I finished my coffee instead while I waited for Dana.
Fifteen minutes later, she came through the doors wearing a pair of black stretch leggings, a black long sleeve with a picture of a tiny pink poodle on it and a jaunty black beret.
I looked her up and down and I’m pretty sure my expression betray my thoughts as she said, “What?”
“Poodles?”
“I’m in Paris! I’m doing French chic. You like?” She did a little spin and I couldn’t help but grin.
“It’s very French.”
“Thanks.” She sat down, depositing her purse on the empty chair beside her. “So, spill it. What’s the latest?”
I did, catching her up to date on the Googling twins and my chat with Donata. By the time I’d finished, my coffee was history and Dana was swirling the dregs of her herbal tea in her cup, her strawberry blonde brows drawn together in thought.
“Okay, so putting aside the whole jewel thief thing for a moment, this Ryan guy was likely the last person to see her alive?”
“Right. Well, before the killer. If he isn’t the killer, that is.”
“So, what do we know about him? Just that his name is Jones or Jeffries?”
“And that he’s English.”
“Do they have a yellow pages for England?”
I gave her my best “get real” face. “Yellow pages?”
“What?”
“I say we go talk to Angelica again. Who knows, maybe this was another stolen boyfriend?”
“Perfect! I told Jean Luc I’d check in with him today anyway. How freaking perfect is this, Maddie? Not only do I get to strut a designer runway, but ohmigod, I get to do it in the most romantic city on earth!”
“Speaking of romance, how goes the long distance thing with Ricky?” I asked, as we gathered our things and hailed a cab.
“Ugh! Don’t ask.”
“That good, huh?”
“I take it you haven’t seen the latest issues of the Informer?”
I shook my head. “I try to steer clear of Felix’s smut. Why?”
“Well, according to their sources, Ricky was seen kissing Natalie Portman outside the set.”
“According to their sources the Loch Ness Monster is the product of toxic dumping in Canada. You can’t believe a word they print.”
“You think?”
“I know. What does Ricky say?” I asked, as a taxi stopped at the curb and I tried to angle Wonder Boot in.
“He denies it, of course. I told that bastard I’d gone a whole month without sex for him. He damn well better not be kissing Natalie Portman.”
I craned around in my seat as the cab took off in the direction of the Louvre.
“What are you looking for?” Dana asked.
“I’m trying to see the Eiffel Tower.”
“It’s that way.” Dana pointed out the other window.
“How do you know?”
“I saw it on my way here from the airport.”
“You saw it?” I asked, jealousy washing over me. “I’ve been here three days and still haven’t seen it.”
“You should. It’s totally cool.”
* * *
Ten minutes later we were back at the Le Croix tent. Any evidence that it had once been a crime scene was completely gone, the interior a hum of pre-show activity. The only difference was the runway being reconstructed by the coverall crew, the stained boards having been confiscated into evidence by Moreau and company.
I introduced Dana to Jean Luc, who immediately whisked her away to the fitting rooms. I tagged along (Wonder Boot precluded any sort of whisking on my part) and spied Angelica being pinned into a pleated mini skirt at a back table. I hobbled my way over to her.
“Hi,” I said as I approached. “Remember me?”
She nodded. “The Couture Killer.”
The seamstress pinning Angelica snapped her head up.
“I didn’t do it,” I reassured her.
She looked from me to Angelica. Then got up and mumbled something about a measuring tape before backing quickly away.
“Wow, you’re popular,” Angelica observed.
No kidding.
“Anyway,” I continued. “I wanted to ask you if you knew a man named Ryan Jones or possibly Jeffries?”
Angelica scrunched up her faces, squinting her brown eyes. “No, I’m sorry. Doesn’t ring a bell. Why?”
I felt my hope deflating. “It’s possible he was dating Gisella.”
“I didn’t really keep track of her current boy toys.”
“Hmm, well how about these? Any of these names stand out?” I handed Angelica the list of names I’d gotten off Gisella’s camera.
