I glanced up. I’d been there seven minutes. I didn’t know how much longer Dana could keep Debbie occupied.
I was just about to give up when I saw one file that appeared to be unmarked. With one more backward glance at the office door, still shut (for now), I pulled the file out and thumbed through.
It contained only pictures. They were all 8X10 shots of the same young, male model. From the styles he was wearing, I’d say they were taken sometime in the seventies. One picture showed the man strutting down a runway, another was of him emerging from the surf in designer swimwear. I paused on one that looked like a candid, a full face shot that appeared to be minus any airbrush touches. Something about him seemed familiar. I cocked my head to the side, taking in his wide hazel eyes, thick dark hair, thick dark eyebrows.
And then I saw it. I squinted down at the photograph and there, tiny as could be, was a heart shaped birthmark just at his hairline that even the best plastic surgery couldn’t completely get rid of.
I was looking at Donata.
I felt my breath catch in my throat, time standing still for a full two seconds, as I flipped the picture over. Scrawled in neat handwriting on the back was a name. “Donatello Gardini.” It was too close to be a coincidence.
Checking the clock, I quickly shoved the picture back in the file, re-locked it in the file drawer, and shoved the key back in the camera case, my hands shaking. I paused only briefly at the door to make sure no one was lurking on the other side before slipping back out of the office and down the hallway, my mind reeling.
Everyone had speculated Donata was a former model, but no one seemed to know the details of her past career. Could that be because Donata was a male model? I thought about the amount of obvious plastic surgery she’d gone through. At the time I’d assumed it was because the years have been unkind to her. Now I realized it was a different kind of surgery altogether.
I was sure my breath was still coming out in quick, tell-tale pants as I entered the lobby, but Debbie didn’t seem to notice, deep in conversation with Dana about the merits of New York sushi bars versus L.A. ones.
“Ready?” I asked, hoping my voice didn’t betray the erratic thumping of my heart against my rib cage.
Dana nodded. “Yep. Thanks again, Debbie.”
“No problem,” she called after us. “I hope to see you again.” She flashed us a big smile before her headset rang, and she fielded another hopeful call from the paparazzi.
I waited until we’d cleared reception and were in the elevator before blurting out my finding to Dana.
“No freakin way!” she shrieked.
“Way!” I assured her.
“But if she was trying to hide her past, why keep the photos around all these years?” Dana asked.
I thought about the unmarked file. The photos hadn’t looked aged at all. In fact, they looked like they’d been freshly printed. “Maybe she didn’t. Maybe someone else sent them to her.”
“Who would do that?”
“How about this,” I said as the elevator doors slid open and we crossed the air-conditioned lobby again. “What if someone found out about her past and sent her those pictures?”
“Like, blackmail?”
I nodded. “Maybe that was how Gisella was getting all the right jobs. Maybe someone was blackmailing Donata.”
Dana nodded. “I like it.”
I grinned. So did I.
“But, there’s only one problem,” she said.
“What?”
“Proving it to Moreau.”
I frowned. “I think it’s time we had a little chat with Donata.”
As Dana hailed us a cab, I pulled out my cell, dialing Ann’s number. I had a feeling everyone who was anyone had their addresses stored in her BlackBerry. I hoped that Donata’s was among them.
“Yes?” Ann answered in a clipped tone.
“Hi, Ann. It’s Maddie.”
“Yes?” she repeated. Obviously she had no time for pleasantries. I could hear Jean Luc in the background shouting something and could almost picture the pinched look on poor Ann’s face.
“I was wondering if you have Donata Girardi’s home address?”
There was a pause. “Why?”
Good question. I bit my lip, willing my overtaxed brain to think fast. “I feel terrible about what happened to Gisella. I wanted to send her agent a sympathy card.” I cringed. That excuse sounded thinner than Kate Moss even to my own ears.
