by Mary Vee
“Excuse me, Ms. Holloway.”
“Of course.”
He walked out of the room into the empty hall and called his office.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Carhill. My message is too long to text. I have located a painter named Leblanc in New York City. He had an exhibition showing his new fashion designer label, handbags made with artistic fabric. He meets with each customer then tailors the design for each woman. No two bags are the same which makes them expensive. Anyway, today is the last day of his show. He is due to fly back to France late this evening.”
“Good. Find out which venue he is at and the address. I’ll call you back for the details. Thank you, Mrs. Spinnaker.” Branson put his phone back inside his pocket and returned to the sunroom.
“Good news?” Jeanie set her teacup on the table.
“I’ve received news that indicates Mrs. Duvet should be home by tomorrow evening. Let’s not share the information until I have the facts confirmed. I’m going to NYC to make sure she is well. Thank you for lunch.” Branson gathered his notes and pen. The morning sprang by and a lot had been accomplished. He had just enough time to get to that designer’s show.
“You’ll call if you find her?”
“Yes. If she happens to return earlier, please give me the same favor.”
“Of course.” She stood and walked closer to him, reaching out her hand. “Thank you.”
He violated his sense of propriety a second time and shook her hand. “My pleasure.” He reached for the door.
“One moment, Mr. Carhill.”
“Yes?”
“Let Thomas drive you. He knows the way and can get you there faster. You can do your work in the car. And if you happen to find Mrs. Duvet, she can be brought readily home. Shall I fetch him?”
It would be nice to have a driver wait as he bounced from place to place investigating. “That would be very kind. Thank you.”
“I’ll have him meet you outside with the car.” She walked out of the room with a delightful spring in her step.
Not long after, Thomas held the limousine door open for Branson. “So where are we off to, Mr. Carhill?”
“New York City. I need to make a call before I can give you a more precise location.” He climbed inside and sat comfortably. The interior included plenty of leg space, luxurious, soft leather seats, a workspace, and more. All the perks of a limousine.
“Very good, Mr. Carhill.” Thomas closed the door and walked around to the driver’s side.
Branson pulled out his paper, pen, and phone ready to take notes for his call. He phoned his office.
Mrs. Spinnaker answered right away. “Good afternoon, Mr. Carhill.”
“Did you find where the French designer is in New York City?”
“I did, only moments ago. Let me see, the designer, Leblanc, set up shop in Bloomingdales on Third Avenue, Upper East Side.”
“Did you discover any hotel reservations for Mrs. Duvet in New York City?”
“I checked with every candidate. Used every resource and connection and found no reservations.”
That didn’t mean she wasn’t there. If she wanted to hide, she might use another name. “Check again using the other Cinq Amis names. I’ll be in New York City the rest of the day. Call if you need anything.”
“I sure wouldn’t mind going with you for this research, Mr. Carhill. Get a little shopping in. See the sights.”
“Maybe next time. Thank you, Mrs. Spinnaker.”
“Your welcome.”
He pressed end call then opened the contact page. Mrs. Duvet certainly made this case difficult. “Thomas, give me your cell number. I’ll call you when I’m ready to leave.”
Thomas recited his number then Branson repeated it back. “Good. Once you’ve dropped me off, you can drive anywhere you choose. I’ll give you, let’s say a fifteen-minute notification when I need to be picked up. Is that acceptable?”
“Yes. Very good, Mr. Carhill.”
* * *
Branson sat back for the remaining three-plus hour drive. The advantage to Thomas’ driving was he didn’t have to duke it out with the traffic.
He rested his head against the seat back, confident the case would be wrapped up today, and was woken by the stop and go city traffic.
The car wobbled through clumps of wet snow, sliding to a stop. White Christmas lights sparkled through new falling snow. Massive Christmas trees decorated with theme ornaments towered above pedestrians both inside and outside of businesses. Christmas music gently floated from storefronts and street players. Even he felt the spirit of the season.
Peace on Earth and Joy to the World outshined the slush and gray dreary weather. Even still, he was glad he thought to bring his umbrella.
Thomas stopped in front of Bloomingdales. “Here you are, sir.” He put the car in park and opened his door.
Branson quickly said, “No need to get out of the vehicle. Only one of us need soak our shoes.” He opened the door pleased Thomas had parked right by the curb. His shoes wouldn’t get wet after all. “Good job, Thomas. Keep your phone handy.”
An awning covered the remaining sidewalk. He proceeded to the entrance where a doorman, dressed in black uniform with a dressed-white shirt, tie, white gloves, and a hat resembling a pilot opened the door. “Good afternoon, sir.”
He later learned doormen are on duty for major shopping times of the year and for special occasions.
A mass of shoppers entered at the same time, pressing him forward and keeping him from returning the greeting. Ten feet farther, a second attendant opened inner doors. “Good afternoon,” the second uniformed man said.
Having two sets of doors, an outer one leading to an inner space followed by an inner door, was not uncommon in this big city known for bitter winds and blustery snow on chilly winter days. Branson stepped to the side and let the crowd pass. He rarely shopped other than for utility.