She stabbed a finger at the first one. “Oh, sure, I know Rocco. He was this Italian guy we met while doing a shoot in Venice. Total meathead, but really cute. Gisella took him back to her place after we wrapped, but it was just a one night kind of thing. This one,” she said, pointing to Roberto, “I think I met at a club in Milan. I think he’s working in New York now. But the others, no idea.”
“Thanks anyway.” I slipped the list back into my pocket as the seamstress returned, deeming it safe to approach Angelica again.
For lack of anything else to do, I hobbled to the back table to wait for Dana. I sat down beside my empty shoe rack and felt a lump forming in my throat.
Okay, being accused of murder was bad. It really, really sucked. But the thought of missing my one big chance to show at Fashion Week was enough to make my insides shrivel up and cry. I bit my lip to keep the tears at bay as I prayed Moreau was being nice to my babies.
“Maddie?”
I sniffed back an unshed tear and turned around to find Ann hovering over my table.
“Yes?”
“Angelica told me you were asking about Ryan Jeffries?”
I sniffed again, a little bubble of hope welling in my chest. “Do you know him?”
She nodded, her headset bobbing up and down. “He used to model for Ralph Lauren. A couple years ago I did a show with him. Why are you looking for him?” she asked.
“I heard a rumor that he may have dated Gisella. Maybe even recently. Do you have any idea how I could get in touch with him?”
She pulled a BlackBerry from her pocket, punching in numbers. “Last I heard he was living in London,” she said, scrolling through numbers.
I waited, trying not to get too excited. As I nervously tapped my ballet flat against the floor, craning to see the numbers on Ann’s organizer, my purse started to ring again.
She looked down. “You’re ringing.”
“I know. I think it’s broken.”
Ann gave me a funny look but didn’t comment. “Okay, here it is.” She handed the device to me. I grabbed a scrap of tracing paper and quickly copied down the address and phone number.
“Thank you so much,” I gushed.
“No problem. Trust me, anything to get this behind us and on with the show. I think Jean Luc’s had four separate strokes today.” She tucked her BlackBerry back in her pocket just as her headset crackled to life. “See what I mean,” she said, then started talking into the headset as she walked off to deal with another crisis.
I stared down at Ryan’s number. I slipped my cell out and dialed. It rang four times, then clicked over to a machine where a very British sounding man told me to leave a message after the tone. I didn’t, instead hanging up.
I looked down at the address. It was indeed in London.
Maybe had I not been sitting next to a completely empty rack of what were formerly my shoes, I wouldn’t have contemplated it. Maybe if I hadn’t thought the police were set against me, that a killer was out to frame me, and, hell, that even my own boyfriend wasn’t sure whose side he was on. Maybe had I not had to deal with all this while dragging around a giant Nerf toy on my foot, I might have been more patient. I might have tried Ryan’s number again. I might have left a polite message and waited to hear back from him.
But I didn’t.
&nbs
p; Instead, I picked up my cell and dialed the airline, booking two seats on the first flight to London Heathrow.
Chapter Nine
I drummed my fingers on the wooden tabletop, waiting for Dana to finish her fitting. A skinny guy in tight jeans and a painted-on Polo shirt was pinning a dress around her frame, periodically pausing to tell her to keep still. Even as I waited, I couldn’t help the little puddle of drool forming at the side of my mouth as I took in the dress she’d be wearing down the runway. It was a pale green silk number, falling to mid-thigh, with a cross-cut back and a key-hole front. It was the kind of dress that you bought whether you had an occasion or not.
And hoped some hot guy would end up tearing it off of you.
Finally the guy with the pins slipped it over Dana’s head and let her free. She came skipping over to me.
“Ohmigod, Maddie, did you see the dress?”
I wiped at my mouth to make sure the drool wasn’t showing. “No kidding. The sad thing is, I had the perfect pair of white pumps that would have gone with it. If they weren’t in an evidence locker.”
Dana frowned. “I’m so sorry, Mads.”
“Me too. But, listen, you think you could get Jean Luc to let you off the hook tonight?”
