Cara Black - Murder in the Sentier

“Don’t get ideas,” she said, startled. She hadn’t shaved her legs in two weeks!

“See, I drape the fabric, pin a dart here.”

Sharp jabs poked her skin. “I’m a computer geek, not a model.”

“You’re a model now,” René said, handing her a palette of pressed shadows and blushes. “Hair and makeup is new to me, too!”

“Do this and you save my life,” Michel said. “My uncle predicts a failure. This is my chance to show them a Sentier titi can do a couture show. For years the fabric dealers have laughed at me, called me a freak, a dreamer, saying, ‘No one ever goes from wholesale to couture!’”

She couldn’t disappoint him.

“What do I do?”

“Attitude,” Michel said, as he pinned and sewed the fabric. “Show attitude.” Akiva, Michel’s cousin, had appeared and was on his knees hemming the silk.

“And don’t breathe.”

“Don’t breathe?”

“No deep breaths. The stitching’s temporary.”

So she was being sewn into a dress like Marilyn Monroe. Michel, his cap back on his head, white eyebrows lowered in concentration, stitched her into a symphony of gray: a gunmetal butter-smooth leather bustier with billowing strips of charcoal silk as a skirt. He completed the ensemble with crocodile pumps and thick strands of Tahitian black seed pearls around her neck. The effect, an avant-garde blend of classic and streetwise, was stunning.

“Follow the Goth model,” he said. He gestured toward an alabaster-skinned woman with huge black-ringed eyes and lips, who was wearing a spiderweb confection of a gown. “Do what she does.”

’arry, his other assistant, had two big makeup brushes in his hands and was powdering her face, hollowing her eyes with charcoal shadow.

“My hair?”

René stood on a spindly-legged chair and scattered silver sparkles over her hair. “Now comb it through with your hands…. Perfect, the windswept lunar look!”

Voices and the sound of opening and closing doors came from the other room.

“The musician, I hope.” Michel rushed off.

“How many outfits do I wear?”

“We’re hoping Annika comes to and we can give her fluids,” Akiva grinned. “Then she can finish the show.”

Another model ran in, stripped off her raincoat, and stepped into a waiting dress. “Sorry, I’ve done three shows today, I came from Zaza’s as fast as I could.”

At least there were three of them to model for Michel now and the other models’ clothes had been designed for them.

The clients had begun to arrive. Aimée took a few steps and tried not to breathe deeply. She saw how easily she could pass out. Akiva led her to the curtained door.

“Thrust your hips forward, keep your knees together, stare straight ahead. Whatever you do, don’t smile!”

“Go ahead of me, I trip easy,” Aimée said to the pigtailed rollerblader with the laptop strapped on, who sucked a lollipop. This eclectic show was definitely couture contra couture.

“Remember, don’t smile,” said Akiva. “Pout!”

Michel planted a kiss on her cheek, then shoved her beyond the velvet curtain into a glaring spotlight. For a moment, she was blinded by the hot light. Strains of griot music came from her left. She took a step and tottered on the four-inch crocodile pumps. Gritting her teeth and trying to pout, she righted herself, slanted her hips, and prayed her knees weren’t knocking together.

The small gold chairs had filled with a variety of people. Flashbulbs were forbidden, but several men in the front row had sketch pads. The majority of the women were bon chic bon genre types who, in their designer suits, looked like they could afford couture. A few older women wore Yves Saint Laurent but the majority were under forty and their eyes lit up. Like jaded predators at a feast, they were always looking for what was fresh and unique. A ripple of applause greeted the Goth model.

When Aimée reached the first row of chairs, the rollerblader swooped beside her. The rollerblader made her way among them, pointing to the dress numbers on her laptop. The audience laughed and applauded loudly.

Aimée kept following the Goth model. Walking like a slant-board hurt her thighs. And she had to pee. Damn it, why hadn’t she gone before?

Loud applause greeted them.

The hot light followed her. She hoped she wasn’t sweating in the silk. That’s when she realized the heavy curtains draped the windows that overlooked the Palais Royal garden. And heard the familiar sounds of a kora accompanying a plaintive song, a mixture of French and Wolof. Like a sad love song.

Somehow it all worked: the luxurious rooms, the mix of outrageous and ultrafeminine, and the weaving rollerblader with the high-tech ordering system.

The audience appeared transfixed. And then Aimée saw the honey-colored face of the musician behind the dried palm screen, reflected in the tall mirror.

Idrissa.

Friday Noon

STEFAN ENTERED THE FLEABAG hotel, the kind rented by the hour. He hadn’t stayed in a hotel for years, but doubted the police checked the registers here.

And it was in a perfect location, standing on the edge of the Sentier. Leaning seemed a more appropriate word. Little had changed from the fifteenth century, Stefan figured, except for the ocher-painted Sheetrock and inexplicable fluorescent pink trim inside the foyer. The closet-sized hotel reception, illuminated by only a dim blue light, held room keys hung on nails from the greasy back wall.

“Anyone here?” he asked.

In the background, a conversation in Turkish continued without stopping.

He leaned on the thin board that served as a counter. “Service, s’il vous plaît !” he said louder.

The conversation paused, a door opened, and a small mole of a man appeared. He held a bottle of vinegar in one hand and a flashlight under his arm. Stefan wondered what the vinegar was for.

“Sign here,” he said without looking at Stefan, shining the flashlight on the ledger.

Stefan scribbled something illegible below all the other illegible signatures.

“How long?” the man asked.

“I’ll pay for the night.” Stefan shoveled one hundred francs into the waiting palm. “I’d like a room with a view. Street view.”

The man pulled a key from a nail. “Number 49, top floor.” His small molelike eyes raked over Stefan for the first time. “Enjoy your stay.”

Stefan took his time mounting the creaking wood stairs. He paused and listened. No one followed so he kept going. On the top landing was a pile of stained sheets.

Stefan unlocked the door. The previous occupants hadn’t left long before. He smelled cheap perfume and the mildew from the damp bathroom. He pulled the tattered lace curtain over the glass, then opened the window, hoping to avoid other pungent odors.

The faded rose chenille bedspread, rucked and torn on the bottom, barely covered the mattress. Tired, he sank down on the wooden chair.

Outside the sweltering room’s windows, rue Beauregard resounded with the blare of a car alarm going off and a loud conversation being held across the narrow street. Stefan dimmed the one bed lamp, draping a towel over the patched, yellowed shade. It cast a muted cocoa light over the room.

He pulled the wooden chair with uneven legs to the window and trained his eye on the lighted windows in Action-Réaction’s headquarters. He’d been underground for so long he felt like the feral urban creature he’d become. Jumping at every noise his limited hearing registered, wary of every glance or comment.

Funny, twenty years later, he was back in almost the same spot. Again in the Sentier, near the cache. Or so he assumed.

His mind went back to the journey from the château with Jutta and Beate. It had taken them several hours to drive from Mulhouse, near the German border, to Paris.