Murder at the Masquerade, page 5
"He came in about two weeks ago with his wife,” she confirms. “Gineviève wanted a dress that was patriotic, and she thought her husband needed something to match. She’s quite the brains of the operation, isn’t she?”
I lean in, sensing that Ms. Labelle would like to say more. “Ms. Labelle, I hate to ask this because I understand it’s the first code of customer service not to report on your clients. Maggie and I—in addition to being Royal Investigators— both serve as staff at the castle, so we understand what it means to be loyal to those you serve.”
“I know,” Ms. Labelle nods, setting down her teacup. “I saw in the magazines you are the castle animal trainer. And now, soon to be a duchess.”
“Yes,” I confirm, thinking to myself: If Jack and I can ever agree on a wedding. But I push the thought away and focus on the investigation in front of me. “That’s why I understand loyalty. But a man was killed, and if there’s anything you heard from the Prime Minister or his wife, you can tell us. We won’t let him know it was you.”
Tears start to pool in Ms. Labelle’s eyes, but she doesn’t let them fall. Instead, she takes a deep, steadying breath and leans in. “There was something. During the fitting.”
I’m afraid to breathe in case I scare her away. Maggie and I exchange a glance. Even Joe sits rigid on the floor, afraid to move. We act as if a butterfly has landed on us. In the silence, Ms. Labelle finds her voice.
“The Prime Minister was talking about the Ambassador,” Ms. Labelle continues. “He told his wife they had to stay away from Ambassador Franklin at the masquerade. She was urging him to ‘be the bigger man.’ To go and say hello. She told him it would be a smart political move. But Prime Minister Floridán wanted nothing to do with it. He said the man was disgusting and he would not agree to say hello.”
Maggie and I lean in, waiting.
“And?” Maggie says, sensing there’s more to the story.
“And—” Ms. Labelle nods, picking up her teacup again. “I have it on good authority from one of my own high-profile clients that the Prime Minister’s wife, Gineviève, used to date Ambassador Franklin, long before she was married.”
Maggie gasps, almost dropping her cup. Joe shifts position, letting out an audible sigh.
“Are you sure?” I ask, intrigued by this new possible motivation.
“Yes,” Ms. Labelle says, throwing her hands in the air and looking suddenly worried. “But you did not hear it from me. If you say I told you, I’ll deny it.”
“Can we see the fabric?” Maggie asks. "The one found in the Ambassador's hand. It just seems strange that so many powerful people happened to pick the same thing…"
Ms. Labelle sets down her teacup with a soft clink. "Follow me," she says, rising gracefully.
She leads us back into the main shop area, stopping before a rack of fabric samples near the front window. Her fingers dance across the various textures and colors before pulling out a small square of brilliant yellow material studded with gold sequins that catch the light with every movement.
"This is it," she says, holding it up. "Or rather, this is a sample of it. I ordered this specific sequined material from Paris for a special collection. It's quite distinctive—a particular shade of yellow with these unique gold sequins that catch the light differently depending on the angle." Her description matches almost word for word what she told us last night.
"It's beautiful," Maggie comments, reaching out to touch the sample. "Now that I see it in its raw form like this, I understand why so many customers chose it. It’s almost the exact shade on the Monrovian flag.”
"It's hard to find. A limited edition," Ms. Labelle explains, handling the fabric with reverence. "The manufacturer only produced a small quantity. I purchased nearly all of it—at considerable expense, I might add."
"And you made only five items from this fabric?" I clarify.
She nods, returning the sample to its place on the rack. "Yes. Missy Adeline's enormous ballgown, which was the largest piece. Sacks' shirt accents and socks. Prime Minister Floridán's tie. His wife's tasteful dress,” she hesitates, then adds, “And my own clutch."
"And the fabric was particularly expensive?" Maggie asks, tapping notes into her tablet.
"Very," Ms. Labelle confirms, leading us back to the tea area. "In fact, it was a risk for me to purchase it at all. The shop has been... struggling." The admission clearly costs her, her voice dropping as if sharing a shameful secret.
