High Heels Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-5)

by Gemma Halliday

  Honestly, I’d had better.

  “You’re in a good mood,” I answered instead.

  He did a deep, contented sigh. “Oui. It was a Rosenblatt free day today.” His smiled widened.

  I felt a frown settling between my brows. “Mrs. Rosenblatt isn’t in yet?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I have not seen her.” Another big grin.

  I admit, I was beginning to get worried. It wasn’t like Mom to just disappear like that.

  My concern must have shown on my face, because Pierre asked, “You want me to call their room, oui?”

  I shook my head. “No, no I’ll call later. Listen, I was wondering if you could tell me if you have a Charlie registered as a guest here?” I asked. I know there were a dozen hotels in a two block radius he could have been staying at, but I was beginning to get desperate.

  Pierre hit a button on his keyboard. “But of course. This Charlie’s last name?” he asked, his fingers poised expectantly.

  “Well, that’s kind of part of the problem. I don’t exactly know.”

  A frown puckered his features. “Oh.”

  “See, he was a friend of the murdered girl, Gisella.”

  “Ah. Well, I’m sorry, but our database is arranged according to last name. There’s no way to tell if Charlie is registered or not without a last name.”

  Damn. So much for my last resort. “Thanks anyway for looking.”

  “Any time,” he said, waving as I walked off.

  * * *

  I rode the elevator up to the seventh floor alone, then paused outside Mom’s door. I knocked. No answer. I opened it, then peeked my head inside.

  “Hello?” I asked.

  No response. I flipped on a light and walked in. It was impossible to tell how long they’d been gone, the beds made with military precision by housekeeping. Though, I noticed that both Mom’s clunky old orange Samsonite and Mrs. R’s pink polka dotted suitcase were still in the room. They hadn’t packed for a long trip. I ducked into the bathroom and saw the multitude of moisturizers, eye rebuilding creams and anti wrinkle serums Mom used every night still sitting on the counter. There was no way Mom would go anywhere overnight without those things.

  Maybe we’d just been missing each other?

  I sat down on the bed and called her number again. Straight to voicemail this time. I left a message saying I was starting to worry, could she please call me back.

  Sadly, I think I was starting to sound a little like my mother.

  I tried to think back to when the last time I’d seen her was. It had been… yesterday? Before Dana and I had gone to Milan. I glanced around the room again, trying to find any clue that Mom and Mrs. R had been here since then. But, thanks to fastidious housekeepers, if there had been a clue, it was gone now.

  With an uneasy feeling, I switched off the light and left the room, trying to tell myself that Mom was a big girl. She could take care of her self. More than likely, she and Mrs. R were just having the time of their lives exploring Paris. Probably they’d found some French karaoke club. Who knows, maybe Mrs. R had even found some nice French guy who liked muumuus.

  I shut the door behind myself, promising that I’d check in again first thing in the morning, and went next door to my own room. I took a long, hot shower and popped two pain pills in my mouth, the effects of the day taking its toll on my leg.

  But as I lay in bed, my wet hair wrapped up in a towel, I couldn’t sleep. Maybe because I’d slept past noon that day, or maybe because of the anxiety of the next day’s coming show, or the hollow disappointment of not having my own shoes to show.

  I rolled over and looked at the phone beside my bed.

  I wondered if Ramirez was back home in L.A. yet. Maybe still on a plane somewhere over the Atlantic? Was he thinking about me? Wondering what I was doing? Did he even care what I was doing anymore?

  I bit my lip and picked up the phone in the darkness. I dialed the first three digits of his cell number.

  Then hung up.

  No. I was not calling. I had done all I could. I had apologized, explained. I’d laid it all out there. Now it was his turn. I was not going to be the one to make contact first.

  Only, what if he never made contact?

  I stared at the phone again. What if he was waiting for me to call? What if he wasn’t sure I wanted him to call? I had been a little mad this afternoon. Maybe I should call just to let him know that it was okay for him to call?

  I lifted the receiver again, and this time got all the way through his number and heard it ring twice before hanging up.

