On the métro to the Sauveterre headquarters, Magda narrowed her eyes as Rachel explained the story they would use. “What’s the point of honoring a dead man? I thought you told me that honorees were selected on the basis of how much money they’re willing to donate to the gala’s chosen charity. Surely if you’re dead, that amount is zero?”
Rachel shook her head. “That’s how it used to work before the recession. Now galas pick their honorees on the basis of who will draw the largest number of people. The idea is that a lot of people paying a thousand euros a plate works out to more than any single person would give. So strictly speaking, it doesn’t matter if an honoree is dead, provided his friends and relatives are willing to pay to listen to people say nice things about him.”
Magda made a face. “I wouldn’t put it that way to Antoinette Guipure.”
“As if I would!” Did neither her husband nor her best friend have any faith in her? Maybe she should make Kiki her accomplice. But Rachel decided to be accommodating rather than outraged. “I’ll tell you what.” She turned in her seat. “Ask me some questions you think might come up, and I’ll practice my answers.”
Magda seemed delighted to comply. By the time the train reached their stop, Rachel had been so thoroughly questioned that this imaginary charity gala was as real to her as any she’d actually helped to organize. As they walked up the stairs of the Miromesnil station, her head was a whirl of napkin colors, potential head counts, and the size of Roland Guipure’s name on the imaginary invitations.
As they stepped outside the station, though, all this was swept out of her thoughts. The Rue la Boétie was a view of Paris in all its complex glory. A long, straight vista bounded on either side by sandstone buildings with iron balconies all set at the same height. Its architecture drew the eye calmly but inexorably toward a little knot of trees at its distant end. At ground level, the buildings on the street were crowded with shopfronts and awnings—red and gold for a Chinese restaurant, orange for the café across the street from the station, garish black and yellow for a video store having a closing-down sale—but above them the facades rose in smooth blank stories, a collection of grandes dames ignoring puppies frisking around their feet.
They crossed and walked to number 21. A beggar sat against a pole across from the entrance; Rachel gave him a couple of euros before turning to look at what she was, literally, getting into.
This building had no obvious shopfront, but rather a glass door covered by an elaborate art deco metal grille painted a glossy white. A window to the right of the door offered a view into the Sauveterre boutique. The interior appeared to have been bleached. The furniture and carpet, the clothing on display, even the hanging racks, were all the color of freshly fallen snow. For a moment all this white seemed to turn the window opaque, and she saw herself reflected back. One only ever looks better or worse reflected in a window, and to her own eyes Rachel didn’t look better. The pallid background turned her brown hair mousy and her skin pasty; her black turtleneck, made stark and hard in contrast to the surrounding paleness, washed her out even further. Meanwhile Magda, a head taller behind her, was somehow set off to advantage. Her dark skin was radiant against the uniform white, her black and caramel-colored curls enhanced by the red scarf she’d wrapped around the collar of her coat.
“You look great,” Magda said. She smiled at her in the glass. “Let’s go in.”
The foyer was the same color as the metal grille and the store. The spotless pallor of its walls and marble floor was interrupted only by the entrance to the store on the right and a white marble staircase rising to the upper stories on the left. The wooden banister of this staircase had been painted white as well, so recently or so repeatedly that it looked as if it had never been defiled by the touch of a human hand.
Heels clicked on the stairs and a pair of white stilettos appeared, shortly followed by the rest of a young woman wearing a white sheath and holding a white clipboard. Her skin was pale—Perhaps it’s a job requirement, Rachel thought—but her hair was bright copper, pulled back into a bun at the base of her neck. Her lips, painted the tomato red of every fashionable Parisian woman, opened. “Madame Field?”
Who was Madame Field? Then Rachel understood. Kiki had given Antoinette Guipure her married name, the better to mark her out as a banker’s wife. For this meeting, then, she was Mrs. Rachel Field, wife of Alan Field, VP of international banking at CorBank. She recovered herself. “Yes. And this is Madame Stevens, my co-coordinator.”
