Nights in Black Lace

by Noelle Mack

  “Not a tragedy,” Odette’s mother replied.

  “No,” Madame Arelquin said. “But after that I was far more careful to hire only people I knew well. And no one was permitted to visit my atelier just to look around.”

  The old lady favored Bryan with a penetrating stare and he felt himself turn red.

  If she was implying that he had anything to do with the theft—

  “Odette invited me to visit,” he said.

  Madame Arelquin gave a faint sniff. “I see. Well, Odette, what I was going to say was that you should investigate those who are closest to you, and then the people who are closest to them. It will be only a few degrees of separation between you and the guilty.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because you are most likely to trust them. And where there is a great deal of money to be made, someone will take advantage of that trust.”

  “I hate to even think so,” Odette said, dismayed.

  “It is the way of the world.”

  “Oui,” Odette’s mother said, looking with concern at her daughter.

  Madame Arelquin could not seem to stop looking at him, Bryan thought with annoyance. “With all due respect, Madame, I had nothing to do with it. I visited the atelier because I wanted to take a few pictures for my mother, who’s a dressmaker.”

  Both old ladies were looking at him with a mixture of suspicion and sentimental interest.

  “You did not mention that when we met at Odette’s show,” Madame Arelquin said at last.

  “I didn’t have a chance. There was a lot going on.”

  Madame gave a little cough into her hand. “It looked like the Folies Bergère. All those feathers and bare breasts—alors. Too much flesh .”

  “Now, now,” Odette’s mother chided. “It is not like it was in our day. Fashion is much more exciting.”

  “I suppose so,” Madame Arelquin sighed. “But I miss the old days. Elegance! Restraint! Diana Vreeland frowning—how she could frown!”

  “You never liked her,” Odette’s mother said. “You said she was a cow. A skinny cow.”

  “Hmph.”

  Odette put her head in her hands. “What should I do?”

  “My dear girl, it seems to me that you are doing everything you can. Some would say that the bad publicity is a good thing, because it keeps your name in the news. And no one cares if a rock star’s dress is stolen.”

  “Would you agree, Madame Arelquin?” Odette asked.

  “No. Piracy is a terrible thing for our business and rock stars will be the death of it.” She studied Bryan again. “But perhaps the young swashbuckler will take them on for you.”

  “If we can find them.”

  “Have you any leads?” Odette’s mother asked her daughter.

  “The computer expert manipulated a digital photo and found an address on a piece of paper in a purse belonging to one of my assistants.”

  “Do not keep us in suspense. Whose address was it?”

  “King Khong.”

  Madame Arelquin’s thin, arched eyebrows rose to her hair-line. “I remember that odd name. My daughter mentioned it. He is notorious.”

  “Did he not steal from you before, Odette?” her mother asked.

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Interpol can never seem to catch such thieves,” Madame Arelquin said. “They pop up all over the world. When one sweat-shop is closed down, another one opens somewhere else.”

  “The address is in New York.”

  Madame Arelquin scowled. “There, you see, that is what they do. I remember Marie saying that he was in China.”

  Odette looked from her mother to her godmother. “I was thinking of going there.”

  “Mon Dieu! Why?” her mother exclaimed. “You cannot confront such a person.”

  “It was just a thought,” Odette said.

  Bryan looked at her curiously. He had an inkling that she would do it and he hoped she would say why.

  “If I could infiltrate his headquarters,” she went on. “In a wig, sunglasses—maybe I could find out something that would put him out of business.”

  “And maybe you would get beat up or worse. Please do not play detective,” her mother said sternly. “There is nothing to be gained. Hire someone if you want to waste your money. As your godmother says, Khong will simply go somewhere else.”

  Odette nodded, a little too quickly, Bryan thought. Uh-oh.

  Jeanne didn’t get there until well after midnight, looking as earnest and librarian-ish as Bryan remembered.

