Raiders of the Lost Corset (17 page)

Lacey read it back to him. “That’s it exactly? Any words you’re uncertain about?”

“No, no, it is that exactly. I learn Latvian well as a child; you never forget it. My grandmother,” he said, shaking his head. “Hard old woman. Sometimes it slips away in the memory. But then it comes back.” He sipped his wine thoughtfully. “You know, mademoiselles, if you find this thing, this Fabergé egg, this Romanov corset, this whatever it is, it belongs to me. My family. I am the last of my family. You understand?”

Oh, yes,
Lacey thought. Jean-Claude Rousseau reminded her a lot of Magda Rousseau.

“Whatever it is,” Lacey said, “it’s not where Magda thought it was. Who knows what it really is or was, or if it will ever be found?” Lacey smiled. She had no idea who the rightful owner would be. Jean-Claude Rousseau, because his grandfather had stolen it? The remaining Romanov descendants? The Russian government? The French government? Or whoever had the biggest stick and the best lawyers and the corset in hand? But none of that mattered to her at that moment. Lacey felt ill-used by Magda, who had obviously left out some salient details, like who else might be on the trail of a legendary Fabergé egg. And she felt assaulted and abused by a faceless stranger in the coal room.

Jean-Claude sniffed. “The farmhouse is mine, it was inherited to me, I should have been told of this maybe very valuable thing, this whatever, in my own cellar. Why was I not told?” Lacey refrained from pointing out that Magda had apparently been telling him for years that a Fabergé egg was buried in his cellar, and he had dismissed her as a crazy old woman. But clearly something had been there; someone had been in the coal room and left this cryptic torn note in the box. To top it all off, someone withdrew the item without his knowledge.

“Who is Drosmis Berzins?” Lacey asked. “Is that a Latvian name?”

Jean-Claude stared at the paper, then poured another glass of Merlot. “Drosmis Berzins. The other Latvian soldier who was with my grandfather in Ekaterinburg with the Romanovs.”

“You knew about him?” Brooke asked. “Did you ever meet him?”

Jean-Claude shrugged again. “When I was a child. I know what my grandfather, Juris Akmentins, said to his grandchildren: Two Latvians refused to shoot the Romanov children. Juris and Drosmis. ‘Be proud to be Latvians,’ he said, ‘Latvians do not murder children.’ He did not tuck us into bed at night and say, ‘By the way, boys and girls, we stole a corset full of jewels from a dead girl and hid it in the cellar.’ ”

“So Drosmis Berzins apparently wrote this note to your grandfather. What do you think the message means?” Lacey asked.

“Why ask me? I am not the nosy American newspaper reporter who goes looking for things that do not belong to her in other people’s cellars.” He sounded brusque, but he seemed to be enjoying himself. He had certainly enjoyed the dinner. The waiter returned with their desserts.

If Drosmis Berzins had helped steal the corset in Ekaterinburg, or had been trying to steal it from Juris, this had somehow gotten lost in Magda’s version of the story. Did she not know about him? And why would others, like Griffin and Kepelov, be looking for something at the Rousseau farmhouse if this Drosmis had already taken it long ago? Were they simply following Lacey and Brooke, who were themselves following Magda’s only lead, her grandfather’s diary? Juris Akmentins had not mentioned a Drosmis Berzins by name in his diary — at least not in the pages Magda had translated into English. Were there pages missing from the Latvian original, she wondered, or had Magda simply not considered Drosmis worthy of mention? Who might Drosmis have told about all this, and if he had the corset, what had he done with it? Among all these questions, one thing struck her with some urgency.

“If those men were to come back to your house, Jean-Claude, you could be in danger.”

“Ha! Danger. I sneer at danger.” He swirled the wine in his glass before sipping it, rolling it around in his mouth, and then swallowing with satisfaction. “You, Mademoiselle Smithsonian and Mademoiselle Barton, may dance cheek to cheek with danger.
Moi?
I am leaving town.”

Brooke nearly snorted her wine. “At least they don’t know about the note,” she said, recovering her composure. “So as far as they know, we found nothing.”

“As far as I know, you found nothing but my Pepe, and for that —” Jean-Claude looked away as his eyes grew moist —“for that, I am very grateful. Tomorrow I will leave.”

“How can you be sure you won’t be followed?” Brooke interjected. “Or attacked tonight?” Lacey kicked her under the table.

Jean-Claude gestured philosophically with his wineglass.

“How can you be sure of the same, mademoiselle? How can any of us?”