Dana raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
I quickly filled her in on Ryan’s whereabouts and our reservations on the seven thirty flight into London.
“We’re going to play Angels again!” Dana cried, jumping up and down.
For a brief moment, I had second thoughts. The first time Dana and I had played Charlie’s Angels she’d dressed me up as a hooker and we’d ended up getting shot at. Then there was the time we tried to outwit the mob, which had ended with Dana blowing a hole in some guy’s chest. And, last but not least, the time we’d gone undercover on a TV set and nearly ended up becoming the next victims of a Hollywood strangler. Suffice to say, the term “playing Angels” didn’t totally thrill me.
On the other hand, that dress had screamed for my white pumps and if there was any chance of me getting them out of Moreau’s evidence locker before the show day, someone had to be the crime fighting hotties. It might as well be us.
“Okay, but I get to be Farrah this time,” I told her.
Dana did a shoulder-shrug, nose-scrunching shriek thing, then promptly skipped (Yes, I swear she actually skipped. Wonder Boot and I were supremely jealous.) off to inform Jean Luc she would be back in the morning.
We stopped off only long enough to grab a couple of tartines – open faced sandwiches - at a sidewalk café along the way (Dana’s a low-fat grilled veggie. Mine a ham and cheese loaded with mayo. Hey, hobbling around on Wonder Boot burned off a lot of calories.), before taking a cab to the airport.
Luckily, small commuter flights from Paris to London flew out of Paris’s Charles de Gaulle almost every other hour. We had two seats on the 7:30 flight, arriving in London one hour later. I briefly contemplated stopping at the hotel first to pack a couple of items, but considering that was where I’d most likely run into Mr. Pissed Off Voicemails, I decided to chance it and travel light.
By the time we were flying over the famous London Eye and taxiing onto the runway at Heathrow, the sun had set, the city was a brilliant mosaic of twinkling lights, and, I’ll admit, that familiar Farrah excitement was starting to niggle at the back of my brain. Dana and I hailed the first cab we saw and gave the driver the address I’d written down.
Which turned out to be a squat, brick building in a seemingly upper middle class looking neighborhood. Small trees lined the street, televisions flickered behind windows, and a guy in a checked cardigan sweater that looked like it came from a garage sale was walking a little terrier on a leash up the street.
“Doesn’t exactly look like a jewel thief’s place,” Dana observed.
“Well, you don’t exactly look like Kate Jackson.”
“Hey, I thought I was Cheryl Ladd!”
“Come on,” I said, grabbing her by the sleeve as the cab driver gave us a funny look in his rear view mirror.
I asked the driver to wait. He nodded then pulled out a copy of the London Times as Dana and I hopped out.
The front doors to the building were locked, four call buttons on the wall indicating the flats inside. I hit the one marked “Jeffries”. Unfortunately, nothing happened. I waited a beat, then tried again. No answer. Just for good measure, I whipped out my cell and keyed in the phone number again. After four rings the machine kicked in.
“Great. Now what?” Dana asked.
I glanced down the street as the guy in the cardigan stooped down to pick up a terrier dropping in a plastic baggie.
“Let’s go talk to the neighbors.”
We crossed the small expanse of lawn in front of the building, the dog walker straightened as we approached, awkwardly fumbling with his baggie. “‘Evening,” he mumbled.
“Hi. I was wondering if I could ask you about your neighbor?” I said, indicating the brick building next door.
“Oh, uh, I’m sorry, I don’t really know them,” he stammered, tying a little twister around the top of his baggie.
“What a cute little doggie,” Dana said, crouching down to pet the terrier. It hopped up, putting his front paws on Dana’s knee to lick her face.
“Oh, my, Lady, don’t do that. Naughty dog, Lady.” He tugged on her leash, his face flushed with embarrassment.
“Oh, it’s okay. I love dogs,” Dana said, straightening.
Cardigan looked from Lady to the poodle on Dana’s shirt. He smiled, his stiff posture relaxing a little. “Yes, I can see that you do.”
