I was rapidly losing this battle. For all his ridiculous looks, Moreau was good. Too good. So good I had a bad feeling that if he was convinced I’d done this, he’d find a way to prove it. Even if it wasn’t true.
I was just about to pull out my one and only secret weapon – crying like a girl and hoping for mercy – when the door swung open. And a vision in khaki Dockers and a white rumpled button-down filled the doorway.
Felix.
“What the hell is going on here?” he asked. “Why is that chap taking her DNA sample?”
Okay, so white knight he wasn’t, but I’d never been so glad to see anyone in my life.
Moreau, on the other hand, didn’t look at all pleased. “And you are?” he asked.
Felix squared his shoulders. “Lord Ackerman.”
I blinked.
“Lord Ackerman?” I asked. “Lord?”
Felix shot me a look that clearly said shut up. Which I did, clamping my lips together to keep from laughing.
“I’m sorry, Lord Ackerman,” Moreau said, his voice suddenly filled with a note of respect despite Felix’s worn Sketcher sneakers and I-just-rolled-out-of-bed hair. “But, this is an official murder investigation.” He emphasized the word, throwing a pointed look my way.
Damned if I didn’t feel guilty under his gaze.
Felix narrowed his eyes at the detective and shot back, “Qu'est-ce que tu fais?”
Wow. Item number forty-million I didn’t know about Felix. He spoke French.
Moreau seemed a bit surprised, too, his mustache twitching ever so slightly. But he parried back quickly, responding in rapid French something that prompted Felix to throw his hands up in an exasperated gesture, then shout something back. I watched the two of them go back and forth, wishing like anything I’d taken French in high school instead of ceramics. The ability to make a clay pencil holder that said “Happy Mother’s Day” was completely useless right now.
Finally Felix thumped his hands on the desk, bringing home his point (whatever it was) and grabbed me by the arm, hauling me to my feet. “Let’s go Maddie, we’re done here.”
I expected the detective to protest, but instead Moreau just watched, his eyes intent on Felix, narrowing above his mustache. (Which was twitching double time now.)
I tried not to look too smug as we left the room.
“What did you say to him?” I asked, as Felix navigated the hallways, one hand still firmly grasped around me.
“I said that if he came near you again without a warrant, I’d have his badge.”
I stopped. “Warrant?”
We were just outside the tent, police vans and numerous cop cars circled around the courtyard, the long stretch of press and tourists being held back by wooden police barricades. The main point of interest at the Louvre was definitely not the Mona Lisa today.
“Do you seriously think he’d get a warrant?” I asked.
Felix turned to face me, his eyebrows hunkered down in concern. “Maddie, she was killed with one of your designs. And, you have to admit, the shoe to the neck… not a common way to kill someone.”
I gulped. I knew. I also knew I didn’t do it. Which meant someone not only wanted Gisella gone, but had tried to make it look like I’d been the one to do it. A disconcerting thought. Sadly, thanks to the L.A. Informer, my past exploits weren’t exactly a secret. Anyone could have heard about the shoe to the jugular.
“That was genius, by the way,” I said, as Felix steered me through the crowd, signaling for a taxi. “The whole pretending to be Lord Ackerman. Really got Moreau’s attention.”
Felix gave me a funny look over his shoulder as a black and white cab pulled up to the curb. “I wasn’t pretending.”
“What do you mean you weren’t pretending?” I asked, slipping onto the vinyl seat.
Felix spoke to the driver in French, giving him the address of the hotel, before turning to me.
“I really am Lord Ackerman.”
I snorted. “No you’re not. You’re Felix.”
He didn’t say anything. But the tell-tale amused twinkle I’d come to associate with his teasing was noticeably absent from his eyes.
“Ohmigod, you’re serious? Lord Ackerman?”
Felix nodded slowly.
I turned to Felix, pretty sure my mouth was unattractively gaping open. “You’ve got to be joking. What, did you buy the title online or something?”
Felix did a wry grin. “Worse. I was born into it. On my father’s side, a quite distant cousin of the queen’s.”