This store took up a full city block and was like a foreign land. Immaculate. Glittery. Impressive. Black and white tile flooring. Pockets of the latest trends from the greatest designers welcomed shoppers into an experience guaranteed to satisfy. As he stood observing, consumers flowed like a river through aisles of merchandise. They stopped to touch, discuss, hold up to a mirror, try on, and ultimately relinquish their money to own the most wonderful—whatever they chose.
While he couldn’t see himself purchasing items here, he witnessed the absolute pleasure a medium brown bag brought the new owner as she walked with it draped over her wrist out of the store.
Ahead was a visitors’ desk. He walked to an available employee. Dressed in a pressed suit, the man’s gold name tag had Marc printed in black. “Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?”
“I’m looking for the Leblanc handbag showcase.”
“Very good.” He pointed deeper into the store. “Walk past the cosmetics to the stairway. It will lead you to the balcony where there is an array of designer bags. As far as I know, this is the last day Leblanc will be at the store. I’m not sure if he has extended his visit or not. You can go up there and find out more information.”
“Thank you very much.”
Marc smiled. “Enjoy your visit.”
Branson walked past the cosmetic sections into a spacious open court. Circling the area above him was a balcony packed with shoppers. He debated whether to head up there, realizing the chance of him speaking with Leblanc may not happen. Then again, missed opportunities always happened to those who didn’t try.
He crossed the room to a wide staircase, surprised the balcony shoppers were fairly quiet. At the top of the stairs, background Christmas music resonated over the hushed customers.
There wasn’t a speaker projecting a voice. He didn’t understand the attraction. “Excuse me,” he said to the woman in front of him.
She turned. Her face did that thing women do when they’re pleased with a man’s appearance. The look up into his eyes then down at a well-fitted suit. “Hmm. Nice.”
; He didn’t mind. It opened conversation opportunities typically slammed on other investigators. “There are so many people gathered up here. What’s happening?”
“Leblanc, the designer, is over there.” She pointed. “He is speaking to one customer. That is what he does. Can you see the two chairs on the platform?”
He craned his neck and leaned higher on his toes. “Yes. I see.” He set his feet flat again.
“So, whoever is next in line sits in the chair across from Leblanc. He asks some questions and listens to the buyer’s answers. From there he designs a basic idea for the fabric of a handbag designed just for her. He draws on sketch paper and shares the image with the woman. Once she approves, he turns the sketch pad to the audience.
“See the samples over to the right? Each is a masterful painting in fabric form. The buyer then gets to choose the style of handbag. This she does with one of his assistants. When she pays for the order, she receives a copy of the drawing. Each buyer gets a fifteen-minute session.
“Leblanc takes a break in between customers to jot notes. He sometimes shows his other drawings to those of us in the audience. I’d die to have one of his handbags. Before the buyer leaves, he says a final word to her. We can’t hear what he says. It must be something nice because the person leaves with a bright smile. I’ve stood for several hours and have only seen extremely pleased buyers.
“I hear it takes months for the bag to be made. When it is finished, the buyer is notified and given a choice to come to his shop in France to pick up their purchase from him or have it delivered to her home. The entire experience is unique and inviting. It’s no wonder so many women have stood here for hours, watching, hoping for a chance to purchase one.”
“The man at the visitor center downstairs said this was Leblanc’s last day.”
“I know. But I’m staying in line to at least tell my friends I saw this designer at work.”
Branson pulled out the photo of Mrs. Duvet. “Did you happen to see this woman?”
She looked at the picture and shook her head. “No. I haven’t. Is she in trouble?”
“No.” He smiled to reassure her. “I thought she was going to be up here. In a crowd this big, it’s difficult to see.”
She smiled. “Oh, I understand. I’ll keep a watch from here. Are you going to buy a handbag?”
“My interest is the same as yours. I am here only to watch a masterful designer. Thank you for your time.”
“You’re welcome.” She left him with a broad smile before turning back to the show.
Branson walked around the rim of the crowd and found one clear view of Leblanc. His chair and the chair for the buyer were situated on platforms raised about six inches. The small rise helped many observers to see them better.
With Mrs. Duvet’s leg issue, he didn’t think she would stand long in a crowd like this. She either had a stand-in for the line or found a way to make a private appointment, or she met with Leblanc on an earlier day and was shopping elsewhere in NYC.
Plainclothes and uniformed security had a strong presence sprinkled in the crowd and around the perimeter. The color and style of Branson’s suit happened to blend in with theirs better than he expected. He politely excused his way through the women, staying free from the formal line of buyers, while looking at faces. Specifically, any one of five faces. He assumed the Cinq Amis would stand together.
Elizabeth said she planned to shop here while Leblanc was in town. Yesterday the other three women had rushed through their phone conversation so much he couldn’t ascertain the truth of their plans. He should have thought of this sooner. Mrs. Spinnaker rang the numbers, the cell numbers, for where they lived. That didn’t mean they were physically in their home town. They still could have answered even if they were in New York City.
No wonder Laurel from Honolulu sounded wide awake during the conversation. They’d checked into a luxury hotel room that had separate bedrooms and registered under a name other than Sylvia’s. As for Elizabeth, she probably rushed home for some duty she couldn’t cancel. His surprised visit to her home annoyed her because she had planned to return to her friends sooner.
