A Crime of Fashion

by Carina Axelsson

  “You look amazing,” he whispered into my ear as we walked away from the entrance. “I love your dress – and I bet you’re the only girl here in combat boots,” he laughed. “You’re all dressed up, but you still look like you, which I like.”

  I quickly looked down and made as if to straighten my dress – my sidekick was making me blush. I mumbled thanks and took a hurried breath before looking back up. He was smiling at me, his blue-grey eyes dark in the evening light. For the briefest of moments, our gaze locked, and the teasing light in his eyes softened into something else. But it was gone as swiftly as it had appeared. I quickly looked away and Sebastian took a glass of orange juice from a passing tray.

  “Well, what’s the plan?” he asked, handing me the glass, the teasing smile back on his lips. “Are we going to set a trap and catch the culprit?”

  “No.” I smiled. “Tonight is an evening of quiet observation.” I scanned the room but didn’t see any of the La Lunes.

  Sebastian rolled his eyes. “But I’ve been observing all day! I’m ready for some action.”

  “Actually,” I whispered as I leaned into him, “I’m dying to tell you something – in a quiet corner.”

  But as we turned to move away, we bumped right into Ellie and Victor, fresh from a trip to the buffet table. “We got some for you too,” said Ellie as she held out a plate of miniature savoury tarts.

  Sebastian and I looked at each other and shrugged. “Mmm…thanks,” I said. “But, listen, you brought the snacks – why don’t we get the drinks, right, Sebastian?”

  “Great idea,” he said. “We’ll be right back.”

  We’d soon found a quiet corner in the umbrella and hat section of the store.

  “I don’t think they’ll miss us.” I nodded towards Ellie. She and Victor had already crossed the room and were deep in conversation with various models and fashionistas.

  We stood on our own, scanning the faces present. My aunt hadn’t yet arrived, nor did I see any of the La Lunes. “You know what still bothers me?” I said, skewering a tiny meatball. “How did the kidnapper get out of the La Lune mansion, dragging Belle and then Darius with them?”

  A buzz of excitement suddenly filled the air. Standing on my tiptoes I could see Philippe’s head at the door. Then Rose and Dom appeared, followed by Claude. Last in was Fiona, looking aloof and icy as usual.

  “And I’ll tell you something else,” I whispered, “I’m betting that before Friday there’ll be another disappearance.”

  “Well, why don’t we do something about it? Perhaps my father can increase the guard on the mansion? The La Lunes all have minders in order to prevent more disappearances. But still…maybe more security is needed,” he said, reaching for his phone.

  “Don’t – there’s nothing we can do to stop the next disappearance – if you can call it that.”

  Sebastian looked at me in total confusion, but before I could say anything else I heard that familiar voice.

  “Axelle, darling, turn around – what are you wearing?” Aunt V was walking towards us, staring at my dress and boots. “The hemline! And please don’t tell me those are your lucky boots! I wonder what could have happened? I asked the office to send a pair of Louboutins in your size together with the dress, just for you to wear tonight.”

  “That’s right. And they did arrive,” I quickly added, as I saw her about to speed-dial Blossom’s number, “but…” What could I say? Then I had a sudden brainwave: I remembered a quote I’d read this morning in one of Aunt V’s fashion books. It was by one of the most revered of the last century’s fashion designers. It was perfect. “Well, as Elsa Schiaparelli often said, and I quote: ‘In difficult times fashion is outrageous.’”

  “Blithely grow,” Aunt V replied as she popped a glistening olive into her mouth.

  “Sorry, what?” Sebastian asked.

  “Bright yellow,” Aunt V continued, indicating a particularly garish shade of yellow being worn by the wife of one of France’s better-known businessmen. “And people wonder why I wear sunglasses so much of the time.”

  “She loves anagrams,” I whispered to Sebastian.