  Good thing he hadn’t actually seen her morph into the main attraction in the Vendredi’s gender-bending revue. He didn’t even want to think about it. She and Odette exchanged air kisses, and then Jeanne played detective for real.

  She started with Lucie’s computer, working in the cubicle without disturbing the mess in it. The assistant wasn’t necessarily the only culprit but she sure as hell was the main suspect. But Khong’s address was nowhere to be found on Lucie’s computer.

  No, the assistant had most likely done her dirty deal the old-fashioned way: in writing.

  But something that might be related to the ever-expanding mess came up in her browser history anyway, based on the first five letters. Khongaroo Kids of Kansas.

  Jeanne pulled up a website with a cute cartoon kangaroo boinging all over it. “Merde. I hate stupid Flash animation,” she grumbled. “It takes forever to download and what is the point?” She clicked several keys in rapid succession. “I can’t escape this ridiculous kangaroo!”

  Odette looked over Jeanne’s shoulder and studied the cartoon. When it stopped boinging, she clicked on the pouch. The site opened up.

  “Why are you paying me?” Jeanne asked her.

  “Because you know what you are doing.”

  “Hah.” She scrolled around. “Kiddie pajamas. Animal sneakers. I don’t think this is the fellow that paid Lucie to steal from you.”

  “Look a little longer.”

  “All right,” Jeanne sighed. “I am almost too sleepy to be doing this.” She took her time to trace several ISPs and came up with the address of the company. “Aha. It says it’s based in Kansas but it only sells goods online and the office is in New York. Odette, do you remember the address that was on the paper in Lucie’s bag? Come and look.”

  Odette looked over Jeanne’s shoulder, and so did Bryan. “It must be right next door,” they said in unison.

  “A hop, skip, and a jump away,” Bryan added. “It’s an American expression.”

  The other two gave him a baffled look. “Okay, whatever,” Jeanne said. “Now we find out who Lucie e-mailed most. Cherchez l’homme.”

  She fooled around with the Find function, combing through Lucie’s inbox. One name came up by the hundreds, incoming and outgoing: Brad Quinn.

  “It is an American name, no?” Jeanne asked Bryan. “The English do not name their boys Brad.”

  “Could be.”

  Jeanne hummed under her breath as she went to other websites. “We will try the American bad-guy search sites first.” She typed in the name as Bryan looked over her shoulder at the site. HE SAID WHAT? appeared in big, dancing letters meant to convey that snooping on your new man was going to be a blast. The site had to be thriving—some big companies had banner ads on it.

  Bryan hoped no one had posted about him, doing a fast mental run-through of his better qualities. He was a nice, brainy, fit guy who did his utmost to please in bed and out, respected his girlfriend’s moms and his girlfriends, put the lid down and kept his feet off the newer furniture.

  Then he got focused. The website known as www.hesaidwhat.com was new to him, but this Brad Quinn was all over it. Actually, there were several.

  He read the comments as Jeanne scrolled through.

  “I think that must be the one,” Jeanne said, pointing a finger at the screen. “A junior banker, based in France. Not a wizard of finance, evidently. This girl calls him Overdrawn. And that one calls him Short Stuff.” The computer exp
ert snickered at some of the other, much less polite comments.

  Odette sighed. “It is as Madame Arelquin said. The ones closest to me seem to be to blame.”

  “We still have to deal with the Khong guy somehow. Now what? Report him to Interpol?”

  “Not without proof.” She waved a hand at Lucie’s monitor. “This means nothing. We have confirmed our suspicions and I will find a reason to fire Lucie. Jeanne, please install keystroke-capturing software. She has another week. Perhaps she will lead us to other miscreants.”

  “Oui, Madame Gaillard,” Jeanne said. The monitor reflected in her glasses as she got busy with that.

  12

  T he jet screamed down to the JFK runway and landed with a bump.

  “Wake up,” Brian said softly to Odette. Even in two side-by-side first class seats, she was all over him.

  She’d slept through the morning coffee and croissant service, which he’d managed to consume with one hand. He brushed the croissant crumbs off her.

