Raiders of the Lost Corset (11 page)

Lacey had brought a copy of her latest column to give to Analiza, the one about Magda, but she was unprepared when the woman called on her next to say a few words about the deceased.

Stella dragged Lacey up to the podium. “Go up there and tell all these people about Magda, Lace, the way only you can.” A genius at mixing guilt and flattery, Stella uttered a few words of her own and then turned to Lacey. Thankful at least that Stella had passed up the opportunity to show the gathered crowd all the intimate intricacies of corsetry using her own ensemble as an instructive example, Lacey cleared her throat, took a deep breath, and called on her long-ago college acting experience. She spread her column on the podium and read from it.

CRIMES OF FASHION

Behind the Seams:

Corsetiere Magda Rousseau Slain

By Lacey Smithsonian

“Bloody thread, knock ’em dead.” Everyone who knew Magda Rousseau has heard her say that. The saying comes, she said, from an old tradition among theatrical costumers, a belief that if the seamstress accidentally pricks her finger and spills a drop of her blood on a costume, the show will be a hit. “Bloody stitch, all get rich” is another version of the same saying. “Prick a finger,” Magda told me, is to a costumer a good-luck wish akin to telling an actor to “Break a leg.”

Magda pointed out that it was impossible, of course, not to prick your fingers while sewing so many elaborate costumes under the short deadlines of the theatre world, so nearly every costume holds a tiny good-luck drop of the seamstress’s blood. And along with that drop of blood,

Magda always poured her heart and soul into her work. She died this week in her costume shop in the District, still pouring her heart and soul into her work. Our community is diminished by the loss of Magda Rousseau. You may not have known her, but if you attend Washington theatre, you have seen her work on stages around town for many years. An artist with a needle, a poet in fabric, a corsetiere of the old school with a loyal clientele, Magda was also a stern taskmistress and a loving friend who . . .

Lacey finished her reading and sat down to appreciative murmurs from the other mourners, only to be corrected by another costumer. A large woman in a black corset bodice gown stood up to lecture her that the correct saying was actually “bloody dress, good press,” a play, she elaborated, on a phrase that actors say but don’t really believe, “bad dress, good press,” referring to a show’s dress rehearsal. If that rehearsal is dreadful, she said, it’s thought to predict that the press notices for the show will be glowing. The woman then went on to lodge a vociferous complaint about the new theatre critic of
The Eye,
whom she called “the Butcher of the Beltway,” one of Mac’s new hires whom Lacey hadn’t even met yet, but whose assaults on local theatre were apparently all Lacey’s fault as the Voice of
The Eye.

This was a good time to exit, Lacey decided. She slipped into the crowd and out the shop door while the large costumer was still ha-ranguing the other mourners. While she was reading from her column, Stella and the other stylists had rushed back for their afternoon shift at Stylettos, leaving Lacey without a ride to
The Eye.
Now she stood on the sidewalk and pawed through her purse, looking for her MetroCard, resolving fervently to buy another car soon, very soon.

Lacey barely registered that the November day was heartbreakingly beautiful. Colors exploded on maple trees and the sky was Queen of Heaven blue. She finally extracted a crumpled Metro card from the outside pocket of her purse and turned to go.

“Lacey Smithsonian?” someone asked in an elegant British accent.

Chapter 10

Lacey looked up at the man standing in her light. His silhouette was tall and thin, and he was wearing a khaki trench coat over a charcoal V-neck sweater and gray slacks. She didn’t know him.

“You are, of course, the famous Lacey Smithsonian.” He flashed a smile. His teeth were good, she thought, for a Brit. She sighed. Someone with a complaint about her column, she assumed.

“I’m afraid I’m the only Lacey Smithsonian, famous or not.”

“Lovely tribute to our dear Magda. Your piece went over well. You have a beautiful voice, by the way.”

“ ‘Our’ dear Magda? I didn’t see you up there. And who are you?”

“Pardon me.” He offered her his hand. Good handshake, she thought. For a Brit. “Griffin.”

“Griffin? Mythological beast? Half lion, half eagle?”

“Two beasts for the price of one.” Griffin was very nice looking in a well-bred, understated English way, with short light brown hair and hazel eyes. “Forgive me, Lacey, may I call you Lacey? Smithsonian is such a mouthful. We must talk. Would you mind having coffee with me?” She hesitated. “I see your friends have all left. That leaves me. A poor substitute, I’m afraid, but I am a mythological being, after all. Shall we?”

