Legacy of Lies

Alex watched his fingers twist the telephone cord and had an idea that the designer would love to put those artistic fingers around Madame Lord’s neck.

She’d heard about the possibility of Debord designing a line of ready-to-wear for Lord’s, the prestigious department store chain. After last week’s debacle, the gossip around the atelier was that the designer was desperate for such a deal in order to salvage a disastrous season.

Now, unfortunately, it appeared that Eleanor Lord, like everyone else, had deserted Debord.

“Certainly. I will look forward to seeing you at the fall défilé in July. We shall, of course, reserve your usual seat. Certainement, in the first row.”

That statement revealed how important he considered the American executive. Seating was significant at couture showings; indeed, many fashion editors behaved as if their seat assignments were more important than the clothes being shown.

“Au revoir, Madame Lord.”

The designer muttered a pungent curse, but when he turned toward Alex, his expression was bland. He did, however, lift an inquiring brow at her jacket. When he failed to offer a word of criticism, Alex let out a breath she’d been unaware of holding.

“Americans,” he said dismissively. “They cannot understand that risk-taking is the entire point of couture.”

“Mrs. Friedman bought your entire collection.”

“True. However, I cannot understand why she chose my designs when they are so obviously inappropriate for her figure.”

“She told me she likes your work.” Alex was not about to reveal Sophie’s actual reasons for buying Debord’s collection. “And Lady Smythe seemed pleased with that black cocktail dress.”

That particular purchase had been viewed as a positive sign, since Miranda Smythe not only happened to be Eleanor Lord’s niece and style consultant for the Lord’s London store, but was rumored to be the person who’d brought Debord to the department store executive’s attention in the first place.

Unfortunately it appeared that when it came to business Lady Smythe had scant influence with her powerful aunt.

“I would feel a great deal better about the sale if Miranda Smythe had actually paid for the dress,” he countered. “I cannot understand Marie Hélène. The discounts she allows that woman are tantamount to giving my work away.”

Alex was not about to criticize Debord’s formidable sister. “I suppose it doesn’t hurt to have the wife of a British peer wearing your designs,” she said carefully.

“Such things never hurt. But the British are so dam-nably tightfisted, they seldom buy couture. The average Englishwoman would rather spend her money on commissioning a bronze of her nasty little dogs, or a new horse trailer. Besides, Lady Miranda is about to get a divorce.”

Alex had heard Marie Hélène and Françoise, Miranda Lord Baptista Smythe’s personal vendeuse, discussing the socialite’s marital record just yesterday.

“Let us keep our fingers crossed,” Debord decided. “Perhaps, with luck, this time the fickle lady will wed a Kuwaiti prince. They never ask for discounts.”

Alex laughed, as she was supposed to.

At last she couldn’t stand the suspense a minute longer. “I know you’re very busy, Monsieur. Would you like to see my portfolio now?”

“In a moment. First, I would like to know why such a beautiful woman would choose to labor behind the scenes when she could easily be a successful model.”

“I’m not thin enough to be a model. Or tall enough. Besides, I’ve wanted to be a designer forever.”

“Forever?” he asked with a faintly mocking smile.

“Well, ever since I watched Susan Hayward in Back Street. That’s an old American movie,” Alex explained at his questioning glance. “She plays a designer. The first time I saw it I fell head over heels in love.”

“With Susan Hayward?” He frowned.

“Oh, no.” Alex laughed as she followed his train of thought. “Not the actress. I fell in love with the glamour of the business. It became an all-encompassing passion.” Her grin was quick and appealing. “Some of my friends would tell you that designing is all I think about.”

“Really?” Debord’s eyes, so like his sister’s, but much warmer, moved slowly over her face. “I find that difficult to believe. A beautiful young woman such as yourself must have some other interests—parties, dances...men. Perhaps one particular man?”

He was watching her carefully now, the blue of his eyes almost obscured by the ebony pupils. Alex swallowed.

“Let me show you my designs.” The portfolio was lying across her knees. She began to untie the brown string with fingers that had turned to stone. “I should probably tell you right off that most of the teachers at the institute didn’t really like my style,” she admitted. “But since I believe this is my best work, I’d really appreciate a master’s opinion.” Her words tumbled out, as if she were eager to get them behind her.

