A Crime of Fashion (27 page)

“But how did she learn so much about the curse?” Sebastian asked.

“Good question. I still don't know exactly how. But my aunt always seems to know everything, so it didn't really surprise me – until I spoke to Simone.”

“Simone Baillie?”

I nodded. “While I was talking with Simone it suddenly dawned on me that perhaps my aunt knew the La Lunes – or had known them – better than she let on. So as I turned to leave I asked Simone one last question. I wanted to know whether my aunt and Patrick had ever known each other well.”

“And she said yes…” Ellie said.

“Actually, no – she's too discreet for that. What she said was that she was aware that not long before he married, Patrick La Lune had spent quite a bit of time with a certain well-known magazine editor. She said they'd been passionate. But after a while they cooled, and then Patrick married Fiona. My aunt can be very nosy and persuasive. I'm sure she got the entire story of the curse out of Patrick – simply out of curiosity. I think the idea of using that information only occurred to her after kidnapping Belle.”

“
After
kidnapping Belle? Why not before?” Sebastian asked, surprised.

“The need only came up after she encountered Belle and Darius.”

I took a sip of my hot chocolate before continuing. “My aunt has been stealing for years, right? And she's never bumped into anyone before – I mean, that's the point of using the catacombs and the other secret passages she's found out about. Well, late last Saturday night or early Sunday morning, while trying to steal a tiny Giacometti sculpture from the La Lunes, she was caught by Belle – I heard Belle tell your father this,” I nodded to Sebastian, “as she was put into the ambulance.

“And then, on Monday, my aunt was cornered by Darius – alone – and found out that he knew she used the secret passages. He accused her of kidnapping Belle, so now she had to get Darius out of the way as well. She did it very quickly – he has the wound on his head to prove it – just before the five o'clock meeting. She hit him, then tied and gagged him so that during the meeting she could safely leave him in one of the house's secret passages. After the questioning by Inspector Witt, but before we had dinner together, she dragged him into the catacombs.”

Sebastian's phone rang.

“Yes? We're in the reading room…uh-huh, she's still up,” he said, looking at me. “Good. We'll wait.
À tout de suite
.” He put his phone away before saying, “That was my father. He's on his way. He wants to explain everything.”

Inspector Witt came alone – my mum and Miriam were working at the agency and Thomas, Inspector Witt's assistant, was with my aunt and her lawyer. Sebastian's father seemed relieved to have finished for the night. He ordered a whisky from the bar before joining us.

“Fortunately, your aunt has made a full confession,” he said. “That'll help her – and
Chic
. We'll move things along as quickly as we can, but, unfortunately, there's no way of avoiding the press…
c'est la vie
.”

He took a swallow from his drink and leaned back before continuing. “First, let me say, thank you.” He was looking straight at me. “I underestimated you, Mademoiselle Anderson. You were right to follow your instincts. Keep doing it and I can retire sooner than planned. But the case is quite complex and your aunt was a clever adversary. Finally, however, her luck ran out…Belle caught her with the statue and Darius confronted her about the secret passage. And, then, of course, she never imagined her niece would catch her.”

I flushed, as guilt washed over me.

“Don't forget,” he continued, “that you've helped Philippe, too. Your aunt had hoped to frame him as the nephew who avenged his wronged great-uncle.”

I nodded. “Straight away she hinted – strongly – that I should look into the possibility of there being a living Merlette.”

“By the way, she learned of the letters' existence years ago. While confessing earlier, she told me that one afternoon – this was when she was dating Patrick – she stumbled upon the letters while searching for an earring that had slipped beneath Patrick's bed. They were in a small ribbon-tied box underneath the mattress – just like in a clichéd police movie. Of course, she read them.”

“After hiding Darius, she remembered the letters, and formed the idea of pinning the disappearances on Philippe – but for that she
needed
the letters, both as proof of who Philippe really is, and of his strong motive. As luck would have it, when she searched for them before I arrived to interview them all on Monday, she found them, again, in a box under Patrick's bed – with Patrick fast asleep in the bed.” The inspector shook his head. “Hard to believe that Patrick never put them somewhere safer.

