Raiders of the Lost Corset (42 page)

Your friend Magda.

“She hid this inside your corset?” Vic asked. “What for?”

“Just for good luck, I think. Look —” Lacey held the silk out to him. “See the little drop of blood? There.” He peered at a brown blot on the white silk. “She told me, ‘Bloody thread, knock ’em dead’ was a theatre costumer’s saying, that it was good luck for her to prick her finger while sewing, it meant she was putting her heart and soul into the garment.”

“So it
is
a fashion clue. What’s it mean?”

“I don’t have a clue in the world, Vic. ‘Between the stitches.’

Damn! I am fresh out of hunches.” She collapsed back on the bed.

“Maybe I’ll think of something tomorrow.”

Vic set the silk aside. He leaned over her and smiled. “Is that a promise or a threat, Lacey?”

“Both.”

“Move over.” He kissed her and joined her on the bed. “I gotta hand it to you. Hidden messages inside your clothes? That’s a real live fashion clue. Of course I’ve been reading hidden messages inside your clothes for years, sweetheart.”

“Oh, you are a sweet-talker, aren’t you?”

The next day dawned better and brighter. Lacey draped a light sweater over her sleeveless coral cotton dress. Today, she was determined to do something fun, something with nothing to do with the lost corset, and she roused Vic early so they might elude late-sleepers, like Stella, and interlopers, like Trujillo. They strolled away from the hotel down the Mississippi River waterfront and watched a flock of geese paddling up the river like a miniature flotilla. Lacey pointed at them.

“There we are, Vic. It’s a wild-goose chase,” Lacey said. “And I’m the lead goose.”

“You’re a pretty goose. And you threatened to come up with more ideas today,” he said cautiously.

“I did, didn’t I?” She shook her head. “Idle threat.”

This was going to be one of those mysteries featured on public television, Lacey figured glumly, like what really happened to Amelia Earhart; what happened in the summer of 1917 to the fabled bejeweled corsets of the Romanov imperial princesses. This corset had vanished from a locked coal room to a walled-up crypt and into the impenetrable mind of a woman with Alzheimer’s.

“If I take you for a cruise on the Steamship Natchez, will it cheer you up?” Vic asked. They found themselves standing in the ticket line for the short cruise up the muddy Mississippi River and back, one of the quintessential New Orleans tourist attractions.

“Absolutely. Why let this trip go to waste? Let’s be tourists.”

They joined the line of tourists and families, toddlers, grandparents, and conventioneers, some still wearing name tags. Then she grimaced at Trujillo, who had sprinted from the hotel and had just caught up with them.

“But I don’t understand why you’re here, Tony,” Lacey said.

“Riverboat fan?”

He shrugged. “My job, Lacey. Mac said not to let you out of my sight. Because that’s when it always happens.”

She glared at him. “When what always happens?”

“You know, the killer, the scoop, whatever. I live to serve. You’re stuck with me.”

“Knock yourself out, Trujillo.”

Before they could board, all passengers were required to have their photographs taken “for security,” which was simply a clever way to create personalized souvenir photos to hawk after the riverboat ride. There was no obligation to buy them, but few tourists could resist.

“They get you coming and going,” Vic said.

“Good, because I want proof this really happened.” Lacey realized it was the first time they would have their photo taken together, so she smiled brightly for the camera. They boarded the ship, followed by Trujillo, and climbed the green painted steps to the mid deck. They listened as the tour guide drew their attention to points of interest over the boat’s PA system. The riverboat headed upstream toward the Chalmette Battlefield, where Andrew Jackson fought and won the Battle of New Orleans with the help of the sexy pirate Jean Lafitte. Trujillo went in search of the bar on the upper deck, no doubt looking for cute blondes to try his killer smile on.

“Alone at last,” Lacey said. “Only a hundred strangers. And Tony. Kiss me, you fool.”

Vic obliged her with a kiss. “At least that idiot Griffin didn’t follow us here. And where’s Stella?” He rubbed Lacey’s weary shoulders, kneading knots she didn’t know she had.

“She said she was sleeping in. Did she leave the bar with one of Turtledove’s cousins last night? I lost track of her. Maybe she’s soothing Nigel’s bruised ego.”

“You could always soothe my ego.” Vic grinned at her. “How about a drink? I’ll go find that bar Tony was looking for.”

“Something tall and cold, darling. Lemonade maybe?”