“Where are you going?” Lacey inquired.

“I will go to Spain. Until the heat blows off, how they say in the movies? Besides, the women of Spain are beautiful this time of year. I will paint them.” The wine was mellowing him. “But will you not pose for me, Lacey Smithsonian? Tonight?” A wicked smile lifted his lips. “To soothe our anxiety from this traumatic attack of yours in my coal room? To create art from this powerful emotion is such a very great, how you say, release?”

“Sorry, Jean-Claude.” Lacey was immune to his Gallic charms, whatever they might be.

He turned his attention to Brooke. “Or perhaps you, Mademoiselle Barton, you of the beautiful blond tresses? Such a beautiful color. I have just the pigment for you.”

She sneezed and he gallantly produced his handkerchief. “I’m allergic to paint,” Brooke said. “Gee, it’s a pity.”

He turned back to Lacey. “Mademoiselle Lacey, perhaps you could wear something, you need not be in the nude
en total.
Americans, such prudes, you know? A little something. A corset perhaps,” he smiled. “I will fill in your so lovely nudity with an artist’s imagination.” Lacey rolled her eyes. “So many women are even more beautiful in the mind than in the nudity.”

“In your mind is where my nudity will have to stay, Jean-Claude.”

Jean-Claude sighed. He coolly retrieved his handkerchief from Brooke. “So. An empty cellar. An excellent meal. Good wine. But no posing, eh? I will paint in Spain. And you, mademoiselles, you will pursue the great chase, the lost corset?”

Lacey shook her head. “See the sights,” she said. “Go back home. Write my story.”

He frowned. “You will hunt no more for the corset, the last unknown object of the Romanovs?” He gestured grandly. “But it will be worth millions, more than a Fabergé egg! It of course belongs to me, if it still exists, but there would be perhaps a reward for someone who returns it to its rightful owner, the last of the Rousseaus.”

“There isn’t much to go on,” Lacey replied. “An address where Drosmis Berzins may have lived decades ago? A verse from the Bible?” She had every intention of finding that address in Paris, but he didn’t need to know that. The fewer people who knew their plans now, she thought, the better.

“Where is your American frontier spirit, Lacey Smithsonian, the spirit of the cowboy?”

“I’m afraid I left it in your cellar, Jean-Claude.”

Chapter 16

The moon winked at them from behind a bank of clouds. The stars were glittering diamonds against the black velvet sky. And Mont-Saint-Michel was a jewel box ablaze with lights behind them as they walked briskly back across the causeway to their hotel in the cold crystal air.

“You weren’t serious when you said you were giving up, were you?” Brooke’s breath came out in small puffs of fog.

“Perhaps I exaggerated a little.”

“Good. I don’t see what’s wrong with calling in Damon and a few of his buddies to help.”

“First of all,” Lacey sighed, “there would be a huge cost.”

“Don’t worry about that.” Brooke grinned. “DeadFed has a contingency fund for emergencies, recently set up by its loyal supporters.”

This was news to Lacey. “No doubt supplied by Barton, Barton

& Barton?” The night air was causing her eyes to tear up, not the idea that Brooke’s law firm was subsidizing Damon’s fringe adventures in Web journalism.

“Daddy loves Conspiracy Clearinghouse almost as much as I do. But we are not the only donors who believe in Damon’s mission of truth-seeking.”

“Nevertheless, bringing in Damon and his sweet band of loonies is not a good idea, Brooke. And remember, nobody really wants to find out what the inside of a French jail is like, and Damon is the most likely person to receive that honor if he gets involved.”

“That might be true, but you were almost killed today, Lacey.

Just think what could have happened if you’d gotten a bigger dose of whatever chemicals were on that rag. Toxicity by inhalation can be lethal. You want to stop at the hotel bar for a nightcap?”

“Thanks, but I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.” Lacey’s head was feeling a little woozy, and she wondered if it was more than just the wine with dinner. Maybe she shouldn’t have had anything to drink after being knocked out by a suspicious chemical.

“We’ll leave first thing in the morning,” Brooke said.

“No way,” Lacey protested. “We just got here.”

“But we need to check on that address in Paris.”

“I’m sure the Rue Dauphine will still be there whenever we arrive, and no one has the address but us and Jean-Claude. Besides, I’m taking a tour of the Abbey tomorrow, then I thought we’d take a drive to the D-Day beaches in Normandy. Omaha Beach, Brooke.”