  “Anyway, Axelle, darling, now where were we? Ah, yes – how right you are. These are difficult times – but that’s no excuse for those boots. Although I quite think you’ve improved the dress with that ripped hem. I think I’ll photograph it like that. Anyway, I hope you’re close to figuring out this mystery.” She paused and pursed her lips for a moment. “I have a trip to New York coming up in two weeks’ time and I’d like to take Blossom with me, but until this mucky business is sorted out I can’t. Your father,” she turned to Sebastian, “has told me Blossom absolutely cannot leave the country until they have found Belle and Darius. It’s most inconvenient – I have a magazine to run after all, and fashion waits for no one.”

  “I’m getting closer, Aunt V.”

  “Thank goodness.” Then the editor-in-chief of one of the American magazines came and whisked her away for a chat about the new collections. “I’ll see you later, Axelle, darling,” she said as she left.

  Sebastian and I wound our way back towards the entrance. There we were handed a leaflet describing Fiona’s charity work through the La Lune Fashion Design Foundation. Donations would be accepted throughout the evening. The foundation gave prizes and scholarships to design students from underprivileged backgrounds, and every year ten winners were selected from the hundreds of designs submitted. The designs could be anything to do with fashion, from sunglasses to dresses to shoes.

  “Funny to think she’s so involved with this project, considering how icy-cold she seems,” Sebastian said.

  “It’s my mother’s passion. She’s devoted the last thirty years of her life to it.” Dom had come up to us quietly from behind – and had heard what Sebastian had said.

  To his credit, rather than try to come up with some kind of excuse for his comment, Sebastian just carried on. “Well it’s good of her to do it,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders.

  Dom ignored him entirely. “Axelle, you look incredible. I love the boots. Can I get you anything to drink, or how about a canapé?” He waved at a waiter. “By the way, have you heard that you’re on option next week for a Guerlain fragrance?”

  WHAT? How did he know that? “Yes, Hervé mentioned something to me about it,” I bluffed. “But how did you know?”

  “Hervé also mentioned something about it to me,” he answered. “I wanted to book you for a job next week but you already have several options for the whole week. That’s fantastic!”

  Sebastian had moved away from us and I was now alone with Dom. He offered to show me around the store. As we went from one glass-enclosed display case to another, he pointed out the various bestselling items and told me a bit about their history. Finally we came to a pale pink crocodile handbag sitting on its own. It had more spotlights on it than anything else in the store. We had to jostle forward just to get close to it. Pristine and shiny, it sat atop a glass plinth. Two security guards watched over it, keeping the crowds back. We were standing before the first Clothilde bag ever made – the very same one, in fact, that had accompanied Princess Clothilde on that fateful drive those many years ago…

  “This is it – the handbag that gave my family its fame,” he said.

  “It gave you a curse too.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “If you believe in that sort of thing.”

  “Don’t you? Rose does. She says the curse is coming alive. She told me she can hear it moving through your house at night like a ghost.” Of course Rose hadn’t told me directly – I’d heard it through the chimney flue. But still, nothing ventured, nothing gained, I figured.

  He laughed. “My sister Rose has a very vivid imagination. But, who knows…” Dom hesitated. “It’s true that our house is a creaky old place. I’ve sometimes heard things at night too.”

  “Things? Like what? And when?”

  “Now. Lately. Just bumps and things.” Again he shrugged his br
oad shoulders. “More than likely it’s my mother going through her closets late at night, preparing her perfect outfit for the following day.”

  “Does she do that?”

  “I don’t know,” he laughed, “maybe. Or maybe Rose is right.”

  I wanted to ask him more but suddenly the lights began to dim. “Come on,” said Dom, reaching for my hand and pulling me after him towards the large atrium in the middle of their store. “Juno is about to sing.”

  A frisson of anticipation ran through the crowd as people turned to watch a stage slowly rise from the floor. Juno, the biggest new star in pop music and the muse after whom the new bag was named, was going to perform.

  “Why Juno?” I whispered to Dom.

