I reached into my pocket, pulled out my high-intensity inspection flashlight, and clicked it on. A brilliant beam of white light illuminated the blistered edge of the purse.
Where the canvas had melted, it hadn’t burned like organic cotton or treated natural linen coated in resin—which is how authentic Louis Vuitton coated canvas is manufactured.
It had melted into a thick, gooey, chemical blob of pure, cheap polyvinyl chloride. It smelled strongly of scorched petroleum and cheap industrial glue.
I pulled out a pair of needle-nose pliers and gently pried open the gold-toned metal ring that connected the burned handle to the body of the bag.
Authentic Louis Vuitton hardware is solid brass. Brass does not blister, peel, or turn silvery-gray under low-temperature wood-ash heat.
The gold coating on the metal ring had flaked off entirely, revealing a core of dull, porous, cast zinc alloy—the kind of cheap pot metal used in five-dollar keychains.
My heart gave a sudden, violent thud against my ribs.
I looked at the photocopy of the receipt Travis had taped to the box.
*Louis Vuitton — Mall of America.*
Then I looked back at the charred, bubbling piece of zinc and cheap toxic plastic sitting on my kitchen counter.
“Well, well, Vanessa,” I whispered into the quiet, empty kitchen, a slow, predatory smile touching my lips for the first time in days. “What exactly did you have Travis pay two thousand dollars for?”
The morning bell above the door chimed with a delicate, silver ring as I stepped out of the freezing rain and into *The Velvet Vault*, Rapid City’s only high-end authenticated luxury consignment boutique.
The shop smelled of expensive cedarwood, polished marble, and old money. Mirrored display cases lined the walls, illuminated by warm, recessed halogen spotlights that made the rows of pristine Chanel, Gucci, and Hermès bags look like holy relics displayed in a museum.
Behind the glass counter sat a woman in her late forties with razor-sharp cheekbones, silver-streaked hair pulled into a severe chignon, and a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses hanging from an antique gold chain. Her name was Clara Dubois. She was a certified appraiser who spent half her year consulting for high-end auction houses in Denver and Chicago.
More importantly, two years ago, I had custom-cut and installed the eight-hundred-pound, anti-reflective, museum-grade glass panels for her security displays.
“Rebecca!” Clara looked up, her severe expression instantly melting into a genuine, warm smile. “My dear, look at you! Still surviving the winter wind? Please tell me you didn’t come to fix a display. If anything has cracked in this shop, I might have a stroke.”
“The glass is solid, Clara,” I said, offering a faint, tired smile as I set a heavy, insulated cooler bag onto the velvet-topped counter. “I came to ask for a favor. A professional one.”
Clara arched an immaculate eyebrow, glancing at the cooler bag. “You brought me a frozen steak?”
“Not quite.”
I unzipped the bag. Wearing a pair of clean white cotton inspection gloves from my toolbox, I reached inside and carefully lifted the charred, half-melted remains of Vanessa’s purse, setting it onto the pristine black velvet counter.
Clara’s nose wrinkled instantly. She recoiled slightly, taking off her reading glasses.
“Good heavens, Rebecca,” she said, blinking in horror. “Did you excavate that from a house fire?”
„So in etwa“, sagte ich. „Clara, ich brauche deine Hilfe. Ich benötige eine offizielle, zertifizierte Echtheitsanalyse. Kannst du mir sagen, ob es sich um eine authentische Louis Vuitton Speedy 30 Bandouliere handelt?“
Clara seufzte und setzte ihre Brille wieder auf. „Liebling, ich brauche kein Mikroskop, um dir zu sagen, dass das eine Tragödie ist. Aber die Authentifizierung nach thermischer Zerstörung ist schwierig. Die Leinwand ist beschädigt, der Datumscode-Etikett im Inneren könnte zu Asche verbrannt sein …“
„Schauen Sie sich zuerst die Beschläge an“, unterbrach ich leise. „Schauen Sie sich die D-Ringe an. Und schauen Sie sich den Kern der Leinwandschicht an, wo die Hitze sie abgelöst hat.“
Clara verstummte. Sie griff unter die Theke und holte eine Juwelierlupe mit hoher Vergrößerung und eine helle ultraviolette LED-Inspektionslampe hervor.
Sie beugte sich über die geschwärzte Tasche. Die leise, beschwingte Jazzmusik aus dem Laden schien in den Hintergrund zu treten, während Clara arbeitete. Sie schaltete die UV-Lampe ein. Mit einer Metallsonde berührte sie den versengten Reißverschluss. Sie untersuchte den geschmolzenen Querschnitt der Außenhülle.
Vier lange Minuten lang sagte sie kein Wort.
Dann schaltete sie die UV-Lampe aus, lehnte sich gegen ihren Samthocker zurück und zog ihre Brille bis zur Nasenspitze herunter.
Ein langsames, spöttisches Lächeln breitete sich auf ihrem Gesicht aus.
„Woher hast du das denn bloß?“, fragte Clara.