“But we have things to do, people to see! Corsets to chase!”

“And places I’ve wanted to see my whole life. You go ahead, I can take the bus.” Brooke started to protest, but Lacey said, “Maybe if you’d been flat on your back in that cellar, you’d feel like taking a breather, too.”

“Of course. My God, you’re exhausted after what you’ve been through. And I let you down. I’m sorry, Lacey. Maybe we should find a doctor to check you out.”

“Not necessary.” She wrapped her shawl a little tighter against the breeze coming off the Bay of Mont-Saint-Michel.

“Are you sure? There might be other side effects of that secret Russian knockout gas. You know, brain tumors. Amnesia. Split personality.”

“I’m taking your comic books away from you, Brooke. And I’m unplugging that Web site of Damon’s that feeds your lurid imagination.” Lacey turned to take one last look for the evening at the towering Abbey that was called Saint Michael in Peril of the Sea. It seemed magical to her. “I have to come back here again someday.”

“Right. Quite a sight.” Brooke was a little less enthralled by the scenery. “What was that Bible verse? Genesis? You suppose there are French Gideons who put Bibles in French hotels?” she asked.

“Never mind, I’ll find the Bible on the Internet.”

“Yes, but will you find God on the Web?”

Brooke ignored her. “So we think this Drosmis Berzins character took the corset years ago. But he couldn’t have fenced it, could he? It’s never surfaced.”

“Not that we know of,” Lacey said. “He could have sold the gems off one by one. Or sold the whole thing to a private collector, one of those strange characters you read about who have chambers full of priceless stuff and never show it to anyone.”

“Some rich Russian Mafia guy? Maybe that’s who this Gregor Kepelov character is? Or who he’s working for? Some collector who doesn’t know that the corset or the egg or whatever they think it is has already been collected?”

“Russian Mafia? And ex-KGB? Possibly.” Lacey picked up her pace and readjusted her shawl around her as a sharp breeze kicked up, carrying a rich aroma from the sea.

“I didn’t find an ex-KGB Kepelov on the Internet.”

“You wouldn’t expect him to have a Web site.”

Brooke’s skin looked a little blue in the night and her teeth began to chatter. “And what about this Griffin character? No trace of him either.” She stopped and slapped herself on the forehead.

“What’s wrong with me!”

“Are you all right? You look pretty cold,” Lacey said. “It’s not much farther.”

“It must be the jet lag! They’re using false names, these guys, whoever they are. Maybe he’s not KGB. Maybe he’s MI5. Or CIA. Or —”

“Well, of course they’re false names, Brooke. But the CIA doesn’t look for buried stolen treasure.”
I don’t think.
“Do they?”

Lacey realized she actually knew no more about the CIA than what she read in her own newspaper,
The Eye Street Observer
— not exactly an unbiased viewpoint.

“Rogue CIA.” Brooke always had an answer.

“There’s a redundancy for you.” Lacey picked up the pace.

“Tell me again, what did my mysterious assailant look like?”

“I just saw a bald head, from the back, running away. Big. Tall. Bald.”

“Bald?” Lacey stopped short. That didn’t fit with Lacey’s preconceived notion of a dashing ex-spy. “You’re telling me our bo-geyman is bald?”

Brooke laughed. “Looked bald to me.”

“I am so disappointed,” Lacey said, joining her in laughter.

“I’m expecting a Russian James Bond and I get a big bald guy.”

They picked up their heels and raced to the hotel.

“Bad news, Lacey,” Brooke said, staring intently at her laptop computer screen. “Drosmis Berzins is dead.” She turned the laptop so Lacey could read the obituary.

“He would be dead, wouldn’t he,” Lacey pointed out, “if he was a young man in Ekaterinburg in 1917? Or else he’d be a hundred and some years old.”

Brooke had insisted on Googling Berzins’ name directly upon their return to the hotel. She eventually found the old news about Berzins’ demise posted on a largely defunct Latvian genealogy Web site, along with his obituary from a Mississippi newspaper in 1988. It didn’t say much, only that Drosmis Berzins was born in 1896, he emigrated to the U.S. from Latvia, and he was a quiet, modest man who ran a small tailoring shop and was well respected in his community. Berzins left two sons and several grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Brooke clicked on the links to the rest of the Web site, but they were as dead as he was.

“That would make him about ninety-two when he died,” Lacey said. So Berzins had gone to America, but there the trail went cold.

She suggested they search on the Bible verse, and Brooke’s fingers flew over the keyboard.