“Out of curiosity, anything go missing from the site that time?”
His forehead wrinkled like a Shar Pei as he tried to think. “Not that I remember. But then again, it was a swimsuit shoot. Not a lot of accessories involved.”
I nodded. “You said she didn’t start booking real jobs until she started with Donata. What do you know about her?”
“Donata? She’s very well respected. I think she used to be a model herself, but I don’t know the details. Of course that was eons ago,” he said, rolling his eyes. “But she’s done well as an agent. She has a good stock of girls. I’ve used a few. I believe Angelica’s with her, as well.”
“Really?” Small world. And something Angelica had failed to mention when she’d said Gisella was burning up her cell minutes hounding her agent for a cover. If Donata was sending Gisella out to jobs instead of Angelica, I saw another mark in the motive column for Angelica to want Gisella out of the way.
“Do you have any idea what Gisella was doing out at the tent that morning?” I asked.
Jean Luc shook his head slowly. “Gisella was never early. Not a morning person, as they say. I have no idea.”
“So, you didn’t call her in?”
“Who, me? No, I know better than to wake her before noon. Besides, Ann usually sets the models’ schedules. She takes care of those kinds of details.”
I made a mental note to ask Ann about Gisella’s schedule that morning.
“When did you leave the night before?”
“Late. It was past midnight.”
Considering Jean Luc was in essence my employer, I worded my next question carefully. “And when, exactly, did you arrive on site the next morning?”
Jena Luc’s eyebrows headed toward his hairline. “Why, just before you did of course.”
I nodded. “Of course.”
“And before you ask, yes, I was alone.” He did a wry smile. “I suppose I don’t have an alibi either.”
“Join the club.”
“But Ann can tell you that I was with her until almost two that night. We were going over the lineup and couldn’t agree on where to put Bella’s third outfit. It seemed to clash with everything but was just too stunning on her to leave out.”
“I guess you didn’t sleep much that night.”
“Of course not,” Jean Luc responded, popping an antacid into his mouth. “It’s Fashion Week.”
Of course.
“Speaking of which…” He trailed off, pointing to the pump still in my hand. “We have fifteen of those. And I know if anyone can make a plain pump sparkle, it’s you, Maddie.”
Then a seamstress pinning an empire waisted baby doll dress near the door caught his attention and he was off, with a “No, no, no, dahling, it’s a loose drape.”
I stared down at the pump in my hands. Well, at least someone had faith in me.
Chapter Twelve
I spent the rest of the day doing what I could to turn plain black pumps into designer worthy creations. Little embellishments here and there helped, but the more I looked at them, the more they looked like plain black pumps that someone had tried to embellish. It was a depressing thought that these were what would go down the runway with my name attached to them.
By the time I finally finished the last one, I was beat. Dana and I shared a cab back to the Plaza where I hobbled up to my room and promptly collapsed, fully clothed, onto the bed, spilling half a dozen pillows onto the floor in the process.
Only, tired as I was, as I closed my eyes, I couldn’t sleep. Part of me kept listening for my phone to ring, silently willing Ramirez to call. Wondering what I’d say when he did. That is, if he ever did.
I had almost convinced myself to pick up the phone and dial his number, pleading for the zillionth time for forgiveness, when the door to my room flew open.
“Maddie, I’m so glad you’re back,” Mom cried, plopping down on the bed beside me. “We need your advice.”
I groaned into my pillow as I felt Mrs. Rosenblatt sit on the other side of the bed, her weight causing me to roll toward her. “I’m kind of tired, Mom. It’s been a long day.”
“I got me a hot date with Pierre tonight,” Mrs. R said, completely ignoring me, “and I can’t decide what to wear.”
I peeked my head up. Then let out an involuntary, “Eek!” as I took in Mrs. Rosenblatt’s outfit.
