“Oui.”
What about Rose?” Sebastian asked.
“Ahh, la Rose,” answered Inspector Witt. “Again, Mademoiselle Anderson was correct: love, and a certain amount of desperation, pushed Rose to flee to Spain. According to the letter we’ve found, she and Alejandro had planned this split from her family many months ago. Of course, she never could have guessed how unfortunate her timing would be. I have spoken with her – she’s on her way back – and through her sobs she said she’d felt that if she didn’t go through with this break now, then she never would. Apparently, she’s always felt like an outsider within her own family – and she’d finally had enough.”
We fell silent for a moment. Rose’s sadness felt nearly palpable after hearing about her desperate attempt to flee.
“And Venetia’s definitely the one behind the other so-called ‘fashion crimes’?” Ellie asked, breaking the silence.
Inspector Witt nodded. “Although it’s not yet officially confirmed. But Venetia had been in and out of the homes of the fashion world’s elite so often that she knew exactly what they owned – and, as you know, many of the top designers and fashion brand owners have amazing art collections. Unfortunately, she used her privileged access for more than just networking.”
“By the way,” Sebastian asked as he stood and stretched. “Why the shoe? Did your aunt use it to hit Darius or Belle?”
I shook my head. “Not at all. While we were waiting for the paramedics, Belle told me that she’d taken it. She’d heard someone moving around the house and, after having quickly grabbed the nearest heavy shoe, went to investigate. She found my aunt downstairs, stealing the small Giacometti sculpture. But unfortunately, my aunt lured Belle into a secret passageway, hit her, then quickly tied and gagged her. Belle never had a chance to use the shoe. It was dropped where Sebastian stubbed his toe on it yesterday.”
Ellie suddenly stood up. “I think it’s time I got some shut-eye. I’ve got Saint Laurent first thing tomorrow morning.”
“And I’m sure my father has some questions he’d like me to answer,” Sebastian whispered as Inspector Witt stepped out of the room to take a call. “At least I have someone I can blame for my illegal behaviour.” He was grinning right at me.
“Go ahead, Watson. If I can take some cockroaches and skull-flinging, I can certainly take on your father.”
“Good morning, Axelle! Axelle, wake up,” my mum commanded as she finished drawing open the curtains. “It’s such a bright, sunny morning, and listen – aren’t the church bells wonderful? Come on now, we have a lot to do. The press conference begins at ten, followed by various interviews. I’ll get you some tea,” she said as she disappeared behind the adjoining door.
Miu Miu was on my bed. She hadn’t been allowed to remain in Aunt V’s apartment either. In fact, it seemed that she would be going back to London with us. I’m not sure she’d be kneading my stomach with such enthusiasm if she knew what was awaiting her across the Channel.
“Axelle, darling, I know you’d love to sleep longer but we have to get you ready,” my mum said, as she came back into the room and handed me a cup of hot tea. “The Times, The Guardian, Le Figaro, Paris Match, Washington Post, The New York Times, papers from Italy, Japan, Australia… They all want to see you. There is so much to do. Plus more will be waiting when we get back to London tomorrow. And just think: all of this press about finding Belle is bound to give your modelling career a boost.”
Great, I thought, my modelling career. Exactly what I don’t want, exactly what I’m not interested in. The only thing that stopped me from venting was the sight of my mum’s red-rimmed eyes. Yesterday had taken its toll. Her carriage was as upright as usual and she was elegantly dressed, but her eyes were full of worry and anxiety. Of course, who could blame her? It’s not every day that your sister is revealed as a kidnapping art thief. I watched her as she moved about the room straightening out my clothes, pouring my tea, shooing Miu Miu off the bed. The fog of doom hanging over her only lifted when she talked about my modelling. The fact that I’d spent so much time and effort solving this case – and that I’d only used the modelling as a sort of entry ticket – hadn’t yet registered.
In fact, I thought with a sigh, it seemed as if all of my plans for credibility and independence had come to nil.
