By the time Jean Luc yelled for a dinner break, I was beginning to feel desperation kick in that we might never find him.
"Hey," Dana said, approaching my table. "You hungry?"
I nodded. Even though for perhaps the first time in my life, food held no appeal at all.
Dana must have sensed my mood. She cocked her head to the side. "What's wrong?"
I gestured behind me to the empty shoes rack.
She laid a hand on my arm.
"Honey, I'm so sorry."
"And I yelled at Ramirez."
She raised an eyebrow.
"And, I can't find Charlie."
"Charlie?"
I nodded, then quickly filling her in on my afternoon's activities.
"Well, someone must have known this guy. I mean, especially if here's here at fashion week."
"I know," I nodded. "But I can't find anyone who heard Gisella talk about him."
"Maddie," Ann called, walking by my table, her headset already squawking at her about something. "Jean Luc wanted me to reassure you that he's still putting your name in the billing as the shoe designer. Even though..." she trailed off, gesturing to the empty rack behind me.
"Thanks," I said. Then cringed at just what my name would be attached to. "I think."
"Hey, Ann," Dana asked, grabbing her arm as she moved to walk away.
"Yes?" Ann gave her a look like human contact was not in her realm of comfort.
"Do you know a guy named Charlie?"
Ann crunched up her nose. "Be more specific."
"Do you know anyone here in Paris at Fashion Week named Charlie? That Gisella might have know"
Ann paused a moment. Then shook her head. "I'm sorry, the name isn't ringing any bells."
My shoulder sagged. "Thanks anyway," I called after her as she broke from Dana's grasp.
Dana puckered her forehead. "You know that in itself is a little odd."
"What?"
"The fact that Ann doesn't know him. Ann knows everyone."
I shrugged. "Let's get some food."
* * *
Instead of going all the way back to the hotel, Dana and I walked two blocks south and found a cute little bistro that had an even cuter little waiter. We took a spot on the outside patio, next to a pair of tall heaters, and both ordered large pasta dishes with creamy sauces that would make Jenny Craig drool. Okay, fine, I ordered pasta with a decadent cream sauce. Dana ordered a salad and a small platter of pasta in light virgin olive oil.
As Cutie Waiter brought out our food, he was sure to ask Dana's chest if there was anything more she needed.
"He's kinda cute, huh?" Dana asked, licking her lips as she bit into her salad, her eyes riveted to his retreating tush.
"Uh huh. Heard anything from Ricky lately?" I asked.
"Who?" her eyes snapped back to me.
"Your boyfriend?"
"Oh." Dana instantly became engrossed in her meal. "Um, yeah, sorta. He called."
"And?"
"He said he would be home in a couple of weeks."
"And?"
She sighed. "And that the Natalie Portman thing was totally made up by the press. Maddie, I feel so bad for not trusting him. But, I mean, do you think I can trust him? Damn, this monogamy thing is so hard."
Tell me about it. "If he says she doesn't mean anything to him, then she doesn't."
"But what if she does?"
I was about to give the 50/50 trust speech for the second time today when my cell rang from the depth of my purse. I fished around and looked down at the readout. Mom.
"Where have you been?" I asked, hitting the on button.
Only there was no response. Just breathing.
"Mom?"
More breathing.
I rolled my eyes and hit the off button. Love my mom as I do, she was not the most technologically advanced person on the planet. When she'd first gotten her cell last year, she'd insisted on shouting every conversation through it. I wouldn't be surprised if a compact in her purse had hit the speed dial.
I waited a beat, then called her number back. It rang four times, then went to a recording.
"Hi this is Betty. I'm either not available or screening my calls and you didn't make the cut."
I rolled my eyes.
"Please leave a message."
A loud beep sounded in my ear and I did, informing her that her purse had just called me, then hung up.
Wherever she was I hoped she as having a better day than I was.
A completely futile wish, as I was about to find out.
Chapter Seventeen
After dinner, I went back to the workroom where Jean Luc ran everyone ragged until long after the sun had set. At which point Dana and I took a cab back to the hotel, dragging ourselves through the lobby. It was sparsely populated at this time of night, but I noticed Pierre on duty still.
"Don't they ever let you sleep?" I asked.
Though he didn't seem to mind being on duty again. He wore a big smile across his features and his eyes held a look that could only be called a twinkle. Even his bald head seemed to shine extra brightly this evening.
He turned and gave me a smile that was all teeth. "Ah, Mademoiselle Springer. What a lovely evening, no?"
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 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 then 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 will 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 hardy 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. And 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.
Even 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-f
or-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."
Alibi in High Heels Page 19