avocado-green velvet seats and the glass and rosewood cabinets filled with antique perfume paraphernalia. Oversize bottles of each of the house’s forty fragrances—factice bottles, Robbie had called them—lined mirrored shelves, with the signature fragrances front and center. Blanc, Verte, Rouge, and Noir had all been created between 1919 and 1922, and were still considered among the top ten scents of the entire industry, alongside such classics as Chanel No. 5, Shalimar, and Mitsouko.
Lucille told Griffin that Robbie was waiting for him and pushed open one of the mirrored panels that lined the room. Griffin walked through the false door and hurried down the secret corridor that connected the store to the workshop. It was narrow, dark, and undecorated; poor in contrast to the two areas it connected.
He knocked.
“Entrer.”
Griffin pushed open the door.
Even after spending the past four days working with Robbie, Griffin marveled at the centuries-old workshop. It was like stepping inside a kaleidoscope of light and scent. Thousands of bottles of sparkling liquids in all shades of yellow, amber, green and brown glittered and shimmered in the morning sun.
A set of French doors opened onto a lush and almost overgrown courtyard. It was a lovely scene until you looked closely and realized that there was paint chipping by the door frame and the blooming flowers and verdant trees outside were in serious need of a gardener.
Robbie sat at his desk, reading his computer screen, tapping his foot restlessly, a frown creasing his forehead.
“What’s wrong?” Griffin asked.
Even in the face of the crisis confronting him, Robbie had remained tranquil, handling his problems with an equanimity that Griffin found not only admirable but also almost implausible. This was the first time he’d seen his friend genuinely nervous.
“I got back the chemical analysis of the pottery shards.”
“Were they able to identify any of the ingredients?”
“Yes.” Robbie gestured to the screen. “They found trace amounts of at least six essences impregnated in the clay. Of those, only three are identifiable, and they’re the three I’d already guessed.”
“Why can’t they identify the others?”
“They don’t have any matching chemical fingerprints in their database. The ingredients could have corrupted over time and be unrecognizable now. Or there could have been a metal liner of some sort between the clay and the wax that changed the chemical deposits and contaminated the analysis. Or the ingredients are extinct.”
“Damn.” Like Robbie, Griffin had been hoping for a different outcome. Pulling over a chair, he sat down on the opposite side of the large partners desk, his own temporary workspace while he was in Paris.
Robbie had said that since 1780, every director of the House of L’Etoile had run the business from this desk. Griffin was impressed by that kind of continuity. He found solace in history. What any single man lost in one lifetime was inconsequential when observed through the lens of time. Perspective mattered to Griffin. He relied on it. It kept him centered when nothing else could.
“Don’t worry,” Robbie said as he stood. The optimism in his voice suggested that his mood had already begun to lift. “Regardless of what their GC-MS machine says, we’ll find out what those ingredients are.” He walked across the room and stopped in front of an ornately framed still life of roses and irises in a china vase. Robbie swung the painting open like a medicine cabinet, revealing an old-fashioned wall safe. He turned the dial first to the right, then the left, then back to the right.
Last Friday when he’d sent the pottery fragment to the lab, he’d explained that a GC-MS—or a gas chromatography–mass spectrometry machine—was typically used for drug detection, environmental analysis and explosive investigations. Usually fragrance companies employed the highly complex instrument to study the
Lucille told Griffin that Robbie was waiting for him and pushed open one of the mirrored panels that lined the room. Griffin walked through the false door and hurried down the secret corridor that connected the store to the workshop. It was narrow, dark, and undecorated; poor in contrast to the two areas it connected.
He knocked.
“Entrer.”
Griffin pushed open the door.
Even after spending the past four days working with Robbie, Griffin marveled at the centuries-old workshop. It was like stepping inside a kaleidoscope of light and scent. Thousands of bottles of sparkling liquids in all shades of yellow, amber, green and brown glittered and shimmered in the morning sun.
A set of French doors opened onto a lush and almost overgrown courtyard. It was a lovely scene until you looked closely and realized that there was paint chipping by the door frame and the blooming flowers and verdant trees outside were in serious need of a gardener.
Robbie sat at his desk, reading his computer screen, tapping his foot restlessly, a frown creasing his forehead.
“What’s wrong?” Griffin asked.
Even in the face of the crisis confronting him, Robbie had remained tranquil, handling his problems with an equanimity that Griffin found not only admirable but also almost implausible. This was the first time he’d seen his friend genuinely nervous.
“I got back the chemical analysis of the pottery shards.”
“Were they able to identify any of the ingredients?”
“Yes.” Robbie gestured to the screen. “They found trace amounts of at least six essences impregnated in the clay. Of those, only three are identifiable, and they’re the three I’d already guessed.”
“Why can’t they identify the others?”
“They don’t have any matching chemical fingerprints in their database. The ingredients could have corrupted over time and be unrecognizable now. Or there could have been a metal liner of some sort between the clay and the wax that changed the chemical deposits and contaminated the analysis. Or the ingredients are extinct.”
“Damn.” Like Robbie, Griffin had been hoping for a different outcome. Pulling over a chair, he sat down on the opposite side of the large partners desk, his own temporary workspace while he was in Paris.
Robbie had said that since 1780, every director of the House of L’Etoile had run the business from this desk. Griffin was impressed by that kind of continuity. He found solace in history. What any single man lost in one lifetime was inconsequential when observed through the lens of time. Perspective mattered to Griffin. He relied on it. It kept him centered when nothing else could.
“Don’t worry,” Robbie said as he stood. The optimism in his voice suggested that his mood had already begun to lift. “Regardless of what their GC-MS machine says, we’ll find out what those ingredients are.” He walked across the room and stopped in front of an ornately framed still life of roses and irises in a china vase. Robbie swung the painting open like a medicine cabinet, revealing an old-fashioned wall safe. He turned the dial first to the right, then the left, then back to the right.
Last Friday when he’d sent the pottery fragment to the lab, he’d explained that a GC-MS—or a gas chromatography–mass spectrometry machine—was typically used for drug detection, environmental analysis and explosive investigations. Usually fragrance companies employed the highly complex instrument to study the
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