Again I bit my tongue. For the moment I’d let my mum amuse herself with my modelling. I’d also do the minimum required of me for the press and then, when things had calmed a bit, I’d tackle the issue of my career as a detective.
The press conference went okay. Miriam had kindly given us use of one of the conference rooms at her agency. Like my mum, she too couldn’t move out from under the shadow caused by last night’s revelation.
“Of course,” she said to me, “I saw she’d been buying a lot, but she did earn a very good salary, and I thought that she’d perhaps invested wisely – or so she’d always implied. Never, ever could I have imagined her capable of stealing from the designers. I mean, she loved the designers! She had the utmost respect for them and their work. It’s so sad, because she’s a very, very good editor. She changed the look of the entire magazine business, you know. And she had such an eye for detail…”
So she did – and apparently, when it came to solving mysteries, I did too, according to the journalists. Maybe it was an inherited trait. From Gran probably. I was happy that Gran hadn’t lived to see her eldest daughter go to prison – especially after having been caught by her granddaughter.
Belle La Lune had invited Mum and me for lunch.
As the butler ushered us into the same grand drawing room where I’d last seen the family gathered, on Monday night, I wondered why it felt so strange to be back in the La Lune mansion. After all, it was hardly my first time – I’d been in and out any number of times over the course of the last week – not to mention that I’d seen every floor and at all hours. Then it dawned on me: this was the first time I had actually been invited in. Until this moment, every time I’d been into this house, I’d snuck in.
Belle was waiting for us when we walked in, and despite her time in the catacombs she looked stunning. Her long blonde hair was the colour of fresh corn and hung like spun sugar down her back. A tiny black jumper was layered over a transparent long-sleeved T-shirt and tight leather jeans hugged her long slim legs. A pair of high, high leather and chainmail boots finished her ensemble. Even sitting down, with a cashmere throw over her lap and a nurse at her elbow, that palpable fashion vibe – an intimidating mixture of innate style and originality with a good pinch of insouciance – came off her in waves: she was a star and she knew it.
Darius was still in the hospital – and would be for a few more days. Otherwise, he was in good spirits and hoped to personally thank me for saving his life once he was out.
Lunch was delicious. We began with white asparagus accompanied by a mousseline sauce. By the time we got to the second course (poussin de la ferme and spring vegetables) I began to relax, because I’d noticed that while my mum tried repeatedly – in her usual toe-curling fashion – to push the conversation towards the subject of my “modelling career”, Belle steadfastly refused to be lured in. Much to my delight, the more my mum pushed, the harder Belle resisted. She didn’t want to hear about my options with Teen Vogue or for the new L’Oréal hairspray. At one especially low point in the conversation (my mum was banging on about how Hervé believed I had the most amazing eyebrows he’d ever seen) I caught Belle’s eye – and in a sign of tacit complicity, she winked. I could have got up from the table and kissed her. Instead I tried to transmit a look of boundless gratitude, but for all I know she might have thought it was for the delicious strawberry soufflé.
Finally lunch came to an end, and Belle led us back to the drawing room for coffee.
And that’s when she dropped the bomb.
She motioned for us to sit down. No sooner had the coffee arrived than my mum began informing Belle, yet again, about how many requests I’d been receiving thro
ugh Miriam’s agency for magazine photo shoots – only this time Belle cut her off.
“That’s wonderful, Mrs Anderson – and while I can understand your pride in Axelle’s potential, I’d be curious to hear what Axelle has to say about her future.”
My mum and Belle sat waiting for me to reply. Belle was calm, but my mum looked at me like an X-ray machine.
I decided to go with the truth.
So, taking a deep breath and with a quick glance at my mum, who was perfecting her X-ray glare, I said, “Actually, Belle, I don’t mean any disrespect, but fashion – and modelling in particular – just doesn’t interest me that much. I did get a real kick out of finding you, though – even if it means I’ll have to visit my aunt in jail for the next twenty years.” My mum’s eyes were searing into me now. “However,” I continued, “I’m going to stick to detective work… I think I might even try solving some more mysteries.”