“I’m Gabrielle Aubert, Antoinette Guipure’s assistant. Follow me, please. Antoinette’s been slightly delayed—it’s confused here at the moment, as I’m sure you understand—and she asked me to make you comfortable. As soon as she’s done, she’ll be free to talk to you about the—the …” She frowned at her clipboard.
“The Franco-American Heritage Society Benefit,” Rachel supplied.
“Yes, the Franco-American Heritage Society Benefit. Antoinette was delighted at the idea of honoring her brother, and she’s eager to hear more about what that involves.”
They had passed the first landing. As they continued upward through an expanse of unadorned white walls and blond wood floors, Gabrielle’s voice became increasingly mechanical, the sound of a tour guide giving an overfamiliar speech. “This building housed the gallery and home of Roland and Antoinette Guipure’s grandpère, the art dealer Maximilien Sauveterre, from 1936 until his death in the seventies. The Sauveterre label is named in honor of Monsieur Sauveterre, who is known for his decision to pay a fair price for all art he bought during World War II, no matter who the seller.” Thinking of Kiki, Rachel noticed this careful circumlocution and grinned to herself. “Once Maison Sauveterre began to do well,” the girl continued, “Antoinette bought it back. She and Monsieur Guipure liked the idea of deepening the family connection. Since the purchase, it’s been renovated into a complete work-life space. The top two floors are Monsieur Guipure’s studio and appartement, and, as you’ve seen, the ground floor houses the label’s boutique. In between are a couture salon and our storage; the ateliers for beading, embroidery, pleating; and of course the sewing rooms. Although you can’t tell from outside,” she said with automated delight, “this building extends for a full city block! Our third floor, where I’m taking you now, houses the label’s business offices, while the basement holds the archives of both the label and the former gallery. Monsieur Guipure and Antoinette like the sense of continuity the blended archive provides.” She stopped abruptly, her expression stricken. “Liked. I should say Roland liked the sense of continuity.” Her face twitched, then smoothed to neutrality once more. “And here we are!” she said brightly as they came to the third-floor landing.
She turned right and led them to a set of double doors, gesturing to a framed document on the wall next to them. “Here is one of the receipts for a painting Maximilien Sauveterre purchased during the war. Naturally, these are very fragile, and we keep the rest in our archive, but Antoinette likes to keep one here as a reminder of the company’s heritage.” She gave a practiced smile. “As I said, she and Monsieur Guipure are proud of the family connection.”
Rachel squinted at the receipt, which had an elaborate art nouveau letterhead identifying it as having come from Galeries Sauveterre, 21 Rue la Boétie, Paris, with some indecipherable cursive writing underneath and, at the bottom, a sweeping 145.000. She made a noise of appreciation.
Gabriele opened the double doors, ushering them across a small white-carpeted room where a young woman in a white dress and wearing a white headset sat behind a white desk that held a white multiline phone. They emerged into a larger white room with a slightly larger white desk, on which sat a smaller white phone next to a white computer monitor and keyboard.
No sooner had they entered than the phone gave a chirrup.
Gabrielle moved to answer it. “Excuse me.”
Rachel looked around as they waited. This room featured at least some color, even if it was of the most washed-out kind. The walls were dotted with gray and white photos of tailoring details—a box pleat in extreme close-up, a hugely magnified buttonhole, a hem photographed from the inside to show its neat stitching. From the addition of this decoration and the two white velvet chairs, placed on either side of a small white table on the left-hand wall, she concluded that it was the general reception room, where visitors were stashed before being admitted to whatever inner sanctum lay on the other side of the door in the far wall.
As if to prove her right, Gabrielle hung up the telephone and gestured to toward the chairs. “Please sit down. I’ll ask the receptionist to bring you a coffee.”
But as she took a step toward the outer office, the phone chirruped again and then, once she’d put down her receiver, again. Each time, Gabrielle’s end of the conversation was monosyllabic and accompanied by careful note-taking. At the end of the second one, she smiled apologetically at them. “As I said, things are—”
Once again the phone rang, but this time a buzz instead of a chirrup. Her smile froze. “Excuse me.” She picked up the receiver, listened for a moment, then put it back and rose. “Antoinette is ready for you.”