  “Mon Dieu,” she muttered, running a hand through her hair. “I must look a fright.”

  “You look fierce. Hair like that has to be all the rage in New York.”

  “Marc says that fierce is good.” She reached into the small personal organizer she’d stuffed into the seat pocket in front of her and found a mirror. Her eyes widened in horror at the sight of her reflection. “He is wrong. Fierce is fierce.”

  The pilot made an announcement about waiting for a gate.

  “You have time to fix yourself up.”

  Odette did the best she could, combing her hair and putting on a touch of makeup.

  Navy blue skirts stretched over narrow hips, the flight attendants stalked through the aisles like herons, collecting newspapers and casting curious looks at Odette.

  “Are you Madame Gaillard?” one of them murmured, bending over. “The Madame Gaillard?”

  “Ah—”

  “I thought it was you. Are you in New York to give a show?”

  “No. Please forgive me—I only just woke up,” Odette said politely.

  “Of course. My apologies. I just wanted to say that I wear only Oh! Oh! Odette!” the attendant whispered and winked at her.

  For a second Bryan thought she was going to pull up her navy blue skirt and confirm the good news. But she rose when another attendant called to her.

  “Excuse me,” she said to both of them and hurried off.

  “Ah, the price of fame,” Odette said. “Do you mind? At least the other passengers are pretending not to notice us.”

  “I don’t care. Let’s not talk about it.”

  “They were looking at you.”

  “It’s a free country. I guess I can handle getting looked at.”

  She sighed and stuck all her cosmetics back in her bag. “I do not like it once I am out of Paris. I wonder if I have time to pee. We are just sitting here not moving.”

  “They would probably roll out a red carpet to the toilet for you.”

  She patted his cheek as she undid her seat belt. “Very funny. But I must go.”

  She rose stiffly and took care of that, then plopped down beside him again. “Have we advanced in line?”

  “Not an inch.”

  “The New York airports always have delays,” she sighed.

  “I wouldn’t know,” he reminded her. “It’s my first trip to the East Coast and I had to complicate things by going all the way to Paris and then here. Next time I’ll fly direct from LA. Thanks for paying my way, though.”

  “Thanks for not objecting. It is all the same money, anyway. It goes around and around the world, and rains where it wants to.”

  “Tell me again how you managed to make millions?”

  “Not now.” She was yawning hugely. “I wish I could go back to sleep. But then I will mess up my lipstick if I do.”

  “Put on your sunglasses.”

  Odette nestled into his shoulder. “I will.”

  The plane gave a lurch and they started rolling. But it was another hour before they disembarked and headed for customs, where Odette had to stop to pet Sniffy, the luggage-inspecting beagle, even though Sniffy was working, then on to the baggage claim.

  She slipped on her sunglasses along the way. There stood their driver, among a crowd of others, holding a sign that said GAILLARD in large block letters.

  “So much for traveling incognito,” she said with a sigh.

  Bryan looked around. “No photographers on this end. I think we’re safe.”

  They said hello to the man, who didn’t seem to speak much English or French. He was from Eastern Europe, Bryan judged after a glance at his limo license. He got them settled in the back of an immense town car, and Odette relaxed against the seat cushions.

  “So squooshy. So American. I love town cars,” she said.

  Bryan thought of his wheels, a beater car now on its last legs, so to speak, and didn’t answer. He was more impressed by the skyline in the distance.

  He’d seen it from the window of the plane, a choppy line of skyscrapers that looked to be all one color from JFK. In the car, as they got closer to Manhattan and the morning haze lifted, the buildings seemed much more different from one another and the city seemed to grow before his eyes.

  There was something vital but also brutal about it. It didn’t have the venerable charm of Paris and the looming tall buildings were kind of oppressive.

  “Interesting, no?”

  “If you like big cities.”

  “It is different when you are walking around. The inhabitants of New York can be very nice.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” Bryan looked out at the skyline again, just before the town car went through a purple E-ZPass tollbooth and got sucked into a tunnel.