He chided himself for taking so long to figure this out. All he had to do was to find them and he’d find Sylvia
He pressed through the congested room one section at a time. The intense interest in Leblanc’s work kept the women entranced and in one place, except those in line, helping him to set up a grid in his mind. As he worked toward the front on the right side, he gained eye contact with a woman who quickly looked away. Her eyes and hair color gave away her identity. It was Elizabeth Alexander.
Branson excused himself. He slipped between rows of females and worked his way toward Elizabeth. Some ladies resisted opening a path. A few said he blocked their view. He apologized and kept moving, refusing to be stopped now that he was this close to Sylvia.
He lost sight of Elizabeth. Her location had been firmly locked in his mind, and there was no possibility she could have slipped out in this crowd. None of these women would leave their place in line except under duress. He leaned up onto his toes and searched the area.
The buyer on the platform stood, beaming with delight. The audience applauded discreetly as those in the upper class would do. No cheering. No raised arms or whistles. A worker escorted her to stage right where she stood before purse styles. One woman in the crowd said Leblanc agreed to modify any style to suit a woman’s desires. Future red-carpet reports would have a new category for when telling the styles of the famous.
The distraction resulting from Leblanc’s break made moving toward Elizabeth somewhat easier. The time between buyers neared an end before Branson reached her. She stood in the front of the line. He stood on the other side of the rope, inches away, where the viewers stood. She had a lace handkerchief in her hand, twirling it between her fingers. “Good afternoon, Mr. Carhill. I had hoped not to see you here.”
“I gathered. Would you care to introduce me?”
The ever so slight huff preceded her tucking the handkerchief in her handbag. She turned to the women standing to her left. “Mr. Carhill, may I introduce, Laurel Grimaldi, Constance Weise, and Marguerite Chadwick.”
“Good afternoon.” He nodded to them. Their response included raised eyebrows, wide eyes, and a spice of he-found-us. “And Sylvia?”
The women stood quietly for a very short second before Constance blurted, “The poor thing was worn out after meeting with Leblanc. She is resting her leg in our hotel suite.” The other women nodded.
“She wanted to watch Leblanc again today. She really hates to be alone,” said Laurel.
“So,” Marguerite quickly said, “we promised to only be gone for an hour.”
He highly doubted the truth in any of those statements. Especially since they had to wait in line much longer to get this far. And as he recalled one of them saying, the Cinq Amis motto wouldn’t abide by leaving one, not even in a hotel room.
For the first time, he could hear Leblanc’s words to the buyer. The native Frenchman had perfected his English, speaking clearly with only a French accent. Watching this master artist and designer sketch while speaking with the buyer amazed him. At the end of the fifteen minutes, his drawing had details that more than pleased the buyer. She pressed her hands to her face and smiled. What a gift he had.
The woman stood, accepting the help of the worker who escorted her to the style display. Elizabeth squeezed the hand of Laurel standing next to her. “I’m next.”
“I know.” Laurel giggled. Constance and Marguerite bobbled up and down on their heels, giddy as high school girls.
Leblanc stood, stretched his legs, then slipped out the back.
Seeing the opportunity for a private conversation, Branson walked through the security door a few feet to his right. He ventured down the service hall, listening for Leblanc’s voice. Around the corner, a man knocked on a door. “Mr. Leblanc? It’s time.” The man waited for the door to open. He looked at Branson. “Everything
all right?”
His security type appearance continued to work in his favor. “Just checking. I wanted to touch base with Mr. Leblanc. If you like, I can escort him back.”
The assistant eyed Branson’s suit then smiled. “That’s great. I had two other things to do. Thanks.” The man held his cell up and rushed the other way down the hall while talking.
The dressing room door opened. Leblanc walked out with two assistants. One touched up a wayward hair. Leblanc adjusted his suitcoat. “Where is the other security man?”
“He had a quick errand and asked me to escort you.”
“Very well.”
“My name is Branson Carhill. I have been retained by Sylvia Duvet’s daughter to find her.”
Leblanc stopped walking. His shocked look immediately showed a genuine concern. “She is missing? How long has she been gone?”
“Since the evening of December 10th. I had hoped to find her purchasing a bag from you.”
Leblanc’s words slipped in and out of French so fast, Branson could barely keep up. The gist was he couldn’t understand how such a thing could happen with the Cinq Amis so close. He saw them standing in the line. He’d written to Sylvia and had arranged to meet with her that very night.
But he couldn’t see her tonight. Branson checked the time. Leblanc would have to leave for the airport immediately after the show ended unless…he delayed his flight. “When did you last speak with her?”
“It was some time ago. After her husband died.”
“Monsieur Leblanc.” An assistant pressed the designer’s arm. “We really must hurry.”
Leblanc held up his hands in frustration. “Un moment!” He turned to Branson. “I will work into my conversation with the other four amis and see what I can learn. I must go now.”
“Here is my card.” Branson whisked one from his pocket and slipped it into Leblanc’s hand. “Contact me if you have any information. Please. Her family is concerned.”
“I will.” The attendants escorted him down the corridor.
Chapter Fourteen