  “Because…” He leaned in close to me. He smelled good – and electric, like a summer day just before a storm breaks. I blushed when he caught me looking at his profile. “Because,” he continued, smiling at me, “Belle happened to be sitting next to her on a flight to New York, and she noticed that all sorts of things were spilling out of Juno’s bag: tablet, water bottle, books, clothes, you name it. It was a mess, my sister said. Anyway, Belle told her she needed to find a bag that could carry all of her stuff and look good. At that point Juno recognized her and asked her if she’d make her one – actually, from what Belle said, Juno more or less commanded that a bag be made for her. Anyway, that’s how the collaboration began. And when Juno finally saw the finished product she was so delighted that she spontaneously said she’d sing at the launch – as a thank you. It’s a real coup for us.”

  The room was now completely dark and silence had descended upon the waiting crowd. We watched as a single spotlight focused on the stage and the band suddenly appeared out of the darkness. Music filled the store. The crowds outside could be heard cheering. Now only the star was missing. Then coloured spotlights began to swirl overhead. Back and forth over our heads they crossed until one of them caught a flash of silver. It lost the flash then found it again – it was Juno. She was twirling above us on a giant purple Juno bag, silver sequined outfit glinting at us.

  Once the light was fixed on her she began to sing, her glossy red mouth glistening like a jewel in the dark. Back and forth she swung on her giant handbag, arms entwined in the handles, her ruby red shoes kicking in the air. Then, ever so slowly, the handbag began to float downwards, her black hair (straightened to within an inch of its life) streaming behind her. As she landed and flung herself off the giant handbag, a team of ten shirtless dancers were on hand to catch her; within seconds she was prancing onstage, singing just beyond arm’s reach. As the song came to its thundering conclusion, the room erupted.

  Juno pranced a bit more, then screamed a loud thanks to the La Lunes. Dom left to join his family and I watched as Juno gave Claude, Fiona, Rose and Dom hugs and kisses when they went up onstage to hand her a new bag (Dom told me Juno had already been given one in nearly every colour of the rainbow – they had saved the purple one so that there was at least one to give her at the launch). Then she sang one last song – a tearful rendition of one of her slower hits. This was followed by an emotional silence. The unvoiced questions on everyone’s mind, of course, were where were Belle and Darius? And would they ever be back?

  After a few moments Claude walked onto the stage, a single white spot illuminating his way. There he announced that tonight he and his family wanted to recognize a certain Madame Simone Baillie for her lifetime of service to his family. She had started working as a receptionist and by the time she had reached retirement age she had been working as personal secretary to Patrick. But Simone was made of tough stuff: retirement did not entice her in the least, and so she’d asked for a new post. Something less demanding (she had travelled everywhere, and constantly, with Patrick), but, nevertheless, meaningful and challenging. After a bit of reflection, the perfect job had been found for her: she would become the company’s official archivist.

  Simone had apparently taken to her new job with gusto. She’d worked out an efficient new computer system for cataloguing every handbag, leather diary, dress, saddle and scarf the company had ever made. Then she’d had everything photographed and properly stored. All of this careful work had culminated in the opening of a private museum of vintage La Lune clothes and accessories. The museum was on the banks of the Seine, a stone’s throw away from the National Library. It had opened a little over a year ago and, now, finally, Simone was going to have a proper, festive thank you.

  We watched and cheered as she was carefully pushed onto the stage in her wheelchair and accepted her flowers and gift. She gave a short speech, her somewhat feeble voice thanking the La Lune family for all of the opportunities and excitement they’d given her over the years. It was a generous tribute to a hard-working lady and everyone was in a good mood as she left the stage and the music slowly started up again.

  It was then that I had my idea…

  A little while later, I found Simone Baillie in one of the smaller rooms near the central stairwell. She was in the scarf department, to be precise. Fortunately no one was speaking with her and when I went up to ask if I might have a word with her, her minder looked relieved to leave her with me for a few minutes.

