She turned right and led them to a set of double doors, gesturing to a framed document on the wall next to them. “Here is one of the receipts for a painting Maximilien Sauveterre purchased during the war. Naturally, these are very fragile, and we keep the rest in our archive, but Antoinette likes to keep one here as a reminder of the company’s heritage.” She gave a practiced smile. “As I said, she and Monsieur Guipure are proud of the family connection.”
Rachel squinted at the receipt, which had an elaborate art nouveau letterhead identifying it as having come from Galeries Sauveterre, 21 Rue la Boétie, Paris, with some indecipherable cursive writing underneath and, at the bottom, a sweeping 145.000. She made a noise of appreciation.
Gabriele opened the double doors, ushering them across a small white-carpeted room where a young woman in a white dress and wearing a white headset sat behind a white desk that held a white multiline phone. They emerged into a larger white room with a slightly larger white desk, on which sat a smaller white phone next to a white computer monitor and keyboard.
No sooner had they entered than the phone gave a chirrup.
Gabrielle moved to answer it. “Excuse me.”
Rachel looked around as they waited. This room featured at least some color, even if it was of the most washed-out kind. The walls were dotted with gray and white photos of tailoring details—a box pleat in extreme close-up, a hugely magnified buttonhole, a hem photographed from the inside to show its neat stitching. From the addition of this decoration and the two white velvet chairs, placed on either side of a small white table on the left-hand wall, she concluded that it was the general reception room, where visitors were stashed before being admitted to whatever inner sanctum lay on the other side of the door in the far wall.
As if to prove her right, Gabrielle hung up the telephone and gestured to toward the chairs. “Please sit down. I’ll ask the receptionist to bring you a coffee.”
But as she took a step toward the outer office, the phone chirruped again and then, once she’d put down her receiver, again. Each time, Gabrielle’s end of the conversation was monosyllabic and accompanied by careful note-taking. At the end of the second one, she smiled apologetically at them. “As I said, things are—”
Once again the phone rang, but this time a buzz instead of a chirrup. Her smile froze. “Excuse me.” She picked up the receiver, listened for a moment, then put it back and rose. “Antoinette is ready for you.”
Rachel and Magda followed her through the door. They found themselves in yet another white room, but here the frigid decor was slightly relieved by a fire that burned in the fireplace behind the desk at the room’s far end. The illusion of warmth fostered by flames casting orange and yellow shadows onto the white brick, however, stood no chance against the countless floral arrangements of white or pastel roses, lilies, and orchids in baskets, wreaths, sheaves, and angular modernist groupings that seemed to cover every available surface. Sympathy arrangements, Rachel thought. Sympathy was always pale.
“Madame Villeneuve’s friend,” Gabrielle announced.
Standing behind the desk, next to a dark-haired man with whom she was conferring in murmurs, was a woman wearing all black: a black cashmere cardigan over a black blouse and black velvet trousers. The top of her head was also black, smooth dark hair neatly parted in the middle and falling down her back. She looked up from whatever she and the man were examining, and Rachel recognized her from the photographs. Now, though, her face was tired, her wide-spaced eyes deeper set than they had appeared in the pictures, and with an almost pearly sheen to them. Then she came out from behind the desk, and Rachel saw that her eyes seemed deep-set because they were swollen, their sheen the remainder of recent tears.
“Antoinette Guipure.” Her voice was low. “And this is Keteb Lellouch, our head pattern cutter.” She half turned and gestured at the man behind her, who gave a small smile of acknowledgment. In contrast to Toinette, he was dressed in white from head to foot, and against the color, his skin, a few shades lighter than Magda’s, glowed like polished wood. His face was a curious mixture, the precision of its high cheekbones and long, narrow nose contrasted by a full-lipped mouth, but all these features were hidden by his dark hair as he bowed his head back over whatever he and Antoinette had been examining.
Having emerged from behind the desk, Antoinette held out her hand and gave an attempt at a gracious smile. “Please forgive me. I thought I’d be free before this, but there are so many details that need to be dealt with … Gabrielle?”
The girl stepped forward.
“Keteb has some ideas about fabrics. He’ll give you his notes, so we can work on pricing. And did Saint Roch call back? And could we please get someone from publicity to compile the addresses for the thank-you cards for all these flowers?”
Gabrielle unclipped some sheets from her clipboard. “Here’s the list of addresses; they just finished it. I’ve put a draft of the announcement on top; I thought you’d like to check it for changes before I pass it back to publicity. And Saint Roch just called and said yes. They’re getting back to me with a range of possible dates.”
In her head Rachel heard Alan say, They’ll be busy trying to distract themselves by focusing on practicalities. But she and Magda were here now, so she returned the smile the head pattern cutter gave as he slipped out of the room in a blur of white and resolved to push on. She didn’t have much choice.
As Gabrielle turned to follow Lellouch, Antoinette added, “And bring some coffee, please.”
Although there were chairs drawn up in front of the desk, she gestured toward two chairs and a sofa that stood near the window, with a small table in between. “Please. And again, please accept my apologies—I only have fifteen minutes before I need to meet with my head of embroidery. Things have been chaotic since … well, since.”