“The queen? Wait, are you trying to tell me that you’re actual royalty?”
“Oh don’t worry, only about a hundred people would have to die before I’d come close to the throne.”
“So, hold on here. ” I held up one hand. “You’re telling me that Gisella’s half-million dollar diamond necklace was on loan from you?”
Felix nodded slowly, carefully watching my reaction. Which I’m pretty sure was a cross between pure shock and total disbelief.
I’ll admit, I’d never really known that much about Felix’s background. I knew his mother was Scottish, which is where Felix claimed he inherited his “thriftiness” as he called it. Though, I’d pointed out to him on more than one occasion that tipping a waiter in nickels wasn’t thrifty, it was downright cheap. All I knew of his father was that he was English and Felix had inherited a good deal of family money from him at some point. And, apparently, a title. I’d always referred to Felix as a “cheap rich guy.” But I’d never imagined him as an actual member of the aristocracy.
A titled Tabloid Reporter. What was this world coming to?
Though I didn’t have a chance to question the Lord any further as my cell rang from the depths of my shoulder bag. I pulled it out and flipped it open, checking the caller ID. Ramirez.
I closed my eyes and did a little mini meditation before clicking the on button.
“Hello?” I asked tentatively.
“Hey, beautiful.”
Despite the morning I’d had, I felt comfort wash through me at the sound of his voice. I suddenly really wished he wasn’t an ocean away.
“Look, I know what you’re going to say and it’s not my fault,” I quickly said into the phone. “I just found her. And I know it’s a huge coincidence the way she was killed with the shoe in her neck and all, well, at least Moreau thought it was, but that’s all it is! I swear! I had nothing to do with it. All I wanted to do was come to Paris for Fashion Week and maybe catch a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower, and then the accident and this stupid cast, and now they’re taking my DNA, even though they don’t have a warrant, and saying I don’t have an alibi!”
There was a pause on the other end. Then Ramirez’s voice came in a slow deliberate cadence. “Maddie, what is going on over there?”
“Don’t you know?”
“No,” he said, concern lacing his words. “I just called to tell you I was sorry I didn’t get a chance to call you back last night. What the hell is going on? What’s this about DNA and warrants?”
Oh hell. I swear, one of these days I’d learn to keep my mouth shut. Obviously today wasn’t that day.
Quickly I filled him in on the morning’s events, pussyfooting the best I could around my interrogation, lest I reveal just how blonde I’d sounded. I must not have done a very good job, however, because when I finished he was silent. Just the sound of his breath coming in tightly restrained pants.
“Hello? Are you still there?”
“I’m booking the next flight.”
“No!” I shouted into the phone. Okay, I’d kind of freaked out facing Moreau, I’ll admit. And having Felix show up had been a huge relief. And, I’ll admit, the second I’d heard Ramirez’s voice I’d instantly felt better. But having him fly halfway around the world just to hold my hand was tantamount to saying that he was right. That I couldn’t take care of myself. That I did need a chaperone as badly as he and my mother thought. No way was I admitting that.
“No, really, I’m fine.”
> “You’re not fine, Maddie. You’re a homicide suspect.”
“Well, sort of, but…”
“Look, I don’t want you there alone.”
“I’m not alone,” I said, glancing over to Felix who’d been pretending not to listen to the conversation up to this point.
“Felix is here.”
Silence. Then, “Felix? As in the reporter Felix.”
“Uh, yeah.”
“The same Felix who got you kidnapped in Vegas?”
“Uh…”
“And the same Felix who gave you a gun last spring?”
“Well, um…”
“And,” he said, really gaining steam now, “the same Felix who looks at you like you’re dessert and he hasn’t eaten in weeks?”
“He does not!” I glanced over at him again. Did he? “But, uh, yeah. That Felix.”
“I’ll be there by morning.” Then he hung up.
I stared at the silent phone in my hand. Then up at Felix, still looking out the window, pretending not to eavesdrop.
Great. Just what I needed. A pissing contest.
Chapter Five
By the time we got back to the hotel, I was beat, mentally and physically, the jet lag catching up to me big time.
