“I’m not really sure I know what you’re getting at. As I’m sure you know, Felix doesn’t really, uh, dress to trends,” she said. A kind way to describe his fashion sense.
“Let me ask you something else,” I decided. “Have you ever heard of the model Donatello Gardini?”
“Yes.”
I sat up straighter, suddenly on high alert. “You have?”
Charlene nodded slowly. “He was quite well known in Europe in the seventies. One of the first male models to catch the public’s attention, I believe. Though, I’ll admit, it’s not a name I’ve heard much talk about.”
“You haven’t?” I shot Dana an I-told-you-so look.
“No, as you’d expect he’s long gone from the scene, by now.”
“So, no one has, say, been asking you questions about him?” Dana asked.
She shook her. Then gave a small smile. “Just you.”
“Not, say, Felix?” Dana pressed.
She cocked her head to the side, blonde hair falling over one shoulder. “No,” she said slowly. “Why would he?”
Dana shrugged. “Well… I thought perhaps he might be an… acquaintance of Felix’s.”
“Not as far as I know. Donatello has been long gone from the fashion scene. You have to remember, this was before anyone really paid attention to male models. From what I understand, he was hot for a season or two, then faded into relative obscurity.”
Or so Donata would have liked people to believe.
“So, you don’t happen to have any of his magazines or photos do you?”
“But, of course.”
Dana nudged me in the ribs and shot me an I-told-you-so look of her own. “You do?”
She shrugged. “I’ll admit, I’m a bit of a fashion groupie. I’ve got back issues of Vogue since 1963. Donatello is in quite a few of the early issues.”
“Where are these magazines?” I asked.
“Back at the castle. I’m sorry, I really don’t understand what this has to do with anything,” Charlene said, standing up. “And, I don’t mean to be rude, but I really must be going or I’ll be late for the Hermes show.”
“Of course,” I said, gathering my crutches and rising. “I don’t want to take up any more of your time. Thanks so much.”
Once she had crossed the lobby, her backside swaying Marilyn Monroe-esque in her tight skirt, Dana rounded on me. “See! I told you Felix knew about Donatello!”
I shook my head. “Just because his aunt has fashion magazines with the guy’s picture in them doesn’t mean Felix was blackmailing Donata.”
“No, but he could have been.”
I bit my lip. “Okay, fine. He could have been.” I paused. “But you heard what Charlene said. If Donatello was really such a big deal way back when, anyone with some time on their hands could have dug up those old pictures. And any one of the people on our suspects list knows more about fashion and the industry than Felix.”
Dana let out a long sigh. “Yeah. You’re right. Which I guess brings us back to square one.” She looked down at her watch. “Listen, I have to get down to the tents for my final fitting. I’ll see you there later?”
I nodded. “I told Jean Luc I’d be in at three.”
Dana and I split, her catching a cab and me heading for the elevators back up to my room. I stopped at Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt’s first, but no one was in. I was beginning to wonder about those two. I briefly contemplated calling Mom’s cell, but I knew that meant explaining the whole arrest thing and honestly, I just didn’t have the energy for that at the moment.
Instead, I walked across the hall to my own room, threw open the door, and lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
I closed my eyes.
Obviously Gisella was the key to all this. Why had she been killed in the first place? She had taken an awful risk stealing so many jewels this week. And Jean Luc had been in a tizzy about the necklace. Sooner or later, he would have realized it was stolen. Sooner or later one of the designers would have called the police in. Considering this, it had been especially bold of Gisella to wear it out to a party the night before pocketing it.
The party. Had that been the catalyst? Had the killer seen her wearing it and realized she was getting too reckless?
So, who’d been at the party?
Felix, of course, I reluctantly admitted. Angelica. Ryan. Donata, though by her current deceased status, she obviously wasn’t the killer.