“Incidentally, that was her one big mistake – hiding the letters in the chimney flue, I mean. The clutch handbag she was using that day was too small to accommodate the bundle of letters – besides, she'd just dragged Darius into the secret passage –
he
was her main concern at that moment. She quickly hid the letters behind the flue and figured she'd fetch them later – but then you found them.”

He smiled at me before continuing. “And her proof was gone. So, going on what she remembered from the letters, she began, using her David le Néanar alias, to search for Violette. She needed proof that Philippe was the heir she knew him to be.”

“And Fiona? Did she know about any of this?”

“She'd heard of the letters, years earlier, from her husband – although she didn't know if he still had them. After Belle disappeared, she started looking for them. The noise Rose and Dom heard at night was Fiona looking for the letters.”

“But why was it so important for her to have the letters?”

“Fiona knew that her father-in-law François had stolen the designs for the Clothilde bag – Patrick had told her as much. So the chance that the letters might contain even the slightest allusion to that was enough to scare Fiona. Remember, the La Lune Fashion Design Foundation is her life's work. And imagine: they hand out prizes for design – but their company's success was founded on design theft. She'd never live it down! It would be ruination for her and the foundation and a huge blot on the family name.

“Furthermore, the letters were proof that Hector Merlette had an heir – and over the years her husband had hinted to her about Philippe being related to the Merlettes. She was worried that with the letters he might demand financial redress and rake up a scandal long-buried. For her children's sake, she was willing to thwart him in any way she could. She was sure he was behind the disappearances – his motive was strongest. So Fiona's foremost thought was to destroy those letters. It was imperative that she find them – but your aunt beat her to them.”

“Who planted Belle's drawings in Blossom's bag?”

Inspector Witt shook his head. “Fiona. It was a stupid ruse to lead the police away from the rumours of the curse and family scandal. By the time she realized Philippe wasn't responsible for Belle's disappearance, she regretted what she'd done.

“Darius came closest to solving the whole thing. Some time ago, in the course of his reading, he'd learned about the secret passages in the house, but didn't really believe they existed – until Belle disappeared. Darius was exploring the passageway –
at the same time your aunt was in it
. Venetia was back in the house on Sunday night to steal a couple of small paintings. Don't forget that Belle had interrupted your aunt's foray the night before so Venetia went back the next night to finish the job, so to speak. Darius saw her – although your aunt didn't see him – just as she disappeared into the catacombs with the paintings. The next day, Monday, he found her on her own and confronted her before the meeting. She immediately felt cornered by him and lashed out. Without wasting a moment she grabbed the nearest heavy object – a paperweight, Darius told me – and hit him hard. She then hid him in the nearest secret passageway before calmly joining the others for the five o'clock meeting. Darius had known her for years, of course, but only as a chic and professional editor. Her swift and violent action took him completely by surprise.

“Their violent confrontation,” continued Inspector Witt, “culminating in Darius's disappearance, was a real blow to us because Darius was the only one who'd made the obvious connection between Belle's disappearance and Venetia's suspicious presence in the passageways.”

“But Claude knew about the catacombs – he must have known about the secret passageway, too. Have you asked him about
CAT
?”

“I'm afraid
CAT
is simply the nickname of someone he'd been interviewed by for a job. Contrary to his original police statement, tonight he told me that, in fact, last Saturday night he'd slipped out of the mansion straight after dinner to meet
CAT
– Catherine Lafont, the well-known fashion headhunter. But because of his family's paranoia with the curse, Claude wasn't ready to say anything about looking for a new job. Hence, the mysterious
CAT
– for Catherine. By chance, Philippe had seen him, walking home.”

“Which is why Claude was so edgy at the casting. He'd lied.” I refrained from mentioning that Claude had also been cross because I'd looked at his phone.

“
Oui
.”

What about Rose?” Sebastian asked.

“Ahh,
la Rose,
” answered Inspector Witt. “Again, Mademoiselle Anderson was correct: love, and a certain amount of desperation, pushed Rose to flee to Spain. According to the letter we've found, she and Alejandro had planned this split from her family many months ago. Of course, she never could have guessed how unfortunate her timing would be. I have spoken with her – she's on her way back – and through her sobs she said she'd felt that if she didn't go through with this break now, then she never would. Apparently, she's always felt like an outsider within her own family – and she'd finally had enough.”

