She had become so upset when she spied the dozens of still unopened trunks and amateurish packing of some items in plastic containers that she'd wanted to call the police.
Virginia had urged her to call a professional instead.
"We need Mr. Wolfe," she'd said, according to the phone call he had received from the frantic woman.
He had met with Virginia and together with Miss Finley, had come down here in the middle of the night. He carefully assessed the situation and told her his terms. He was an oddball, by his own definition, but she knew his reputation spoke volumes.
"You can really turn this around in thirty days?" she'd asked, sounding doubtful.
"Absolutely. I never make promises I can't keep."
He had requested permission for immediate expenses that Zara Finley had surprisingly approved. He'd wanted to install security cameras and special locks inside and around the warehouse. He'd pointed out that her own insurance company required these locks and Linda had overlooked these provisions.
She had cried in his arms when she realized she could have lost everything and not be able to file a claim.
He had asked to replace all the tacky store-bought, flimsy plastic shelving with cedar shelves, the installation of which he would supervise.
Mr. Wolfe also wanted to upgrade the air-conditioning system immediately, since climate control would be essential to the preservation of her garments.
And finally, he requested a case of one hundred percent pure Vermont maple syrup.
"What's that for?" Virginia had asked.
"A necessity, I assure you," he'd responded.
He gave Miss Finley a list of what he would be providing himself as part of his exorbitant fee. He would bring all cleaning products, archiving tissue paper, proper costume archival boxes and would take care of all maintenance and cleaning of the facility himself.
Miss Finley had approved everything. Even the maple syrup.
She had become excited over their new collaboration having consulted Mr. Wolfe's other happy clients. He had refused to divulge names until she agreed on confidentiality, and then she had almost fallen over when he presented her with a partial list.
"You've worked with...Madonna?" she breathed.
"Yes." Mr. Wolfe had encouraged her to call his references. She'd called only one, Lady Gaga, who raved about his work.
When Zara Finley thought Mr. Wolfe was out of hearing range she'd asked Lady Gaga, "What does he do with the maple syrup?"
Lady Gaga said, "I have no idea."
He knew she'd responded this way because his hearing, like his vision, and everything else about him was acute.
When his new boss came back to him and said, "I'm thrilled to work with you," he didn't smile until she said, "And please, call me Zara."
Mr. Wolfe could hear Linda sobbing now. When all else had failed, she turned in a noble, tearful performance, but he felt no pity for her.
No. He almost fell over when he saw the jumble of costumes in the few open trunks. Though his body always ran hot, he knew the temperatures inside the warehouse were sweltering and hadn't been climate-controlled. At all.
This would be rectified by the end of the day.
And yet, Linda had billed Miss Finley for a supposedly newly installed air conditioning system. She'd provided invoices and bids.
Except all of it was false.
"You can't be serious! You're firing me?" Linda shouted.
Mr. Wolfe approached a series of cheap shelves dotted with plastic containers. One was labeled bustyas. That took him a moment. She obviously meant bustiers. Good Lord, she couldn't even spell. He opened up the box, the smell of dry-cleaning fluid so strong it made his eyes stream.
He'd reached these beaded gems just in time. He braced himself for the horror of what he knew he was about to find. He turned a corner and came to the makeshift wardrobe Miss Finley had photographed and sent him before he took on the emergency assignment.
Mr. Wolfe could hear Linda arguing loudly now, denying she'd been posting photos online of Miss Finley's collection.
"I've been framed!" she yelled. That was a cute excuse.
Mr. Wolfe knew there had been two attempted break-ins this past week. What she'd done was unforgiveable. She'd inadvertently tipped off Internet trolls to this location, which contained numerous superstar performers' warehoused costumes.
Both times, Miss Finley's particular warehouse had been targeted.
Mr. Wolfe opened the closet in front of him as Linda's voice rose. He didn't think he could look, but he had to.
There on a wire hanger in dry-cleaners plastic was the legendary, show-stopping, white, bugle-beaded dress. Except it wasn't white. It was gray.
Wire. He was still in shock. She'd also sent the garment to a basic, commercial cleaner. She hadn't even bothered to take it to a proper costume cleaning firm.
But the fact she'd left it on a wire hanger burned him deeply from within.
Cleaners might hand the garment to a customer on a wire hanger, but the archivist's job was to remove it promptly and hang it on a padded, soft hanger. If the dress was especially delicate or happened to be made of a knit fabric, it needed to be stored individually in a sweater bag with a cedar block or a muslin bag containing lavender buds.
He stifled a scream and removed the filmy plastic, gently taking the dress off the hanger. Miss Finley trusted him to restore her dress and properly archive the rest of her treasures, many of which were also damaged but had been deemed irreparable by so-called experts.
Mr. Wolfe would not fail her. He'd never failed a diva yet.
He walked outside just as the security guards arrived to escort a sniveling Linda from the premises.
"Will you at least give me a good reference?" she called out desperately to Mr. Wolfe.
He stopped and stared at her. "A reference? Are you mad?" When he was certain the security guards couldn't see his facial expression, he bared his teeth at Linda, who was so shocked it seemed to choke off the scream before it could start.
Her mouth hung open as he hissed, "You...you...vandal!"
Mr.