The front of the hotel was crammed with paparazzi. As if the Fashion Week photographers weren’t enough, now every newshound in Europe was covering the sensational death of their favorite supermodel. I could see Felix mentally sizing them up, his hands fidgeting in his lap with nervous energy. If there was one thing Felix hated, it was to be scooped.
The cab driver pulled as close to the front doors as he could manage, then dropped Felix and me off at the sidewalk. I awkwardly angled Wonder Boot out of the cab, sticking the crutches under my armpits and hobbling toward the hotel doors and leaving Felix to pay the fare. Hell, he was related to the queen. He could handle it.
By the time I made it to the glass front doors, Felix had easily caught up and we pushed our way through the crowd. Unfortunately, the lobby wasn’t any less populated, the chatter of reporters echoing off the marble floors. I kept my head down and plowed straight for the elevators, letting out a sigh of relief as the doors closed behind us. Two minutes later I was at my door, fumbling in my shoulder bag for my key card.
As it turned out, I didn’t need it. The door flew open.
“Oh lordy, Maddie, I’m so glad you’re okay!” Mom grabbed me in a big bear hug, knocking both crutches to the ground.
“Mom, I can’t breathe.”
“Sorry.” She stepped back. “I was just so worried. You’re on every TV station. Not that I can understand most of what they’re saying about you.”
“Is it true? Did you stab that model with your shoe?” Mrs. Rosenblatt asked, waddling up behind.
“Of course it’s not true!” Mom shouted, turning on her. Then she paused and leaned in close to me. “Is it?”
“No! It’s just a coincidence.”
“See,” Mom shot to Mrs. R. “I knew it wasn’t true. I knew you couldn’t do the horrible things the TV says you did.”
“What are they saying?” Felix asked, walking into the room behind me.
“They’re calling her the Couture Killer,” Mrs. R piped up.
Felix winced. “Wish I’d thought of that,” he muttered under his breath.
I resisted the urge to kick him. Mostly because I couldn’t balance on one foot.
“Who’s this?” Mrs. Rosenblatt asked, gesturing to Felix.
“This is Felix Dunn.”
“The reporter?” Mom narrowed her eyes. She knew all too well how I’d felt about my head being pasted on Pamela Anderson’s body.
“The one and only.” Felix bowed. “I’ve heard so much about you, Mrs. Springer. It’s lovely to finally meet you.” He grasped one of Mom’s hands in both of his.
Mom blushed. “Oh, well.”
“And you,” he said, advancing on Mrs. R, “you must be the charming Mrs. Rosenblatt. A true pleasure, ma’am.” He leaned down and kissed her hand.
Mrs. Rosenblatt giggled. “I could get used to these European men.”
Oh brother.
“Maddie, what exactly happened today?” Mom asked, gathering my fallen crutches for me.
I hopped over to the double bed and sat down, pillows floofing around me. Reluctantly, I filled Mom and Mrs. R in on the events of the morning. I glossed over my run in with Moreau as best I could (in case you hadn’t noticed, Mom tended to be a little overprotective) but by the time I was done, she still had her lips clenched together in a tight white line.
“How could they possibly think you had anything to do with this, Maddie?” she asked.
“Wow. Creepy finding her like that. You’ve definitely got some bad karma issues, bubbee,” Mrs. Rosenblatt said, putting a sympathetic hand on my arm. “You wanna aura cleansing?”
What I wanted was a long hot bath, a handful of pain pills, and a nap. But I had to agree with her, my karma did suck.
“What she needs is a lawyer. The nerve of that policeman questioning you,” Mom said.
“It sounds like a set-up to me,” Mrs. Rosenblatt offered. “Someone’s trying to make you look guilty.”
Which, thus far, was working splendidly.
“Who would want to do that to my baby?” Mom asked, her eyes going big and round beneath her powder blue eye shadow.
“You pissed anybody off lately, doll?” Mrs. R asked.
I shrugged. “How could I? I don’t even know anyone here. It’s got to be a coincidence.”
“The real question is who would want Gisella dead?” Felix piped up from the corner.