“I do not understand why Marie Hélène did not tell me about your talent,” Debord said as Alex continued to struggle with the thin brown fastener.

Personally, Alex had her own ideas about that, but knowing how close Debord was to his sister, she kept them to herself.

“She’s very busy.” Finally! Cool relief flooded through Alex when the maddening knot gave way.

Yves Debord took her sketches and placed them facedown on the desk. Before looking at them, he pulled a gold cigarette case from his jacket pocket. After lighting a Gauloises, he turned his attention toward the colorful presentations.

Alex was more anxious than she’d ever been in her life. She kept waiting for him to say something—anything!—but he continued to flip through the sketches, front to back, back to front, over and over again.

Did he like them? Hate them? Were her designs as exciting and modern as she perceived them to be? Or were they, as one of her instructors had scathingly proclaimed, clothes for tarts?

Time slowed to a snail’s pace. Perspiration began to slip down her sides.

“You are extraordinarily talented,” Debord said finally.

“Do you really like them?”

He stubbed out his cigarette. “They are the most innovative designs I’ve seen in years.”

Alex beamed.

“They are also entirely unmarketable.”

The words hit like a blow from behind, striking her momentarily mute. “You have flown in the face of tradition,” he said in a brusque no-nonsense tone that didn’t spare her feelings. “This is costuming for the theater. Not the real world.”

She’d heard that accusation before. But never had it stung so badly. “I was trying to be innovative. Like Chanel in the twenties with her tweed suits. And Dior’s postwar New Look. The sixties’ revolution, when Yves Saint Laurent introduced the pantsuit. And of course, Courreges’s minidress.”

She took a deep breath. “You just said that couture was about risk. All the great designers—Norell, Beene, you yourself—have gained fame by insisting on having a spirit of their own.”

“You have talent, but you do not understand couture,” he countered. “A designer must see women as they want to be seen.”

“That’s true,” Alex conceded, even as it crossed her mind that, instead of telling women what they want, designers should ask them what they want.

Patience, she could hear her mother warning her.

“This design, for example.” He held up a sketch that happened to be one of her favorites. An evening gown of tiered gold lace over black chiffon, cut like a Flamenco dancer’s dress. “This gown would make a woman look as if she were dressing for an American Halloween party.”

That hurt. “I can’t see what’s wrong with thinking of life as a party.” Patience. “Besides, I thought it was sexy.”

“The first thing you must learn, Alexandra, is that husbands want their women to look like ladies. Especially American husbands, who have a habit of marrying younger and younger brides without really knowing their pedigree.”

He ignored Alex’s sharp intake of breath. “Since the husbands are the ones paying the bills, a wise couturier designs with them in mind.”

“That’s incredibly chauvinistic.”

“Perhaps. It is also true. The British have a saying,” Debord continued. “Mutton dressed as lamb. Never forget, Mademoiselle Lyons, that is precisely what we are paid to do.”

“But what about celebrating the female form—” Alex couldn’t help argue “—instead of focusing on androgynous, sexless women?” When he physically bristled, Alex realized she’d hit uncomfortably close to home with that one. After all, Debord’s disastrous new line had carried androgyny to new extremes.

His stony expression would have encouraged a prudent woman to back away. Unfortunately caution had never been Alex’s forte.

“You say we must design for the husbands,” she said, leaning forward. “I can’t believe any man really wants his woman looking like a malnourished twelve-year-old boy.”

“Not all men do,” Debord acknowledged, his steady gaze taking in the softly feminine curves her stark black dress and scarlet jacket could not entirely conceal. “But the fact remains, Alexandra, wives should look like ladies. Not sirens.”

In Alex’s mind, there was absolutely nothing wrong with looking like a lady in the daytime and a siren at night. After all, this was a new age. Having proven they could do men’s work, Alex believed it was time women started looking like women again.

“May I ask a question?” she said quietly.

“Certainement.”

“How can you consider me talented when you hate everything about my designs?”

“On the contrary, I don’t hate everything about them. I love the energy, the verve. I think your use of color, while overdone, is magnifique.”

“Well,” Alex decided on a rippling little sigh, “I suppose that’s something.”

“It’s important.” He stood and smiled down at her. “It is time we found a proper outlet for your talents.”