Lacey had been in Washington so long she couldn’t tell whether he was flirting or not. “Why?” Was he some kind of cop? Detective Broadway Lamont had disappeared too, so probably not. He didn’t look or talk like a cop. “What about?”

“You knew Magda,” he began. “She must have mentioned — I need to ask you about —” He didn’t seem to know what to say for a moment. Lacey’s defenses went on alert. Maybe he was worse than a cop. Maybe he was another reporter, a competitor, even a hack for Damon Newhouse’s Conspiracy Clearinghouse. If so, he wasn’t getting anything out of her.

“What do you do, Mr. Griffin?”

“Nigel, please. Nigel Griffin. And what do I do? It’s fascinating. Let me buy you coffee. You must be curious. I know I am.”

“Five minutes. I choose the place. I leave when I’m ready to leave.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“Would
you
trust you?”

“Well, no, but that’s just me. I’m suspicious by nature. But to allay your dark suspicions, Lacey, I’ll get to the point. Just between us, it’s about the jewels.”

Lacey’s heart lurched.
Oh, God, what does he know?
“Jewels?”

She tried to look appropriately clueless.
So he isn’t flirting. Had
Magda told everyone?
Or had he read that the body was covered with fake jewels? That detail was in the paper. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about. But I will let you buy me coffee and a pastry and you can tell me.”
He won’t be the first to assume I’m just a
dumb reporter. Especially if he’s a dumb reporter too.

Nigel Griffin frowned momentarily, scanning what was left of the crowd dispersing from the memorial, as if there might be someone there more interesting, who might have more promising information. But then he brightened. “Of course. Lead on, please, Lacey. Your choice.”

They walked down several blocks without a word and found a coffee shop that wasn’t part of a chain. She ordered a latte and a pricey piece of cheesecake. He did the same, and they found a table near the window where she could look out on Pennsylvania Avenue.

Lacey was careful to take the seat nearest the door.

Griffin stretched his long legs under the table, almost reaching Lacey’s feet. She adjusted her chair to make sure there would be no playing footsie. He laughed.

“Don’t play the coy one with me, Smithsonian. I know all about you.”

“I doubt that.” She busied herself with putting sugar in her coffee.

“Oh, but I do. From your news clippings. And that Web site.

What’s the name of it?” He paused while she waited for the in-evitable mention of Conspiracy Clearinghouse’s Web address.

“DeadFed dot com. That’s the one,” he said triumphantly. “You’re so often their star attraction.”

She set her coffee cup down. “Are you sure you don’t work for them?” Her name had been splashed in too many headlines by Damon Newhouse, Brooke’s crazy co-conspirator.

“Me? No. Might be fun, though. If I could write, which I can’t.

That is, I can read and write, of course — I’m quite an educated fellow — but I’m not a writer. And DeadFed makes you sound positively like a wild woman.” He looked at her carefully. “I must say I’m surprised to find you so — Ah, what’s the word? Demure. You look as if you’re having tea with the queen.”

“You do know DeadFed is all crap?”

“Surely not all crap. I gather your speciality is stabbing people,” Griffin continued, waving his plastic knife at her. “But can your sister Cherise really knock a man out with a cheerleader’s kick?”

Leave my sister out of this!
“Would you like a personal demonstration?”

“Tempting, but no thanks.” He paused. “As I was saying, you must know about the treasure old Magda had in her sights. Worth a king’s ransom, you know.” He slurped his coffee.

“A treasure?” Lacey let her eyes light up facetiously, even as her stomach sank. “Ooh, tell me about her treasure. Was that why she lived like a queen?”
Damn it, Magda! Who else did you tell?

What did you say? Does the whole damned world know by now?

“The act’s not funny, Smithsonian. You know what I’m talking about.”

She took a bite of cheesecake. Analiza was hosting a small private luncheon after the memorial, to which apparently neither she nor Nigel Griffin had been invited, and she was hungry. “No, really, what treasure? Tell me.” She leaned forward eagerly. “I’m dying to know.”

“I don’t believe you.” He folded his arms grumpily. “Don’t play with me.”

“What kind of treasure? Did she keep cash under the mattress? I’d love to know.”

