The Profiler's Daughter (Sky Stone Thriller Series) (20 page)

“You work too hard,
mon petit
. This will help you relax.” Francois handed Sky a glass of champagne.

“Join me?” she asked.

“No, no. Not when I am working,” Francois held up a cautionary hand. “Don’t smudge those nails.”

Sky sipped bubbly and scanned the Sprague Dawley figures. Column headings written in Zach’s methodical hand included identification number, weight, dosage, swim time, and mobility time for each animal. She checked Nicolette’s transcribed values against Zach’s raw values for Rat E3SD11. Weight, ID and dosage were identical, but swim time and mobility values did not match. Sky blinked her eyes and looked again.

She painstakingly checked each subject in Zach’s group against Nicolette’s copy. Indeed, the transcribed pages showed the identical pattern: twenty seconds added to each rat’s swim time, thirty seconds subtracted from the mobility measure.

Sky moved on to the Wistar values. A perfect match.

Of course
. The highly anxious rats had performed in the expected direction. The Sprague Dawleys had not. The teddy bear rats had disappointed the team.

With Nicolette’s changes, the whole week’s experiment looked a raving success, made the floetazine look like a viable treatment for depression in two strains of rat. On paper, anyway.

Sky set her champagne glass on the floor and looked back and forth between the pages. She’d heard stories, the Korean cloning pioneer and his eleven phony stem cell lines. The MIT biologist who fabricated his research on immune system functions. Sky stared at the bogus lab numbers in her lap and was surprised by her own revulsion.

“We’d better take a peek.” Francois was puttering happily among Izzy’s bags and boxes at the other end of the room. “No telling how long these clothes have been in storage. We may need to steam.”

The tainted data aroused the scientist in Sky and she wondered how Nicolette’s changes might affect the final means. She began to compute swim times with her green golf pencil and was on the third set of corrupted values when she heard Francois cry out. She looked up from her calculations.

He was on his knees, peering into one of the pink boxes.

“Is something wrong with the dress, Francois? I brought two, just in case.”

The hairdresser didn’t answer.

He didn’t move.

“Are you alright, Francois? Should I call someone?” Sky grew concerned. Was he having a heart attack?

She started to climb out of the spa chair when Francois spoke.

“Sit,
ma chère
.” His voice was reedy with emotion. “I’m fine. I simply never expected …” He lifted something out of the box as carefully as one might lift an infant. “This really should be in a museum.” In his arms, ripples of white shimmered in candlelight.

“No, no,” Sky said. “I’m wearing the black gown. The other box.”

Francois stared silently at the white stuff in his arms.

Sky grew insistant. “I am
not
wearing white, Francois. That dress is strictly back-up.”

The hairdresser laughed weakly at her remark.

The dim light made it hard for Sky to see Francois’s stooped figure clearly. Were those tears on his face? Was he crying over a dress?

Francois sniffed and wiped at his cheek. “I feel the need to share,” he said, moving to the wet bar. “I believe I will have that drink. Another glass of Dom,
mon petit
?” He popped a fresh bottle and filled two glasses.

“I must tell you a story.” Francois handed Sky a flute. “About a boy from a Basque fishing village on the coast of Spain. The boy’s father died shortly after he was born, thrusting the family into poverty. They got by with the mother’s work as a seamstress.” Francois drained the flute and poured another. “The child learned to sew at the age of three, his skill with a needle was dazzling, even then. A pearl-encrusted collar sewn for his pet cat caught the eye of the local Marquesa, she became his first
patron
. At the age of twelve he learned cutting from a San Sebastian tailor, at twenty he opened his first couture shop. He was dressing the Spanish monarchy within ten years, running three fashion houses, employing hundreds.”

“The Spanish Civil War forced him to Paris in 1937. His first show was a sensation. His collections sold out during the war. The war,
mon petit
!” Francois drained his second glass of champagne and poured a third. “His apprentices included André Courreges, Emmanuel Ungaro, and Oscar de la Renta. Givenchy openly idolized him. Coco Chanel and Christian Dior called him ‘The Master.’ He was the genius of geniuses, a legend in his own lifetime.” Francois stared at the champagne bubbles. “He dominated twentieth century
haute couture,
a perfect synthesis of austerity and extravagance.”