“Do you mean—”

“I’m promoting you to assistant designer,” Debord confirmed. “I shall inform Marie Hélène that you will be moving upstairs. Immediately.”

Joy bubbled up in Alex. It was all she could do to keep from jumping up and flinging her arms around Debord’s neck. She knew the broad grin splitting her face must look horrendously gauche, but couldn’t keep herself from smiling.

“I don’t know how to thank you, monsieur.”

“Just do your best. That is all I expect.” Debord walked her to the door.

Feigning indifference to Marie Hélène’s cold stare, Alex moved her colored pencils and sketch pads into the design office located above the showroom floor.

She was hard at work at her slanted drawing table later that afternoon when Debord entered the office. He made his way slowly around the room, offering a comment on each designer’s work. Some were less than flattering, but all were encouraging. Until he got to Alex.

“A zipper is inappropriate,” he declared loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. His finger jabbed at the back of her evening gown design. “This gown lacks spirit.”

He plucked the slate pencil from her suddenly damp hand and with a few deft flourishes, sketched in a row of satin-covered buttons. “There. Now we have passion.”

The buttons running from neckline to hem were admittedly lovely. They were also highly impractical. Alex wondered how a woman would be able to wear such a dress without a maid to fasten her up. And then there was the little matter of getting out of the gown at the end of the evening.

“It would seem to me,” she countered mildly, “that trying to deal with fifty tiny, slippery satin buttons running down the back of a dress would tend to stifle passion.”

There was a gasp from neighboring tables as the others in the room realized that this newcomer had dared argue with the master. Debord shot her a warning look.

“The way couture differs from ready-to-wear is in the decorating,” he said shortly. “Specialness comes from the shape, the cut, the workmanship.

“Embellishing. Some fringe here.” He ran his hand over her shoulder. Down the notched black velvet lapel of her scarlet hunting blazer. “A bit of beading here.

“We all must eat, Alexandra. Yet who among us wouldn’t prefer a steak tartare to one of your American hot dogs? A glass of wine to water? A crème brûlée to some diet gelatin mold?”

“Are you comparing the designs of Debord to fine French cuisine?” Alex dared ask with a smile.

“Bien sûr.” He rewarded her with an approving smile of his own. Alex could have spent the remainder of the day basking in its warmth. “I knew you would be an adept pupil, Alexandra.”

As he leaned forward, his arm casually brushed against her breast. “Now, let us review your interpretation of a Debord dinner suit.”

Chapter Four

Santa Barbara, California

June 1982

The house, perched dramatically atop a hill, was draped in fog. Inside, candles flickered in Wedgwood holders. A fire blazed in the high, stone library fireplace.

Beside the fireplace, two women sat at opposite sides of a small mahogany table. Eleanor Lord wore an ivory silk blouse and linen slacks from Lord’s Galleria department.

Across the table, theatrically clad in a lavender turban and a billowy caftan of rainbow chiffon, Clara Kowalski reached into a flowered tapestry bag and pulled out a small amethyst globe.

“The crystal is radiating amazing amounts of positive energy today,” Clara said.

“Do you really believe Jarlath can locate Anna?”

Clara clucked her tongue. “Jarlath is merely a guide, Eleanor. Aiding you to evolve to a higher dimension.”

“I’d rather he skip the evolution stuff and find my granddaughter,” Eleanor muttered.

Eleanor considered herself a logical woman. She had always scoffed at those tales of farmers being kidnapped by aliens. Nor did she believe in the Bermuda Triangle, Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster. From the beginning of her marriage, Eleanor had been an equal partner in The Lord’s Group, the department store chain established by her husband. When James Lord had died of a heart attack nearly thirty years ago, she took over the business without missing a step.

Despite her advanced years, despite the fact she now preferred doing business from her Santa Barbara home rather than trek down the coast to the chain’s Los Angeles headquarters, Eleanor remained vigorous and continued her quest to keep Lord’s the most successful department store in the world.

That same single-mindedness that had made Lord’s a leader in fashion merchandising contributed to another, even more unrelenting obsession.

Eleanor had vowed to find her granddaughter, whatever it took. And although twenty-four years had passed, she had not stopped trying.

Each year, on the anniversary of Anna’s disappearance, she’d place an advertisement offering a generous reward for information regarding her granddaughter’s abduction in numerous metropolitan and small-town newspapers.

