Deadly Fashion Read online

  Jane was all packed. “I’ll see you back at the paper, Livvy,” she told me, thanked Lady Patricia and Mimi, and left.

  I said good-bye and thanked Lady Patricia before I hurried after Miss Mareau and Brigette. The Frenchwoman could move quickly when she wanted to on her high heels, sped on her way by the frosty expression of the butler.

  By the time I was out the door, Brigette had already commandeered a taxi. I noticed she wore the same comfortable, wide, two-inch heels I did.

  “Come on,” Mimi said with a wave as she climbed in, leaving Brigette to wrestle the frocks into the vehicle. I squeezed in last and we took off.

  “‘Livvy’?” Mimi demanded. “She called you ‘Livvy’?”

  “My name is Olivia. Livvy is a nickname.”

  “So very British.” She didn’t make it sound like a compliment.

  We arrived a few minutes later, having traveled only a few blocks from the duke’s residence to a well-heeled mix of homes and discreet shops. I climbed out first, followed by Brigette with her hands full. Mimi walked away from the taxi as she pulled her keys from her handbag. The cabbie sat there, his hand out and a stern look on his face.

  The price of the interview was, at the very least, the taxi fare.

  I was last to walk into the four-story and attic brick building. Past the black wrought-iron fence guarding the stairs leading to the basement, past the black-painted door, and into the front room on the ground floor.

  Inside, the air smelled of paint fumes despite three twelve-over-twelve pane windows open at both the top and bottom. A ladder had been left lying on the drop cloths in the empty space.

  Through the doorway into the back room, I could see a large table with a sewing machine, a few chairs, and a rack holding cloth sacks that contained either stage costumes or priceless designer gowns.

  I was getting to see this shop before almost everyone else. I could have cheered from the excitement.

  “Don’t touch the walls. The paint is still wet. Fleur, are you upstairs?” I followed to see Mimi shouting up a staircase that opened into the back room. “With the play and the salon both opening, we’ve been rushed. Fleur? Reina? Where can they have gone?”

  Mimi returned to the front room and gave me a tour of how she envisioned her sales rooms would look. After she pointed out where everything in the lobby would go, we went up a sweeping staircase to a larger room on the first floor where she planned to hold shows and a back area with fitting rooms. She had a lot to get completed in one week.

  From her description, it would be chic. Mimi was a genius, and I could hardly wait to see her showcase.

  “Who’s Fleur?” I asked when she finally paused for breath.

  “My chief cutter,” she said, heading down the grand staircase to the ground floor. “Reina is my chief seamstress, and Brigette my chief fitter. I brought them with me so we could keep up with the costumes for the play while we have the building finished to our liking.”

  Brigette came in from the back room. “Neither Fleur nor Reina are upstairs.” Her nose quivered. “This paint smell is horrible. Do you want me to hang Lady Patricia’s dresses in the basement?”

  “What’s in the basement?” I asked.

  “Storage. We don’t have enough room to store garments as well as cut and sew fashions on the second floor,” Mimi said, sounding annoyed by the lack of space. “And I don’t want this paint smell to get into the finished designs.”

  I followed Mimi and Brigette into the back room on the ground floor, where the staircase led both up to the floors above and down to the basement. The paint smell was almost overpowering where we stood by the sewing machines.

  “The fumes may be just as bad down there. Is there any ventilation in the basement?” I had no idea if I was trying to curry favor with Mimi to get more access for my story or I was simply nosy about what a couture house looked like behind the scenes. Maybe I was curious about the workshop of someone with this much talent, imagination, and boldness.

  I started down the stairs. Mimi flipped a switch and a couple of bare bulbs shone from the ceiling, showing a rough, dry stone floor. At the bottom, I found the paint smell was nearly as strong as on the ground floor. At least it didn’t smell musty. To one side was a door to the outside and two windows set high in the wall. I walked over and tried the door. It was neither locked nor bolted. “The odor is nearly as strong down here. Perhaps an open door will clear the air.”

