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 wordfriendloosely. 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 withfar 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 amsothe 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.”