Lacey gazed up at him and smiled as he disappeared in the crowd of tourists. As she looked toward the upper deck, something else caught her eye: the profile of a woman wearing large sunglasses. The sweep of her hair looked familiar. Very familiar. The woman turned and looked the other way. And as far as Lacey knew, this woman had no business in New Orleans or on the
Steamship Natchez.
It couldn’t possibly be a coincidence.

Lacey climbed quickly up the stairs. She must have been only a few seconds behind Vic, but he was nowhere to be seen. She reached the aft upper deck of the steamship, overlooking the huge red paddlewheel that moved the ship, chopping the surface of the Mississippi with a strong, steady rhythm. She walked slowly now, looking for Vic or Trujillo and scanning female faces carefully, expecting to see the face of the woman who must have killed Magda.

But it was her scent that announced her presence. Hovering on the air was her perfume,
Forêt de Rose.
The skin on the back of Lacey’s neck prickled and fear did a tap dance on her spine.

“Hello, Miss Smithsonian. Small world, isn’t it?”

Lacey wheeled around to the melodious accented voice behind her. “Natalija Krumina. Traveling again so soon?”

Natalija laughed, displaying her nice even teeth. “You’re no dummy, Smithsonian. You’re smarter than I thought.”

“It’s the secret weapon of reporters everywhere. So, did you enjoy France?”

“Not so much as I had hoped. You kept me so busy.” Natalija leaned against the railing, her hands jammed into her skirt pockets.

“I didn’t mean for you to see me today, but since you did, we have things to discuss. Like the corset. Where is it?”

“A corset?” Lacey asked, making her eyes go wide. “If you wanted a corset, Magda could have made you one. I thought it was a Fabergé egg you were looking for. Or was that just a story to hook Gregor Kepelov?”

“Didn’t take much to hook Gregor. But you are wasting my time. The corset.”

“So you know all about the corset?”

“Why deny it?” Something pinned to Natalija’s white blouse glittered in the sunlight. Lacey recognized the gaudy pin that Magda had loved. The piece of costume jewelry she was so attached to. She wore it with everything. Natalija had pretended to Broadway Lamont that she could hardly remember the pin.
Everyone lies about it,
Lacey realized,
so it must be valuable.

“Magda’s jewelry,” Lacey said. “You said that was just an ugly old broach.”

“I was making a joke. Romanov emeralds and sapphires and rubies, set in platinum. How could that be ugly? And it is old, that part is true.” Natalija removed her right hand from her blue denim skirt pocket and let her fingers stroke the pin. “The corset wasn’t the only thing her grandfather stole. I suppose this was something that fit easily into the lining of a soldier’s cap.”

“You stole it,” Lacey said.

“From whom is it stolen, Lacey Smithsonian? From Magda? From her grandfather? From the Romanovs? Or from the peasants who mined the stones and never enjoyed a full belly in all their lives for all their hard work? It was stolen a long time ago. But it’s mine now.” Natalija touched the pin again as if to make sure it was still there.

“So you did kill Magda.” Tears sprang to Lacey’s eyes. “For that? A lousy pin?”

“So sentimental over an old lady. She is just a newspaper story to you.”

“No, she was my friend, and yours. How could you do it?”

“It was easy.” Natalija showed no remorse. “A child could have done it.”

“You stabbed her.”

“Yes, a couple of times, but the blade was short.” Natalija smiled like a cat, her almond-shaped eyes turned up at the corners.

“ ‘Die, you old bitch!’ That’s what I said to her.” She seemed to relish the memory.

I think I’m going to be sick,
Lacey thought. She was looking desperately around for Vic when Natalija suddenly flicked out a small pearl-handled knife. She held it in her left hand and smiled, as if she were simply showing Lacey another piece of jewelry.

Lacey took a breath and tried to control her stomach.
Keep her
talking.

“How did you know there was a Romanov corset?”

“Magda was not the only one with family secrets. Drosmis Berzins was my great-grandfather.”

“Your great-grandfather?” Lacey absorbed the information.

“Drosmis?”

“He talked about it all the time, the corset, how he helped his friend steal it, the awful thing he did, the wages of sin, the shame, blah blah blah. My family all thought he had lost his mind way back in Ekaterinburg. I was only a child, but I believed him. The old bastard! All those years as a tailor and he died with next to nothing. He’d given it all away. All he left was half a torn note and that led me to Magda, and her grandfather’s diary. And this broach.

She said it was costume junk. I knew better.”