I went over the conversation that I’d had with Felix about Gisella and his last night with her. I’d been a little preoccupied with Ramirez walking into the room at the time, but something had bugged me about Felix’s story even then. Felix had readily admitted to arguing with Gisella, but he’d sworn he hadn’t slept with her. And, oddly enough, I was inclined to believe him. (And no, not because he was a good kisser. Not that I was even admitting that he was. He wasn’t. At least, not that good.) What reason would he have to lie about it now? So, unless Angelica was making things up, someone else had been in Gisella’s room before Felix.
I got up and grabbed my purse, rummaging around until I found the camera and the list of names I’d pulled from it. I turned the camera on, hoping that maybe the files would have miraculously reappeared. Not such luck. I hit a few buttons and pulled up a couple of beautiful pictures Gisella had taken of the Eiffel Tower that made me sigh with envy, but no video files. I mentally thunked my head against the wall. The best evidence we’d had of her accomplice and I’d erased it. Some days, I swore I really was blonde.
In lieu of actual video, I pulled out the list of file names I’d written down. Had one of these guys been the Mystery Man in her room that night? What if he was her partner? They’d had sex, he’d left, then told her to meet him at the tents early that morning. Where he’d killed her.
Rocco. Marcel. Charlie. Roberto. Ryan.
I’d already met Ryan. And while he wasn’t totally cleared as a suspect, the way Gisella had dumped him for Felix didn’t speak of a continuing criminal partnership to me. Angelica had said Rocco was a one night stand and Roberto was in New York. Both unlikely candidates. That left Marcel and Charlie.
I took my list and went downstairs to the business center and booted up a computer. Going on the assumption that Gisella’s partner in crime had ties to the fashion industry, I figured I would see what I could dig up on the two names. I had to admit, I felt slightly awkward at the unfamiliar terminal. I wished Mom and Mrs. R were around to do this for me, as I tried to punch in Google keywords to narrow my search.
An hour later I was cross-eyed from reading tiny print on the screen and not a whole lot closer to finding Gisella’s last lover.
There were more Charlie’s in fashion than I could count – a handful of young, beautiful models as well as three designers who were showing at Fashion Week and countless booking agents. And those were just the ones I found. I set that name aside and tried Marcel instead.
That list was considerably smaller and, once I whittled it down to only those currently in Paris for Fashion Week, I had three Marcels to choose from. A makeup artist (who I dismissed as soon as I read that he was seen at a party with his boyfriend the night before), a style reporter for the TV entertainment show Paris Spectacle and a male model currently living just outside the city.
I found Paris Spectacle’s webpage and, after calling up the site directory, a contact page listing the telephone number of a Marcel Dubois, Style Reporter.
I slipped my cell out and dialed, waiting while it rang on the other end. Finally, five rings into it, a man picked up.
“Bon jour, ce Dubois?” he answered.
“Uh, English?” I asked, crossing my fingers.
“Oui, how may I help you?”
I did a sigh of relief. “Hi, my name is Maddie Springer and I’m a-”
But I didn’t get any further as I heard him suck in a quick breath. “The Couture Killer?”
I gritted my teeth. I was really beginning to hate that nickname.
“Yes.
I mean, no, I’m not a killer but, yes, that’s what the press is currently calling me.” I paused.
“You prefer to be called something else?” he asked.
I rolled my eyes. “I prefer not to be called anything! I didn’t do it.”
“No, no, of course not,” he said, his voice laced with a Spanish accent. “So, you are denying the current allegations?” he asked, and I could here him scrambling for a pen and paper in the background.
I bit my lip. Obviously Marcel thought I was calling him for an exclusive. But, for the moment, I decided to play along.
“Yes, I am denying them. I had nothing to do with Gisella’s death. Or Donata’s,” I added as an afterthought. “I’ve been…” I cringed, borrowing a phrase from Mrs. Rosenblatt said, “Set up.”
“I see.” I heard the sound of furious scribbling. “By whom?”
“The real killer.”
“Ah! The real killer,” he repeated as he jotted down my comments. “And did you know the deceased?”
“I’d met her.” I paused. “Did you know her?’
“Me? Uh…” he trailed off, not prepared to be the one questioned. “Yes, of course I knew who she was. Gisella Rossi. Everyone knows her.”