She was dressed in a muumuu, of course, this time in a shocking green color with pink hibiscus flowers printed haphazardly across the front. Her Lucille Ball red hair was piled on top of her head in a frizzing lump that looked like blue birds should be nesting in it, and a pair of pink and green plastic palm tree earrings hung from her ears. She’d followed Mom’s more-is-always-better philosophy of eye shadow application, drawing a thick green line from her eyelashes all the way up to her eyebrows, and, if I wasn’t mistaken, a fake little mole made of black eyeliner pencil sat on her upper lip. All in all, she made an excellent drag queen.
“I like the green dress,” Mom continued, pointing to Mrs. R’s current outfit, “but she’s afraid it’s a little too subtle.”
I raised an eyebrow. Compared to what? A neon sign? “Where’s he taking you?” I asked instead, propping myself up on my elbows.
“Some fancy schmancy place on the Champs Elysees. He says they got the best authentic French cuisine in Paris. Though, I told him there’s no way I’m eating a snail. I got them suckers in my garden back home. They are not food.”
I had to agree with that one.
“So can you help?” Mom asked.
I looked down at Mrs. R’s outfit again, suddenly wishing I had a pair of sunglasses handy. “How much time have you got?”
“I’m meeting him at nine.”
I looked at the digital clock by my bedside. 8:40.
“Then we better get moving.”
I followed Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt through the adjoining door back to their room, filling them both in on my latest discoveries about Felix as I instructed Mrs. R to go wash off the make-up (over my mother’s protests).
“Oh, we have news, too!” Mom said, sitting up straight on the bed as I rummaged in the closet for something a little less “subtle” to wear. Unfortunately, this was Mrs. Rosenblatt we were talking about and it was slim pickings.
“You’ll never guess what Pierre told us last night. Apparently, after they found Felix and the necklace in Gisella’s room, the police searched the place from top to bottom. They found three other pieces of jewelry stuffed into pockets.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
The theory of Gisella the jewel thief was becoming more plausible. “You had said that four designers besides Jean Luc reported missing pieces. Did they find the fourth?”
Mom shrugged. “Not as far as Pierre knew.”
Mrs. R piped up from the bathroom. “I’ll bet she passed ‘em along to her fence already. They’re probably circulating the black market right now.”
While Mrs. Rosenblatt tended toward overly dramatic language, I couldn’t help thinking she might be right. This time.
“If so, that means her partner has to be someone in Paris. Gisella wouldn’t have had time to fly them somewhere else without Jean Luc noticing she was gone,” I said, flipping through muumuu after muumuu.
“Which brings us back to her accomplice being someone she knew here,” Mom said, even as I started mentally going down my suspect list. I had to admit, her agent still seemed the most likely candidate.
“How about this one?” I held up a red and orange printed muumuu that could almost pass for tropical chic as Mrs. Rosenblatt came out of the bathroom, her cheeks a freshly scrubbed pink.
She made a face. “You sure that’s better than the green one?”
I nodded. “I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.”
I paired the dress with a red leather belt that gave Mrs. R’s Pillsbury Doughboy figure some semblance of a waist, and a red cardigan borrowed from Mom’s side of the closet. Gr
anted, Mrs. R had about a hundred pounds and several inches on Mom, so the sweater didn’t exactly close in front, but it was stretchy enough that she could fit her arms into it and it broke up the floral some. After trading in Mrs. R’s palm trees for a pair of tasteful ruby dew drops from my own wardrobe and applying a thin swipe of dusty beige shadow over her eyes (just to the brow bone), she looked pretty darn good, even if I did say so myself. Except for the Birkenstocks on her feet. There wasn’t much I could do about those. Luckily, as long as she didn’t lift up her skirt and bust out with the Cancan, the muumuu was almost long enough to cover them up.
“Well, what do we think?” she asked, twirling in front of the full-length closet mirror.
Mom clapped her hands, giving her sign of approval. “It’s lovely. Maddie, you are a lifesaver.”
“If this doesn’t get me laid tonight, I don’t know what will.”
