The Ghost and the Stolen Tears by Cleo Coyle

Author:Cleo Coyle [Coyle, Cleo]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2022-10-04T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 27

Fashionably Late

You’d better run along home and think up things to tell the police. You’ll be hearing from them.

—Dashiell Hammett, The Maltese Falcon

RENE BIJOUX LED Jack and me to the rear of his luxury shop, then through a 1930s-style oval doorway blocked by floor-length drapes of pink satin.

Through the curtains, we found a high-ceilinged room with white marble walls and a black marble floor. The space was large and furnished with lush chairs and pillowed couches—all facing a curved staircase that led up to another oval-shaped door on the second floor.

Obviously those stairs would serve as a fashion runway. Already, a line of elegantly attired young women were being coached by a strident, leotard-clad dance instructor.

“You must learn the proper way to descend the stairs,” she commanded in a Russian accent. “Chin up. Head held high. No clutching the rail. I want right elbows bent, wrist cocked, hand pointing at the sky!”

“I’m gonna fall right down on my kissah, I’m sure,” groused a squeaky-voiced woman in Brooklynese.

With Rene still in the lead, we squeezed past the in structor and her pupils. At the top of the stairs, we passed through that second oval door and another set of pale pink curtains.

Suddenly, Jack stopped dead—then pushed his fedora to the back of his head.

“Holy cats! What a view.”

Of course Jack found the scenery appealing, seeing as we’d just entered a room full of attractive young women in various stages of undress. Most were in slips, but some were down to their unmentionables. Others were being fitted with elegant Rene Bijoux originals.

A brunette adjusting the seams on her stockings jerked her head in Jack’s direction.

“Here comes another one. It’s like the Yankees bullpen in here.”

Rene brushed past her to the center of the room. He clapped his hands, then began giving orders.

“We have a situation here,” he said, pushing me to the center of a ring of women.

“I’ll need Betsy to work on her makeup, Ellen to make her hair presentable. Shirley, I’ll need you to take measurements, and I shall handle the wardrobe.”

Within seconds I was shoved into a chair. One young woman—presumably Ellen—began to untangle my granny bun. Betsy barely introduced herself before she ripped the glasses from my face and smeared my skin all over with some sweet-smelling concoction. Rene reappeared with an armful of long, stylish evening dresses, seeking to find just the right color for my skin tone. Shirley reached for a red number with a full skirt and sequined top, which elicited a squeal from the fashion designer.

“Not that one!” Rene insisted. “It’s much too daring. Remember, this show is for the Daughters of the American Revolution.”

“Pucker your lips, please,” Betsy commanded. “They’re so pale I don’t know where they end and your cheeks begin.”

Meanwhile Shirley kept ordering me to stand up while she wrapped a tape measure around my waist. Ellen threw down her hairbrush and complained she couldn’t work on my hair if I insisted on jumping up like a jack-in-the-box.

And speaking

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