“So, this guy designed clothes?” Sky stifled a yawn. Her grandmother had taken her to Paris a few times as a child, but those memories were dim. Mostly she recalled wading barefoot in the Jardins Du Trocadero and eating strawberry tarts as elaborate as valentines. “What’s this guy’s name? Izzy took me to a fashion show. Maybe I met him.”

“Oh,
mon petit
.” Francois’s lips formed a sad smile. “Cristóbal Balenciaga was dead by the time you were born.”

“I know that name.”

“
Oui
. Your grandmother and Monsieur Balenciaga were great friends. He designed your baptismal dress as a personal favor.” Francois lifted his flute to Sky in the gesture of a formal toast. “Not many can say they wore a Balenciaga at their christening,
ma chere
.”

Sky recalled an elderly friend of Izzy’s who’d visited sporadically during Sky’s summers in Boston. A generation older than her grandmother, the wrinkled old woman stood out in Sky’s mind because she spoke with a distinctive southern accent. ‘Fetch me another Manhattan, lamb,’ the old woman would drawl. Sipping cocktails and nibbling on cucumber sandwiches in her grandmother’s bedchamber, Izzy and the southern dowager spoke of places traveled, gowns worn. Names and places intermingled in Sky’s memory. Tangiers, Orleans, Florette and Odette, watching the bulls run in Madrid with Cristóbal. The women would cackle like two old crows.

Francois focused on Sky’s face as he spoke. “The Master thought of women as racehorses.” He leaned over and rearranged a tendril of Sky’s hair. “Maison Balenciaga dressed only thoroughbreds. And Isabel Winthrop was a thoroughbred, to be sure.” The hairdresser chuckled. “Your clever grandmother even managed to penetrate the inner sanctum, the Master’s office. Located in the heart of his fortress on Avenue George V, virtually impossible.”

“Impossible? Why?”

“Balenciaga was a recluse, pathologically shy.” Francois stroked his champagne glass with an index finger. “He shunned society. He never appeared in public. During his own shows, he would watch the models from backstage, hidden behind a white curtain. Away from the eyes. Away from the madding crowd.”

Francois went to the wet bar and uncorked another bottle of Dom. “Chubby, round-cheeked Christian Dior courted the fashion writers. Balenciaga barred the press from his shows. Gave no interviews. One had to have an appointment to even get into the building. To answer your question,
ma chère
, Balenciaga was a fanatic when it came to security.”

Sky was beginning to like this Cristóbal Balenciaga. She reconsidered the white gown, just on principle. “How did Izzy penetrate the fortress?”

“The House of Balenciaga was a virtual monastery. The Master approached his work as sacrament, insisted on silence. No one spoke unless absolutely necessary. And then, only in whispers. Moving from one room to the next was nearly impossible because he posted fierce women at every door.”

Francois stared at the bubbles in his flute. “Your grandmother smuggled a runt from her blue ribbon King Charles bitch to Paris on the QEII. She showed up for a fitting at Maison Balenciaga one gray winter afternoon with the puppy hidden in her pocket. As she moved closer to the inner office, she revealed the runt to each female guard. Each guard relented. When she presented the Master with the tiny black and tan pup, his business manager went ballistic. Monsieur Balenciaga was ecstatic. He named the pup after your grandmother.” The hairdresser paused. “Isabel Winthrop knew his heart, you see. He was so very pure.”

Francois drained the flute. “Your grandmother once confessed to me that Cristóbal Balenciaga was the most beautiful man she’d ever known.”

Wow, Sky thought. Hairdressers really
did
know all the secrets. “Were they lovers?” she asked.

“No, no,
mon petite.
They were friends –
les oiseaux d'une plume
– birds of a feather. They understood one another. A small example: Monsieur Balenciaga took inspiration from the paintings of Goya, Monet, Velázquez. Your grandmother always spotted the references in his clothes. Most clients – indeed, most designers – could not.” Francois’s voice dropped nearly to a whisper. “Miro designed the catalogue cover for the Balenciaga exhibition in Madrid, two years after the Master’s death. A tribute from one great artist to another, you see.”

“Why isn’t Balenciaga more famous?” Sky wiggled her gold fingernails at Francois. “Like Dior?”

