Our plane creeps backward and I can see the jump-suited tarmac crew waving those orange flashlight signals to make sure the pilot knows where he’s supposed to go. Preflight jitters are not the only thing that’s making me nervous.
“Wait, Charlotte,” Franklin says. “Don’t freak.”
“Too late,” I reply.
“Listen. I agree that in the worst possible scenario, we’re in a bit of a bind. But let’s think about a best-case scenario.”
“Best-case scenario in a situation where one house burned to the ground, another is ruined, and one person is missing? And where we lied to our news director?”
“House fires happen all the time, Charlotte. You know that. In addition, the house at 59 was vacant. I saw the video. Decrepit. Maybe some slimeball absentee landlord decided to torch it and get the insurance money. Maybe something happened with the gas. Maybe someone was burning leaves and a spark hit the house. You’re making it a melodrama. And it probably isn’t.”
My hands clutch the armrests as the plane lifts with a roar from solid ground into the mystical land of aerodynamics. I watch the wings to make sure the flaps are operating properly, in case someone in the cockpit forgets. I listen for the landing gear to retract. I wonder how I wound up in such a complicated journalism situation. Again. I was just trying to get a great story.
“Here’s a plan,” I say. “Nothing we can do now. We go to Atlanta. See what we can find. We’ll be back at the station Monday morning. Avoid Kevin. We can both drive to Great Barrington and scout. Talk to neighbors. And the police. We can pretend we’re just working on the fire story. See if we can gauge whether it’s an accident. See if Sally shows up. And see if buying a counterfeit purse has made me a possible witness in an arson case.”
Franklin tucks a pillow behind his head, then turns to look at me. “Nice going, Charlotte. Talk about accessory to a crime.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Let me show you what we call ‘the magic closet.’” Urszula Mazny-Latos, marketing director of Delleton-Marachelle, is impossibly chic in precariously high burgundy lizard pumps, an impeccably tailored black suit, and a recognizably Hermes scarf around her neck. Tied in a way that, somehow, only someone who’s studied scarf-styling in Paris can carry off. She’s leading us down the lushly carpeted corridor of the D-M design headquarters, past closed doors marked Art, Graphics, Fabric.
Our taxi had dropped Franklin and me at what turned out to be a startlingly authentic copy of pre-Civil War Tara, opulent and luxurious. White Corinthian columns fronted the vast stone portico, the red-brick edifice stretching on either side, massive banks of rhododendrons surrounding what looks like a renovated mansion.
Up the wide front stairway and through a lofty set of double doors. Inside, a guard in a sleek charcoal jacket, that iconic D-M logo of intertwined initials on a front pocket, greeted us from behind a spacious glass-topped rococo desk, all swirls and carved curlicues. He’d waved us to a white-on-white striped settee along a dark mahogany-paneled wall.
“Miz Mazny-Latos is expecting you,” he’d said, as graciously as if we were arriving for afternoon tea with Scarlett and Melanie. “May I get y’all anything?”
No sign-in, no security check, no asking for IDs.
For a city girl, I’m now feeling pretty country mouse in what I’d thought would be an appropriate “yes, I’m a reporter but I’m still fashionable” look, a black knit dress with a curvy black jacket. Pearls. No scarf. I suddenly feel short in my mid-heels.
She’s already instructed us: “Just call me Zuzu.” On anyone else, Zuzu would sound like someone’s poodle. On her, Zuzu is so cosmopolitan it makes “Charlie” sound like a klutzy fourth-grader.
Zuzu selects a key from a crowded, jangling key ring. I notice it, too, has the D-M logo stamped on a pale green circle of leather. She puts it in the lock, and with a flourish, waves us into fantasy land.
I can’t even take a step as my brain struggles to assimilate acquisitional overload. I’m hoping my country mouse jaw isn’t dropping. On long white-lacquered shelves, floor to ceiling, is every Delleton-Marachelle purse I’ve ever seen in their Madison Avenue atelier, posh department store catalogs, the pages of Women’s Wear Daily. It’s a purse museum.
We walk past dozens of them. Hundreds. Each in clear plastic, each nested in white tissue paper, coddled as if they were irreplaceable jewels or antiquities. There are rows of black with glints of brass and gold trim, then a section of beiges and cream, camels and chocolate, a row of white. And then, a rainbow. Red, lilac, yellow. A vibrant orange. Braiding, piping, tassels and fringe. The place smells of leather. And money.
Thou shalt not covet? Not a chance.
“Wow,” Franklin says. Luckily one of us is not speechless.
Zuzu steps across the deep pile of the champagne-colored carpeting, taking center stage, surveying her domain. “This is where we keep all of our prototypes, as well as the first off the production line for each design.”
Based on her accent, I wonder if she’s Polish, or Russian. Austrian, maybe.
“I brought you here, first,” Zuzu continues, “to illustrate we feel our products are precious. Treasures. To show how-” she pauses as if searching for a word. “Despicable. Despicable it is that these people steal our designs, have someone in Asia duplicate them with inferior fabric and construction, and then sell them. You got the example I sent, yes? As if they are authentic.”
She reaches to a shelf beside her and unwraps a red leather tote bag, tenderly as if it was a living thing. “Our chief designers, Luca Chartiers and Sylvie Marachelle, designed this Diana bag.” She holds it up to us, tilting it so we see every angle. It’s a shiny deep claret rectangle, two midlength straps linked with circles of gold. The D-M initials, infinitesimally small, encircle a golden clasp. A tiny key on a slender leather braid dangles from one corner.
“The princess carried it. And Caroline of Monaco. And of course Mrs. Schlossberg. It was not even in stores.”
“Not in stores?” I ask. That’s not your typical sales model. “So how do you…”
“It is a question of…” She tilts her head. “Reputation. Creating desire for the most desirable. A fantasy purchase. Every woman wants something that is perhaps just out of her reach. So they would contact us. Inquire about the Diana. And then we would tell them how they could carry the same bag as a princess.”
“For five thousand dollars,” Franklin says.
“Ten.” Zuzu smiles. “That is part of the fantasy.” She puts the bag, carefully, back in its wrappings. She pats it into place with a maternal smile. “And every one of these is as much a treasure. Some you have never seen, the ones we’re premiering in our spring line. We expect it will be an international triumph.”
She looks at me, conspiratorially. “Would you like an advance look?”
Oh, no, I don’t say. We’re working. I’ll just buy mine later at Bergdorf’s.
“Of course,” I reply.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Franklin puts in.
Zuzu unlocks a door which covers one row of shelves. She pulls out a chocolate leather pouch, so buttery soft it barely keeps its shape. She holds it out toward me, keeping far enough away so it’s clear I’m not supposed to touch it. A braided drawstring, tipped with three tiny gold balls on each end, is woven through the leather. Across the top, a horseshoe-shaped gold medallion holds down a thick strap.
“The Angelina,” she pronounces.
She might as well be saying “The Mona Lisa.” “The David.” “The Hope Diamond.”
“This is the only one in existence. The production will begin in two months. By showing you this, you know I must trust you.”