"Struggling?" I prompt gently.
She sinks back onto her chair, shoulders dropping slightly. "The last year has been difficult. Luxury items are always the first to go when people tighten their belts."
Maggie and I exchange glances. Financial trouble is always a compelling motive.
“But the Royal Masquerade brought so much business!” Ms. Labelle’s face brightens. “I owe you a thank you, Rebecca Orange. Your wedding has changed my life for the better.”
And ended Ambassador Franklin’s, I think, feeling pained.
“The announcement of the masquerade was a godsend,” Ms. Labelle continues. “Suddenly everyone needed formal wear, costumes, masks. I've been working sixteen-hour days for weeks." She gestures toward the half-finished gowns on the dress forms. "And now..."
"Now?" I echo.
"Well..." A hint of color touches her cheeks. "Since the... incident... business has actually increased. The press has been calling non-stop since word leaked about the material being found on the Ambassador. Everyone wants to know about the 'murder fabric' and who was wearing it."
"And how do you feel about that?" I ask, watching her closely.
"Terrible about the circumstances, of course," she says quickly—too quickly. "Ambassador Franklin seemed like a kind man. But..." She hesitates.
"But?" Maggie prompts.
"But I can't deny the publicity has been good for business." She looks genuinely conflicted, torn between shame at benefiting from tragedy and relief at her shop's improved fortunes. "Just yesterday, I received three orders from people who specifically requested items made from the same yellow fabric. As if it's some kind of... macabre souvenir."
"Did you have enough left to fill those orders?" I ask, curious.
"No," she says, shaking her head. "After the masks and the items for the ball, there was nothing left. But I've ordered more— a different shade, but similar enough to satisfy the morbid curiosity." Her fingers twist in her lap. "It's distasteful, but I have a business to run."
Joe has inched closer to Ms. Labelle during our conversation, his massive head now near her knee. She notices suddenly and flinches slightly.
"He won't hurt you," I assure her. "He's just curious."
"He's... very large," she observes nervously.
“Ms. Labelle,” I say gently. “Where were you when the lights went out the night of the murder? Where in the room, I mean?”
Ms. Labelle shifts her weight from side to side, looking anxious. “I was— why, I was talking with one of my customers.” Her expression is strained, as if she’s trying to remember. “I was by the dessert table. Why on earth would you ask such a thing?”
The sudden shift in her demeanor is interesting. I glance at Maggie, who gives me a subtle nod.
"I think we have what we need for now," I say, rising to my feet. "Thank you for your time, Ms. Labelle. We may need to follow up with additional questions."
"Of course," she says, relief evident in her voice as she begins ushering us toward the door. "Anything to help find who did this terrible thing."
As we step back onto the village street, the bell chiming our departure, Joe gives himself a vigorous shake as if trying to dispel the boutique's pristine atmosphere from his fur.
"Well, that was illuminating," Maggie says once we're out of earshot.
"Wasn't it?" I reply, processing what we've learned. "The Prime Minister’s wife used to date the Ambassador? How did we not know this?”
“I can ask around the castle,” Maggie assures me. “If it’s true, someone will be able to verify the rumor. And how about Ms. Labelle’s financial troubles? She wasn’t a top suspect in my mind, but now… Rebecca, she might have motivation.”
Maggie, Joe, and I continue down the cobblestone street, turning the corner toward the village square. The familiar green awning of what used to be Rodrigo's newsstand comes into view. After Rodrigo's murder last year, his protégé Zacharia took over the business, maintaining its reputation as the village's primary source for newspapers, magazines, and gossip.
“I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head at Maggie. “I just can’t picture Ms. Labelle killing for fame. I doubt her story is getting that much attention anyway.”
As we approach the newsstand, my steps slow involuntarily. The front display rack is dominated by magazines and tabloids, all featuring variations of the same headline: "DEADLY FASHION: MURDER FABRIC TRACED TO LOCAL DESIGNER." Several show photographs of Maison Labelle's storefront, and one particularly sensational cover features a crude mock-up of a hand clutching yellow material, droplets of red artfully splattered across the image.
