Have you “met” Cyd Redondo yet? Wendall Thomas’ creation, Cyd is a travel agent for Redondo Travel. Or, as author James Ziskin said, “One brilliantly sexy disaster of a globetrotting travel agent”. Cyd has appeared in three mysteries. The first two, Lost Luggage and Drowned Under were Lefty Award nominees. Lost Luggage was also a Macavity Award nominee, and Drowned Under was nominated for an Anthony Award.

Before Cyd takes over the blog today, let me introduce Wendall Thomas.

Wendall Thomas teaches in the Graduate Film School at UCLA, lectures internationally on screenwriting, and has worked as an entertainment reporter, script consultant, and film and television writer. She has worked in Los Angeles as a casting director, director’s assistant, script reader, story editor, development executive, entertainment reporter, script consultant, and screenwriter, writing and developing projects for companies including Disney, Warner Brothers, Paramount, Universal, Showtime, PBS, RKO, A&E, NBC, Scottish Screen and Australia’s Tojohage Productions. (Is it any wonder that Cyd Redondo and her adventures jump off the page?)

Cyd Redondo’s large family kept her pinned to the desk at the travel agency until her adventures in Africa in Lost Luggage. She headed to Australia in Drowned Under, and, now, in Fogged Off, Cyd heads to London. All those adventures around the globe, all those adventures with exotic animals, and, yet Cyd picked an unusual topic for her guest post here. Cyd is going to talk about the love of her life, her Balenciaga bag.

The Road to Balenciaga by Cyd Redondo

Have you ever had a moment when the stars align, when luck is in your favor, when you feel you can do anything? That was me, Loehmann’s, President’s Day Sale, 2003.

I’d fallen in love with Balenciaga’s “City Bag” long before the Duff sisters made it iconic in Material Girls. The motorcycle jacket hardware appealed to my inner bad girl, while the fringed zippers called out to my inner bohemian/Linda Ronstadt-loving self. When the larger Weekender edition arrived, with room for all the items my outer responsible business owner self required, it seemed like I’d found my “soul bag.” Except for the price, which was about a tenth of my yearly salary, before taxes.

So when I spotted a piece of red fringe on the 85% off sale table at Loehmann’s, I froze on my four-inch Stuart Weisman’s and almost tumbled into the (pointless) 40% off table. Had anyone else seen it? There were seven shoppers surrounding the pile, all up on one foot to forage the middle.

I did a split second evaluation. What would scatter them? A Dior gown with three sequins missing? A Birkin bag with a broken zipper or a blood stain? Jimmy Choos with in-store scuffs? Then I saw it. The most coveted item of the moment—a Karen Walker little black dress. I used my plastic fingernail clippers to remove the 40% off tag and winged the frock just past the table, label up. As I hoped, frenzy ensued. I ducked down and squat-walked over to approach the Balenciaga from underneath. I was in position when an anonymous chunky heel hit the back of my head.

When I regained consciousness, the bag was gone and I had a lump the size of a tangelo. I was heartbroken. I did, however, negotiate a deal with the store—no lawsuit in exchange for a standing additional discount on all sale items. In perpetuity.

Now, I was on a mission. I hit every estate sale in the five boroughs, hoping for inheritor handbag ignorance, but had no luck there. Not much on eBay either, and certainly not in my price range. And then, I had an idea.

As a travel agent with a large number of forgetful clients, I was well-acquainted with the Left Luggage departments at JFK and La Guardia. They not only handled things left (and seized) on planes, but some of the thirty million bags the airlines lost every year. It was impossible for me to imagine someone failing to claim a lost Balenciaga, but sometimes people just don’t know how lucky they are.

I had regularly scattered cruise ship discounts, comped rooms in Atlantic City, and frequent flier upgrades to the airport staff over the years. It was time to cash in. I placed what was effectively a Google alert with my friends in the baggage trade for a heads up on any Balenciaga bags, especially red Weekenders, that might wind up there. A week before their annual auction, I got a note there might be a bag fitting my description, left on a Qatar Airlines flight, in lot 45.

Although I couldn’t be sure my contact could tell a Balenciaga from a Louis Vuitton, I made the trek at three in the morning anyway. I was not the first one there. There were four women right out of The Witches of Eastwick, along with several bearded, reality show-esque men. These were professionals. I was going to have to work whatever advantage I had, which, happily included a “brousin” in law enforcement who lived near the airport.

It’s amazing how just the blip of a siren and flashing lights will spook anyone with an outstanding warrant. That got rid of half of my competition and put me right up front. The auction started on time. Wow, is all I can say. It’s astonishing what people are willing to leave behind. It wasn’t just coats, scarves and reading glasses, it was watches, laptops, phones, baby carriages, manuscripts, wedding albums, microwaves, emeralds, mouth guards, hula hoops, three hundred dollar face cream, and apparently even pets and children, though the pets were usually picked up, eventually.

Everything but a real Balenciaga. The purse in Lot 45 was a Coach knock-off. I did score a half bottle of Marc Jacobs perfume and some Donna Karan barely worn boots for twenty-five dollars, down from their original four-fifty, so that was something.

To cheer myself up, I went to a funeral. Maggie Van Husen had been 98. I’d booked her travel right up through her 97th birthday, when even I couldn’t get her full travel insurance. Since then, I’d watched Rick Steves with her every week. She’d always cheered me up. I was heartbroken that she was gone, but happy that she’d gone peacefully, painlessly, in her sleep, in her own bed, having told all her gathered loved ones what she thought of them. Most people don’t get that. So I brought a few of her favorite vintage luggage tags to throw on the coffin, in hopes she’d have joyful travels, no insurance required.

The next day, a delivery arrived at Redondo Travel. It came with a note in Maggie’s perfect cursive which read, “I decided you deserved an upgrade of your own. Don’t leave home without it. Maggie.” Inside the layers of tissue paper was a red Balenciaga Weekender, with tags. I had a good, long cry, then got out the neutral leather protector.

Sometimes no matter how hard you look for something, it has to find you.

Thank you to Cyd Redondo and Wendall Thomas for this piece.

Fogged Off by Wendall Thomas. Beyond the Page Publishing, 2021. ISBN 9781954717534 (paperback), 237p.