  I stuck my head out to find the door led to a long flight of steps going up to the pavement on Old Burlington Street beyond the wrought iron fence. When I turned to come back in, I gasped.

  In the dim light at the back of the basement, beyond the racks of clothes and in front of a row of trunks, a man lay facedown in a heap.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I walked closer and peered at the man. Blood had oozed from the large wound in the back of his head onto the stone floor. “Don’t come down here,” I yelled.

  “Is the paint odor strong down there?” Mimi called down. “I was assured—”

  “No. Get a bobby,” I interrupted.

  “Why?” I heard footsteps on the stairs. “I have done nothing wrong.” Then Mimi was next to me. “Who is he?”

  No tears. No shrieking. Just an angry-sounding question. For which I didn’t have an answer. “I don’t know.”

  “Is he dead?”

  Between the blood and the fixed look of the eye I could see… “Yes, I’m sure he is. We need to get a bobby. Now.”

  “Brigette. Get a bobby,” Mimi called up the stairs.

  Brigette must have been listening, because she said, “On my way,” and then I heard quick footsteps fade.

  Mimi walked closer to the body.

  “Don’t touch anything,” I said.

  She bent over and stared at the man’s face. “I have seen him before.”

  “Where?”

  “Here.”

  “Why was he here?” I asked.

  She straightened up. “No. I am wrong. I have not seen him before.”

  “But you just said—”

  She interrupted, “He looks a bit like one of the painters. That is all.”

  Maybe. I’d hold off judgment until I could speak to the painters. Mimi had first sounded very certain about her recognition, and then very firm in her denial.

  “Hello?” came from upstairs.

  “Fleur? We are in the basement,” Mimi replied.

  As I heard the footsteps on the steps, I said, “Please don’t come down. Brigette has gone for a bobby and we mustn’t touch anything.”

  “Where have you been?” Mimi demanded as Fleur reached the bottom step. They both ignored my request.

  “I went for lunch. How did the fitting go?”

  “Well, until the duchess arrived.”

  Fleur laughed. I guessed she knew the truth about the relationship between Mimi and the duke and pictured a catfight. She appeared to be Mimi’s age, in her early forties, but stockier and blonder. She wore an ordinary-looking blue suit, an unadorned hat, and stacked heels, making her forgettable next to Mimi.

  Then she saw the body. She abruptly grew silent and crossed herself. “Who is he?”

  “I don’t know. Where is Reina? Did she go to lunch with you?” Mimi demanded.

  Fleur didn’t seem upset by her tone of voice. “Reina went to shop for the thread you needed. I’ve not seen her since you left.”

  A heavy tread upstairs announced Brigette’s return with a bobby. They came down the stairs, and after one look at the body, the young man said, “Please, everyone go upstairs and stay there while I call for reinforcements.”

  We slowly climbed the staircase. I was in the rear. Once the bobby saw us go up, he went out the basement door and shut it behind him.

  “Where is he going?” Mimi asked.

  “He’s phoning this in at the closest police call box,” I told her. I had seen one at the end of the block.

  “Fleur.” Mimi led her employee around me and b
ack down the staircase to the body. I followed them, wondering what they were doing.

  Fleur gave the man a quick glance and then a closer look. The two women exchanged looks and then returned upstairs.

  I followed them up. “Who is he?”

  Mimi said, “I don’t know.”

  I looked at Fleur. She’d obviously recognized him.

  Fleur answered with a shrug.

  I heard footsteps in the basement and looked down to see the bobby had returned.

  “Brigette, did you know the man downstairs?” I asked.

  “I never went downstairs. Who is he?”

  “No one we know, ma chére,” Mimi told her in a determined voice, giving me a stern look.

  Whoever the poor man was, Scotland Yard would find out and then I’d find out from the news desk. Hopefully before I came for the opening of the couture house the next week.