Luckily, Ann had about fifteen million other things on her mind and didn’t question me. “Hold on,” she said instead, and I could hear her shuffling her phone around. “Okay, here it is.” She quickly read off the street to me as I motioned to Dana for a pen. She produced one from her purse and I wrote the address on my palm.
“Thanks, Ann!”
“Sure. Oh, and don’t forget, Jean Luc wants you here tomorrow for the final fitting.”
The final fitting. My stomach clenched as I realized the show was less than 48 hours away. If I couldn’t convince Moreau of my innocence by then, I could kiss my chances of a big Fashion Week debut good-bye.
I tried not to dwell on that, instead pushing it to the back of my mind as I assured Ann I’d be there and hung up.
Considering it was closing in on rush hour in Milan, it took us a few minutes to catch the attention of a cab (Which was finally achieved only through the very kind assistance of a man in a pinstriped business suit who gave Dana no less than three kisses on each cheek before seeing us off). Once in, I repeated the address that Ann had given me to the driver, who nodded and said he knew that area of town well.
We slowly inched along the busy streets as I watched the sun sinking lower over the gorgeous old buildings. By the time we finally pulled up to Donata’s apartment, the sky was a dusty pink and orange, prefect for a picture postcard of Milan. I paused on the sidewalk a moment taking it in, realizing I’d been to three European countries in as many days and had failed to take one photograph. Granted, I wasn’t exactly on a typical tourist vacation, but I made a mental note to buy a disposable camera next time I was in an airport. As sordid as our reason for being here was, the beauty of the city was inescapable.
And Donata’s building was no exception. Unlike her office, it was the picture of classic Italian architecture. A tall, narrow structure, rimmed in detailed moldings from centuries past, set back from the street by ornate iron fence work. As our cab pulled away from the curb, we climbed the stone steps to an intricately carved wood door and knocked.
Only no one answered. Instead, the door swung open all on its own.
Dana and I looked at each other. We’d both watched enough horror movies to know that when a door swung open on its own, it was never a good idea for the blonde to go inside unarmed.
“Hello?’ I called instead, my eyes scanning the foyer for any sign of life. Marble floor, antique sideboard, a tall, curving staircase to one side. No sign of Donata.
“Maybe she’s upstairs,” Dana whispered.
“Maybe she’s not here.”
“Maybe we should come back another time.”
And had Ann not just reminded me of the ticking clock on my career’s life span, I might have agreed with her. As it was, I ignored all the warning signs and stepped into the foyer, the sound of my crutches echoing on the marble floor. “Miss Girardi?” I called. “Donata?”
“Maddie,” Dana said, grabbing my arm. She pointed toward a doorway to our right. A glass of red wine sat on an end table, just near the entrance as if someone had set it down in a hurry.
“Miss Girardi?” I called again, peeking into the room, Dana one step behind me.
We did a simultaneous gasp as we took in the scene. And for once I was infinitely glad to have my crutches to lean on. Because had they not been there, I’m pretty sure I would have crumpled to the ground like a sack of potatoes as I stared at the scene before me.
Laying in the middle of an impeccably decorated room, filled with clearly priceless antiques, was Donata Gira
rdi. Face up on a Persian rug, eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling.
A slim, black, stiletto heel protruding from her neck.
Chapter Fourteen
The room swayed, my stomach clenched, my lungs suddenly unable to drag in a full breath.
“Ohmigod,” Dana said beside me, her face draining of all color. “Is she…?”
I looked down at the stiletto, buried mid heel, surrounded by a pool of sticky red stuff. I gulped back the taste of bile in the back of my throat. “Uh huh.”
“Ohmigod, ohmigod,” Dana started shaking her hands and jogging in place as if to shake off the dead person cooties.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” I croaked out, and swung around so fast one of my crutches hit the end table by the door, jostling the wine glass to the floor where it broke, spilling red wine all over the marble tiles.
“Shit.” I bent down, automatically picking up the shattered pieces.
“Ohmigod, Maddie, what do we do?” Dana asked, still jogging.