Rachel and Magda followed her through the door. They found themselves in yet another white room, but here the frigid decor was slightly relieved by a fire that burned in the fireplace behind the desk at the room’s far end. The illusion of warmth fostered by flames casting orange and yellow shadows onto the white brick, however, stood no chance against the countless floral arrangements of white or pastel roses, lilies, and orchids in baskets, wreaths, sheaves, and angular modernist groupings that seemed to cover every available surface. Sympathy arrangements, Rachel thought. Sympathy was always pale.
“Madame Villeneuve’s friend,” Gabrielle announced.
Standing behind the desk, next to a dark-haired man with whom she was conferring in murmurs, was a woman wearing all black: a black cashmere cardigan over a black blouse and black velvet trousers. The top of her head was also black, smooth dark hair neatly parted in the middle and falling down her back. She looked up from whatever she and the man were examining, and Rachel recognized her from the photographs. Now, though, her face was tired, her wide-spaced eyes deeper set than they had appeared in the pictures, and with an almost pearly sheen to them. Then she came out from behind the desk, and Rachel saw that her eyes seemed deep-set because they were swollen, their sheen the remainder of recent tears.
“Antoinette Guipure.” Her voice was low. “And this is Keteb Lellouch, our head pattern cutter.” She half turned and gestured at the man behind her, who gave a small smile of acknowledgment. In contrast to Toinette, he was dressed in white from head to foot, and against the color, his skin, a few shades lighter than Magda’s, glowed like polished wood. His face was a curious mixture, the precision of its high cheekbones and long, narrow nose contrasted by a full-lipped mouth, but all these features were hidden by his dark hair as he bowed his head back over whatever he and Antoinette had been examining.
Having emerged from behind the desk, Antoinette held out her hand and gave an attempt at a gracious smile. “Please forgive me. I thought I’d be free before this, but there are so many details that need to be dealt with … Gabrielle?”
The girl stepped forward.
“Keteb has some ideas about fabrics. He’ll give you his notes, so we can work on pricing. And did Saint Roch call back? And could we please get someone from publicity to compile the addresses for the thank-you cards for all these flowers?”
Gabrielle unclipped some sheets from her clipboard. “Here’s the list of addresses; they just finished it. I’ve put a draft of the announcement on top; I thought you’d like to check it for changes before I pass it back to publicity. And Saint Roch just called and said yes. They’re getting back to me with a range of possible dates.”
In her head Rachel heard Alan say, They’ll be busy trying to distract themselves by focusing on practicalities. But she and Magda were here now, so she returned the smile the head pattern cutter gave as he slipped out of the room in a blur of white and resolved to push on. She didn’t have much choice.
As Gabrielle turned to follow Lellouch, Antoinette added, “And bring some coffee, please.”
Although there were chairs drawn up in front of the desk, she gestured toward two chairs and a sofa that stood near the window, with a small table in between. “Please. And again, please accept my apologies—I only have fifteen minutes before I need to meet with my head of embroidery. Things have been chaotic since … well, since.”
“Please don’t worry. We understand.” Feeling a stab of pity, Rachel tried to change the subject. “Your interior decoration is beautiful. So calm.”
“Thank you. It was my brother’s idea. After he came back, he wanted it all white. The shop, the offices, his private spaces … He said it would create an atmosphere of serenity that would reduce temptation and stimulate his creativity. Something he learned at the Eirini Clinic. We redid the entire interior for him. They did it in two weeks—can you imagine?” She gave a little laugh at the memory, but then her lower lip began to tremble. “Although I suppose in the end it didn’t make any difference, given what he did.” The sheen in her eyes turned to water, but she blinked it back.
Given what he did. So Antoinette also believed Guipure had overdosed. Rachel felt a twinge of doubt about her own conclusion, mingled with a strong dose of shame that she was the cause of Antoinette’s unshed tears. She made to stand up. “We should—”
“No, no.” Antoinette held up a hand; only its slight tremor revealed any emotion. “We haven’t spoken at all about your gala. I was so pleased to hear from Madame de Villeneuve. A phone call from an old family friend is always a pleasure, but when she told me that you wanted to honor my brother, it was more than a pleasure. I was truly touched. Now”—at last she managed a smile, or at least a rictus in the shape of a smile—“what do you have in mind?”
