly.” Stella lifted one seductively arched eyebrow. “If you know what I mean.” Stella strutted her bustier to the register.

  “Maybe if you’re a pirate.”

  “I am a pirate, Lacey! I wanna go! Come on, I need a vacation too. And I need a man.”

  “And you expect to find one in New Orleans?”

  “Honey, if I can’t get a man in New Orleans with this equipment, I must be dead.” She rang up the sale. “That city is so not like D.C., full of self-involved metrosexuals. New Orleans is full of retrosexuals, if you know what I mean. See, a trip to the Crescent City would do us both good. We both need men, and at least one of us knows how to get them. Besides, Turtledove is going down for a gig with his band. How perfect is that? We’ll go see him play, and boy is he easy on the eyes.” Turtledove was the Conspiracy Clearinghouse code name for a security specialist and blues musician named Forrest Thunderbird, a fine and fiercely beautiful man, and an impressively muscled man with a gentle side. Lacey recalled that Turtledove had once promised her he would come to her aid if ever she needed it, because he thought she was on the side of the truth. He was the one friend of Damon Newhouse that she didn’t think was crazy.

  “That’s great, Stella, he’s a good guy,” she said. “But, um, Vic will be joining me, after a couple of days.”

  “What? Get out of here! Vic? The Vic? You’re back with the gorgeous Vic Donovan and you didn’t tell me? Good golly Moses, Lace! Is it for real this time? Between-the-sheets for real?”

  Lacey’s face flushed red-hot with embarrassment. “Stella! Do you want everyone in the salon to answer that question for you?”

  “Oh, my God! It is for real! Jeez, Lace, it’s about freakin’ time!” Stella’s brain was working on the facts before her. “But wait a minute, you’re telling me he’s gonna meet you after you been there a couple days? He’s gonna let you go there alone, knowing the way you get into trouble?”

  “Hey, that’s not fair. And it’s only a day or two, he’s got a project he can’t get out of.”

  “Fair, schmair, it’s the truth. Deal with it.” Stella’s face lit up with a big grin. “I’m goin’. And I don’t need a passport for this trip. So when do we leave?”

  “Stella, I haven’t agreed to anything.” That’s what she always told Stella. It never worked.

  “No way. That harebrained hairstylist of yours can’t go with you,” Brooke told Lacey on the phone that evening. “She’s crazy. She sticks out in a crowd. Hell, she is a crowd.”

  “Ah, but Stella informs me she blends in beautifully in the French Quarter,” Lacey said.

  “Unfortunately that may be true. On Bourbon Street Stella would just be another loony half-naked chick with a loud voice.” Brooke had a fever and a heavy schedule waiting for her after Paris, and there was no way she could go with Lacey to New Orleans. She was stuck in bed surrounded by work that she did not feel like doing. It wasn’t so bad, she informed Lacey: The adorable Damon was medicating her with chicken soup and hot toddies with lots of whiskey and honey. “Oh, I wish I could go with you,” she wailed. “What if you find it?”

  “I’m sorry, Brooke. You know I probably won’t, but I have to try. I’ll have given it my all. By the way, did you ever find out more about Kepelov?” Lacey knew Brooke would have scoured hundreds of Web sites and exhausted her dubious contacts within the conspiracy community.

  Brooke sneezed into the receiver. “First of all, no one is sure who he really was. Second, everyone believes he was terminated, but nobody knows who the shooter was. The hospital won’t reveal anything, so no one even knows who claimed the body. Must have been disposed of quietly. Third, I really want you to stay out of trouble.”

  “That’s not what you would say if you were with me,” Lacey teased.

  “That’s because I could bail you out if I were there.” Brooke sneezed again. “I thought Vic was going with you.”

  “He’s stuck here on some hush-hush job for his dad, but he’ll be joining me. Please just feel better, Brooke. Stay in bed. Tell Damon I said to keep you there.” Lacey signed off. She rubbed her eyes and almost wished she had not signed up for phase two of this great adventure. And before she got on the plane to the Crescent City, she had to find a fabulous dessert to make. A dessert to melt a mother’s heart.