“That’s not what I meant. Did you know her personally?”
“Uh, I met her once or twice. But I am deeply saddened by her death. Which is why I promise a very tasteful segment. Now, the police say you have no alibi for the night of the murder, is this true?”
I bit my lip. “Yes. I was alone at the time of her death. Uh… how about you?’
“Me?” Clearly this was not how most of his interviews went.
“Yes, you.”
“Well, I was here. Working.”
“And other people saw you there?”
“Oui. But as soon as I heard, I was at the tent. I am very thorough in my investigations. I promise, I will not leave any details out. Anything you want to share with me, I will report.”
“Hmmmm.” I was beginning to think I was on the wrong track with this guy. If he’d really been working that night, and had witnesses, there was no way he was Gisella’s partner. But, just for good measure, I had to ask. “Did you ever sleep with Gisella Rossi?”
“Eh… no.” he answered, taken aback. “Why?” he asked, a devilish tint creeping into his voice. “Did you?’
Oh brother. “No. And I have no further comment at this time.”
“Wait I-” he said.
But I hung up. Clearly he was not my mystery man. That left one more Marcel. The male model, Marcel Bertrand.
I looked up at the clock. Two thirty. I was due back at the tent in half an hour, anyway, I might was well go talk to Miss Everyone Who’s Anyone and see if her BlackBerry could spit out a number for Mr. Bertrand.
I popped by Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt’s room one more time (still empty) before grabbing my shoulder bag and heading down to the lobby.
Though as soon as I got off the elevators, I froze.
He was standing at the front desk, his back to me as he spoke with Pierre. From the back, his worn-in-the-right places jeans clung to his frame so tightly that every woman in the lobby gave a second (and sometimes third) glance his way. His black T-shirt was just a little too tight across his biceps, and a growth of stubble across his chin that looked like he hadn’t slept or shaved in days. And his dark hair curled at the nape of his neck, like he was a week past a decent haircut.
Ramirez.
A black duffel bag sat at his feet and he slid a keycard across the counter to Pierre. Clearly he was checking out.
My heart caught in my throat and I quickly crossed the lobby to him.
Okay, fine, I tried to quickly cross the lobby. But thanks to Wonder Boot I didn’t do anything quickly anymore. I saw him thank Pierre, grab the duffel and turn to go.
“Jack!” I called.
He spun around, his jaw immediately tensing at the sight of me.
I hobbled toward him, double time. But if there are three things that don’t mix, they’re a freshly waxed marble floor, a pair of crutches, and a blonde in a hurry. My eyes intent on Ramirez’s frame, I moved one crutch a little ahead of the other, then felt it slide out from under me. As if in slow motion, crutch one went left, crutch two went right, and I slid down squarely in the middle, my arms flailing as my face planted firmly onto the floor.
I heard Ramirez mutter a “Jesus,” under his breath, then he was suddenly at my side.
“Are you okay?” he asked, lifting me up by my armpits.
“I think so,” I replied. Only it came out more like, “I ink ow” as my lip was already rapidly swelling.
Ramirez looked at me, his eyes doing a quick assessment of my person. He reached one hand out and ran the pad of his thumb lightly along my injured lip.
My breath caught in my throat.
“Jack,” I whispered.
His dark eyes met mine.
And he quickly pulled his hand away, clearing his throat. He turned and swiftly picked up his duffel bag from the floor.
“I never got to thank you for bailing me out in Italy,” I said.
No response.
“Thank you.
“So, you’re leaving?” I asked. Though the answer to that was pretty obvious.
He nodded. “Captain called. They’ve got a double homicide in Brentwood.”
I bit my lip to keep from protesting that there was a double homicide here. Because, sadly, between his captain and me, I already knew who’d win out.
“My flight leaves in two hours,” he continued, making for the door.
“Wait,” I called, gathering up my crutches and hobbling after him. “Please, just let me explain.”
He shook his head. “You don’t need to.”
“I want to.”
He didn’t stop, if anything his pace picking up as he stalked purposefully toward the front doors.