He’d been so quiet I’d almost forgotten he was there, sitting at the mini desk, absently doodling on a pad of hotel stationary. His forehead creased as he went on. “Anyone could have read about your exploits, Maddie, and decided you’d make a convenient scapegoat. The real question we should be asking is who had issues with Gisella? When was the last time you saw her?”
“Yesterday. Jean Luc introduced me to her right after she lost the necklace, then I did a fitting for her shoes right before we left for the night.”
“Hold on.” Felix stopped me. “Go back. What necklace did she lose?”
“Lord Ackerm-” I started. Then checked myself. “I mean, uh… yours.”
Felix lifted an eyebrow. “Mine?”
Oops. “Uh, Jean Luc didn’t tell you?”
He shook his head from side to side. “Care to fill me in?” he asked, leaning forward.
I quickly relayed the scene I’d witnessed the day before between Gisella and Jean Luc. When I finished, Felix looked deep in thought.
“So, the necklace goes missing, then Gisella ends up dead.”
“I betcha it was stolen.” Mrs. R nodded sagely, her chins (plural) bobbing up and down. “You know France is crawling with them cat burglars.”
I rolled my eyes. “Only in Carey Grant movies.”
“But then, why kill her after they already stole it?” Mom asked, pursing her drawn-in eyebrows.
“Good point. Why kill her if they’d already gotten away with the necklace?” I asked.
“I say we start with the necklace anyway. It’s our best lead,” Felix decided.
“This wouldn’t have anything to do with you wanting to recover it, would it?” I asked.
Felix shrugged. “It’s insured. But, yes, I wouldn’t mind if it showed up.”
“I have an even better idea,” I offered. “How about we just leave this to the police?”
Three pairs of eyes turned my way.
“So they can arrest you?” Mom asked, voicing everyone’s thoughts.
“But I’m innocent.”
Silence.
“I am!”
Mom reached over and patted my arm. “Of course you are, baby. We believe you.”
I looked around the room. Clearly I was outnumbered.
“Okay, fine. Where do we start?”
* * *
Taking
Felix’s suggestions, Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt decided to find out all they could about Gisella by doing some serious Googling downstairs in the hotel’s business center. Felix said he had some things he wanted to check on (though I suspected he really wanted to call in the story to his editor at the Informer) and would meet up with me in the lobby later that afternoon. For lack of a better direction, I decided to see if there were any new developments at the show site. In lieu of actually braving the paparazzi (not to mention risking a run-in with Moreau) I dialed Jean Luc on his cell.
He answered on the third ring.
“Yes?” he barked out, his voice tense.
“Hi, Jean Luc. It’s Maddie.”
“Oh,” he answered on a sigh. “Maddie. Are you all right? What happened to you?”
“I’m fine. I’m back at the hotel.”
“Thank God! I was afraid they’d taken you into custody.”
I winced. Not yet. “Have there been any new developments since I left?”
Jean Luc sighed into the phone. “Not that I know of. They’ve been back and forth with their evidence bags all day. Maddie, I swear I’m on the verge of a breakdown. They’ve taken every last pair of your shoes into evidence.”
I grabbed a bed poster for support. “They’ve taken my shoes?” I repeated, hoping I’d heard him wrong, visions of my Paris debut fading faster than a bad dye job.
“Can you believe it? What am I supposed to do, send all the models out barefoot? Good God, this isn’t some mall, it’s Fashion Week!”
I felt a mini-heart attack coming on. This could not be happening.
Jean Luc’s voice got high and whiney as he continued, voicing my exact thoughts. “This cannot be happening to me! Not only do I have to find a replacement for Gisella when everyone who’s anyone is already booked, but now I’ve got to contend with barefoot models, too. I cannot believe this is happening to me.” I heard Jean Luc unwrap another antacid and crunch down loudly on it.
I closed my eyes and took deep breaths. Okay, so they’d taken my shoes. It was fine. They’d dust them, process them, whatever it was they did with evidence, and see that I did not kill Gisella. So, really, this was a good thing, right? (Am I the denial queen or what?)
High Heels Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-5) Page 82