  Chapter 31

  “You didn’t say I couldn’t leave town,” Lacey found herself protesting to an angry Detective Broadway Lamont, who materialized at her desk the next day, looming over her like a grizzly bear.

  “You might have mentioned you were planning to leave the damn country after witnessing a murder. Anyone ever tell you that looks suspicious?”

  “Hey, I came back, Broadway.” She was wearing a romantic light ruffled blouse she had picked up on a whim her last morning in Paris. It added a feminine touch to her severe-but-fabulous fitted suit from the Forties in dark purple worsted wool. But even with the fitted waist and pretty ruffles flowing below her sleeves, it wasn’t going to divert this detective’s attention. “Am I a suspect? You better tell my editor—he’ll want to visit me in prison.”

  “You withheld evidence, Smithsonian.” Lamont’s voice boomed off the walls. Reporters were beginning to stare. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Harlan Wiedemeyer edging in for a better view.

  “No, I distinctly remember telling you there was a diary. I said it was in Latvian. I said it might have important information. I told you to keep an eye out for it. Did you find it?”

  “Information that you knew and did not disclose.”

  She lifted her hands in self-defense. “It’s in Latvian! Do you read Latvian?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me, Smithsonian. You may be a lot of things, but even you know when you’re skirting the law.”

  “Really, Broadway, I told you all about—”

  He wasn’t in the mood for her explanations. “And no, I did not find no damn diary, Latvian or otherwise! You expect me to believe that these spies and jewel thieves are involved in the murder of this dead corset-maker over some diary, in Latvian, of all things?”

  “They are after what she was after.” She inched her chair away from him. He followed her.

  “A treasure? It’s a—what is it again?” He sat down on her desk, still towering over her.

  “They were talking about a Fabergé egg. I only report what I’m told. People don’t always tell me the truth. Does anyone ever tell you the whole truth?”

  “Obviously not.” He glowered at her.

  “I wasn’t interfering in a murder investigation. I really have no idea who killed Magda.” She realized that was the truth.

  “You’re playing tag with the Angel of Death, Smithsonian. You’re putting your neck in a noose. The way I see it, you’re killer bait.” Lamont seemed to like the way that sounded. “Yeah, killer bait. I ought to put a tail on you, arrest everyone you come in contact with. Clean up this whole damn city.”

  Lacey knew what
Broadway Lamont was really after. He could have just called on the phone to complain, or he could have gone over her head and complained to Mac. But Lacey knew that if Lamont came to yell at her in person, he might be able to snag whatever Felicity was cooking up for her weekly food section. Unfortunately Felicity wasn’t around. It was a rare day when Lacey actually wanted to see the food editor, but now she stood up and peeked around Lamont in search of fresh-baked salvation.

  “Hey, I’m talking to you,” Lamont bellowed.

  “Surely you’re overstating my power, detective.” She heard him snort, a big bull of a cop pissed off at a mere fashion reporter. “Anyway, none of this spy stuff or greedy jewel thief stuff happened in your jurisdiction.”

  “Damn lucky for you.” He narrowed his eyes and put down his head. For a moment she was afraid he might charge her like a bull. Just then she smelled baked goods approaching down the hall, Felicity Pickles with a tray of something aromatic. Lamont’s nostrils flared and he raised his huge head, turning toward the aroma like a compass needle. Felicity came bearing cinnamon apple dumplings with a glazed spice icing.

  Felicity offered him a dumpling and a smile, like a queen handing out a knighthood. “It’s Detective Broadway Lamont, isn’t it? It’s so nice of you to drop by,” she said flirtatiously. He gazed at the dumpling admiringly. “Is Lacey in big trouble again?” Her voice was full of hope.