  I scrunched my eyes shut, rubbing my balled fists into them. Damn. I was such a chicken!

  And, worse than that, I realized his cell would show a missed call from me. Great. He’d see I’d called and hadn’t left a message. What kind of message would that send?

  I figured I’d better call back and at least explain the hang up. You know, so he didn’t think I’d dialed, then chickened out and hung up. (Never mind that was exactly what I’d done.)

  I picked up the phone a third time and dialed his number. It rang three times, then went to voicemail.

  “Hi. Uh, it’s me.” I cleared my throat. “Uh, Maddie me. You know, in case you were wondering which me. ‘Cause, you know, I’m sure you know a lot of mes.” I cringed. “Yeah, anyway, uh, I just wanted to let you know that I just called you, but I didn’t leave a message and it wasn’t because I chickened out or anything, I, uh, I just had a bad connection. Yep, connections really suck here in France. So, yeah, just wanted to clear that up, that I wasn’t not calling you. Which, I guess is pretty clear by the fact that I am calling you. Right now even. Which clearly you already know if you’re listening to this. Which, I hope you are. So, um, bye.”

  I hung up. And doubled over, cringing all the way down to my toes. Oh. My. God. I had sounded like a nutcase! He was going to listen to that and thank his lucky stars he got away from me when he did. That was like the worst phone message ever.

  I sat down on the bed. I took a few deep breaths. Okay, Maddie, it’s alright. You can fix this, girl.

  I picked up the phone again and dialed Ramirez’s number.

  “Hi. It’s me again. Maddie me. Listen, I just wanted to apologize for that obviously bad message I just left you. I’m, uh, I just took some pain pills and I think they’re going to my head.” I bit my lip. “Yeah, I, uh, just can’t really think when I take them. Anyway, I really just wanted to apologize again for the whole-”

  But I didn’t get to finish as a loud beep sounded in my ear and a mechanical voice came on the line. “This mailbox is full,” it informed me. “Thank you for calling.”

  Then it hung up on me.

  I stared at the receiver in my hand.

  “No!” I shook my head. “No, no, no, no.”

  I dialed Ramirez’s home number. After the third ring, his voicemail kicked in.

  “Hey, it’s me.” I paused. “Maddie me. Listen, I just left you a message on your cell, but the inbox filled up before I could finish. And I just wanted to say that I am sorry. Amazingly sorry for everything that happened. And even though I’ve been very understanding, and you’re not being very understanding at all, I’m willing to go 70/30 and apologize again. Twice. Three times. As many times at it takes. Okay? So, um, I guess I just wanted to let you know that if you wanted to call me I’d definitely want you to call me and I’d be here. Picking up. Not letting it go to voicemail.” I paused again. “Not that I’m blaming you for me getting your voicemail. I’m just… here.”

  I hung up. Then flopped my head back on the pillows.

  That’s it, I seriously needed help.

  * * *

  I was on the runway, spotlights blaring down at me, flashbulbs going off everywhere I looked. Too bright. So bright I could hardly see where I was going. I squinted my eyes, trying to make out the runway beneath my feet. Only it seemed long – way too long. I kept walking and walking and felt as thought I’d never reach the end of it. An
d the more I walked, the more the white noise of reporters chattering, people clapping, the ever present cameras going off all blended together into one loud roar.

  Until suddenly a voice shouted from the crowd.

  “Murderer!”

  I turned toward the voice’s direction, but I still couldn’t see anything. I blinked against the bright glare, shielding my eyes with my hand to make out anything.

  “Murderer!” he shouted again. And suddenly the spotlight dimmed, shining instead on the voice.

  It was Moreau. He was standing up on a folding chair, his head towering over the crowd. He was wearing a long black gown and a white wig, reminding me of an English barrister. He had one long finger pointed squarely at me, his dead squirrel mustache twitching like mad on his scowling face.

  “She did it! I tell you, she killed them all!”

  The photographers flashed more pictures, the entire crowd chanting the word, “Murderer.”