“Please don’t worry. We understand.” Feeling a stab of pity, Rachel tried to change the subject. “Your interior decoration is beautiful. So calm.”
“Thank you. It was my brother’s idea. After he came back, he wanted it all white. The shop, the offices, his private spaces … He said it would create an atmosphere of serenity that would reduce temptation and stimulate his creativity. Something he learned at the Eirini Clinic. We redid the entire interior for him. They did it in two weeks—can you imagine?” She gave a little laugh at the memory, but then her lower lip began to tremble. “Although I suppose in the end it didn’t make any difference, given what he did.” The sheen in her eyes turned to water, but she blinked it back.
Given what he did. So Antoinette also believed Guipure had overdosed. Rachel felt a twinge of doubt about her own conclusion, mingled with a strong dose of shame that she was the cause of Antoinette’s unshed tears. She made to stand up. “We should—”
“No, no.” Antoinette held up a hand; only its slight tremor revealed any emotion. “We haven’t spoken at all about your gala. I was so pleased to hear from Madame de Villeneuve. A phone call from an old family friend is always a pleasure, but when she told me that you wanted to honor my brother, it was more than a pleasure. I was truly touched. Now”—at last she managed a smile, or at least a rictus in the shape of a smile—“what do you have in mind?”
Rachel attempted to rise to Antoinette’s level of control. At the moment it might seem as if she was poking at a bereaved woman’s pain but, she reminded herself, she was trying to do good here. It would all feel different if she unmasked a murderer. She gritted her teeth and continued. “Well, we see the gala more as a celebration than a memoriam. We thought we would ask committee members to loan us examples of your brother’s pieces—several of our members are dedicated haute couture collectors—or we might have life-size images of his best-known designs. Perhaps hold a silent auction of some of his sketches, if you’re willing.” Antoinette certainly looked willing. Now for the step that would get them what they wanted: the names of others they could talk to about the details of Guipure’s life. “And we thought a collection of testimonial
s from those who knew him printed as a program …?”
Antoinette nodded. “Yes, yes that sounds very good. Some of our employees, perhaps. They knew him quite well.”
“And some friends?” Magda prodded gently. “Someone who knew him as a person?”
A frown replaced the eagerness. “Well … there’s me, of course. And Keteb, whom you just met. He’s been with us since the beginning. And Gabrielle, perhaps.”
Rachel marveled at the difference between the public’s impression of celebrity and its reality. Had Roland Guipure, the darling of French fashion, had no friends? Could his social circle really have been limited to his sister, his employees, and his sister’s assistant?
She jumped as Antoinette’s phone buzzed. “I have Gédéon Naquet,” said Gabrielle’s voice.
“Oh, not again!” The final word was nearly a yell. “Tell him I’ll call him back.” She closed her eyes for a moment, then turned back to Rachel and Magda. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to … He was Rolé’s biographer, and now he keeps calling, and I just can’t.” She moved forward in her chair. “I think I may have given you a wrong impression. I don’t mean my brother didn’t have friends. He had many friends before his problems. But over the last year, he lost them. They were replaced by … well, by the kind of friends a rich addict has. Enablers.” She looked to one side, then back. “False friends, Rolé told me they called them at Eirini. ‘Fire your false friends’ was one of their phrases. After you left Eirini, you were supposed to get rid of such people, cut them out of your life. He did that—and God knows it was hard—but once he’d done it, he didn’t really have anyone left. And he hadn’t had time to restart his old friendships yet.” She paused, a frown crinkling her forehead. “No, that’s not right. To be honest, he didn’t really seem to want friends. He said he was striving for serenity by concentrating on his comeback. ‘Striving for serenity’—that’s another Eirini phrase. As far as I could see, he was content to work on the collection and focus on that and the licensing deal.” Her voice became tight. “Although it seems I saw less than I thought.”
The buzz of the intercom cut across the silence. “Antoinette,” said Gabrielle’s voice.
Antoinette sighed. “I’m sorry. I asked Gabrielle to let me know when our time was up. I hope you’ll forgive me. I don’t think I’ve been much help to you.”
“Oh no, you should forgive us!” Rachel said at the same time as Magda said, “No, it’s our fault.”
“We should go.” She picked up her bag.
Magda stood up. “We’ll make another appointment.”
Antoinette started to apologize once more, then gave up. “Yes. Yes, you’re right. Later would be better. Perhaps after the memorial service.” She had started to walk them to the door, but now she paused. “In fact, why don’t you come to the memorial service? It would be a good way to meet people who knew Rolé before, people who could be helpful for your program. I’ll have Gabrielle contact you when arrangements have been finalized.”
A memorial service! Now that was a potential mine of information. Rachel nodded. “Thank you.”
“De rien.” Antoinette opened the door. “Gabrielle!”
Her assistant stood at the desk, a tray holding a white coffee service on the desk in front of her. She had obviously stopped on the way in to answer the incessantly ringing phone.
“Gabrielle, please take Madame Field’s information so that we can send her an invitation to the memorial. And you might as well take that coffee into your meeting with Keteb now.” She nodded at Rachel and Magda. “I look forward to seeing you there.”