  Curious and chatty, she asked where I came from and what I was doing in Paris. Leaning into her so that she could hear me and I could hear her, I answered her questions as succinctly as possible. Her sparkly little eyes never left me for a moment. She was a keen listener, who didn’t pass judgement but simply nodded encouragement and waited to see where you led – in short, she was the perfect secretary.

  With the preliminaries out of the way, I launched into my line of questioning. “Madame Baillie, I’ve been trying to trace someone you may have heard of. She’s a woman called Violette Roux… Have you ever met a woman by that name? I only know that she came from Normandy and arrived in Paris in January of 1961 and probably worked in one of the boutiques along this street.”

  She regarded me for a few moments, her tiny head cocked to the side like a little bird’s. Then she looked away and contemplated the scarves for some time before turning back to me.

  “Violette Roux… Hmm… Funny, someone else asked me about her just the other day…”

  She was silent as she leaned back in her wheelchair and slowly closed her eyes. I watched her for a minute or two until, finally, thinking she’d gone to sleep, I lightly tapped her shoulder and whispered her name into her ear. Like an owl, she turned her head in my direction and opened her eyes, then smiled.

  “I’m awake, my dear, don’t worry. And yes, I knew Violette Roux. I knew her quite well, in fact. She was très, très jolie. She had the most amazing eyes – a deep violet colour. I suppose that’s why she was called Violette…”

  Violette had arrived in Paris without knowing a soul or even her way around – but she was a quick learner. And one thing that she had very quickly found out was that it was on the Rue du Faubourg St. Honoré that she would find the sort of boutique she was looking for. So, one day, not a week after she’d arrived, she put on one of the new suits she’d bought with a portion of Hector’s legacy and walked into the first boutique that appealed to her. It was the La Lune boutique.

  Violette got the job. She was polite, hard-working, and interested without being nosy. Furthermore, with her pretty looks and sense of style, she rapidly built up a list of clients who sought her advice. After only a few weeks, she even had a male client who regularly came by to ask for her guidance. Because he insisted on her help, Violette was instructed to make an exception and to help the gentleman in the men’s department. Then, one afternoon, as she was unwrapping a new delivery, her colleague told Violette that the gentleman she had been helping these last few weeks was none other than the son of the owner of the company. The gentleman who had requested Violette’s help was Patrick La Lune!

  Violette was mortified. And judging from the way her colleague was talking, it was obvious her co-workers believed there was more to their relationship than just clot
hes. Violette couldn’t sleep that night. She had worked so hard to come this far. She was not going to risk her hard-won reputation as a good employee just because the owner’s son thought it was amusing to play “customer” with her. So the next time he came in – he was coming in twice a week by now – she told him in no uncertain terms that from that day forward he would have to seek the advice of one of her colleagues.

  Patrick knew she was avoiding him, so he began to court her seriously – but away from the boutique. He showed up outside her lodging house, sent her flowers, and gave her – or, rather, tried to give her – presents. Violette refused everything, until one day he offered to take her to the ballet. Quite simply, she’d never been and had always wanted to go – so she accepted his offer…

  “But then what happened?” I asked.

  “They started seeing each other, and it got really rather serious.” Simone paused for a moment as if she was seeing everything slowly rewind in her mind.

  “So they married.”

  “No – their situation got sticky. When Patrick told his parents who he wanted to marry, they told him that was out of the question.”

  “But why?”

  “Don’t forget, this was 1962. Patrick’s parents wanted him to marry someone ‘suitable’. To them she was just a shop girl. That sort of concept doesn’t exist today.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Patrick broke it off with Violette.”

  I was about to call Patrick a weasel when Simone silenced me with a raised finger.

  “Wait. It gets better… You see, Violette was pregnant.”

  “With Patrick’s child?”

  “Oui, oui. But still he refused to marry her, because by this time his parents had threatened to disinherit him.”