  He breathed a little easier when that was over, feeling like a hick. But tunnels that went under rivers were just not his thing.

  “Where are we?” he asked.

  “In midtown. On the east side of Manhattan. Our hotel is on the west, not too far from the garment district.”

  The driver honked his way through the crowded streets, going down a one-way and around to get them there.

  Guys shoving big metal racks crammed with dresses and bolts of material crowded the streets.

  “Not what it once was,” Odette was saying, “but I love to wander here.” She tapped on the plastic partition when she recognized the hotel, paying the fare and tipping the brass-buttoned guy who came out with a luggage rack.

  She seemed so used to this chaos. Bryan told himself it was no big deal. But he was grateful when they were alone in their hotel room at last.

  He flopped on the bed. “I don’t care if I never get on a transatlantic flight again. Whew. I’m done in.”

  “We can unwind tonight. Go to a show.”

  “No. Sleep,” he mumbled, rolling over and grabbing a pillow.

  “You big baby,” she scolded him.

  “You slept, Odette. On me. All the way from DeGaulle. Meaning I didn’t.”

  “Ah, you poor thing.”

  Bryan sat up a little and removed the foil-wrapped mint pressed into his hair. Fortunately, none of the goo inside had been squeezed out. He put it on the night table, along with another one from the other pillow where she would lay her head. If she ever stopped talking.

  “Mints on the pillow. Minty-fresh toothpaste in the WC. That must be why the room cost a mint,” Odette giggled. “That too is an American expression, no?”

  “Yes,” he said, feeling deeply ashamed that she’d paid his fare to New York. At least he’d managed to finagle a connection to California, by abject begging and waving his original return trip ticket for an ultra-discount-economy-strapped-to-the-wing three-stop that ultimately ended at a small local airport near Newport Beach.

  It had been the most interesting week of his life, but he couldn’t keep up this pace and he did have a life that didn’t involve fashion. Had never involved fashion.

  He watched her unpack, pulling out vari
ous outfits and hanging them out.

  Then, from a poufy-looking bag, she took out a short blond wig, going to the mirror to pull it on over her dark hair.

  “How kinky.”

  “This is for tomorrow.”

  “Why?” He rolled over, intrigued by the transformation in her appearance. “I like the punk pixie look on you.”

  She inspected her reflection and then dug around in her makeup bag, taking out a tube of eyeliner, which she applied in wicked swoops to each of her eyelids. A slash of pale lipstick and she was done.

  “Huh. So far, so good. I really like it.”

  “Nothing doing. This is for business.”

  “What kind of business, Odette?”

  “The risky kind.”

  He got up and put his arms around her. “We’re getting good at that. And I love the idea of having two different women in one night, especially when both of them are you.”

  She elbowed her way out of his embrace. “Not now. This wig makes my head ache.”

  He found out why she’d brought the blond wig soon enough.

  They were walking up 39th Street and crossed at Seventh Avenue.

  “There is the giant button,” she said, scrabbling in her purse for sunglasses.

  “Huh?” He looked up, distracted by the roaring traffic, not wanting to be run over by a taxi driven by a homicidal maniac.

  Sure enough, there was a giant button, about fifteen feet high, leaning at an angle with a giant needle thrust through it.

  “You are in the garment district,” she said, sticking the sunglasses on her face. “Home of the garmentos. There goes one now.”

  A youngish guy with slicked-back hair and a sharp suit who was screaming orders into a cell phone shoved past them.

  “Can you feel the magic?” Odette asked Byran.

  He looked down at the trash on the sidewalk and took in the general grimness of this not-yet-gentrified part of Manhattan. “Not really.”

  “I wish I could say it gets better. It is interesting, though.”

  “Yeah, I could see why you’d say that.”

  He glanced at loft windows crammed with bolts of fabric and shops that sold things like buttons and trimmings and lace. Odette could probably spend days here.