  “But I’m innocent!” I tried to tell them. Only my voice was soft, so quiet it was almost a whisper. I tried again to shout, but it came out hardly louder than a sigh.

  I turned to run away, but suddenly Moreau was there. I turned again and again, there he was. Everywhere I went Moreau seemed to be there, pointing at me with his long, bony finger.

  I closed my eyes, putting my fingers in my ears to silence the accusations.

  And when I finally blinked my lids open again, there he was.

  Ramirez.

  Stony faced, his hands in his pockets, that panther trailing dangerously down his arm.

  “Tell them I didn’t do it,” I pleaded with him. “Tell them I’m not a killer.”

  But he just looked at me. Then slowly turned and walked away.

  * * *

  My eyes shot open, my breath catching in my throat as I squinted against the sudden onslaught of light. For a moment, I had the terrifying feeling I was still dreaming. Until I blinked and realized it was sunlight, not spotlights, coming through the ruffled yellow curtains. I turned and looked at the digital alarm clock numbers. 7:15 a.m. I shut my eyes and let my head fall back on the pillows

  It was show day.

  I took in a deep breath, washing the nightmare out of my system as bittersweet feelings set in.

  Ever since I’d been a little girl and playing mix and match with my Barbie fashion plates, I’d dreamed of being in a real live fashion show. Obviously my just-above-Tom-Cruise height killed my dreams of modeling haut couture, but as a designer, those dreams had shifted. Showing my own collection had become my holy grail all through college. And knowing how close I’d come to that dream here in Paris, only to be let down again, formed a small lump in my throat as I stared up at the ceiling.

  I’d had a small hope that maybe Moreau would release my shoes in time to show today. But I realized now it had been in vain. As long as I was still his suspect numero uno, there as no way he was letting those babies go. I took a deep breath, forcing back the serious case of feeling-sorry-for-myself.

  No, the Maddie Springer who had fought her way to the top of the class at the Academy of Art College did not feel sorry for herself. The woman who had designed Beverly Hills most sought after line of shoes since Manolo did not feel sorry for herself. And the new designer that Jean Luc Le Croix himself had personally requested outfit all his models did not feel sorry for herself. I’d had enough. No paparazzi, no snooty French police officer and no damned Nerf Wonder Boot were going to stand in my way any more.

  I rolled myself out of bed and jumped into the shower, dressing in a pair of tight, black jeans, rolled at the ankles, and a black tank top with little rhinestone studs along the neckline. Throwing caution to the wind I put on a three inch, strappy red stiletto. Screw Wonder Boot.

  Okay, fine. I’ll admit, the extra height was a little awkward with Wonder Boot, but after I adjusted the crutches a couple inches higher, it was manageable. And it felt good.

  I suddenly felt like myself again. I was calm. I was in control.

  And I had a plan.

  I grabbed my cell and dialed Marcel Debois’s number at the Paris Spectacle. After three rings he picked up with a, “Bonjour, ce Debois?”

  “Hi. I called yesterday, Maddie Springer.”

  “Oui, oui!” He sounded like I’d just told him he’d won the lottery. Which, I guess, journalistically speaking, he kind of had. “Mademoiselle Springer, of course. Lovely to speak with you again.”

  If only everyone was so happy to get my phone calls.

  “Listen, I’ve decided I want to give you that exclusive after all.”

  I sincerely hoped Felix would forgive me for this. An exclusive to the competition was tantamount to severing a limb. But, on the itty bitty off chance that maybe Felix was involved, how ever inadvertently, in all this, I could hardly pull this off if he was the one I was giving my information to. So, I plowed ahead.

  “That is, if you’re still interested?”

  “In an exclusive?” Debois’s voice went high and I could hear him shuffling papers in the background. “Oui, of course. That would be wonderful, fantastic. Uh, where can we meet? I would love to interview you in person.”

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry I don’t have time until after the Le Croix show today,” I said.

  I could almost hear his shoulders sag over the phone.

  “But, I do have something you can run with now.”