“Because he refused to license his name,
ma chère.
Refused to prostitute his talent. ‘I have a car, and six houses,’ he would say. ‘What need have I for more money?’” Francois arched an eyebrow. “The heir presumptive that currently designs for the House of Balenciaga has the Master’s archives stored in his
atelier.
Yet the poor young man can gain entry to the locked room only by special appointment with an off-site curator.” The hairdresser put a manicured finger to his lips. “Even now, so long after his death, the Master maintains control.”

Francois set his champagne flute on the bar with a dramatic flourish. “Enough of this talk, talk, talk.” He leaned down and ran a finger over the nails of Sky’s right hand. “
Trés bien
. Completely dry. Let’s try the gown, shall we?”

Sky put down the data and the flute of Dom and climbed out of the spa chair.

“Dior may have dressed the rich, but Balenciaga dressed the very rich.” Francois lifted the gown from its box. “The Duchess of Windsor, Princess Grace of Monaco, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.” He moved the garment gently, this way and that, as sheaf after sheaf of white tissue floated from the satiny folds. “Absolutely no wrinkles.” His voice carried a note of admiration. “Your grandmother trains her maids so beautifully.”

“I can’t see very well.” Sky let the spa robe slide to the floor and stood barefoot in a strapless silk slip. She took the gown from Francois’s arms. “What are these?” She felt something stiff through the fabric of the bodice.

“That,
mon petit
, is an eighteen bone corsetry system.” Francois gave a small shake of his head. “The whole gown is hand finished.
P
e
au du soie
silk. I’ve never seen anything like it.” He shrugged. “Textile specialists lined up just for the privilege of working with him. Monsieur Balenciaga was obsessed with the way materials absorbed and reflected light.”

Sky stepped into the strapless gown. “You know so much about designers, Francois. So much about clothes.”

“I did not start out to be a hairdresser,
ma chère
. My true love was fashion. I think it’s one of the reasons your grandmother tolerated me all those years.”

Francois stood behind Sky and began to fasten the gown’s lower back. “Look at this. A hidden zipper with hook closures. Impossible to detect.” He spoke as he worked. “I attended Parsons when I was eighteen, studied design. It was 1948. One of my first assignments was an essay on Balenciaga. Even Coco Chanel – who was something of a whore, by the way – had to admit Balenciaga was the only couturier able to design, cut, assemble, sew, and fit a dress entirely by himself. Schiaparelli, when she retired, went to Balenciaga for her own clothes. As did Vionnet.” Francois worked his way up Sky’s back. “My father abandoned the family during my second year at Parsons. The money ran out.”

He came around and adjusted the bodice. “I returned home, went into the family business. Such as it was. My mother was a hair burner, you see. Had a salon chair in the basement. The rest, as they say, is history.”

The old hairdresser’s flippant tone belied a profound sadness. In his smile, Sky saw the young man he must once have been. Bright, sensitive, handsome.

“I’m sorry, Francois.”

“Not a bit of it,
mon petit
. I can’t complain. I’ve had a good life. Are we ready to see how the dress looks?”

Sky had already decided to wear the gown because it felt so comfortable, like a second skin.

“Let’s not forget the finishing touches.” Francois pulled a box from the Bonwit bag and lifted out a pair of white peep-toe pumps. “Balenciaga, made in Italy,” he read the shoe label. “Embroidered mesh over white
peau de soie
. This satin ruffle along the ankle is delightful. Five double A?”

Sky nodded.

“Your slipper,
mademoiselle
.” Francois knelt on the floor and held each shoe as Sky slipped them on.

“And what’s this?” Francois flipped open the leather jewelry case. He stood quite still, his eyes fixed on the contents.

“That’s the necklace you told me about, right?”

“
Mais oui.
Harry Winston, 1953.” Francois laid the necklace on Sky’s chest and fiddled with the clasp at the nape of her neck. “Your grandfather’s gift to Izzy the year your mother was born. Twenty-two Ceylon sapphires embedded in a lacework of diamonds. Exquisite.”

“I’d rather not wear the necklace, Francois.” The jewels felt cold and heavy on Sky’s skin.

“To be honest, ornate jewelry is unnecessary with a Balenciaga. A bit of gilding the lily. Still, let’s just wait and see how we look.” The hairdresser pulled a pair of diamond drop earrings from the blue velvet drawstring bag. “These are such lovely pieces.” He clipped the diamonds on Sky’s earlobes. “I do believe the Master would approve.”

Francois moved Sky to a curtained wall and pulled the panels open.