  He nodded and took a big bite. Lacey rolled her eyes. Harlan Wiedemeyer came bustling out from his eavesdropping perch to keep his eye on this huge interloper. They all took a dumpling, even Lacey, who sighed, thinking about the Thanksgiving dessert she had rashly promised to make. Felicity’s dumplings were good, she thought, but they were way too much of a hassle to make. But perhaps this generous helping of fat, butter, and sugar would soothe the big detective perched on her desk. He hadn’t even heard her latest news yet. Here goes.

  “So, Broadway, I guess I should tell you that I’m taking a few days off.”

  “Yeah? You fleeing the country again?”

  “No, but I’ll be leaving town for a rest.”

  “Where you gonna rest?” He crossed his massive arms. Lacey thought his jacket would burst.

  “New Orleans.”

  He snorted. “Nobody rests in New Orleans unless they’re dead or dead drunk. So I guess what you’re really telling me is you’re chasing some crazy-ass idea.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Didn’t have to. What you got on this Magda Rousseau murder?”

  “Zero. I got nothing.” So far. “What do you have?”

  “I don’t have no Fabergé egg, no Russian spy, no Brit jewel hunter. What I do have is a dead woman. And she was right. She was poisoned. And stabbed.” Broadway Lamont rubbed his hands and looked ready for another dumpling. Felicity, hanging on every word, jumped up from her desk and presented him with a fresh dumpling as if he were king for a day. He smiled. “Why thank you, Miss Felicity Pickles, you read my mind.”

  Felicity blushed and helped herself to the last dumpling. Harlan Wiedemeyer began to slink away miserably, but she offered to share hers with him. It wasn’t very often that Felicity was the belle of the ball, and she was enjoying every minute of it.

  “So which one killed her? What kind of poison was it?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t know. The tox screen isn’t back yet.” Lamont had mellowed under the influence of sugar and dumplings, as Lacey had hoped. “You’re taking yourself out of my jurisdiction, right?”

  “That’s right.” And not a moment too soon, Lacey thought.

  “Well, lucky me.” He took the last bite of his dumpling. “You coming back?”

  “Of course I am, Broadway, I’d miss these little lunches of ours.”

  “And just when things were looking up.” He took a napkin, wiped off his hands, and hefted himself to his feet. “See you around, Smithsonian. Stay healthy.”

  Lacey waited until Lamont was safely out of view before she stood up, grabbed her purse and an extra copy of the paper with her story about Magda, and headed to Stays and Plays, Magda’s costume shop. She caught a cab to the Eastern Market neighborhood. Lacey had no idea what she would learn from Magda’s partner, if anything, but she needed some kind of closure.

  Climbing the steps to the second-story shop, Lacey opened the door to the sound of the bell chiming. A wave of Magda’s perfume, Forêt de Rose, washed over her, and even though she knew the old woman was dead, her first instinct was to look for her. Instead, she found Analiza fitting the call girl she knew as Jolene in a scanty dress of body-hugging strips of some gauzy silver material. It laced up the back, but it didn’t conceal much.

  At the sound of the door chime, Analiza spun around on the blue brocade ottoman where she was sitting. “Oh. It’s you,” she said to Lacey. She turned back to fitting the statuesque Jolene.

  “Oww! You stabbed me,” Jolene whined. “That hurt.”

  “You’re done.” Analiza paid no attention to the woman’s complaint. “Look in the mirror.”

  Jolene stretched and did as she was told, admiring her provocative reflection.

  Lacey was wondering which one of them was wearing the perfume when a fresh wave of it filled the room. Natalija, Magda’s neighbor upstairs, entered from the back door. “Oh, hello,” she said, looking at Lacey as if for an explanation of her presence in the shop.

  Lacey knew she should have said something polite, but all she could think of was, “Is everyone wearing Magda’s perfume today?”