  “Oh?” And just like that he was back. “Oui, go ahead?”

  I took a deep breath, crossed my fingers, and prayed to the saint of little white lies.

  “I have incontrovertible evidence that I did not kill Gisella.”

  This piqued his interest enough that I actually heard him gasp. “What kind of evidence?” he asked, his voice breathless.

  “A camera. It belonged to Gisella Rossi. And, it contains proof that not only was she stealing jewelry from her employers, but also that she had an accomplice. An accomplice who most likely killed her.”

  He was silent a moment, digesting this information.

  “What kind of proof?”

  “Video files. Gisella tapped her… exploits.”

  “And you currently have this camera in your possession?”

  “I do,” I said. Which wasn’t a complete lie. I did have the camera. It just didn’t contain squat. But the killer didn’t know that. And, if my bluff worked, he would do whatever it took to make sure that file didn’t get out.

  “And you will release this evidence to me after the show?”

  I nodded at the phone. “Absolutely. On one condition.”

  “Oui?” he said. Though I was ninety nine percent sure he’d do anything to get his hands on a story like this.

  “I want you to go on the air now letting the public know that I have this evidence, it’s secure in the safe in my hotel room, and that I’ll be talking to you and making the evidence public immediately after the Le Croix show.”

  I could hear his frown through the phone. “Why?”

  Because I had a plan to catch the killer red-handed trying to steal the camera. But I figured that was a little too direct. Instead I told him, “Those are my terms. Take it or leave it.”

  He paused for a moment. “Oui, I will do it.”

  I grinned. Then arranged to meet him in the hotel lobby after the show.

  I slipped Gisella’s camera out of my purse and opened the closet doors, exposing the little floor safe in the corner. I crouched down and opened it, sliding the camera inside before shutting it and securing the door with a click.

  Phase one, complete.

  Now, all I needed was a way to catch the thief in the act.

  * * *

  I made a quick stop in Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt’s room (still empty – where the hell where those two?) before riding the elevator back down to the lobby. Luckily I caught Andre slash Pierre at the front desk.

  “Good morning,” I said doing an awkward one heel one boot hobble.

  “Bon jour, Mademoiselle Springer,”
he responded. He glanced behind me. “Eh, no Rosenblatt?” he whispered.

  I shook my head. “No. No Rosenblatt.”

  He visibly relaxed. “What can I do for you this fine morning then?”

  “I wanted to ask if you have security cameras in the hotel?”

  He nodded. “Oui, oui. Our guests’ safety is of the utmost importance to us. Why do you ask, mademoiselle? You are worried about intruders?”

  “Um, sort of. I was wondering…” I paused, unsure how much of my plan to share with him. “I was wondering if there is a camera in the hallway outside my room.”

  Pierre nodded. “All the hallways are monitored.”

  “I have a feeling…” I paused again.

  “Oui? A feeling?”

  “A feeling that someone may try to break into my room today. During the Le Croix show.”

  His eyebrows shot north. “You have received a threat?”

  “Uh, well, no.”

  “A warning?”

  “Not exactly.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “That Mademoiselle Rosenblatt and her mumbo-jumbo premonitions?”

  “Um, no. I just… well, had a feeling.”

  “Hmm.” He thought about that. “Okay, then. We should inform the police, oui?”

  “No!”

  Pierre jumped.

  “Uh, I mean, no. No police. It’s, uh, probably just a prank, right? No point in bringing the authorities in for nothing. I just wanted to make sure that should I report a theft later, there would be visual evidence of someone breaking into my room. Should they try to break in.”

  Pierre sucked in his cheeks, contemplating me. Finally he said, “I will make sure the security team has a camera on your door.”

  I grinned. “Thank you, Pierre!” I slapped a palm over my mouth. “I mean, Andres.”

  “Hmph,” he said again.

  I grabbed my crutches and hobbled across the marble floor (slowly this time, one embarrassing face plant per vacation was enough for me) toward the glass front doors, where the doorman hailed me a cab.