hoped passed for arrogance, then gave her the look. “Yes. Are you the proprietress?”
I looked her over, giving her my superiority scan. She dressed the part of a successful women’s shop owner. Her attire was upscale, screaming expensive, yet simple in dark green. She wore a single strand of pearls and when she fluttered her hand, a diamond glittered. Enough to show style, but not so much it looked ostentatious.
She bowed her head a bit. “ Mais oui. Je suis Madame Bergeron . How may I aid you?”
Her French accent had a bit of country hidden in it. I figured she was playing a role as phony as I was. With a flourish I had practiced many times, I flashed a business card, one of my good ones. “I am Elizabeth Angeline Bowman, a confidential private investigator.” I lowered my voice on the last words and leaned into her just a bit. I’ve learned in the past that the snootier the woman, the more she loves to be cut in on something confidential . Madame Bergeron struck me as such a person.
My guess proved correct when her eyes sparkled, and she returned my lean in. “And what can I do to help you? Are you on a case now?”
“Is there some place we can talk … in private?”
“Oh, yes. My office.”
Lots of country came through that time. I knew I’d have to not overplay my hand. If what I thought about Madame Bergeron were true, she knew as much—maybe more—about playing the game as I did. She hadn’t risen out of her heritage without being a savvy operator. I’d have to keep that in mind.
She spun and with a conspiratorial wave, motioned me to follow. We walked through the dressing rooms, then passed through a door she unlocked, and entered a small cubicle of an office. I scanned the wall, wondering if there was a peephole where she could keep an eye on her employees while they assisted customers with the expensive frocks. Not that I thought she was a voyeur, but much of her merchandise would fit in a small bag. A perfect way for a minimum-wage clerk to earn a few extra dollars. Seemed like a sensible precaution to me. When I turned back to her, I saw her examining me with a critical eye. Had she seen through my façade?
She smiled and offered a seat in a straight-backed chair, then took a position behind a small desk. Her raised eyebrows told me I had her attention.
The chess game was on. “For obvious reasons,” I said in a whispery voice, “I cannot reveal the circumstances behind my being here. You do understand, don’t you?”
“No … uh … I don’t. What do you mean?”
“My client …” I hesitated, pretending to look for words. “I can only say she is in a position where no one must know. She swore me to secrecy. Anything I tell you must remain in this room. I’m looking for someone who may be one of your customers. Will you help me keep her secret?”
“Uh …”
Her expression said she had no clue I was playing on her superiority complex. She wouldn’t dare let on that she had no idea what I’d said. “Well?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll keep your secret.”
Glancing around the little room, I opened my briefcase and pulled out one of Jake’s sketches, one without my name, phone number, and mention of reward. “Do you know this woman?” I slid the picture across her desk.
She picked it up and examined the image as if she were studying for her citizenship test. “She … she looks familiar. Did you say she shops here?”
“I’m led to believe it’s possible.”
“Can I show it to my girl?”
I hesitated, like I was considering the question. “Yes, but no mention that I gave it to you. For her, I don’t exist. I can only deal with you.”
For a brief moment, I wondered why I was playing it so spooky, but gave a mental shrug when no good reason came to mind. I wrote it off as simply my dislike of phonies, even if they were no phonier than I. Plus, the deeper I got into the routine, the more fun it was. Besides, I might be able to learn more if everyone
I looked her over, giving her my superiority scan. She dressed the part of a successful women’s shop owner. Her attire was upscale, screaming expensive, yet simple in dark green. She wore a single strand of pearls and when she fluttered her hand, a diamond glittered. Enough to show style, but not so much it looked ostentatious.
She bowed her head a bit. “ Mais oui. Je suis Madame Bergeron . How may I aid you?”
Her French accent had a bit of country hidden in it. I figured she was playing a role as phony as I was. With a flourish I had practiced many times, I flashed a business card, one of my good ones. “I am Elizabeth Angeline Bowman, a confidential private investigator.” I lowered my voice on the last words and leaned into her just a bit. I’ve learned in the past that the snootier the woman, the more she loves to be cut in on something confidential . Madame Bergeron struck me as such a person.
My guess proved correct when her eyes sparkled, and she returned my lean in. “And what can I do to help you? Are you on a case now?”
“Is there some place we can talk … in private?”
“Oh, yes. My office.”
Lots of country came through that time. I knew I’d have to not overplay my hand. If what I thought about Madame Bergeron were true, she knew as much—maybe more—about playing the game as I did. She hadn’t risen out of her heritage without being a savvy operator. I’d have to keep that in mind.
She spun and with a conspiratorial wave, motioned me to follow. We walked through the dressing rooms, then passed through a door she unlocked, and entered a small cubicle of an office. I scanned the wall, wondering if there was a peephole where she could keep an eye on her employees while they assisted customers with the expensive frocks. Not that I thought she was a voyeur, but much of her merchandise would fit in a small bag. A perfect way for a minimum-wage clerk to earn a few extra dollars. Seemed like a sensible precaution to me. When I turned back to her, I saw her examining me with a critical eye. Had she seen through my façade?
She smiled and offered a seat in a straight-backed chair, then took a position behind a small desk. Her raised eyebrows told me I had her attention.
The chess game was on. “For obvious reasons,” I said in a whispery voice, “I cannot reveal the circumstances behind my being here. You do understand, don’t you?”
“No … uh … I don’t. What do you mean?”
“My client …” I hesitated, pretending to look for words. “I can only say she is in a position where no one must know. She swore me to secrecy. Anything I tell you must remain in this room. I’m looking for someone who may be one of your customers. Will you help me keep her secret?”
“Uh …”
Her expression said she had no clue I was playing on her superiority complex. She wouldn’t dare let on that she had no idea what I’d said. “Well?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll keep your secret.”
Glancing around the little room, I opened my briefcase and pulled out one of Jake’s sketches, one without my name, phone number, and mention of reward. “Do you know this woman?” I slid the picture across her desk.
She picked it up and examined the image as if she were studying for her citizenship test. “She … she looks familiar. Did you say she shops here?”
“I’m led to believe it’s possible.”
“Can I show it to my girl?”
I hesitated, like I was considering the question. “Yes, but no mention that I gave it to you. For her, I don’t exist. I can only deal with you.”
For a brief moment, I wondered why I was playing it so spooky, but gave a mental shrug when no good reason came to mind. I wrote it off as simply my dislike of phonies, even if they were no phonier than I. Plus, the deeper I got into the routine, the more fun it was. Besides, I might be able to learn more if everyone
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