“It didn’t mean anything,” I said, trailing after him. “You have to trust me, this was all just a big mistake.”
He stopped just short of the front doors, then turned, his face inches from mine.
“Please don’t go like this,” I said.
He took a deep breath, shaking his head as he blew it out. “Like what, Maddie?”
I swallowed. “Mad.”
He gave me his best Bad Cop stare. “I’m not mad.”
“You look mad.”
“No.” He paused. “I’m disappointed.”
I bit my lip. Wow. Somehow that was even worse. “In me?” I squeaked out.
He looked at a spot just over my head as if searching for the right words there. Finally he seemed to find them, giving me a long stare. “In us.”
Again, worse. “Look, I don’t know how many times I can say, it, Jack. I’m sorry. It was mistake. We all make mistakes.”
He shot me a look.
“Okay, fine, some of us make more than others,” I conceded. “But, come on. Nobody’s perfect. You have to trust me when I say that this meant nothing.”
“Trust you?” he said, throwing his arms up in the air. “Trust you? Right, the way I trusted you to still be in the room when I finished brushing my teeth?”
I bit my lip. “Okay, that was a dirty trick.”
“Damn straight,” he ground out through clenched teeth.
“But I only played it because you didn’t trust me. It goes both ways you know. Trust is a 50/50 street.”
He narrowed his eyes and growled deep in his throat.
“Okay, 60/40.”
He stared at me for a long moment. Then shook his head. “Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll miss my flight.”
“So that’s it?” I asked, feeling tears back up in my throat. “You’re just leaving?”
He shot me a look. Almost sad. Almost regretful. Totally final. “Yes, Maddie. That’s it.”
And then he walked out the door.
Chapter Sixteen
I didn’t have the heart to watch Ramirez’s cab drive away. Instead I ducked
into the café and ordered myself a decadent hot chocolate. A large. With whipped cream. And a chocolate pastry. It was shaping up to be that kind of day.
And the thing that upset me most as I dug into my chocolate indulgence was that even though it was me that had screwed up this time, Ramirez had been far from Mr. Perfect up until now. Hadn’t I forgiven him when the captain had called interrupting our evening at the Venice pier last month, even when Jack had promised he’d take me on the giant Ferris wheel? I’d been bummed, but I’d understood. I’d forgiven him.
And when we’d planned a weekend getaway to Palm Springs and then at the last minute he’d had to cancel because of a murder/suicide by the Hollywood Bowl. All our plans, ruined. Our first vacation together. The non-refundable deposit on the time share condo, the brand new bikini that I’d shopped all day for to find just the right cut that made my legs look long, my tummy look flat, and my barely B’s into something that resembled cleavage. But had I complained? Okay, fine I’d complained a little. I mean, it was a rocking bikini gone to waste. But I’d been understanding. I’d known that when he said he was really, really sorry about canceling, he’d meant it. I hadn’t stalked off to sulk (much) and I certainly hadn’t gotten on the first flight out of the country to avoid him.
I’d said I was sorry. I’d told him the kiss didn’t mean anything. If he couldn’t get past it… well, maybe he didn’t deserve someone as understanding as me anyway. Besides, it’s not like Ramirez had any claim on me. It’s not like we were married or anything. I was a single girl. I could kiss whomever I wanted. Not that I wanted to kiss Felix, but, well, if I did I could. And I shouldn’t have to grovel at Ramirez’s feet for forgiveness.
Deciding that anger was a much more appealing emotion than grief I continued this train of thought all the way though the lobby and out to a waiting cab. By the time I arrived at the Carrousel de Louvre, I’d worked myself into a pretty nice indignant rage, even if I did say so myself. I hobbled out of the cab, making angry little divots in the grass with my crutches as I passed the tents, hobbled across the courtyard and into the workroom.
If Jean Luc had seemed stressed before, he was a stressed guy on crack now. He paced the length of the workroom, arms waving above his head, French, Italian and English all jumbled together as he spoke, antacids popping into his mouth one after another.
High Heels Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-5) Page 95