We fell silent for a moment. Rose's sadness felt nearly palpable after hearing about her desperate attempt to flee.

“And Venetia's definitely the one behind the other so-called ‘fashion crimes'?” Ellie asked, breaking the silence.

Inspector Witt nodded. “Although it's not yet officially confirmed. But Venetia had been in and out of the homes of the fashion world's elite so often that she knew exactly what they owned – and, as you know, many of the top designers and fashion brand owners have amazing art collections. Unfortunately, she used her privileged access for more than just networking.”

“By the way,” Sebastian asked as he stood and stretched. “Why the shoe? Did your aunt use it to hit Darius or Belle?”

I shook my head. “Not at all. While we were waiting for the paramedics, Belle told me that
she'd
taken it. She'd heard someone moving around the house and, after having quickly grabbed the nearest heavy shoe, went to investigate. She found my aunt downstairs, stealing the small Giacometti sculpture. But unfortunately, my aunt lured Belle into a secret passageway, hit her, then quickly tied and gagged her. Belle never had a chance to use the shoe. It was dropped where Sebastian stubbed his toe on it yesterday.”

Ellie suddenly stood up. “I think it's time I got some shut-eye. I've got Saint Laurent first thing tomorrow morning.”

“And I'm sure my father has some questions he'd like me to answer,” Sebastian whispered as Inspector Witt stepped out of the room to take a call. “At least I have someone I can blame for my illegal behaviour.” He was grinning right at me.

“Go ahead, Watson. If I can take some cockroaches and skull-flinging, I can certainly take on your father.”

“Good morning, Axelle! Axelle, wake up,” my mum commanded as she finished drawing open the curtains. “It's such a bright, sunny morning, and listen – aren't the church bells wonderful? Come on now, we have a lot to do. The press conference begins at ten, followed by various interviews. I'll get you some tea,” she said as she disappeared behind the adjoining door.

Miu Miu was on my bed. She hadn't been allowed to remain in Aunt V's apartment either. In fact, it seemed that she would be going back to London with us. I'm not sure she'd be kneading my stomach with such enthusiasm if she knew what was awaiting her across the Channel.

“Axelle, darling, I know you'd love to sleep longer but we have to get you ready,” my mum said, as she came back into the room and handed me a cup of hot tea. “
The
Times
,
The Guardian
,
Le Figaro
,
Paris Match
,
Washington Post
,
The New York Times
, papers from Italy, Japan, Australia… They all want to see you. There is so much to do. Plus more will be waiting when we get back to London tomorrow. And just think: all of this press about finding Belle is bound to give your modelling career a boost.”

Great,
I thought,
my modelling career. Exactly what I don't want, exactly what I'm not interested in.
The only thing that stopped me from venting was the sight of my mum's red-rimmed eyes. Yesterday had taken its toll. Her carriage was as upright as usual and she was elegantly dressed, but her eyes were full of worry and anxiety. Of course, who could blame her? It's not every day that your sister is revealed as a kidnapping art thief. I watched her as she moved about the room straightening out my clothes, pouring my tea, shooing Miu Miu off the bed. The fog of doom hanging over her only lifted when she talked about my modelling. The fact that I'd spent so much time and effort solving this case – and that I'd only used the modelling as a sort of entry ticket – hadn't yet registered.

In fact, I thought with a sigh, it seemed as if all of my plans for credibility and independence had come to nil.

Again I bit my tongue. For the moment I'd let my mum amuse herself with my modelling. I'd also do the minimum required of me for the press and then, when things had calmed a bit, I'd tackle the issue of my career as a detective.

The press conference went okay. Miriam had kindly given us use of one of the conference rooms at her agency. Like my mum, she too couldn't move out from under the shadow caused by last night's revelation.

“Of course,” she said to me, “I saw she'd been buying a lot, but she did earn a very good salary, and I thought that she'd perhaps invested wisely – or so she'd always implied. Never, ever could I have imagined her capable of stealing from the designers. I mean, she
loved
the designers! She had the utmost respect for them and their work. It's so sad, because she's a very, very good editor. She changed the look of the entire magazine business, you know. And she had such an eye for detail…”

So she did – and apparently, when it came to solving mysteries, I did too, according to the journalists. Maybe it was an inherited trait. From Gran probably. I was happy that Gran hadn't lived to see her eldest daughter go to prison – especially after having been caught by her granddaughter.