I cringed. Big time TMI.
I left Mom and Mrs. R putting the finishing touches on her hair – hairdresser I was not, she was so on her own there – and dragged my tired self back to my room. Where I stripped off my clothes, threw on my ducky jammies, and crawled into bed, visions of jewel thieves, murderers, and unfortunately, post-menopausal women in muumuus getting lucky, all sloshing together in my brain as I fell into a restless sleep.
Somewhere around midnight I awoke from a dream of Ramirez’s granite features invading my sleep. At two a.m. it was Felix’s lips that jostled me awake. Three-thirty had pink and green palm tress dancing through my subconscious. And by the time I dreamed of myself, on my knees, pleading with Ramirez not to walk away from me again, I woke up to find it was five-fifteen and I didn’t have the energy to dream anymore.
Instead, I reluctantly dragged myself out of bed and into a long hot shower. I did a blow dry and hairspray thing, adding an extra layer of mascara afterward in hopes of disguising the sleepless night bagging under my eyes. I did a swipe of Raspberry Perfection along my lips and threw on a pair of jeans, a stretchy black knit top and a low black wedge heeled sandal. A wedge didn’t really count as a heel, right? It was more of a platform.
I ordered a pot of coffee and a brioche from room service and made myself wait until 8:30 before hopping into a cab and making my way the few block to the Hôtel de Crillon, where I promptly took the elevator to the fourth floor and knocked on Donata’s door. I paused, listening for any sign of movement from the other side. None. I waited a beat, then knocked again. Still nothing.
I looked down the hall and spied a maid’s cart three doors down. I hobbled over to the open door of the room, where a young, dark haired woman in a pink starched uniform stretched to its limit over her ample derrière was making the bed. I cleared my throat and knocked on the doorframe to get her attention.
“Excuse me,” I called.
She looked up and said something in French.
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak French,” I said, doing an apologetic, palms up thing.
The woman nodded, then smiled and responded in heavily accented English. “I said there are extra soaps on the cart. Take all you like.”
“Oh, thanks. But actually I was wondering if I could ask you a question about room 405.”
She scrunched up her nose, shaking a pillowcase out. “I suppose.”
“Have you cleaned that room yet this morning?” I asked, wondering if maybe Donata was an early riser.
She shook her head. “I did not need to. No one had slept in it last night.”
“Why not?”
She shrugged. “I believe the woman checked out.”
I mentally banged my head against the wall. “Checked out? Do you know when?”
“Yesterday sometime.”
“I don’t suppose you happen to know where she went?”
She shook her head, grabbing a clean set of sheets from her cart. “No. Sorry.”
Rats.
I thanked the maid, ducking back out into the hallway.
Okay, time to try Plan B.
I pulled my cell out of my purse and dialed the Plaza’s main number as I rode the elevator back down to the lobby. I asked for Angelica’s room and, after a moment, the woman at the switchboard put me through and I heard the number ringing. Four rings into it, Angelica’s sleepy voice answered.
“Bon jour?”
“Hi, Angelica, it’s Maddie.”
There was a pause on the other end as if the name didn’t register this early in the morning. “Maddie?’
“The shoe designer for Jean Luc’s show.”
“Oh. Right. The killer.”
I rolled my eyes. “Listen, I was wondering if you knew where Donata went? She checked out of her hotel room yesterday.”
I heard Angelica yawn on the other end. “She flew back to Milan. She said she had some urgent business to take care of and that she’d be back in time for the show. Why?”
“I just wanted to ask her something about Gisella,” I hedged. “Speaking of which, why didn’t you tell me that you and Gisella shared an agent?”
She was quiet for a moment. “Look, I know it looks like I was jealous of Gisella,” she said. “But I wasn’t. I mean, yeah she and I were always competing, but I thrived on it. I didn’t mind. It kept me on my toes, you know?” she said, throwing another Americanism out.