“About your neighbor,” I prompted. “Ryan Jeffries?”
“Uh, right. Um, Ryan. He’s a model, I think.”
“So you do know him?” Dana asked, stooping down to pet Lady again.
“Uh, well, just to say ‘hi’ to I suppose,” he said.
“We’ve been trying to get a hold of Ryan. Do you know where he might be?” I asked.
“No. Not really. I haven’t seen him much lately. I think he was out of town.”
My heart sped up. “Any idea where he went?”
“Paris, I think. Not sure. But I know he got back last night. Saw him hauling luggage up to his place.”
“Do you know where he might be now?” Dana asked.
He shook his head. “Sorry, wish I could be more help.”
“Thanks anyway,” Dana said, giving Lady one last scratch behind the ears.
“Hey, don’t I know you?” he asked.
Dana giggled. “Well, I have been in a couple of national commercials lately. Do you use Dove soap?”
“No.” Cardigan shook his head. “Not you, her.” He pointed at me.
“Who, me?”
He narrowed his eyes, nodding. “Yeah, your face looks really familiar.”
“Nope” I said, a little too quickly. “I guess I’ve just got one of those faces. Well, thanks, nice meeting you,” I said, dragging Dana back to the cab before Cardigan realized that, according to the latest tabloids, he was face to face with the Couture Killer.
“Okay,” said Dana as we slid in to the back seat again, “so what now? Do we just wait here until Ryan shows up?”
I glanced up at the brick building. I had to admit, just sitting around waiting made me feel antsy. With the amount of messages piling up on my cell phone, I had a feeling I was working on borrowed time here. Sooner or later Ramirez was going to catch up to me. He was a detective, and a good one. It wouldn’t take him long to follow my trail – littered with breadcrumbs as it was. And once he did, I had a bad feeling there might be handcuffs involved. (And not in a good way.) No way was that man letting me out of his sight again. So, playing sitting duck wasn’t the most appealing of choices.
Instead I leaned around, addressing our cab driver who was perusing the sports section.
“Excuse me,” I asked.
He looked up and I read his nametag. Mathew.
“Mathew, do you happen to know if th
ere are any nightclubs in the area?”
Both Angelica and Donata had indicated that Gisella was a party girl. I crossed my fingers that the kind of guy she dated was a regular on the club circuit as well.
“Sure, there’s a couple,” he said, his working class accent thick. “You got the Midnight Bar down that way and Club Easy a couple blocks south of here. But, uh,” he gestured to Wonder Boot. “They’re both dance clubs. I can’t say as you’ll have much fun there, love.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t be dancing. You mind trying the Midnight Bar first?”
Mathew nodded, folding up the Times. “Suit yerself.”
Ten minutes later we were parked in front of a large yellowing building with a painted black and white sign that read “Midnight” sitting crookedly above the door. A pair of motorcycles were haphazardly parked along the front, and one window was covered with plywood where a fist or flying bottle had knocked out half the pane. All in all, it didn’t strike me as the type of place a jet-setting male model would spend his evenings.
“Maybe we should try the other one,” I suggested.
Mathew shrugged. “Suit yerself.” Then put the car into gear.
Unlike Midnight, Easy was a larger place, freshly painted in a trendy beige with black trim, sporting a brightly lit exterior and a line to get in that spanned around the building. A steady techno rhythm pulsed from inside as a tall, red-haired bouncer stood sentry at the door, wielding a clipboard in one beefy hand.
Now this was more like it.
I angled Wonder Boot out of the car and let Dana do the talking as we approached the bouncer.
“Hi there,” Dana said, giving the red haired guy a flirty little one finger wave.
Big Red gave her a quick up and down. But, considering she was showing 50% less skin than half the girls in line, he shot back a predictable, “Back of the line.”
“Actually, we just wanted to ask you a couple of questions,” I piped up.
He crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at me. (And I do mean down – he was at least a foot and a half taller than I was.)
High Heels Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-5) Page 87