Thus far, once again, the advertisement had yielded nothing.

A less stubborn woman would have given up what everyone kept telling her was a futile search. But tenacity ran deep in Eleanor’s veins. Besides, some inner sense told her she’d know if her granddaughter had been killed. Anna was alive. Of that, Eleanor had absolutely no doubt.

“As a businesswoman, you utilize your left brain, your logical side,” Clara was saying. Eleanor returned her thoughts to the séance. “Jarlath will help you get in touch with your intuitive side. Once that doorway is open, you will have your answer.”

Eleanor admitted to herself that the medium sounded uncomfortably like one of those frauds Mike Wallace was always unmasking on “60 Minutes.” But, not wanting to leave any stone unturned, she was willing to try anything. Even this dabbling in the occult, which undoubtedly had all her Presbyterian ancestors spinning in their graves.

“Well,” she said briskly, “let’s get started.”

Clara placed an Ouija board between them, took a chunk of quartz from her bag and placed it in the center of the board.

“Rock quartz is allied to the energies of the moon,” she said. “I’ve found it makes a more sensitive channel than the usual pointer. The amethyst shade is exceptionally powerful.”

Eleanor nodded and wondered, not for the first time, what had made her agree to this farfetched idea.

“Now,” Clara said as she lit a stick of incense, “you must clear your mind. Banish all doubts. All cynicism.”

Just get on with it, an impatient voice in Eleanor’s cynical mind insisted. She shifted restlessly in her seat.

“I’m sensing negative energy,” Clara chided. She began to sway. “Jarlath will not come if he is not welcome. Write your negative thoughts on a mental blackboard. Then erase them.”

Immensely grateful that no one she knew was witnessing this outlandish scene, Eleanor took a deep breath and tried again.

“Ahhh.” Clara nodded. “That’s better. Relax your body, Eleanor. Feel yourself growing serene. Open your mind. Allow your physical and spiritual states to become harmonized and aligned,” she intoned. She placed her fingers on the chunk of quartz. “Jarlath. Are you there?”

Eleanor watched as the violet stone slowly slid across the board, stopping on Yes.

“Welcome, Jarlath. This is my dear friend, Eleanor Lord. She needs your help, Jarlath. Desperately. She is trying to locate her granddaughter, Anna.”

Although she knew it to be impossible, with the fire blazing nearby, Eleanor thought the air in the room suddenly felt cooler.

She leaned forward. “Ask him if he’s seen Anna.”

“Patience,” Clara counseled. “Jarlath reveals in his own time.” Nevertheless, her next words were, “Is Anna with you?”

No. “I knew it!” Eleanor crowed triumphantly. Clara’s guide was saying what she’d always known herself. Anna was alive!

There was a long pause. Then the gleaming rock moved to A. Then N. Then O. It moved slowly at first, then faster and faster until it had spelled out Another wishes to speak. The flames of the candles suddenly shifted dramatically to the right, as if a wind had caught them. Caught up in the drama of the moment, Eleanor forgot to disbelieve.

“Who is with you?” Clara questioned. “Who wishes to speak with Eleanor Lord?”

This time the amethyst stone raced across the board. Candlelight reflected off its crystalline surface. Dead.

“Dear Lord, perhaps it’s James. Or Robbie.” Eleanor’s voice trembled at the thought of her son. “Or Melanie.” Her son’s beautiful, tragically unhappy wife. Anna’s mother.

No.

Clara frowned across the table as if to remind Eleanor just who was in charge of this séance. “Who, then?”

Silence.

“Place your fingers on the stone with mine,” Clara advised. “It will increase the energy flow.”

Eleanor did as instructed. Haltingly, the quartz began to move. R. O. Heat seemed to emanate from the amethyst. Eleanor’s fingertips grew warm. S.

“Rosa,” Eleanor gasped. Anna’s nanny.

Confirming her thoughts, the crystal stopped on A. Eleanor felt light-headed. Spots danced in front of her eyes. The fire flared. Though there was no wind outdoors, the glass panes in the windows began to rattle. Then everything went dark.

* * *

“You’re overreacting,” Eleanor insisted an hour later. She was still in the library. And she was a very long way from being in a good mood. “It was merely a little heart flutter. Nothing more.”