Maggie gives me a meaningful look. “You were saying?”
"Oh, hell," I mutter, stopping to stare at the display. "No wonder she's getting calls from the press. This is..."
"Exactly the kind of publicity you can't buy," Maggie finishes, her expression troubled.
Joe sniffs at the newsstand, then looks up at me with those wise eyes that sometimes seem to understand more than any dog should.
"You're thinking what I'm thinking, aren't you?" I ask Maggie, keeping my voice low as Zacharia watches us curiously from behind his counter.
“Absolutely,” Maggie says. “And I’m thinking about it with more judgement, because I’m meaner than you.”
I think about the pride in Ms. Labelle's eyes as she looked around her shop, the reverence with which she handled her fabrics, the way she described the place as "everything to me."
"People have killed to protect less," I say finally.
"We need to look deeper into her finances," Maggie decides, making a note on her tablet. "And find out exactly how much this publicity has improved her business."
We turn away from the newsstand, continuing toward our next destination. Joe walks between us, his presence reassuring as we navigate the increasingly complex threads of this investigation. One thing is becoming clear: in a case where everyone is connected by a distinctive yellow material, the artist who wielded the material for her creations might be the most suspicious thread of all.
Chapter
Seven
Café de Flore sits like a flowery oasis in the middle of the village, its green-and-white striped awning fluttering beneath the October wind. Two bales of hay frame the entrance, pots of orange flowers stacked on top. Leave it to Jocelyn to have the cutest Halloween decorations already in place.
I pause outside, adjusting Joe's collar—a completely unnecessary gesture since my massive dog always looks more put-together than I do— and glance at Maggie, who's checking her watch with the precision of someone who considers being on time as being late.
"Two minutes to spare," she announces, tapping her tablet to sleep mode. "Officer Basilier is already inside, back corner table. She's been there for twenty minutes."
"Of course she has," I sigh, pushing open the door. The sweet scent of honey and lavender envelops us immediately, along with the gentle hum of morning conversation. "Does she think punctuality is a competitive sport?"
"Knowing Basilier? Probably. Remember, no dog jokes, no sarcasm about her uniform, and no mentioning what she looked like in a ballgown.”
"I would never," I protest, though all three were definitely on my mental list of icebreakers. Joe huffs beside me, as if he too has been instructed to be on his best behavior. His massive paws click softly against the polished wooden floor as we weave through the café.
Officer Basilier sits at a table beneath a fall-themed garland, her back to the wall, eyes scanning the room with practiced vigilance. She's dressed in civilian clothes— dark jeans and a crisp button-down shirt— but she still radiates authority like it's a cologne she can't wash off. Her hair, usually pulled back in a severe bun, falls loosely around her shoulders, making her look almost approachable. Almost.
"Orange. Lefevere." She nods at each of us in turn, then her eyes drop to Joe. "And the furry detective. Right on time."
"We aim to please," I say, sliding into the seat across from her while Joe arranges his substantial bulk beneath the table. His head emerges between Maggie and me, like a furry submarine periscope.
Before we can launch into police business, Jocelyn glides over to our table, a gentle smile on her face and a notepad in hand. The café owner's quiet demeanor belies her keen observation skills—a trait I've come to appreciate during our previous visits.
"Good morning, ladies," she says softly, her voice barely rising above the ambient café chatter. "The usual for you, Rebecca? And Maggie, would you like to try our new pumpkin spice chai tea? It’s perfect for this weather."
"Actually," Officer Basilier interjects, "we'll all have the cinnamon tea. And whatever pastry has pumpkin in it." She glances at me. "Orange mentioned you have the best seasonal treats."
I blink in surprise. I did mention that to Officer Basilier, but it was weeks ago, during a completely unrelated conversation about why I liked this café. The fact that she remembered catches me off guard.
She likes me more than she lets on, I think to myself smiling. Way to go, Rebecca Orange. Making friends out of even the prickliest of people.
