Murder in the Sentier

racks like dead puppets with numbers pinned on them.

Rene stood in a reception room paneled with carved arabesques adjusting a silver titanium laptop strapped to a woman’s chest. Above him hung an ornate Venetian glass chandelier. Chinoiserie vases and antique busts stood in niches in the walls. He nodded to Aimee, indicating the laptops on a circular Louis XV-style sofa, nicknamed l’indiscret for obvious reasons.

“I’ve read the system and application logs.” He shrugged. “So far, so good. But …”

She looked at the last line of code on the screen and saw suspicious hash marks. “Voila, there’s the little bugger now.” She perched cross-legged on the sofa and got to work on the program. In the adjoining onyx-and-tile bathroom, models stood applying makeup.

Michel, clutching scissors, with a tape measure streaming from his pocket, poked his head around a pillar.

Aimee hit Save and gave a thumbs-up. “Got rid of the last naughty script-kiddie tracks.”

“It’s a go,” Rene said. “The network’s established so each client’s order and measurements feed into your database.”

A flurry of activity erupted among the models.

“Show time! It’s haute couture contre couture,” the Goth designer said, pronouncing it “ot cootur contra cootur.”

“But isn’t this a dress rehearsal?”

“An hour ago,” Rene said. She heard the disapproval in his voice. “You missed it.”

She’d been at the morgue identifying Idrissa’s kora player and receiving the brunt of his cousin’s anger and suspicion. But her reaction would have been the same.

Better to let Rene vent. She edged toward the salon, past the models stepping into dresses and sliding on shoes.

“Aimee, help me.” Michel grabbed her arm, his white eye-lashes fluttering. “I’m desperate.”

“But your system is up and running.”

“Not that. My model Annika passed out,” he said, pushing Aimee into the onyx-and-tile bathroom.

With those hollow cheekbones, Annika had looked about to cave in.

“How can I help?”

“Raise your arms.” He began lifting off her white T-shirt.

“Michel, what are you doing?”

“Don’t worry about your weight, that’s easy to disguise,” he said with a mouthful of pins. At least that’s what she thought he said. “Step out of your skirt, into this.”

“Don’t get ideas,” she said, startled. She hadn’t shaved her legs in two weeks!

“See, I drape the fabric, pin a dart here.”

Sharp jabs poked her skin. “I’m a computer geek, not a model.”

“You’re a model now,” Rene said, handing her a palette of pressed shadows and blushes. “Hair and makeup is new to me, too!”

“Do this and you save my life,” Michel said. “My uncle predicts a failure. This is my chance to show them a Sentier titi can do a couture show. For years the fabric dealers have laughed at me, called me a freak, a dreamer, saying, ‘No one ever goes from wholesale to couture!’”

She couldn’t disappoint him.

“What do I do?”

“Attitude,” Michel said, as he pinned and sewed the fabric. “Show attitude.” Akiva, Michel’s cousin, had appeared and was on his knees hemming the silk.

“And don’t breathe.”

“Don’t breathe?”

“No deep breaths. The stitching’s temporary.”

So she was being sewn into a dress like Marilyn Monroe. Michel, his cap back on his head, white eyebrows lowered in concentration, stitched her into a symphony of gray: a gunmetal butter-smooth leather bustier with billowing strips of charcoal silk as a skirt. He completed the ensemble with crocodile pumps and thick strands of Tahitian black seed pearls around her neck. The effect, an avant-garde blend of classic and streetwise, was stunning.

“Follow the Goth model,” he said. He gestured toward an alabaster-skinned woman with huge black-ringed eyes and lips, who was wearing a spiderweb confection of a gown. “Do what she does.”

’arry, his other assistant, had two big makeup brushes in his hands and was powdering her face, hollowing her eyes with charcoal shadow.

“My hair?”

Rene stood on a spindly-legged chair and scattered silver sparkles over her hair. “Now comb it through with your hands…. Perfect, the windswept lunar look!”

Voices and the sound of opening and closing doors came from the other room.

“The musician, I hope.” Michel rushed off.

“How many outfits do I wear?”

“We’re hoping Annika comes to and we can give her fluids,” Akiva grinned. “Then she can finish the show.”

Another model ran in, stripped off her raincoat, and stepped into a waiting dress. “Sorry, I’ve done three shows today, I came from Zaza’s as fast as I could.”

At least there were three of them to model for Michel now and the other models’ clothes had been designed for them.

The clients had begun to arrive. Aimee took a few steps and tried not to breathe deeply. She saw how easily she could pass out. Akiva led her to the curtained door.

“Thrust your hips forward, keep your knees together, stare straight ahead. Whatever you do, don’t smile!”

“Go ahead of me, I trip easy,” Aimee said to the pigtailed rollerblader with the laptop strapped on, who sucked a lollipop. This eclectic show was definitely couture contra couture.

“Remember, don’t smile,” said Akiva. “Pout!”

Michel planted a kiss on her cheek, then shoved her beyond the velvet curtain into a glaring spotlight. For a moment, she was blinded by the hot light. Strains of griot music came from her left. She took a step and tottered on the four-inch crocodile pumps. Gritting her teeth and trying to pout, she righted herself, slanted her hips, and prayed her knees weren’t knocking together.

The small gold chairs had filled with a variety of people. Flashbulbs were forbidden, but several men in the front row had sketch pads. The majority of the women were bon chic bon genre types who, in their designer suits, looked like they could afford couture. A few older women wore Yves Saint Laurent but the majority were under forty and their eyes lit up. Like jaded predators at a feast, they were always looking for what was fresh and unique. A ripple of applause greeted the Goth model.

When Aimee reached the first row of chairs, the rollerblader swooped beside her. The rollerblader made her way among them, pointing to the dress numbers on her laptop. The audience laughed and applauded loudly.

Aimee kept following the Goth model. Walking like a slant-board hurt her thighs. And she had to pee. Damn it, why hadn’t she gone before?

Loud applause greeted them.

The hot light followed her. She hoped she wasn’t sweating in the silk. That’s when she realized the heavy curtains draped the windows that overlooked the Palais Royal garden. And heard the familiar sounds of a kora accompanying a plaintive song, a mixture of French and Wolof. Like a sad love song.

Somehow it all worked: the luxurious rooms, the mix of outrageous and ultrafeminine, and the weaving rollerblader with the high-tech ordering system.

The audience appeared transfixed. And then Aimee saw the honey-colored face of the musician behind the dried palm screen, reflected in the tall mirror.

Idrissa.