Chapter 12
The scent of designer perfume mingles with something that smells suspiciously like vanilla candles and unmet expectations inside Midnight Velour Intimates.
Classical music continues to play softly in the background—something French and pretentious that makes me feel underdressed just hearing it— while the gentle hum of well-dressed women shopping for things that will never make it into their Christmas newsletters fills the shop.
Vivienne Velour finishes folding tissue paper around her customer’s purchase, turning gift-wrapping into an art form. Her dark hair is perfectly coiffed, and her smile has that European charm that probably works on most people who haven’t spent their lives detecting lies and solving murders.
Okay, fine. It works on me, too.
I approach with Cricket’s head still poking out of my tote bag like a furry surveillance system, while Peyton flanks me, clearly tired of being a murder suspect.
“Excuse me,” I say, doing my best customer service impression. “Are you Vivienne Velour?”
She turns with a smile that could sell ice to polar bears. “Oui, I am. How may I help you ladies today?” Her French accent adds an extra layer of sophistication to what’s essentially a lingerie boutique in the armpit of Maine.
“I’m Hattie Holiday. We spoke briefly yesterday at Willoughby Hall.
Your shop is amazing!” I say in an effort to butter her up in hopes she’ll spill enough delicious secrets to rival a Parisian croissant.
“My friend Peyton and I just love your designs.” I use the word friend loosely.
Peyton would use a different word entirely.
“Why, thank you.” Vivienne gives a little laugh. “It’s nice to be appreciated for your art.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” I tell her. “Could you walk us through your pieces? We’re not exactly fashion experts, but we know what we like—and everything in here definitely makes… an impression.”
That’s apparently all the invitation Vivienne needs. She pivots toward the nearest display like she’s been waiting all afternoon for exactly this question.
“I would be absolutely delighted,” she says, already gliding toward the nearest rack with a smile that suggests she could do this in her sleep.
The thick scent of pine and lavender trails her, and I bet it’s some pricey French perfume she’s wearing.
But honestly, it sort of reminds me of the spray my mother keeps in her guest bathroom.
“Let me show you where it all begins.” She gestures toward the black velvet creation like she’s introducing royalty.
Vivienne’s hand comes to rest on a black velvet creation with far too little fabric to warrant all those digits on the price tag.
“Now this here is the epitome of my European aesthetic. These ruffles, notice how they cascade like liquid shadow, are a signature element I’ve perfected over years of study in Paris.
The sleeve construction, with these wing-like projections, creates an otherworldly silhouette that speaks to the darkness within every woman’s soul.
” She pauses dramatically, her accent adding weight to her words.
“These are not mere garments. They are wearable art, each piece hand-crafted to embody the mysterious elegance that can only come from true European sensibility.”
She smells like guilt and expensive lies, Cricket mewls from her tote bag. Also, that perfume of hers is giving me a headache.
Rookie gives a soft growl as he trots on up.
“We met briefly at the country club event,” Peyton says smoothly. “Such a terrible thing that happened to poor Seraphina.”
Vivienne’s expression shifts to something darker. “Ah, oui, such a tragedy. That poor woman.” She pauses, and something flickers across her face. “Though I must say, she had many enemies.” So many enemies. She frowns with the thought. Starting with me.
Interesting opening move, Peyton thinks with the sharp focus of the wrongly accused, unwilling to let a single detail slide. Let’s see where this French fraud tries to point the finger.
“Enemies?” I ask, trying to sound like a casual gossip-seeker rather than someone conducting an amateur murder investigation in a lingerie shop. Really, it’s a thin line between the two anyway.
Vivienne glances around as if checking for eavesdroppers before leaning in. “That woman,” she nods toward Peyton, “she had it out for Seraphina from the start. Some sort of territorial dispute seemed to be involved.”
Peyton gasps so hard a stray ribbon makes a move toward her nostrils.
“Territorial disputes? Over what, exactly? The right to organize charity events without getting strangled?” This French fraud is trying to frame me for murder!
Peyton’s internal voice riots. The audacity of this witch is breathtaking.
“Please, I heard you arguing behind that forest of trees in the room just before the event got underway,” Vivienne continues. “Something about event planning rights. It was all very heated.” She nods at Peyton. “You have quite the explosive temper when crossed.”
“My temper is perfectly controlled,” Peyton says through gritted teeth. “Unlike some people’s impulse control around Christmas lights.”
She talks too much for someone claiming innocence, Cricket notes. Guilty parties usually can’t help themselves—they keep talking until they hang themselves with their own words—or their own lights.
