Raiders of the Lost Corset (30 page)

• They love lingerie, how it looks, how it hugs the body, how it lays the foundation for the rest of their clothes. They are very particular about their bras and panties, and love them to match. They spend
beaucoup
euros on this necessity. It’s worth it.

• They are not afraid to pamper themselves. That too is a necessity. If that means buying the best and most expensive face cream, then that’s what it means. Ditto: manicures, pedicures, and facials. They think they’re worth it. Aren’t you?

• Frenchwomen wear clothes that fit, and fit perfectly, which is the first essential for looking chic and put together. They know that simple classic pieces will last for years, maybe decades, therefore they spend money on them. Or they get the
monsieur
to spend it on them.

• They do not waste their euros on bargains they will never wear. What American woman can say that as she tucks that ghastly purple polyester bargain into her shopping bag, or that chartreuse velvet jacket that goes with nothing and makes her skin turn green, just because it was on sale and it was “too good” to pass up?

Feel free to borrow or steal these style clues, but don’t let the mystique of the arcane art of French scarf-tying tie you up in knots. With just a soupçon of French style and attitude, you’ll be flaunting your own sense of style, your sense of self, and your savoir faire with the best of them. And remember, you don’t have to smoke like a Frenchwoman to be
smokin’.

Chapter 28

A delicate white orchid was delivered to the room with their coffee and croissants the next morning. The card had no name, but she knew who it was from. She had seen Vic in close conversation with the concierge last night after their early evening trip down the Seine on a Bateau-Mouche, the romantic Parisian tour boat where Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn bantered romantically in
Charade.
Their view of Paris from the river was breathtaking as the Bateau-Mouche carried them slowly beneath the bridges of the Ile de la Cité and the Ile Saint-Louis, just as the lights of the City of Light winked on all around them.

Lacey cherished the orchid. It was almost too beautiful to touch.

“So they do teach you to be smooth in prep school. Why didn’t you ever show me this side of you before?” She wondered how she could enjoy the blossom and keep it with her all day.

“Because I knew you’d be a smart-ass about it.”

She kissed him. “I’ll wear it in my hair.” She wouldn’t worry about what people would think. That was one lesson she had learned about style in France. She tucked the blossom behind her ear, securing it with a bobby pin. She glanced in the mirror, pleased. She had picked out a clever high Empire-waisted blue-green sweater with a sweetheart neckline that brought out her eyes and emphasized her curves. She wore it over her black skirt and tights. “How do I look?”

He returned the kiss. “It’s what any self-respecting femme fatale would wear.”

“Who’s the smart-ass now?” Lacey wanted to linger over coffee, but Vic was eager to get out.

“Time’s a-wasting, honey,” he said in his best Colorado police chief manner. It was their last day in Paris, and Montmartre was calling. “If we want to have any time to ourselves before meeting our friends the spy-chasers and entering another dimension.”

“Don’t blame me, Vic, you brought Damon to Paris.”

Lacey had seen the famous black-and-white photos of Paris artistically shrouded in fog. But the landscape of Montmartre, the district of artists and bohemians, came alive in Technicolor under a clear azure sky. Yesterday’s rain had given way to brilliant sunshine. The air was cool though comfortable, and the crowds returned in droves to the streets, wandering among painters and fruit sellers and flower stands, bistros and shops. She and Vic wound their way up and down the streets shopping and taking pictures.

Before they met Brooke and Damon, Lacey had to meet an old friend of Magda’s. She called ahead to a lingerie shop in Montmartre to meet with a Madame Suzanne Noir, who had been an apprentice with Magda years before in an exclusive lingerie shop. They had learned to fit corsets and other foundation garments together, and Magda had remembered her well. Vic left her at this temple of lingerie and went in search, he said, of more manly pursuits.

Lacey had expected to meet a twin of the old corsetiere she had known in Washington, but Madame Suzanne Noir reminded her not of Magda, but of a pale corpse, a tall, thin corpse about to ride the last Metro out of this world. Her dyed black hair did nothing to ease the walking-dead effect, though it was worn in flirtatious ringlets from a center part. Two round patches of rouge on the cheeks had obviously been applied by a woman whose eyesight was fading. The tired gray eyes were circled in heavy eyeliner, and face powder had settled into the wrinkles. Madame Noir wore a severe black dress with a lace collar, a cross at her throat and a gold wedding ring her only jewelry.