  “Hello. Why is everyone back here? What is wrong? Where are the painters and carpenters?” A woman of about thirty, with the slenderness and dark coloring of Mimi and Brigette, spoke in French as she came in the front door and joined us in the back room. Her suit was well cut and her hat was lovely, but her shoes were the same stocky heels of the other two women with Mimi.

  “The painters will return any time now,” Mimi replied in French. She seemed to take a deep breath before she added, “There’s a problem in the basement.”

  “Oh?” The new arrival moved to start down the stairs.

  The rest of them blocked her path. “There’s a dead man down there. The police are investigating,” Fleur said.

  “What?” She looked from one face to the next. “No!”

  “Reina, you haven’t met Mrs. Denis. She’s a reporter for the Daily Premier,” Mimi said, interrupting her in English with a forceful voice. “Mrs. Denis, this is Reina, our lead seamstress.”

  I nodded. Reina looked stunned. I doubted she’d heard a word Mimi said.

  “What is your first name, Mrs. Denis?” Fleur asked. To an Englishwoman, it was an odd question, but I’d only been told their first names.

  “It’s Olivia. My friends call me Livvy.”

  “A very English name,” Mimi said with a heartiness that sounded forced.

  “What happens now?” Fleur asked, glancing down the stairs. They all turned to me, as the only local woman present.

  “They’ll take photographs of the crime scene, dust for fingerprints, ask all of us where we were when they figure out what time the crime was committed, and tell you not to go downstairs until they release the crime scene. Much as it would be done in France.”

  “Such a thing would not happen in France,” Mimi said.

  “Will they blame us because we are foreigners?” Brigette asked.

  “No. If you didn’t kill that man, you have nothing to worry about.” I spoke with the certainty of English justice.

  “Ha.” Mimi gave a Gallic flap of her hands that said what she thought of English justice. I suspected she was thinking of the duchess.

  We could hear more men moving about in the basement, and in another minute, the sounds of painters and carpenters coming back to work through the front door after a long lunch break. I hoped the police wouldn’t make them stop once they made their statements. I was anxious to see the finished Mimi Mareau couture house in London.

  But I also wanted to know who the dead man was and why he was in the basement.

  Suddenly, Reina broke away from our group and dashed up the back staircase toward the upper floors. At a nod from Mimi, Fleur followed her at a slower pace.

  Mimi, Brigette, and I stood together in silence until a stern-looking man in civilian clothes came up from the basement. He introduced himself as Detective Inspector Smith and asked for our names. He had his notebook out, and by the speed and constant motion of his pencil, I suspected he wrote down every word we said.

  I explained that we’d all been to a fitting where I was taking notes for a newspaper article. When we arrived at the salon, we noticed the high level of paint fumes. Since outfits were stored in the basement, we thought to check how strong the smell was down there.

  He demanded details and was particularly interested that I was the one to go down to the bottom level alone.

  “Not quite alone,” Mimi said. “As soon as she said to call a bobby, I came down to see what was going on. This is my maison. My responsibility.”

  “Right. Did any of you recognize the dead man?”

  We all shook our heads.

  “So, who lives here?”

  “Brigette, Fleur, Reina, and I currently reside upstairs,” Mimi told him.

  “And where are Fleur and Reina currently?”

  “Upstairs.”

  “Right.” He made a move to climb the stairs.

  “No. I will call them down.” Mimi stood on the landing and shouted up. “Fleur. Reina. The police want to ask you about the dead man and where you were.”

  “Oui.” Footsteps could be heard in the stairwell, along with hushed, rapid French.

  The detective might not speak French, but I was fluent. I made out “…nothing you can do now. Don’t get yourself…” and “…not right. He…” Someone in this house knew the dead man. Maybe all of them recognized him.

  When the two women joined us, Fleur appeared unruffled, but Reina’s eyes were red and swollen.

  Inspector Smith immediately jumped on this. “You’re upset. You knew the dead man?”

  “No.”

  “And you are?”

  “Reina.”

  “Last name?”