She retreated into her office and closed the door firmly behind her.
Chapter Eight
Neither woman spoke until the white metal door to number 21 closed behind them. They shouldn’t have come. This was now so obvious that Rachel wondered why she’d ever thought the visit was a good idea. Had she really believed that this devastated woman would somehow be willing to open up her brother’s life to them? Or that two complete strangers walking into a company for the first time would find its secrets so easily laid bare?
“That poor woman. What was I thinking, trying to squeeze information out of her?” She shook her head. “Alan was right.”
Magda had the good manners not to respond to any of this. Instead, she pointed to a bistro across the street. “Come on. We never did get coffee.”
The restaurant had the scent that seemed common to every Paris café in mid-afternoon: mingled strands of yeasty bread, gently stirred sauces, and the faint earthiness of poured red wine. They sat down at a table near the door, next to the broad front window. Once seated, Rachel slipped out of her coat, leaving it flopping inside out over the chair back; Magda, always tidy, arranged hers cape-style before sitting down.
“Un café, s’il vous plait,” she said to the waiter. “And a hot chocolate for my friend.”
Rachel nodded her thanks and added, “With cream.”
But all the whipped cream in Paris wasn’t going to cheer her up, especially once Magda echoed her own earlier thoughts: “‘Given what he did.’ It sounds like even Guipure’s sister thinks he overdosed.”
“Just because she thinks it, that doesn’t make it true.’ But Rachel’s protest was feeble. If it looked like an overdose, and the most logical explanation was that it was an overdose, and even Guipure’s own twin thought it was an overdose … maybe Magda was right, and the question of the dominant hand was irrelevant.
She looked across the table. “I’m sorry I dragged you into a pointless errand. And a painful one. A pointless and painful errand.”
“It’s okay.” Magda emptied a packet of white sugar into her coffee. “I mean, it was awful, but we needed to go. Otherwise, we never would have known for sure that it wasn’t murder.”
Oh, how grateful Rachel was for that “we”! Magda had every right to be smug, even superior, but to choose solidarity instead was an act of immense support. Rachel took a deep breath to thank her.
She found herself cut off by a sharp double chime from Magda’s phone. After a moment’s digging, she extracted it from her bag. “I set it to alerts for Guipure’s name,” she explained.
“What is it? Some real charity ball organizers announcing a gala in his honor? Harrod’s bought up the whole prêt-à-porter collection?” She smiled as if those ideas didn’t actually sting.
But Magda wasn’t looking at her. Instead, she was staring at her portable’s screen.
“What? What is it? Is something wrong with your mother?” They were at an age when such possibilities loomed closer.
Magda shook her head. She turned the portable so Rachel could see the headline on its screen:
Police treating Roland Guipure’s death as suspicious.
“What?” Rachel restrained herself from grabbing the phone. So she had been right! “Do they say why?”
Magda’s thumb flicked the screen. “It just says ‘in light of further evidence.’” She looked up, catching her bottom lip with her upper teeth. “But you could call and ask.”
“What? No, no.”
“Why not?” Magda eyes widened. “Go on. Call Boussicault. Don’t you want to know how they arrived at their conclusion?”
Dammit, she did. What had made the police agree with her?
“He’ll never tell me.” It was true that twice now Capitaine Boussicault of the Paris police had listened to her when no one else took her seriously, and twice now he’d helped when no one else would. But he’d also gotten into a good deal of trouble the last time, when he allowed her to go undercover to help him with an investigation. Two weeks’ suspension without pay had made it plain what his superiors thought of the use of civilians in police work, and only the fact that they’d solved two murders and the theft of a series of national treasures had prevented a worse punishment. After all that, Rachel wasn’t sure he’d be all that pleased to hear from her, never mind spilling details of another murder.
But Magda was right: she
did want to know what the further evidence was, and Boussicault was her only possible source of information. She took her phone out of her bag, tapped through to her contacts, and hit the button next to his name before she could stop herself by thinking it through.
He picked up on the fourth ring. “Ah, Rachel! You’re calling about the Guipure murder.”
For a moment, she was struck dumb. Then she asked, “How did you know?”
Boussicault laughed. “The police alert the media that they are treating Monsieur Guipure’s death as a murder, and half an hour later you call me? It doesn’t take a great detective to make the connection. I know your … interests. And I would imagine Madame Stevens is next to, or at least somewhere near you.”
Was it good or bad to be so well known by someone who was not quite a friend? Rachel decided it was best to just get to the point. “Yes, she is. And we were wondering, would you be willing to tell us anything about the murder?” A passing waiter jerked his head in her direction. She lowered her voice. “About what’s happened to make you think it’s a murder? I mean, nothing that would … cause difficulties, but …”
As her voice trailed off, she heard him rattle some papers on the other end of the line. “I can tell you what I would tell any reporter who happened to call me looking for information on the subject, and for both our sakes, I’m happy to tell you it’s not much. Guipure was killed in the third arrondissement and lives in the eighth, neither of which are in my jurisdiction, so I know only what is in the daily informational report.”
Designs on the Dead Page 5