She was gracious when Lacey introduced herself and conveyed the sad news that Magda had died shortly before the trip. Lacey decided to save the footnote that Magda had been murdered. It might put a damper on this social call.
It was the sort of information,
she thought,
that you could always get around to later, but you could
never take back.

“How curious life is, no? Magda’s heart gives out mere days before our grand reunion. I tell you I was so very surprised when she wrote to me. It had been so many years, you see.”

“I know she looked forward to seeing you again,” Lacey said.

“Can you tell me what she was like when she was young?”

Madame Noir was quiet for awhile before finally speaking.

“When we were girls, I was the serious student. Magda was more — playful, perhaps. It was very strict working in the shop in the old days. Magda liked to say that corsets hide secrets. I would say, of course, they hide the waist that is thick, the hips that are lumpy, the breasts that sag. Magda Rousseau would laugh and say,

‘
Mais oui
, all that and more.’ ”

“That sounds like Magda.”

“Oh, yes. For me, it was my work, but for her —” The old woman threw up her hands. “It was something more.” She seemed at a loss for words. Or perhaps she didn’t want to say more.

“Do you mind if I look around your beautiful shop?” Lacey was dazzled by the lovely lingerie, pools of silk fabrics in every color.

She was glad she wasn’t being harassed this time by a rogue Russian ex-spy with an odd American dream.

“Please do. I’m sure you will find something to amuse your young man,” Madame said with a sly smile. Lacey smiled too.

“Well,
amuse
isn’t exactly what I’m going for. Perhaps
entice
is a better word.”

Madame Noir floated lightly around the shop, pointing out some lovely underwear sets. Lacey picked up a delicate set in sky-blue silk with lavender lace. “Perhaps you would tell me, Mademoiselle Smithsonian. A delicate question. What was it that Magda wanted of me?” Lacey glanced up at her in surprise.

“She just told me that she wanted to visit her old friend.” Lacey didn’t know what else to say, so she focused on the lingerie. This set, one of the least expensive ones, was well over a hundred euros.

She peered into a case where even pricier underwear nestled securely behind glass. A little shocked, Lacey resolved not to faint in front of this cadaverous Frenchwoman whose clientele apparently thought nothing of buying three-hundred-dollar bras.

Madame Noir smiled, revealing yellow teeth behind dry,

cracked lips. “We were friends once, it is true, but we parted badly.

May I tell you the secret? I married the man Magda loved, you see.

I took him away from her. Why would she want to see me, except for revenge?”

“So there was once a man in Magda’s life?” Madame Noir nodded. Lacey was surprised by this revelation, but happy to learn that Magda had at least known love once.
I thought she must be a
widow
, Lacey mused.
This must be the man I’d sensed in her past.

“And Monsieur Noir?”

“My husband died some time ago.” The woman rubbed her plain gold wedding ring as if to reassure herself. “I am alone now.”

“Maybe she didn’t want revenge at all,” Lacey suggested. “Perhaps she just wanted to tell you she had forgiven you.”

“How very kind of you to say that,” Madame Noir said. Lacey had the distinct feeling that by “kind” she meant “stupid.”

Lacey tried to frame a sensitive question about their love triangle, the who, why, and when of that long-ago love affair. “May I ask you a rather —” But Madame had her own questions.

“What did she tell you about me? Why did Magda want to see me now?” Her eyes narrowed like a cat’s, and Lacey was afraid she was about to pounce. “What did she want?”

“I’m sorry, Madame Noir, I don’t know. I was just going to ac-company her to France. She wanted to see you again. That’s all.”

Was it possible that Magda wanted to reconcile with her old friend? Or did she just want to flaunt her hoped-for treasure in this bitter woman’s face? For revenge for an old wound? And why was Madame Noir, the winner in their love triangle, so bitter toward Magda, the loser? She had no idea, and now she wanted to leave.

Lacey picked up two bra-and-panty sets, one in white lace and the one in sky-blue silk. “I’ll take these.”

“You do not want to try them on?” Madame seemed shocked at this American breach of fashion protocol, but there was no way Lacey was going to take off her clothes in a dressing room with this malevolent old crow hovering over her.

“I think they’ll fit.” Lacey fumbled in her purse for her credit card.

