“Ah.” He interrupts himself, briefly touching my back again, I suppose to indicate we’ve arrived. He points to a door. “Prototypes.”
We all stop at the end of the corridor. A brass plate on the otherwise unmarked door in front of us commands Authorized Entry Only.
As we enter the room, I realize that I would kill for a camera. It looks like the secret hideout of the mad architect and sewing society. Euro hip-hop music, insistent and throbbing, thuds from a docked iPod, the lyrics incomprehensible. Desks and long tables, some with sewing machines, are set in a double line across the wooden floor. Maybe half a dozen people in black lab coats are at work, some sewing, some draping fabric onto the muslin-covered shoulders of human-shaped mannequins. Everyone is talking to someone else. Not one looks up at us as we enter their domain. They probably can’t hear over the din.
Sylvie holds her hands high over her head, clapping twice to get the workers’ attention, jangling her armful of gold bangle bracelets. “I will explain to them,” she says to us, then crosses the room toward the group.
The studio is a chaos of color and texture, every wall transformed into a floor-to-ceiling bulletin board. Along one side, rainbow displays of fabric swatches, squares of frayed-edge satin canvas, vinyl, corduroy, with clear plastic push pins securing each one in place. Straps of all sizes-braided piping, multicolored leather, silver and gold chains, clear plastic and strips of suede hang from metal rings. Along another wall, a row of blueprints. Even this far away, I can tell they’re not of buildings. They’re sketches-front, side and back views-of purses.
Zuzu draws us closer to her, as a purple-haired woman across the room turns down the hip-hop volume from eardrum-assault level to mere nightclub drumbeat.
“This is our beta-testing stage,” Zuzu explains, now that we can hear. “Each of these faiseurs takes the blueprint designs drawn by Sylvie, and by hand, creates a prototype of the actual bag.”
“Fie-soors?” I say. Merde. My once not-terrible French is instantly disparu.
“Faiseur is French for miracle-worker,” Luca explains with a smile. “Sylvie’s grandfather, Jean-Paul Marachelle, started the tradition when his atelier was still on the Rue de Sevres in Paris. When the first faiseur, in the thirties, managed to create what he called a miracle bag-pochette miraculeux-from his first hand-drawn design. And it’s simply never changed.”
He gestures to the group. “These are all fine arts and fashion students, some from colleges here in the U.S. and some from France, students who learn their craft by creating our current pochette miraculeuses.”
I’m intrigued, and not just because Luca is so charmingly continental. And attentive. And seems to be looking at me the same way I’m sure I was looking at the Angelina bag. As if I were the only one in the room.
“Forgive me,” I say. This room looks like a security breach waiting to happen. “All of these people, and they all look so young, are the front lines of your design team? Couldn’t any one of them be a conduit for information? Passing your design secrets to anyone willing to pay them enough?”
Luca shrugs. “Perhaps,” he says, “but-”
“Never,” Zuzu interrupts. “You see, Charlie. The faiseurs simply create, shall we say-options. We choose the final version, and it is only then we insert the special elements Luca has created to insure the bag is authentic. None of the faiseurs see it until it is made public. And even they do not know which ‘tells’ are selected.”
“And it’s clear why the Delleton-Marachelle line is so expensive,” Franklin says. “The building. The staff. The materials. The production.”
“It is the same with every true designer,” Zuzu replies. “We are not just profit. We are art. We are fashion.”
“We are in trouble,” Luca says. He’s looking at his beeper. Then he looks toward the doorway. “Nell.”
My phone is trilling the text message signal. This, after the photograph debacle, is at least the second embarrassment of the day, since I had assured Zuzu my cell was off. Fortunately, Zuzu, Luca and Sylvie are completely focused on the woman who just arrived. I turn my hearing to parabolic, unable to switch off my compulsion to eavesdrop. I hafta know. I manage to pick up some snippets of French. And maybe the word-Angelina?
They’re engrossed, listening intently to the woman at the door. She’s pointing to a clipboard, whispering. Carrying the conversation. She’s as self-assured as a ballerina, white silk shirt and black patent stilettos, sleek and severe as an arrow. Except for Sylvie and William the guard, everyone in the building could do double duty as magazine covers.
I glance down at my purse, longing to zip it open. A text message. Could be Josh. Could be Katie Harkins. Could be the Great Barrington Fire Department returning the call we made in the taxi from the airport. I’m deeply tempted to sneak a peek while the quartet of fashionistas is huddled in their doorway conference.
“Take out that phone and they’ll throw us out of here,” Franklin murmurs.
I nod, reluctantly acquiescing. I keep my voice low. “We’ve just got to follow up on that Great Barrington fire. We’re getting some good info here, but Just-call-me-Sally is our only link to the distribution and supply system of the fake purses.”
“And also the number on that business card she gave you, remember?” Franklin guardedly points to the group at the door. “What do you suppose is going on? Look at the worried expressions on all those beautiful faces.”
I see Luca pull a BlackBerry from his jacket pocket. Still frowning, he uses both thumbs at light speed, texting. Sylvie, with a nod, strides away down the hall. Zuzu, her face solemn, brings the newcomer toward us.
“This is Nell Follatrera,” she introduces us, and continues as we all shake hands. “Director of our legal department. I’m afraid we’ll have to cut our conference short.”
“We’ve had word from the authorities,” Nell says. Her voice is strong and confident, with a tinge of the south. Her tone is confidential. “As I’m sure you’ve been told, the FBI has not been terribly successful at finding the distribution warehouses holding the copies of our products. We’ve just had word another raid has failed. They found nothing.”
“Failed?” I ask. “Where was the raid?” I drag open the top of my tote bag. I need a notebook and pencil. I hope nothing’s happened to Keresey. Or Lattimer. Wonder if they were in on it.
“Please,” she holds up a hand. “We have no comment for the record. You’ll need to call FBI officials for a statement.”
“But it’s Saturday, and their Public Affairs office isn’t staffed,” I protest. “So let me just ask you, was anyone hurt? Where was the raid?”
“What did they find?” Franklin puts in. “Was there an undercover element?”
Another idea. “Did it have anything to do with your new Angelina bag?”
“All good questions, and all questions I suggest you put to the authorities,” the lawyer answers. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She bends to whisper something in Zuzu’s ear, then strides out of the room.
“So I am fearing, now, we’ll have take you out through security,” Zuzu says. “We have to…solve a problem. I am so sorry.”
I know there’s an emergency. I know these people are ready to bolt. And it appears, with good reason. But I can’t let this fall apart. I have to protect our story. Ask every question I can.
“Zuzu,” I interrupt. Might as well ask while I have the chance. “Did you know Katherine Harkins personally? I know she set up this interview for us.”