Rachel attempted to rise to Antoinette’s level of control. At the moment it might seem as if she was poking at a bereaved woman’s pain but, she reminded herself, she was trying to do good here. It would all feel different if she unmasked a murderer. She gritted her teeth and continued. “Well, we see the gala more as a celebration than a memoriam. We thought we would ask committee members to loan us examples of your brother’s pieces—several of our members are dedicated haute couture collectors—or we might have life-size images of his best-known designs. Perhaps hold a silent auction of some of his sketches, if you’re willing.” Antoinette certainly looked willing. Now for the step that would get them what they wanted: the names of others they could talk to about the details of Guipure’s life. “And we thought a collection of testimonials from those who knew him printed as a program …?”
Antoinette nodded. “Yes, yes that sounds very good. Some of our employees, perhaps. They knew him quite well.”
“And some friends?” Magda prodded gently. “Someone who knew him as a person?”
A frown replaced the eagerness. “Well … there’s me, of course. And Keteb, whom you just met. He’s been with us since the beginning. And Gabrielle, perhaps.”
Rachel marveled at the difference between the public’s impression of celebrity and its reality. Had Roland Guipure, the darling of French fashion, had no friends? Could his social circle really have been limited to his sister, his employees, and his sister’s assistant?
She jumped as Antoinette’s phone buzzed. “I have Gédéon Naquet,” said Gabrielle’s voice.
“Oh, not again!” The final word was nearly a yell. “Tell him I’ll call him back.” She closed her eyes for a moment, then turned back to Rachel and Magda. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to … He was Rolé’s biographer, and now he keeps calling, and I just can’t.” She moved forward in her chair. “I think I may have given you a wrong impression. I don’t mean my brother didn’t have friends. He had many friends before his problems. But over the last year, he lost them. They were replaced by … well, by the kind of friends a rich addict has. Enablers.” She looked to one side, then back. “False friends, Rolé told me they called them at Eirini. ‘Fire your false friends’ was one of their phrases. After you left Eirini, you were supposed to get rid of such people, cut them out of your life. He did that—and God knows it was hard—but once he’d done it, he didn’t really have anyone left. And he hadn’t had time to restart his old friendships yet.” She paused, a frown crinkling her forehead. “No, that’s not right. To be honest, he didn’t really seem to want friends. He said he was striving for serenity by concentrating on his comeback. ‘Striving for serenity’—that’s another Eirini phrase. As far as I could see, he was content to work on the collection and focus on that and the licensing deal.” Her voice became tight. “Although it seems I saw less than I thought.”
The buzz of the intercom cut across the silence. “Antoinette,” said Gabrielle’s voice.
Antoinette sighed. “I’m sorry. I asked Gabrielle to let me know when our time was up. I hope you’ll forgive me. I don’t think I’ve been much help to you.”
“Oh no, you should forgive us!” Rachel said at the same time as Magda said, “No, it’s our fault.”
“We should go.” She picked up her bag.
Magda stood up. “We’ll make another appointment.”
Antoinette started to apologize once more, then gave up. “Yes. Yes, you’re right. Later would be better. Perhaps after the memorial service.” She had started to walk them to the door, but now she paused. “In fact, why don’t you come to the memorial service? It would be a good way to meet people who knew Rolé before, people who could be helpful for your program. I’ll have Gabrielle contact you when arrangements have been finalized.”
A memorial service! Now that was a potential mine of information. Rachel nodded. “Thank you.”
“De rien.” Antoinette opened the door. “Gabrielle!”
Her assistant stood at the desk, a tray holding a white coffee service on the desk in front of her. She had obviously stopped on the way in to answer the incessantly ringing phone.
“Gabrielle, please take Madame Field’s information so that we can send her an invitation to the memorial. And you might as well take that coffee into your meeting with Keteb now.” She nodded at Rachel and Magda. “I look forward to seeing you there.”
She retreated into her office and closed the door firmly behind her.