Madame Noir stared at the lingerie and then at Lacey with a trained eye. “These will most likely fit you very well, but I must recommend a fitting.” She grabbed a measuring tape. “I must measure you!”

“I have to meet my friends,” Lacey said firmly. “I’ll take them.”

The old woman shrugged curtly. “
D’accord!
I cannot be held responsible if you are not happy.” Madame Noir seized the mer-chandise and carried it to the register along with Lacey’s credit card. “A very nice choice, mademoiselle. My compliments.”

Lacey smiled stiffly. Madame Noir offered her card back and then suddenly grabbed Lacey’s wrist when she reached for it, pulling Lacey’s face close to hers. “Magda Rousseau was a crazy woman! She had crazy ideas! She said her grandfather stole a treasure, a long time ago, in the Russian Revolution. She said the old man talked in his sleep.” Madame Noir stared into Lacey’s face as if looking right through her. Lacey turned her wrist, but the old woman held her fast. “Magda swore she would find it one day. She hated me because I took her lover. She swore revenge on me. I am very poor, mademoiselle. I have no pension. No husband. I can give her nothing. You must tell me: Did Magda find her treasure? Let her have it, and leave me in peace!”

“I’m sorry, Madame Noir. There is no treasure. I only came because I thought you were her friend, you would want to know she had died.” Lacey spoke very calmly. “Now let me go.”

“But of course.” The woman released her wrist. “
Désolée.
I forget myself.
Pardon,
mademoiselle.” She curled her mouth into a cold smile. She finished wrapping the lingerie sets in floral tissue paper and slipped them into a small black bag with embossed gold lettering. “Will that be all, mademoiselle?”

Lacey calmed herself, trying not to be furious with this embit-tered old woman. She noticed that several bottles of perfume for sale at the register had been disarrayed in their brief struggle.

Madame Noir was quietly straightening the display.

“No. One more question, Madame. Magda wore a certain perfume, it was very distinct. I don’t know the name. Perhaps she wore it when you were friends. Do you remember?” Lacey felt herself flush. “But never mind, after all these years she couldn’t have still worn the same —”

Madame Noir pulled a stopper from a delicate amber bottle and offered it to Lacey. “Is this it?”

The familiar woodsy rose scent was overwhelming. Lacey felt her stomach rise. She wanted to run from the store, but she resolved not to lose her self-control. “Yes, thank you. That’s the scent.”

“Shall I wrap it up for you? Will that be a charge to the same card?”

“No, thank you, Madame. But the name of the scent, please?”

“It is a very old-fashioned scent.
Forêt de Rose.
” She put the stopper back in the bottle. “She always wore it, a long time ago. It was her favorite.”

“
Merci,
Madame, I’m so sorry that Magda couldn’t be here to see you herself.”
Magda would have known what to say. She would
have put the old woman in her place.

Madame Suzanne Noir pulled herself up very erect and pale. She was once again the consummate saleswoman. “It is of no importance, Mademoiselle Smithsonian. We all die. Some sooner than others. Au revoir.”

Lacey bolted from the lingerie shop, her heart beating wildly.

Vic was just emerging from the elegant menswear shop next door with a sack. She slipped her arm into his. He turned to her with his brilliant smile. “Hi, everything okay?

“Of course.” She snuggled into his arms. “Never better.”

He frowned. “Are you sure?”

“I was just frightened by a scary underwear saleswoman.”

Lacey couldn’t believe she’d spent so much money with that old harridan. She hoped desperately her new underwear would fit. She must have been mesmerized into buying it. How could she ever return them if they didn’t fit?

“Yeah, I hate it when that happens. How scary?”

“Several hundred dollars’ worth.” She showed off the chic little bag she carried and his eyes grew wide.

“Whoa. Now I’m scared too.” He peeked in the bag and smiled.

“That must be about a hundred dollars an ounce, honey. Can I see about two ounces of that later?” Lacey blushed happily. Vic tucked both of their packages into his black leather backpack.

They were meeting Brooke and Damon at the Basilica of Sacre-Coeur, the crowning glory of Montmartre. Passing by a block of pretty houses across from the Lapin Agile, said to be Picasso’s favorite cabaret, they saw scrawled across the side of one house in huge painted letters the lovesick declaration of some unknown French swain:
AGATHE JE T’AIME. Lucky Agathe,
Lacey thought.