  “Why shouldn’t we?” Analiza asked with a shrug. “Magda isn’t here to enjoy it, and she had five new bottles. She was always afraid she would run out. She ordered it by the case. Perfume goes bad, I used to tell her, but she didn’t care. Always so careful about the cost of everything else, but her precious perfume—”

  “It is unusual, isn’t it?” Jolene stretched languidly. “It’s like we’re in an exclusive little club. The only women in America with Magda’s perfume.” Lacey nodded.

  “Why are you here?” Analiza demanded.

  “I brought you a copy of the story I wrote about Magda.” She handed it to Analiza, who set it down on the floor beside her without looking at it.

  “Yes, we’ve seen it,” Natalija said, standing there with her hands on her hips.

  Jolene reached out for the newspaper. “Oh, I haven’t seen it, give it to me.”

  “So you found nothing?” Analiza turned her attention back to Lacey. “No treasure, whatever it was, no money?”

  “That’s right. I’m sorry.”

  “So it was all for nothing after all.”

  “I’m sure Magda told you many things, Analiza,” Lacey suggested, hoping the woman might tell her something she didn’t know. “Things a partner would share.”

  “Not like she told you!” Her voice grew louder and more strained. “Did she suggest that I should go on vacation to France with her? Or Latvia, where I would like to go? To see my family? No, I had to stay here in this shop and work for every nickel and dime. Prick my fingers till they bleed.” Analiza raised herself slowly from her seat and her knees cracked loudly. She thrust her hands out. “See how they bleed?” They were covered with large veins and scars; they looked much older than her forty-some years.

  Bloody thread, knock ’em dead. Magda’s words echoed in Lacey’s head while Analiza continued. “Magda was always dropping little hints about what she would do someday, when she had money. For years we just got by with this shop, some years better than others. What money, I ask her. You going to win the lottery? Oh no, she was going to inherit family money, she said, big money her grandfather had hidden away. Magda and I had this shop together for fifteen years. She said she would turn her back on it in a second. Turn her back on me.”

  “At least you finally got to take some time for yourself, Analiza,” Jolene said. “She couldn’t stop you any longer.”

  Analiza wrapped up her unruly hair and stabbed some hairpins into it. “That’s right, she can’t
tell me what do anymore. I come and go as I please.”

  “Did you close the shop?” Lacey asked, suddenly far more interested in what Analiza Zarina had been up to in the past few days. “Take a little vacation?”

  “Is it any business of yours?” Analiza asked. The woman with the flyaway strawberry hair was far more bitter than Lacey had suspected. Clearly the new proprietress felt her best years were behind her, but she did seem more assertive, more at home in the shop, than Lacey had ever seen her. In fact, all three of them looked very cozy there, bathed in Magda’s perfume.

  “She has a life now. And a new man,” Jolene smirked. Natalija laughed.

  “Did you leave town?” Lacey pressed.

  “That’s enough,” Analiza said to Jolene. The beautiful call girl sniffed and concentrated on Lacey’s newspaper article, twirling her fingers through her blond hair as she read.

  “Did you believe her, about the money, the treasure?” Lacey persisted, but Analiza was silent. “Do you think there really was a Fabergé egg?”

  “Who could believe Magda?” Natalija said, glancing past Lacey at her own reflection in the shop’s mirrors. “She was a funny old woman. She liked to talk. And talk and talk and talk.”

  “She made one hell of a corset,” Jolene said without looking up from the newspaper. “No one could sew like she did.”

  Analiza bristled and threw down her measuring tape. “Take that dress off if you want it finished.”

  “Sure thing.” Jolene tossed the newspaper on the sofa where Magda had died and strutted off to the dressing room. Stella had confided to Lacey that Jolene was thoroughly enhanced, from her plastic fingernails to her extravagant breast implants, not to mention her very blond tresses, courtesy of Stella. But there was something about her that seemed genuine to Lacey.

  “Did the police take anything?” she asked Analiza. “From the shop, or her apartment?”

  “Just some old books.” She looked suspicious. “Why?”

  “No reason.” Lacey was wondering if Broadway Lamont had kept anything from her.