"And something for your handsome companion?" Jocelyn asks, bending slightly to make eye contact with Joe, who responds with his most dignified expression.
"He'd love one of your special dog biscuits," I reply. "The ones with the peanut butter center, if you have them."
Jocelyn nods, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Always for Joe. I'll be right back with your order."
As she moves away, Officer Basilier leans forward, all business now. "So. Ms. Labelle's shop. What did you learn?"
Maggie opens her tablet, ever-prepared. "She confirmed making items from the yellow and gold sequined material for all five suspects, including a small clutch for herself.”
"And she's in financial trouble," I add. "Or was, until a murder conveniently connected to the distinctive fabric made her shop the talk of the town."
Officer Basilier nods thoughtfully. "Motive, opportunity, and now her business is booming. What about means? Any sense she'd be physically capable of stabbing the Ambassador?"
I think back to Ms. Labelle's slender frame, her manicured hands that handled fabric with such precision. "She's stronger than she looks," I say slowly. "You can see it in her forearms—years of cutting fabric, operating industrial sewing machines. And stabbing doesn't always require brute strength, just determination."
"And the Ambassador wasn't a large man," Maggie points out. "Plus, in a crowded ballroom, with the element of surprise..."
Our conversation pauses as Jocelyn returns with a tray bearing three steaming cinnamon teas, each topped with a delicate foam design of a different flower. She sets a plate of pastries in the center of the table—golden, flaky things drizzled with honey and dotted with what look like crystallized pumpkin candies. Joe's treat, an oversized bone-shaped biscuit, she places directly on the floor beside him with a gentle pat to his head.
"Enjoy, ladies," she says with that same soft smile before drifting back to the counter. “And gentledog.”
Joe doesn't wait for permission, his massive jaws making short work of the biscuit while still managing to look dignified. I watch as Officer Basilier's eyes follow him, a hint of something like envy crossing her face.
"I should get a dog," she says suddenly, taking a sip of her tea. "A big one like Joe. Maybe then I'd get special treatment at cafés too."
"You'd get a dog just to compete with Joe for free biscuits?" I ask, amused.
"No," she replies with surprising sincerity. "I'd get one because... well, look at him. Loyal, protective, good at reading people." She gestures toward Joe, who has finished his treat and now rests his massive head on my lap, his eyes half-closed in contentment. "Plus, unlike most of my colleagues, he doesn't ask stupid questions or contaminate crime scenes."
Maggie and I exchange surprised glances at this rare moment of vulnerability from Officer Basilier. It's easy to forget sometimes that beneath her tough exterior is just a regular person, possibly even one who gets lonely.
"Joe would be happy to share his biscuit sources," I offer, scratching behind his ears. "Though fair warning— once you have a dog, you'll never use the bathroom alone again."
Officer Basilier almost smiles at that, then clears her throat and steers us back to business. "About Ms. Labelle's shop. The publicity boom after the murder— how did that information get out so quickly?"
I take a bite of the pastry, momentarily distracted by how the pumpkin candies and spices combine to create something that tastes like October. "Mm, this is incredible," I mumble, then collect myself. "Sorry. The leak— we're not sure. But by the time we left her shop, the newsstand was already displaying tabloids with headlines about the 'murder fabric' being traced to her."
"Zacharia must have gotten the scoop somehow," Maggie adds, referring to the village's primary purveyor of news and gossip.
Officer Basilier shakes her head, a grimace pulling at her features. "It's impossible to control information these days. One officer makes an offhand comment, one staff member overhears something— next thing you know, it's front-page news with dramatic recreations." She takes a long sip of her tea, leaving a slight foam mustache that she quickly wipes away. "In my day, we could keep things quiet long enough to actually investigate."
"Your day?" I can't help but tease. "How old are you, exactly? Because you're talking like you carried a billy club and wore one of those tall hats."
She narrows her eyes at me, but there's no real heat behind it. "I'm thirty-eight, Orange. And when I started on the force, we didn't have social media turning every local incident into international entertainment."