Dr. Averill Brandford frowned as he took the seventy-one-year-old woman’s pulse. “That’s your opinion. I hadn’t realized you’d gotten your medical degree.”

Having been called here from the yacht harbor where he moored his ketch, Averill was casually clad in a blue polo shirt, white duck slacks and navy Top-Siders. His face was tanned and his hair was sunstreaked from sailing excursions off the coast.

“You always did have a smart mouth, Averill,” Eleanor returned. “I remember the summer you boys turned seven and you taught Robbie to curse. Although I’ll admit to finding the episode moderately amusing, James did not share my feelings. It was a week before Robbie could sit down.”

“It was winter. And we were nine.” A tape recorder on a nearby table was playing Indian flute music. He turned it off. “And for the record, it was Robbie who taught me.” He went over to the desk. “I’m checking you into the hospital for tests.”

“That’s ridiculous. I’m fine.”

“Let’s just make certain, shall we?”

“Do they teach all you doctors to be such sons-of-bitches in medical school?”

“The very first semester. Along with how to pad our medicare bills.”

“Smart mouth.” Eleanor shook her head in disgust.

Her hair, like her attitude, had steadfastly refused to give in to age. It was as richly auburn as it had been when she was a girl, save for a streak of silver at her temple, which had occurred overnight, after the tragic double murder and kidnapping.

“I think you should listen to Averill, Eleanor,” the other man in the room, Zachary Deveraux, counseled with quiet authority.

“This isn’t fair. You’re ganging up on me.”

“Whatever it takes,” the tall, dark-haired man returned easily, appearing unfazed by her blistering glare.

Zachary was leaning against a leather wall, arms crossed over his chest, his legs crossed at the ankles. Unlike the doctor’s recreational attire, Zach was wearing a conservative dark suit, white shirt and navy tie. His shoes, remarkably staid for even this Republican stronghold, were wing tips.

“As president of The Lord’s Group, it’s my responsibility to do everything I can to keep the company strong. You’re more than a vital asset, Eleanor,” he said with a slight French-patois accent that hinted at his Louisiana Cajun roots. “You’re the lifeblood of the chain. We need you.”

His dark eyes, more black than brown, warmed. His harshly cut masculine lips curved in a coaxing smile. “I need you.”

Although she might be in her eighth decade, Eleanor was a long way from dead. Was there a woman with blood still stirring in her veins who could resist that blatantly seductive smile?

Before she could accuse him of pulling out all the stops to win his way, the library door opened and Clara burst into the room. An overpowering scent of orrisroot and clove emanated from the silver pomme d’ambre she wore around her neck.

“Eleanor, dear.” Moving with the force of a bulldozer, she practically knocked both men over as she rushed to the side of the sofa. “I’ve been absolutely frantic ever since your two bodyguards banished me from the room.”

She shot a blistering glare first at Averill, then another directly at Zach, who merely stared back. The only sign of his annoyance were his lips, which tightened into a grim line.

Eleanor’s slender hand disappeared between the woman’s two pink pudgy ones. “I’m fine, Clara. Really,” she insisted. “It was merely a flutter. Nothing to be concerned about.”

“Of course not,” Clara Kowalski agreed heartily. “Don’t you worry, dear. I have just the tonic you need in the greenhouse.”

She smiled reassuringly. “A little extract of hawthorn, followed by some pipsissewa tea. That will definitely do the trick.”

“I believe you’ve done enough tricks for today, Mrs. Kowalski,” Averill said.

Crimson flooded the elderly woman’s face, clashing with her lavender turban. “I am not a magician, Doctor. I do not do tricks.”

“Oh, no?” Zach countered, scowling at the Ouija board. “Looks like just another fun evening at home with Hecate.”

“Zachary,” Eleanor murmured her disapproval. “You mustn’t talk that way. Clara’s my friend. And she’s been very helpful. We almost had a breakthrough.”

“A breakthrough?” He didn’t conceal his scorn concerning Clara Kowalski’s alleged psychic powers.

“We nearly made contact with Rosa, Anna’s departed nanny.” Clara’s eyes, nearly hidden by folds of pink fat, dared him to challenge her claim.

“Clara’s guide said Rosa was willing to talk to us,” Eleanor said.

“Ah, yes, the infamous guide,” Zach agreed. “What was the guy’s name again? Jaws?”