  “Belleau. Reina Belleau.”

  “Reina, do you know how a dead man came to be in your basement?”

  “No.” She glanced at Mimi and then stood straighter. “There has been a death here. The building will now be haunted.” Her accent was thicker than I had noticed when she first came in.

  “You have more to fear from a killer than a ghost, and we’ll need your help to catch him,” the detective said.

  I wished him luck with that. I could sense these women were closing ranks, but that might have been a reaction to dealing with the police in a foreign country rather than an attempt to hide the identity of a murderer.

  “No. You cannot save us from evil spirits. This is the devil’s work.” Reina’s English was now almost incomprehensible.

  “What I need right now is the identity of the man so we can find his family.” Detective Inspector Smith sounded like he was struggling to remain patient.

  “I do not know this man,” Fleur said. “I am Fleur. Reina and Brigette didn’t see him, but I do not think they would know him.”

  “Well, let’s find out. Ladies, let’s go downstairs and see if he looks familiar to any of you.”

  Mimi shot Fleur a look that clearly said Don’t say another word.

  “No. His spirit walks down there. I will not go down,” Reina exclaimed.

  “Inspector Smith, did the man have any identification in his pockets?” I asked. I was afraid Reina would become hysterical if pushed to view the body, and I wanted to get my questions in before she began to wail.

  “Nothing,” he said. “His pockets were totally empty, as if someone removed everything after they killed him.”

  I looked at the detective and raised my eyebrows. If Mimi and her assistants had killed him and emptied his pockets, they wouldn’t have left the body in their own basement or be so obviously upset about his death. Well, Reina wouldn’t be. I wasn’t certain what the others felt.

  And I had no idea if they were involved.

  “We’ve only been in London a week, monsieur. Before that, we didn’t have access to this building. We were in France.” Suddenly, Brigette had an authentic French accent, where before she’d sounded English.

  “That’s not exactly the moon. You could have been coming here regularly.”

  “Perhaps this has something to do with the last tenants?” Mimi suggested.

  “We’ll be certain to check that out. Now, if I can g
et all of you to step down to the basement to view the body, we can clear up this matter and I won’t have to bother you again.” The detective gestured for us to go down the stairs.

  I went first, followed by Brigette. Reina came down in a cluster with Fleur and Mimi. Inspector Smith was last.

  Bright lights had been set up in the basement, making the stark whitewashed walls glow and showing every little mortar crack in the stone floor. Under this glare, the body, on a white-sheeted gurney, had lost any semblance of humanity. Now his face was completely visible.

  I looked down and shook my head as I tried to memorize his features. Brigette glanced down and said, “No.”

  Mimi, Reina, and Fleur stepped up together with Reina in the middle. They said “No” in unison and turned to leave.

  “Wait, ladies. Take a good long look. Are you certain you’ve never seen him before?” the detective asked.

  They shifted to face the detective more than the body. “We are certain,” Mimi said.

  He glanced at all of us. “All right, then. Thank you. Just don’t leave London without letting me know.”

  “Where are you taking the body?” Reina asked.

  “To the morgue.”

  I winced.

  Inspector Smith must have seen my reaction because he said, “It won’t be up to you to identify the body. Why did you look sick?”

  “The morgue was where I saw my husband after he was murdered. I wouldn’t wish that experience on anyone else.”

  “You were widowed very young, Olivia,” Mimi said, sympathy and curiosity written in her eyes.

  “I was twenty-five.” I didn’t want to say anything else. His death was so recent I hadn’t quite finished my expected year of mourning. Any reminder of the person I’d lost still kicked me in the stomach.

  All four of the women reached out and patted my shoulder or touched my hand. Their simple gestures of sympathy put me squarely on their side. Unlike their suddenly thickened accents and stubborn denials to the police, their touches seemed genuine. For the moment, I’d help them hide their relationship with the murdered man, whatever it might be. And I felt sure at least Reina had prior contacts with the dead man.