Belle La Lune had invited Mum and me for lunch.

As the butler ushered us into the same grand drawing room where I'd last seen the family gathered, on Monday night, I wondered why it felt so strange to be back in the La Lune mansion. After all, it was hardly my first time – I'd been in and out any number of times over the course of the last week – not to mention that I'd seen every floor and at all hours. Then it dawned on me: this was the first time I had actually been
invited
in. Until this moment, every time I'd been into this house, I'd snuck in.

Belle was waiting for us when we walked in, and despite her time in the catacombs she looked stunning. Her long blonde hair was the colour of fresh corn and hung like spun sugar down her back. A tiny black jumper was layered over a transparent long-sleeved T-shirt and tight leather jeans hugged her long slim legs. A pair of high, high leather and chainmail boots finished her ensemble. Even sitting down, with a cashmere throw over her lap and a nurse at her elbow, that palpable fashion vibe – an intimidating mixture of innate style and originality with a good pinch of insouciance – came off her in waves: she was a star and she knew it.

Darius was still in the hospital – and would be for a few more days. Otherwise, he was in good spirits and hoped to personally thank me for saving his life once he was out.

Lunch was delicious. We began with white asparagus accompanied by a mousseline sauce. By the time we got to the second course (
poussin de la ferme
and spring vegetables) I began to relax, because I'd noticed that while my mum tried repeatedly – in her usual toe-curling fashion – to push the conversation towards the subject of my “modelling career”, Belle steadfastly refused to be lured in. Much to my delight, the more my mum pushed, the harder Belle resisted. She didn't want to hear about my options with
Teen Vogue
or for the new L'Oréal hairspray. At one especially low point in the conversation (my mum was banging on about how Hervé believed I had the most amazing eyebrows he'd ever seen) I caught Belle's eye – and in a sign of tacit complicity, she winked. I could have got up from the table and kissed her. Instead I tried to transmit a look of boundless gratitude, but for all I know she might have thought it was for the delicious strawberry soufflé.

Finally lunch came to an end, and Belle led us back to the drawing room for coffee.

And that's when she dropped the bomb.

She motioned for us to sit down. No sooner had the coffee arrived than my mum began informing Belle, yet again, about how many requests I'd been receiving through Miriam's agency for magazine photo shoots – only this time Belle cut her off.

“That's wonderful, Mrs Anderson – and while I can understand your pride in Axelle's potential, I'd be curious to hear what Axelle has to say about her future.”

My mum and Belle sat waiting for me to reply. Belle was calm, but my mum looked at me like an X-ray machine.

I decided to go with the truth.

So, taking a deep breath and with a quick glance at my mum, who was perfecting her X-ray glare, I said, “Actually, Belle, I don't mean any disrespect, but fashion – and modelling in particular – just doesn't interest me that much. I did get a real kick out of finding you, though – even if it means I'll have to visit my aunt in jail for the next twenty years.” My mum's eyes were searing into me now. “However,” I continued, “I'm going to stick to detective work… I think I might even try solving some more mysteries.”

“Oh, Axelle,” my mum interrupted, “you don't really mean that. What do you think she should pursue?” she added coyly, turning to Belle.

“It is my belief, Mrs Anderson, that people should pursue their dreams.”

“Yes, but, Belle,” my mother insisted, as she leaned forward and sweetened her voice, “from one woman who values her independence to another – let's face it, this modelling career is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that should be taken! Axelle will never be able to earn an income from sleuthing, and where will she be then? Modelling – especially with your help – could be a stepping stone to many opportunities.”

“I agree that she is on the cusp of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity with regards to the modelling…” My mother visibly preened in my direction as Belle said this. “However, as to her inability to earn an income as a detective – I'm afraid you're wrong about that, Mrs Anderson: your daughter's just earned half a million euros.”