I stood up, closed my eyes, and took a couple of deep breaths. “We call the police.”
“Right.” Dana stopped hopping up and down. She dug in her purse and pulled out her cell, her hands shaking so badly she dropped it on the marble tile with a clatter. Scooping it back up, she paused, her fingers hovering over the keys. “How do we call the police?”
Good question.
I scanned the foyer, looking for a landline. None was visible, so I squeaked my crutches down a dark hallway to the right, Dana one step behind me. I peeked in the open doors until I found a room that looked like it doubled as an office. On the mahogany desk sat a cordless. I picked it up and hit the “0”, hoping for an operator. Luckily, I got one. Unluckily she spoke Italian.
“Desidera?”
“Uh, I need help. I have a dead woman.”
“Come?”
“Uh,” I looked to Dana. “How do you say ‘dead’ in Italian?”
Dana shrugged.
“Uh, dead-o. Molto, molto dead-o. Si?”
There was silence on the other end. Then finally, “Polizia?”
“Yes! Polizia. Lots of polizia. Pronto!”
The woman busted out with another string of Italian, which I hoped meant, “We’ll be right there,” then I hung up.
“Come on,” I said to Dana, who was still doing her Casper impression, “let’s wait outside.”
She nodded. “Yeah. Good idea.”
We walked back down the hall, careful not to touch anything else, lest we disturb the crime scene. We both looked straight forward as if we were wearing blinders as we passed the room where Donata had enjoyed her last glass of wine, and did a collective slump once we made it outside, sitting down on the stone steps in silence.
The sky was a pale blue now, the first glimmer of stars shining above us. A cool wind had picked up, whipping my hair against my cheeks. I inhaled deeply, dragging slow, deliberate breaths into my lungs. After a few beats, Dana’s cheeks started to return to their normal color and I almost had the sickening smell of blood out of my nostrils.
“She was killed with a shoe, Maddie,” Dana said quietly.
“I noticed that.” A fact that made me want to run and hide, quick, before the polizia arrived and pulled out their handcuffs. But I knew that would just make me look even more guilty than Moreau already thought I was. Instead, I took Dana’s hand and squeezed, waiting silently for the police to arrive.
What felt like an eternity later, they did, two blue and white cars rounding the corner, their lights blazing. Four officers emerged in starched blue uniforms, all advancing on Dana and me, waving their arms and shouting in Italian.
I just shook my head. “I have no idea what you’re saying.”
Dana pointed toward the house. “Dead woman. In there.”
The officers looked at each other. Then at us. Finally one went in while the other three stayed on the porch. He emerged quickly enough and the wild gesturing started again, this time accompanied by the first officer shouting into his walkie talkie, then motioning for a second guy, a tall skinny man with a long beak of a nose, to take charge of Dana and me. He did, shoving us in the back of a squad car, where we remained until the rest of the posse arrived.
By the time the sky had turned pitch black, the street was crawling with cop cars, crime scene investigation teams, and the Italian equivalent to a coroners van. Finally a female officer who looked eerily like James Gandolfini in a wig approached our car and wrenched the door open.
“You are the girls what found the body, sì?” she asked in heavily accented English.
I nodded. “Yes.”
“I interpret for you. Down at the station.”
“But we-” I tried to protest, but she’d already slammed the door shut and gestured to Beak Nose to take us away.
I felt desperation bubble up in my throat as the car pulled away from Donata’s house to God knows where. French prison hadn’t been any fun. I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like Italian prison any better.
* * *
While the brick facades and high archways on the outside of the police station resembled a museum more than the utilitarian government buildings in L.A., the interior looked like an almost exact replica of the squad room on NYPD Blue. Prompting me to wonder if maybe someone hadn’t been watching a few too many reruns from American television. A tiny reception area was gated off from the main room, a woman in gray polyester manning the desk. Beyond her were rows of gunmetal gray desks and behind those sat a row of closed doors.