“Why kill her?”

“She wouldn’t tell me where the corset was. Old gargoyle.” Natalija’s eyes were wild and hard.

“So you tried to make it look like a robbery?”

“No, I was mad! Furious! She wouldn’t tell me, so I dumped out all the cheap costume jewelry on her, then I opened the cabinet, all those chains, ropes of fake jewels, all junk. ‘Dummy,’ she yells at me, as if I thought that junk was Romanov. Dummy?! I am a ‘dummy,’ she says? I am no one’s dummy! She laughed at me.

So then I stabbed her.” Natalija shrugged, an eloquently expressive motion. Lacey thought it would pass for French. “I was going to stab her anyway.”

“But you already poisoned the wine,” Lacey said, aware that Natalija could try to stab her at any moment. The blade was still in the woman’s left hand, drooping casually.
Why must there always
be knives?
she thought miserably.
I hate knives!

“No, no, no, I
drugged
the wine,” Natalija corrected her, as if Lacey had been taking poor notes. “I
poisoned
the dagger. You can’t be sure you’ll hit an artery, you know, and all that blood! So distressing. ‘Bloody stitch, all get rich,’ eh? But who wants so much blood all over the shop? So hard to get blood out of good clothing. With poison, you only have to nick the skin.”

“Why kill her before you got the information?”

“The old cow wasn’t going to tell me. She hated me. All she said was, ‘Dummy, dummy, dummy!’ I’m glad she’s dead,” Natalija said. Her eyes glittered dangerously. “Now, tell me where it is.”

“I don’t know where it is.”

“You’re lying. You came all the way here, you must know.”

“Your great-grandfather Drosmis Berzins made sure no one would ever find it,” Lacey said as the woman moved slowly toward her, her knife hand twitching.
Not working! Change tactics!

Lacey retreated and tried another tack. “But maybe if we work together, Natalija, we’ll figure it out. We’ll go over all the clues together, find the missing piece, maybe something Drosmis said or left you. That torn half of the note? What if we could find the other half —”

“You’re a liar. You think I’m a dummy too. You want it all for yourself.”

“Wait a minute, Natalija.”
Where the hell was Vic?
Lacey didn’t want to scream or do anything that would set her off. “What do you think will happen if —”

“I think I’ll be happy when you’re dead.” The woman lunged at her, but Lacey dodged out of the way.

“How can you be happy when you don’t have the corset?”

“I was happy when Magda was dead. Why not the same with you?” Natalija had a very weird smile, Lacey decided.

“But I know where it is,” Lacey said, making it up as she went along, almost as if she worked for DeadFed. “You’re no dummy, Natalija, half the jewels are better than none —”

Natalija sneered, making her beautiful face ugly. “Why does everyone lie to me?” She lunged at Lacey again with her knife.

The only weapon Lacey had was her shoulder bag, laden with her usual reporter’s tools, but she swung it like a mace and knocked the blade from Natalija’s hand. It clattered across the deck and over the edge.
Please don’t let it be poisoned,
she thought,
and
stick some innocent tourist on the lower deck.

Angry at losing her sleek little pearl-handled blade, Natalija yelped and body-slammed Lacey, throwing both of them to the deck with a resounding thud. “What are you doing, you idiot?”

Lacey screamed. “Vic! Where are you?”

“You won’t tell me where the corset is, so I’m going to kill you! With my bare hands!” Natalija had a mad gleam in her eyes and she certainly looked like she could do the job. But they were both momentarily distracted by the sound of Vic’s voice somewhere on the lower deck.

“Lacey! What the hell —? Where are you?”

“Vic! Up here! Help!” Lacey managed to shout while trying to roll away from Natalija. The madwoman was trying to climb on top of Lacey and grab her throat.

Vic came racing up the stairs and slammed head on into Kepelov, running down the deck toward the two women. At least Lacey thought it was Kepelov from her vantage point on her back with Natalija clawing at her. Then suddenly the two men were trading punches and one of them fell to the floor. He staggered back up and they went at it again, and then they were both rolling on the deck, fists thrashing furiously.

Lacey threw Natalija off long enough to scoot away from her and back up against the railing. She tried not to worry about Vic: He apparently had his hands full too. What on earth was Kepelov doing here? Natalija dived for Lacey’s throat again. Lacey pried her hands from her throat and bit one as hard as she could, then she kicked her off and rolled away. Natalija slunk across the deck, sucking her wounded finger.