Nights In Black Lace (22 page)

“Got it.”

She turned away, becoming involved in a murmured conversation with Fanny and Sabine.

“The book is our record of who, what, and when,” Marc went on. “That way an actress on the red carpet will not see her mirror image, and the wife of a rich man will not see her husband's mistress in the same dress. We try to avert such disasters.”

“Right.” He was feeling more like a fish out of water every minute. The crunchy granola crowd he ran with had no clue that clothes did anything more than keep the rain out and the warmth in.

A few more people filed in and the meeting began in earnest.

“All right,” Odette said. “As most of you know, some of my designs have been stolen—the flower ones first. We have begun an investigation.”

Bryan wondered if she trusted everyone here enough to tell them that. She must. These were her older employees, except for Marc. Lucie, of course, had not been invited.

She wouldn't have had a chance to boost the dress design.

“But now that Krissie's dress has been stolen too, we must face the fact that there is a serious lapse in our security. For now—” she hesitated “we will have to close the atelier down. None of you are suspects.”

But the dismay on their faces was clear. A few glanced suspiciously at Bryan.

“A computer expert will be going through the hard drives of the assistants' computers later. None of you work with computers, so that is another reason I have to trust you.”

Her voice wavered and Bryan knew she was about to cry. He made a move to go to her, but Marc's hand on his arm stopped him.

“And for now, that is all I have to say.”

Fanny, the
vendeuse
, stepped forward. “Madame Gaillard, if I may look through the book with you
…
”

“Please do,” Odette said.

The older woman set the half glasses on a chain around her neck on her nose. She was dressed in a smock, impeccably cut, severe but chic.

Bryan looked around at the serious faces. The rag trade was a lot more complicated than he'd ever imagined. Whatever. He'd help her if he could.

 

“Follow me,” Odette said to Bryan when the workroom staff had gone home. “I will need moral support when I call Krissie's manager.”

“Which one was he? The guy with the ponytail was her agent and then there was the band manager—I know he's different—”

Odette gave a short laugh. “I barely remember them all myself. I am glad that I do not have to see his face when he yells at me.”

“If they want an exclusive, they shouldn't post cell phone pictures on the Chaos website.”

She managed a faint smile. “Would you like to tell them that?”

“I will if you want me too.”

“
Merci
, Sir Galahad.”

He sat with her through several phone calls to different outraged people. He could've punched a few of the pigs on her behalf, no problem.

She hung up on the last one and said terrible things in French about him under her breath. Then she looked at him, tapping her pencil on the ring binder. “And now, the High Council meets.”

“What? Who are they?”

“Women.”

He held up his hands. “No boys allowed?”

“You are not a boy. And of course you may come.”

Bryan rose and reached out a hand to her. She took it, getting to her feet. “Thank you.”

“I've got to live up to the Galahad thing.”

Odette gave him a worried look and a much too brief kiss. “So far, you are a natural.”

 

The High Council turned out to be composed of two women—three, if you counted Odette.

There was Madame Arelquin, whom he had met before—but he'd just found out she was Odette's godmother. The old lady was dressed to the nines in a suit and a hat and gloves, which she held in one hand.

And Odette's mother, whom he hadn't met and hadn't been expecting to meet. He'd said a silent, drenched-in-irony thank-you to Odette for not telling him in advance.

Madame Gaillard had once been as beautiful as her daughter, if not as glamorous or as tall. Her hands showed that she'd worked with them for decades, but her roundness of body had kept her face looking much younger than her years.

Meeting even one of her parents under the circumstances was truly weird. But Madame Gaillard didn't seem to mind at all.

Odette tapped on the workroom table with a ruler. “Shall we begin?”

The two older women stopped chatting and looked her way.

“
Bien sûr
,” Madame Arelquin said.

“Since you ran your own couture house, I wanted to know if this ever happened to you,” Odette said. “The copying and stealing, I mean.”

“Indeed it did. Long ago.”

“And what did you do?”

Madame Arelquin looked at Madame Gaillard. “Your
maman
had just started working for me then. She was the one who told me that my designs had been copied—she had seen them at Bon Marché.”

“What did you do?”

“Eventually we found the culprit,” Madame Arelquin said. “We had him guillotined.”

“Be serious,” Odette's mother scolded her.

“I wanted to,” Madame Arelquin replied. “Of course, there is very little that can be done. The man was sacked. The designs were worn by every shopgirl in Paris.”

“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.