Vivienne waves a manicured hand dismissively at my irate boss. “But you were not the only one with problems with Seraphina. There was also that Diva woman—Diva Divine Temptation.”
Now this is getting interesting. I lean forward slightly, and Cricket adjusts her position to get a better view of our suspect.
“Oh really?” I say, doing my nosy neighbor impression. “What problems?”
And, for the record, I am so the nosy neighbor.
“Professional disagreements,” Vivienne says, and something in her tone suggests there’s a lot more to this story. “Diva borrowed money from Seraphina, quite a bit, actually, and could not pay it back. Her business, it is not as successful as she has people believe.”
How does she know about private financial arrangements? Cricket asks the question I’m thinking.
“Not to mention,” Vivienne continues, apparently on a roll now, “there were accusations of stolen client lists. Diva’s educational accessories business,” she makes air quotes that somehow manage to be both French and sarcastic, “it might not be her only source of income, if you understand my meaning.”
I don’t, actually, but I nod like I do because sometimes that’s how you get people to keep talking. I hope.
Rookie touches his paw to my thigh. I need a nap and a snack.
Cricket sighs just hearing it. Why did we bring the big oaf again?
“And then there’s Millie Ashford from the North Pole Confectionery,” Vivienne adds, apparently determined to throw every possible suspect under the bus.
“The baker?” Peyton asks. “What could she possibly have against a society columnist?”
Vivienne’s smile turns sharp. “Ah, their rivalry was not so sweet. Recipe theft accusations, you see. Millie claimed Seraphina stole her grandmother’s secret cookie formula and published it in some food blog. Very bitter dispute.”
Why does she know so many secrets about everyone? Cricket wonders. This level of gossip knowledge is suspicious in itself.
“Plus, Millie’s bakery is struggling financially,” Vivienne continues, apparently unaware that she’s revealing more than she should. “Christmas cookies are not the only thing crumbling around her, if you know what I mean.”
“How do you know that?” Peyton snips it out like a threat.
“In my line of work, you hear things,” Vivienne says quickly. “Women talk when they feel comfortable, and lingerie shopping—let’s just say, it makes them very chatty.”
“Well, I’ll be!” From across the shop, Peggy’s voice rises in excitement. “Clarabelle, look at this contraption! It’s got more buttons than my television remote!”
Clarabelle’s response is mercifully muffled, but I catch something about “instructions in three languages.”
This is more entertaining than the Nature Channel, Cricket says. Though considerably more embarrassing for everyone involved.
“So do you think any of these women could have killed Seraphina?” I ask, trying to stay on track.
Vivienne shrugs and her earrings sparkle like tiny jags of lightning. “People kill for money, for revenge, for secrets. And Seraphina certainly knew many secrets.”
“Well, those were certainly some secrets you shared,” I tell her.
“Oh, there were many more and they were much darker than that.” Vivienne waves her hand. “Affairs, financial troubles, family scandals. She had what you Americans call dirt on everyone.”
It makes her sound like she was an expert in the art of blackmail, Cricket notes.
It does indeed.
“Dirt,” Peyton repeats as if it were a four-letter word, which it is. “Are you saying Seraphina was blackmailing people?”
“I did not say that,” Vivienne backpedals with a wink. “I simply meant she was very well-informed about her social circle.”
It’s clear she wants us to read between the blackmailing lines.
Poor Seraphina really did make enemies everywhere she went, Vivienne thinks with what seems like genuine sympathy. I hope these women can find some answers. Such a terrible way to die.
A crowd migrates toward the registers and Vivienne perks up.
“I should get back to my customers. It was lovely speaking to you, ladies. Please, anything you like, I’ll give you a fifteen percent discount.
My treat.” They both look like they need a good man and considerably less clothing, Vivienne thinks. My two favorite problems to solve.
“Well,” Peyton says, “that was certainly informative.”
“Very informative,” I agree. “It sounds like Seraphina was no saint.”
I bet she knows more than she’s letting on, Rookie says with a soft woof. Plus, she never offered us any treats, which is always suspicious.
As we head toward the door, passing Peggy and Clarabelle still debating the merits of various educational devices, one name keeps circling back. Millie Ashford. Stolen recipes, a failing bakery, and a dead gossip blogger who apparently couldn’t keep her nose out of other people’s cookie jars.
The North Pole Confectionery is going on tomorrow’s to-do list.
I’ll play it cool, of course. After all, I have a feeling the best way to catch a killer is to let them think they’re getting away with murder.