The first thing the officers did when we got inside was separate Dana and me. I watched as Beak Nose took her through one door, handing me off to the interpreter, who escorted me to another.
The room we entered was a small, six-by-six affair with a plain metal table in the center and four folding chairs. A big, round guy straining his uniform at the gut was waiting for us, seated in one of the chairs. Miss Gandolfini gestured for me to sit opposite him, then placed herself at my side.
I sat, twisting my hands in my lap beneath the table.
The big guy said something in Italian, then the interpreter turned to me.
“You find the victim, sì?” she asked me.
I nodded. “Yes.” I looked to the big guy. “Yes. I found the victim.”
More Italian. I turned to Miss Gandolfini.
“He asks, ‘You are friend of the victim?’”
“Well,” I shifted in my seat. “Not exactly. I’d met her. In Paris.”
Miss Gandolfini raised a pair of bushy, black eyebrows. Then relayed my answer to the big guy. He grunted, then shot back a reply.
“But she is in Italy,” she said.
“Yes, she is now. But she wasn’t. She was in Paris, with Gisella.”
We went through the interpretation dance again, until she came back with, “Gisella? Is this the friend you find the body with?”
I shook my head, feeling a headache brewing behind my eyes. “No. That’s Dana. Gisella’s a model. Well, I guess Dana’s a model now too, but that’s only because Gisella is dead.”
There went those eyebrows again. But she relayed my answer, resulting in big guy leaning in close, speaking more excitedly.
“I thought the victim is Donata?” Gandolfini’s twin sister said.
“Yes. This one. The other one was Gisella. You see, I’m the Couture Killer.”
She stifled a gasp. Then interpreted for big guy. He threw his hands up, shouting something in Italian.
“Wait, no! I mean, I didn’t really kill anyone. I’m just… the press, they… I mean, it’s all a misunderstanding, you see… ” I gave up. It was clear neither of them had any idea what I was talking about. To be honest, I’m not even sure I knew anymore.
The door opened and Beak Nose said something in Italian to the big guy and my so-called interpreter. They shared a look, then both quickly got up from the table. I stood as well, but as the two of them filed out of the room, Beak Nose motioned for me to stay, then shut
the door again.
I bit my lip, fully aware that I’d been doing that so much today, I’d eaten off any trace of Raspberry Perfection that might have been lingering, as I wondered what had cut my interview short.
I didn’t have to wonder long, as the door popped open again.
And there stood Moreau.
Again he was dressed in a suit that was clearly made for someone two sizes larger, the cuffs hanging over his hands as he walked into the room and sat down opposite me. His scraggly little mustache twitched as he scrutinized me.
“You found another body, Mademoiselle Springer?”
I opened my mouth to speak. But nothing came out. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Yes,” I croaked out. “Dana and I did.”
“This is Dana?” he asked. “She is a model with the show, no?
I nodded. “Yes.”
“And you two were here because…?” He raised an eyebrow at me.
I hesitated, wondering just how much to divulge. He must have noticed because he leaned forward a fraction of an inch in his chair, his mustache twitching ever so slightly.
“We had a hunch Donata might be involved in the jewel thefts. We were going to confront her.”
“I see.” He leaned his elbow on the table, steepling his fingers. “And what happened? Things got out of hand?”
“Yes.” I paused. “Wait, no. I mean we never confronted her.”
“You killed her instead.”
“No! I didn’t kill anyone. She was… like that when we got there.”
“I see. Anyone see you arrive?”
“We came in a cab. You can ask the driver.”
“His name would be?” Moreau asked, extracting his trusty notepad from an oversized pocket.
“Arturo. Antonio. Something like that.”
Moreau gave me a look. Then put the pad back in his pocket. “I see.”
“No, no I don’t think you do see. I didn’t kill Donata. She was dead when we got here. The front door was open, and she was lying on the floor.”
“The door was open.”
“Yes.”
“So, you went inside?”
High Heels Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-5) Page 93