“I love situations.” Polly was laser focused.
I filled Polly and JM in about the theft, the clues, and the chase thus far. JM, the lawyer, asked all the right questions about police procedure, insurance, and liability. He was also quite concerned about my personal safety, even though I’d fudged the details about the car in front of the InterContinental. Before I had a chance to show them the latest clue, JM declared, “I need to sit in my chair with a brandy to take this all in.” It was early afternoon, and a brandy seemed extreme, but I went on as we moved into the living room. Polly brought along the cheese, some cookies, and an urn of coffee.
I took the latest envelope from Blackbird out of my bag, and Polly clapped her hands in anticipation. “I have a new clue that I can’t figure out. I thought you might take a look at it. You both know the city so much better than I do. And here is the page from my father’s notebook. It appears to be a random drawing of a building, but maybe you’ll recognize it, if it has a Paris connection.”
“This is like those art history treasure hunts my English friend hosts for large groups of suburban ladies from America. She makes a fortune taking all those Garden Club Sustaining Members to the same ten spots in Paris, convincing them it’s a hidden gem! But this is so much better! It’s real!”
Did Polly miss the part about art theft, attempted murder, and me losing my job, I wondered.
“This doesn’t look familiar at all. It could be any one of a million buildings here—or anywhere in the world, really,” Polly said, handing the page to JM, who also shrugged.
“Also, Polly, I want to use your blog as a message board. I think Blackbird is reading your posts. He knows where I’m staying.” I spoke the final part slowly and carefully.
“That’s incredible!” Polly gushed, as if having a potentially dangerous art thief as a reader were the equivalent of a Vanity Fair mention. Then she realized the dark side of the statement. “Oh dear.”
“How is that possible?” JM asked, his nose out of joint un peu.
“Oh my God, Joan. I am so, so sorry. I.” Polly cringed. “I didn’t mention the name of the hotel directly, but I gave a hint. I was hoping the hotel might appreciate the publicity so much, they’d comp a few rooms for my brother and his wife when they come to visit this summer. I’m so tired of having them show up every August, you know, like they live here or something. Nobody entertains in August in Paris, except us, because my sister-in-law likes to pretend, she, quote, has a place in the sixteenth. I’ve heard her say that, Jean-Michel!” Polly patted her belly just to make sure her husband understood. “I thought sticking them in a hotel on the other side of town on an actual island seemed like a good idea this year.”
JM wasn’t happy. “So, you traded Joan’s safety for free stuff?”
Polly’s apology was sincere. “I’m a terrible friend. Forgive me, Joan.”
“Did you get the free rooms?” I had to ask.
“Four nights! They loved the offhand reference. Now I’ll do a proper post on them.” JM was horrified, but I assured him that there would be no legal retribution. Or emotional fallout. Polly was grateful. “I owe you. Anything you need, Joan. Anything.”
“Let me show you this first, and then we’ll figure out what to say.”
I opened up Blackbird’s envelope and dug my Blue Guide out of my bag, which was peppered with Post-its of possible locations. I slid the paper across to Polly and picked up a perfect palmier to go with my coffee.
Polly read the clue aloud for all to hear, slowly and softly, ending each line with a question mark in her voice.
If the gilded light should fade
When you hear house men have strayed
Here’s memory that tells me so
Here’s golden hair that falls below
I’ll touch the line of her chin
Like steel and glass from within
Come cut those locks at three, sweet maid.
It took her all of about twelve seconds to unravel the next Blackbird meetup spot, lest I’d forgotten that she was our high school valedictorian and magna cum laude Wellesley graduate. “It must be the site of Antoine’s, the famous Parisian hairstylist. He was the world’s first celebrity hairdresser. And his salon was at Galeries Lafayette, on Haussmann. See ‘house man’? Haussmann. And the steel-and-glass reference? That’s clearly the spectacular atrium there.”
Compelling but not complete. “Aren’t there other steel-and-glass atriums in Paris? Maybe even on Haussmann?”
“Of course, but not as famous or a spectacular as GL. And Antoine created the Joan of Arc haircut. It was his first claim to fame. Not exactly sexy, but a very good start. His real entry to grand society was the creation of the bob, and it became the cut of the Jazz Age. He charged hundreds of dollars a haircut in the twenties. Before Vidal Sassoon or Sally Hershberger, there was Antoine!”
Dr. Polly Davis-de La Fontaine expounds on the History of Hairdressing. I felt like an idiot that I didn’t figure this all out. Maybe Nate was messing with my brain, because when Polly laid it all out, it seemed obvious. “You’re amazing! How do you know all this?”
“Oh, ladybug, I’ve been blogging for years now, and the number one question I’m asked by expats is about finding a decent salon with stylists who speak English. Well, that and how to find a gynecologist who looks like Olivier Martinez. But I’ve done dozens of posts about hair, haircuts, hair products, hair balls. I know my hair. I know my white girl hair and my Black girl hair. It’s like fate that you brought this to me.” Polly started dialing her phone to set up appointments and then paused. “There are three salons inside GL. What do you think we should do?”
Considering the complex choreography of Blackbird’s moves over the past thirty-six hours, I took an educated guess. “Call around. I bet one of them has an appointment on the books for me at three.”
Sure enough, the call to salon number two hit pay dirt. “You have a blowout scheduled at Franck Provost,” Polly reported and then added, “You know, you kinda need it. You have a little bedhead.”
I’d forgotten how thrilling it was to walk into the historic department store with its glass-and-steel dome and art nouveau staircases. Shopping magic, impossible to resist. The store was crowded with both Parisians and tourists, mobbing the makeup counters for French skin-care treasures. Even though we were focused on a possible meet with Blackbird, we stopped by the perfume counter, like old times. Polly bought me a travel-size bottle of Nina Ricci perfume. “To make up for the security breach. Please accept my apologies. L’Extase—ecstasy. I think Nate will like it.”