“It never became a problem? Donata sending Gisella out to jobs instead of you?” I asked, crossing the lobby and stepping outside.
Again she paused, as if choosing her words carefully. And I wondered if there wasn’t more than a translation issue going on there. “It pissed me off a little, yeah. Last month I wanted to do a shoot for Corbett Winston, but Donata wouldn’t even set up a go-see. She said it was Gisella’s project.”
Corbett Winston. The jeweler. I perked up. “Did she say why?”
I could hear Angelica’s shrug in her voice. “No. Just that she knew Gisella was perfect for that job. Though, I guess it turned out to be a good thing I didn’t get it in the end.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, right after the shoot, someone broke in and stole the diamond necklace Gisella was modeling. Winston didn’t want the theft publicized, so the ad campaign never ran. A lot of work for nothing, if you ask me.”
Alarm bells were going off in my head left and right. “Was Gisella upset?”
“Actually, she didn’t really seem to care. She said she got paid the same either way.”
I’ll bet. A diamond necklace was a handsome payoff for a few hours work in front of a camera.
“Thanks, Angelica,” I said.
She yawned again. “No problem,” she replied, then hung up.
I flipped my phone shut and hailed a cab, directing him back to the Plaza Atheneé as I digested this bit of information, a clearer picture of Gisella’s role in all this forming. Supposing Gisella had taken the job at Winston, just to get a lay of the land, so to speak. Then, she’d gone in afterwards to steal the necklace. Or perhaps the partner had? Either way, like the designer showing at Fashion Week, Gisella must have known Winston wouldn’t want the media attention of publicly announcing the theft. Instead, they probably filed a very quiet claim with their insurance company and swept the whole thing under the rug. Meanwhile, Gisella and her partner sell the necklace and pocket the profits.
I had to admit, it was looking more and more likely that Donata had something to do with it. That fact that she refused to send Angelica out on the job seemed proof enough. Either Donata was being bribed by Gisella and company to target specific jobs for Gisella, or she was the mastermind behind the whole thing, orchestrating Gisella’s movements like a puppeteer.
Suddenly I wondered what kind of “urgent business” had called Donata away.
I flipped my cell back open as the cab dropped me off in front of the Plaza and hit number one on my speed dial. Before I was even through the lobby, Dana picked up.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s me. Listen, what’s on your schedule for today?”
“I�
�m being fitted at eight for a second outfit. But after that I’m pretty much free. Why?”
“How do you feel about Milan?”
* * *
While Dana went to her fitting, I prayed my Visa hadn’t hit its limit as I booked us two seats on a flight to Milan for that afternoon, then went to the hotel business center to research everything I could about the Corbett Winston theft online. Which wasn’t much. As Angelica had said, they hadn’t wanted to publicize the theft, so only a few small articles had run in the local papers, buried in the back of the style section. According to the reports, the theft had occurred about six weeks ago. A thirty-carat diamond and sapphire necklace had been taken from their showroom. Generally the necklace was kept in the back vault, but since it had been out for a photo shoot the day before, it was temporarily being housed in the less secure glass case at their main showroom. No mention of Gisella, though the article had said the value of the stolen necklace was an estimated 220,000 Euros. After calling up a currency conversion site, I learned that was roughly the equivalent of 300,000 American dollars. I did a low whistle. I was so in the wrong business. I wondered if it was too late to learn jewelry design.
I printed out everything I’d learned and quickly went upstairs. I stopped in briefly at Mom and Mrs. R’s room, but no one was in. Instead, I left the print outs on Mom’s bed with a little note: Gisella strikes again? Then went next door to pack an overnight bag (I learned my lesson with the inside-out panties the first night) before picking up Dana.
As I was throwing my hair dryer into the bag (lesson number two – travel with your own appliances to foreign countries) my cell rang, displaying an unfamiliar number. My heart did a little leap, praying it was Ramirez.
“Hello?” I asked, suddenly breathless.
High Heels Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-5) Page 91