He shifted in his seat. “If you know nothing about the treasure, what were you doing with Magda?”

“My job, of course. The fashion beat. I was documenting the nearly lost art of the old-school corsetiere.” Lacey forked another bite of cheesecake. “Writing a feature story on a brilliant seamstress.”

“That’s all? You visited her on numerous occasions. Deep into the night.”

“Is that right? Have you been stalking me?”

“Stalking is such an ugly word. I just happen to know, that’s all.”

Who the hell is this guy?
“What business is it of yours?”

“I’m a knowledgeable fellow.” He smiled. “I like to know things.”

“If you must know, my friend Stella dragged me there. I decided to work up a feature story on Magda, and well, one thing led to another, and —”

“Yes?”

Lacey hoped to make him uncomfortable, put him on edge. “It takes a few fittings to get a corset to fit exactly the way you want. It’s tricky.”

A glimmer of interest lit his eyes. “Demure little Lacey Smithsonian? You? In a corset?”

She lifted her coffee cup, along with one eyebrow. “Like I said, it takes awhile. There are all sorts of intimate details to work out.”

“Any details you’d like to share?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“I would. As a matter of fact, I’m picturing it now.” He lifted his latte in a salute.

“Well, stop it before you go blind. Now tell me about this alleged treasure.”

“You found her and she was draped in jewels. According to your story.”

“Stage jewels. But that was all in the paper.”

“And DeadFed,” Griffin reminded her. “Do you think they were some sort of message?”

“Enough footsie. Who are you, Griffin, and what exactly do you do?”

“As I said, Nigel Griffin by name, and I am, for lack of a better term, a professional jewel retriever by trade — or in this case, a finder of lost treasure.”

“Really? Who do you work for?” She leaned forward. “How did you get into this line of work? Is there health insurance?”

“Ah. Afraid I don’t know you well enough to spill all my secrets, Lacey. But give me some time. If we were working together, we might share all sorts of intimacies.”

I don’t think so.
“What sort of lost treasure?” Her heart was beating faster.

“That’s the problem,” he said, leaning forward in his chair. He scanned two people who just walked into the coffee shop. They looked anonymous. He returned his gaze to Lacey. “I’m not quite sure, but it’s Russian, something dating from the Revolution or before, I know that much. It could even be —” His voice dropped to a whisper. “A Fabergé egg. And that would be unbelievable. In my field, it could make a man’s reputation.”

He struck her, Lacey decided, as a man who already had a reputation.
A bad one.

“Could one little Fabergé egg be that valuable?”

“My dear Smithsonian, please tell me you are not that naive. Every one of the fifty original imperial Fabergé eggs is worth millions. Eight are unaccounted for.” He leaned in close, his eyes gleaming dangerously. “You could use a million or so, couldn’t you? Tax-free? And can you imagine solving that mystery? An adventure of, well, if not a lifetime, then at least this year.”

“But you said it might not be a Fabergé egg.” She toyed with her cheesecake. Griffin arched an eyebrow at her and gazed away into some other world, where Fabergé eggs danced before his eyes.

“So Madame Rousseau never said anything to you?”

“I’d remember the part about a Fabergé egg. I’m pretty sure of it.”

Griffin sighed in exasperation. “I am a retriever of jewels, I am not a psychic divining rod for them. Come on, Smithsonian, what did she tell you? Worth your while, I promise you.”

“Magda talked about fabric, not Fabergé. Did she look like someone who had a Fabergé egg hidden in her sewing kit? Living in that little cubbyhole over her shop? So tell me, how did you fall into this line of work? And why aren’t you better at it?”

“Long story, luv. You’ll have to get to know me better.” Lacey arched an eyebrow at him in turn. “A partnership, Smithsonian, not a love affair. Sorry to disappoint.” He stretched back in his chair.

“You’re not exactly my type. Too refined. Too demure.”

“You are just too charming, you know that, Nigel Griffin?”

“Just telling it like it is. I’m a one-night-stand kind of guy. I’m cheap. Despite my dashing good looks.” He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and fished through his pockets for matches. Lacey riveted him with a glare. He sighed and put them away.

“No smoking in here, right? You Yanks have gone so puritan these days.”

“Is this babbling going anywhere? I have a job, you know, I am not a freelance Fabergé egg finder on some fat expense account, unlike some people.”