“Oh, Axelle,” my mum interrupted, “you don’t really mean that. What do you think she should pursue?” she added coyly, turning to Belle.
“It is my belief, Mrs Anderson, that people should pursue their dreams.”
“Yes, but, Belle,” my mother insisted, as she leaned forward and sweetened her voice, “from one woman who values her independence to another – let’s face it, this modelling career is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that should be taken! Axelle will never be able to earn an income from sleuthing, and where will she be then? Modelling – especially with your help – could be a stepping stone to many opportunities.”
“I agree that she is on the cusp of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity with regards to the modelling…” My mother visibly preened in my direction as Belle said this. “However, as to her inability to earn an income as a detective – I’m afraid you’re wrong about that, Mrs Anderson: your daughter’s just earned half a million euros.”
You could have heard a pin drop on the thick carpet. Slowly, like a small fish making its way from the ocean’s depths to the surface for air, a dim memory of the first time I’d seen Claude came to mind. He’d been on television the night I’d arrived…
“I asked you to lunch to thank you again for rescuing me,” Belle said, as she looked at me, “and to ask you for your bank account details. I don’t know if you watched my brother Claude’s press conference the Sunday night after I’d disappeared, but he did offer a half a million euro reward for any information leading to my safe return and, as he said it on national television, we can hardly renege on our offer, can we?”
She was smiling now. “However, Axelle, should you decide to accept the reward, I have two conditions I’d like you to honour: one, that you’ll set aside the bulk of it for your education and risk-averse investments, and two that you’ll use what’s left to pursue your mystery solving.”
The shock of having so much land in my lap at once took my breath away. I couldn’t even yet find my voice.
As I sat blinking, Belle added, “And, by the way, with the experience you’ve garnered this week, you might want to consider specializing in fashion mysteries. I’m not saying it would be easy…but I think you’ll find this business could use your help. Although,” she said, looking intently at me, “give it serious thought before you jump in. The fashion world is glamorous and glitzy, and fun, too…but, like all businesses involving big money and big names, it has an underbelly of jealousy, secrets and cut-throat competitiveness. If you choose to specialize in fashion mysteries you’ll have to remind yourself that a criminal is a criminal – no matter how stylish they may be or how beautiful they may look.”
Belle reached for the telephone and within thirty seconds Philippe de Vandrille had whisked me away to the small study Inspector Witt had used for questioning last Monday night. As the attorney to the La Lunes, he was responsible for handing over my reward. He’d prepared most of the necessary documents so that I could sign them before leaving, speeding up the process. Calmly and clearly, he explained the general gist of the deal, including the conditions set by the family. I wasn’t entirely free to do with my reward what I liked. It was on paper now: Belle’s conditions were to be met. But as long as I met them, I was one lucky girl.
He really does have an elegant profile, I thought as I watched him, like something from an old coin. The family resemblance stood out. Of course, it had been there all along: the tall, slim build, well-drawn jawline and cheekbones, even something about the way he moved. It had been there all along…and yet not many had noticed. A different name and childhood had put him in a particular box. Only Patrick’s old secretary, Simone, had known without a doubt. Fiona had heard but had never seen real proof. And Aunt V had first surmised, then hoped. Otherwise, no questions asked. His secret would go no further – or so I thought.
He caught me by surprise when, after I’d signed the papers he’d prepared, he confessed to me that he had guessed some time ago that his father was Patrick. “And knowing you, you’ve probably also guessed,” he said with a smile.
I flushed, not sure how much to admit to. My discomfort only made him smile more.
“Philippe,” I finally said, “would you mind if I ask you a last question?”
With a smile, he looked up from his papers spread across the desk. “Of course not. After everything that’s happened, I rather feel you’re entitled to ask me whatever you’d like.”
“Why have you never said anything? To the family, I mean…about being Patrick’s son and Hector Merlette’s heir?”