You could have heard a pin drop on the thick carpet. Slowly, like a small fish making its way from the ocean's depths to the surface for air, a dim memory of the first time I'd seen Claude came to mind. He'd been on television the night I'd arrived…

“I asked you to lunch to thank you again for rescuing me,” Belle said, as she looked at me, “and to ask you for your bank account details. I don't know if you watched my brother Claude's press conference the Sunday night after I'd disappeared, but he did offer a half a million euro reward for any information leading to my safe return and, as he said it on national television, we can hardly renege on our offer, can we?”

She was smiling now. “However, Axelle, should you decide to accept the reward, I have two conditions I'd like you to honour: one, that you'll set aside the bulk of it for your education and risk-averse investments, and two that you'll use what's left to pursue your mystery solving.”

The shock of having so much land in my lap at once took my breath away. I couldn't even yet find my voice.

As I sat blinking, Belle added, “And, by the way, with the experience you've garnered this week, you might want to consider specializing in fashion mysteries. I'm not saying it would be easy…but I think you'll find this business could use your help. Although,” she said, looking intently at me, “give it serious thought before you jump in. The fashion world is glamorous and glitzy, and fun, too…but, like all businesses involving big money and big names, it has an underbelly of jealousy, secrets and cut-throat competitiveness. If you choose to specialize in fashion mysteries you'll have to remind yourself that a criminal is a criminal – no matter how stylish they may be or how beautiful they may look.”

Belle reached for the telephone and within thirty seconds Philippe de Vandrille had whisked me away to the small study Inspector Witt had used for questioning last Monday night. As the attorney to the La Lunes, he was responsible for handing over my reward. He'd prepared most of the necessary documents so that I could sign them before leaving, speeding up the process. Calmly and clearly, he explained the general gist of the deal, including the conditions set by the family. I wasn't entirely free to do with my reward what I liked. It was on paper now: Belle's conditions were to be met. But as long as I met them, I was one lucky girl.

He really does have an elegant profile,
I thought as I watched him,
like something from an old coin.
The family resemblance stood out. Of course, it had been there all along: the tall, slim build, well-drawn jawline and cheekbones, even something about the way he moved. It had been there all along…and yet not many had noticed. A different name and childhood had put him in a particular box. Only Patrick's old secretary, Simone, had known without a doubt. Fiona had heard but had never seen real proof. And Aunt V had first surmised, then hoped. Otherwise, no questions asked. His secret would go no further – or so I thought.

He caught me by surprise when, after I'd signed the papers he'd prepared, he confessed to me that he had guessed some time ago that his father was Patrick. “And knowing you, you've probably also guessed,” he said with a smile.

I flushed, not sure how much to admit to. My discomfort only made him smile more.

“Philippe,” I finally said, “would you mind if I ask you a last question?”

With a smile, he looked up from his papers spread across the desk. “Of course not. After everything that's happened, I rather feel you're entitled to ask me whatever you'd like.”

“Why have you never said anything? To the family, I mean…about being Patrick's son and Hector Merlette's heir?”

“You mean why keep it a secret, when it seems I could so clearly profit from being acknowledged as a La Lune and Merlette heir?”

“Yes.”

“I'll answer your question with a question,” he said. “If you were given the chance to let the world know that
you
, Axelle Anderson, were in fact Belle La Lune's half-sister – that your father was Patrick La Lune and that your mother was Hector Merlette's niece; that, in fact, you had more right to own the company than anyone else – would you take the chance? Would you want to be acknowledged as such?”

“You mean live in this mansion? And Fiona would be my stepmother?” (Now there was a thought!) “And I'd have siblings who wouldn't try searching for me if I disappeared? And I'd be at every fashion show and live, dream and breathe fashion?”

He nodded.

“Hmm… And I could go to the Café Ruc for French fries whenever I wanted and have all of the clothes I wanted?”

Again he nodded.

“Well,” I answered after a short pause, “I'd have to say no – no way.”

“And why?”

“Because living with the La Lunes, I'd go bananas,” I said with a laugh. “No, seriously, my answer is no, because from what I've seen the La Lunes are way too dysfunctional. Well dressed, but dysfunctional – and cold like ice (except Belle). Most of them seem incapable of being even friendly with each other. I mean, I don't care how extravagant the lifestyle, living here with them would be a nightmare – to me anyway. Plus, fashion isn't really my thing.”