“You mean why keep it a secret, when it seems I could so clearly profit from being acknowledged as a La Lune and Merlette heir?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll answer your question with a question,” he said. “If you were given the chance to let the world know that you, Axelle Anderson, were in fact Belle La Lune’s half-sister – that your father was Patrick La Lune and that your mother was Hector Merlette’s niece; that, in fact, you had more right to own the company than anyone else – would you take the chance? Would you want to be acknowledged as such?”
“You mean live in this mansion? And Fiona would be my stepmother?” (Now there was a thought!) “And I’d have siblings who wouldn’t try searching for me if I disappeared? And I’d be at every fashion show and live, dream and breathe fashion?”
He nodded.
“Hmm… And I could go to the Café Ruc for French fries whenever I wanted and have all of the clothes I wanted?”
Again he nodded.
“Well,” I answered after a short pause, “I’d have to say no – no way.”
“And why?”
“Because living with the La Lunes, I’d go bananas,” I said with a laugh. “No, seriously, my answer is no, because from what I’ve seen the La Lunes are way too dysfunctional. Well dressed, but dysfunctional – and cold like ice (except Belle). Most of them seem incapable of being even friendly with each other. I mean, I don’t care how extravagant the lifestyle, living here with them would be a nightmare – to me anyway. Plus, fashion isn’t really my thing.”
“Well, that’s my answer to your question,” Philippe said. “When I found out – I’d long suspected, by the way – and finally confronted my mother with the truth, she asked me what I’d like to do. Did I want to pursue the matter legally? Did I want to confront my father Patrick about it? Did I want my mother to do it for me? What did I want?”
Turning out towards the garden he continued, “I decided to follow in my mother’s footsteps and let sleeping dogs lie. I like my life, I loved my father René, and I’m happy being Philippe de Vandrille. I’m not sure that being known as Philippe Merlette-La Lune would really make me any better or happier.”
I can’t say I remember much of our meeting with Belle after that. I know I was finally able to emit some appreciative squeaky sounds, which Belle graciously accepted. She then hugged me and said goodbye, with one last entreaty to call her any time I needed help – fashion or otherwise. She also said that she expected us to keep in regular contact and then kindly offer
ed to send us back to our hotel with her chauffeur, but Mum and I wanted to walk home. After the shock we’d received, we needed to feel the earth under our feet.
As we stepped out onto the Rue de Varenne, the sun hit my face with a sharpness my mind lacked. Quietly I mused on the fact that so many conflicting emotions and experiences, good and sad, new and bewildering, could happen within the span of a week. I wondered how long it would take before everything felt “normal” again. Would life revert to its pre-Parisian rhythm once I was back in Notting Hill? Or was I now on some kind of fashion fast-track?
Shielding my eyes with my hand, I tilted my head back and gazed up. I thought of Gran and wondered if she was watching…and if so, whether she’d ever forgive me for turning her daughter in…
“Axelle?”
“Yes, Mum?”
“Don’t you think fashion people are just so clever and kind? I really think you should stay in close contact with Belle. She wants you to. And, by way of celebrating, I might get you a few new dresses. The spring sales will be on when we return and I…”
Like I say, some things never change.
Sebastian and I had made plans to meet in the afternoon. Because of my morning press conference and long lunch, we decided on something easy and close-by: ice cream.
Unfortunately, when his call came through from reception it was my mother who answered. With a cheesy knowing look in my direction, she said we’d be right down.
“We? But, Mum, you don’t have to come down.”
“Axelle, don’t be silly, of course I do. I’m your mother – and this is your first date. Sebastian has to know that I’ll be looking out for you.”
“You’re joking, right? I mean, Mum, Sebastian is my friend and we’re going out for an ice cream – not a date!”
“Of course you are, darling,” she said, that look still on her face as she locked our door behind us.
Thankfully, Sebastian didn’t seem surprised to see my mum. He politely said hello and explained our plans. My mum, who wishes I was full of raging hormones and really thought there would be more excitement to our “date” than just ice cream, looked slightly deflated.
A Crime of Fashion Page 25