"So, um, what now?" I asked. Not that I really wanted to know. But the longer I kept her talking the less she was shooting.
Charlene took a step forward, going nose to nose with me. I could smell Listerine on her breath.
"Now, I hop a flight back to England, I live like a queen on my proceeds until I can convince my dear nephew to marry me, and live happily ever after. The end," she said.
I took a shallow breath. "And what happens to me?"
She narrowed her eyes. "The end."
I gulped. "And Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt?"
That wicked grin spread across her features again. "Oh, I'm not going to do anything to them. You're going to do it all. You are, after all, the Couture Killer."
I felt a knot form in my stomach. "What do you mean?'
Charlene took a step back and unzipped one of the suitcases. She pulled out a pair of black stiletto heels. "One for each of them," she said, gesturing toward the bathroom door.
"There's no way anyone would believe that," I said. Even as I doubted the truth of the words. People already believed me to be a killer, this would just be confirmation.
"Oh yes, they will. Especially when they read your suicide note."
"Suicide note?" I asked, my voice going small.
She nodded. "You couldn't handle the guilt. The pressure of Fashion Week was too much for you. You snapped. You killed Gisella, Donata, and then the people closest to you. Then took your own life."
I felt all the color draining from my cheeks. This chick was seriously whacked.
She took two quick steps forward, grabbing a handful of my hair and hopped me over to the little writing desk, shoving me into the seat, banging Wonder Boot against the side in the process.
I winced, a sharp pain shooting up my leg, but she didn't notice, instead shoving a pad of paper and pen at me. The cool metal barrel of the gun came up against my temple.
"Write," she instructed.
I gulped, grabbing the pen in my shaky hand.
"I, Maddie Springer," she dictated.
I stared down at the pages. Okay, fine. I would write. At least it would buy me a little time. I vaguely heard the sounds of Mom and Mrs. R still trying to break down the bathroom door behind me.
In a shaky hand I wrote: I Maddie Springer.
"Leave this note as my last confession."
I looked up at her.
She shoved the gun at me hard, twisting my head to the side. I felt tears well up behind my eyes.
I wrote what she said, deliberately making slow loops with my letters.
"I killed Gisella," she said, still dictating. "I also killed Donata Girardi. It was too much for me, the pressure of Fashion Week. I'm sorry."
I continued writing, willing someone, anyone to hear us. Where was housekeeping when you needed them?"
"Sign it," Charlene demanded.
I did. My signature trailing off at the end as I realized this was it. I was officially out of time.
I took a deep breath as I felt Charlene stiffen behind me. She knew it too.
"Now," she said, her voice oddly flat. "Stand up."
I did, on one shaky leg. I could hear Mom and Mrs. R thumping against the bathroom door, but the chair was firmly still in place. I was on my own.
It was now or never.
"Ow, my leg," I moaned, shifting my weight to Wonder Boot.
Obviously Charlene didn't care if I was in pain. Obviously, Charlene wanted to shoot me. But it distracted her long enough that she glanced down at my foam-clad foot.
That was all I needed. In one swift movement, I kicked my good foot up, my red three inch slingback flying up toward her face. Instinctively, she staggered back to avoid a heel to the head and I lunged forward, head down, arms out, doing the best imitation of a linebacker a girl who only watches football for the tight pants can.
Charlene did an unladylike "oof," as I connected with her midsection and went tumbling backwards, the gun in her hand going off and taking out a chunk of the ceiling.
"What's going on out there?" Mrs. Rosenblatt yelled from the bathroom.
"Maddie! Are you okay?" I heard Mom screech.
But I was a little too preoccupied to answer at the moment. I had one hand on Charlene's wrist trying to point the barrel of the gun somewhere other than at my person, balancing on one foot. Charlene grabbed a handful of my hair, ripping backwards.
My head went with it, my eyes rolling back in their sockets.
"I think they're fighting," I heard Mrs. Rosenblatt yell.
"Maddie, are you winning, honey?" Mom called.
It was hard to say.
I may have had the element of surprise, but Charlene had about five inches on me and liked the gym way better than I did. She twisted her wrist, pointing the gun at my ribs. I moved at the last minute and it went off, shattering a lamp by the bedside.
I leaned my head down (no small task with her hands firmly grabbing by hair) and bit her on the wrist.
"Sonofabitch!" she screamed. I guess being in a fight to the death excused one from good manners.
She dropped the gun, which thankfully fell to the floor, sliding under the bed.
"You bitch!" she cried, diving for the gun.
My turn to grab a handful of hair. I yanked on her blonde roots for all I was worth, and was rewarded with a high pitched screech as she twisted on the floor, her longs legs sweeping my one good one and taking me down with her.
She sat up, then did a WWF wrestler full body slam.
I felt the air rush out of my lungs in one big whoosh.
"Maddie? Baby, are you okay?"
"Claw her eyes out, bubbe!" I heard Mrs. R yell.
Hey, not a bad idea.
I reached up, my manicured fingers digging for her eyes. Only I missed, drawing a long red scratch down her cheeks instead. But it didn't even phase her. She'd tipped over that edge of crazy where she only had one objective. Her lips curled back from her teeth, her pupils wild and dilated, her gaze locked on mine. She reached up and wrapped her fingers around my throat, squeezing with all her might.
I made a strangled sound in the back of my throat, my hands instantly going to my neck, trying to pry her manicured claws from me.
"You are so going to pay," she said. "Felix's girly little whore."
"Hey, he kissed me," I breathed out. Then kneed her in the pelvis.
She grunted, rolling over and loosening her grip on my throat.
"Right. The second time."
"The first one was an accident."
"Accident my arse. He told me you spent the night." She elbowed me in the face, and I swear I actually saw stars. Huh, who knew that wasn't just an expression?
"In the guest room. I spent the night in the guest room."
She snorted. "So you say."
"Look, I am not - N-O-T," I spelled out as I slapped her across the face, "Involved with Felix. He's so not my type."
"Rich," she said, racking her fingernails across my cheek. "Titled." She grabbed a handful of hair and pulled. "Tight ass. Not your type?"
I tried to shake my head, but her grip on my hair was too strong. Instead, I wrapped my one good leg around her middle and pinned her to the ground. "No."
"Oh really?" She wiggled, twisting out from under me. "Then what is?"
My mind instantly flashed on a dark stubbled jaw, a sleek panther trailing down one thick bicep, and a pair of dark espresso eyes.
But instead of answering, I rolled to the right, twisting Wonder Boot under me and pinning her beneath its bulk. I grabbed both her hands and sat on her chest.
"Ha! Who's girly now, huh?" I asked.
She narrowed her eyes at me. Then looked to her right.
We'd rolled along the floor until we were right next to the bed. And the gun.
Oh shit.
In one swift movement she reached up and had the gun in both hands.
A wicked grin overtook her features. Made all the more creepy looking by the fact that our tussle on the floor had her white blonde
hair sticking up like an Edgar Winter Mohawk.
"Get off me," she seethed between clenched teeth.
I put my hands up in a surrender motion and slowly stood up.
"What's going on out there. Who won?" Mrs. Rosenblatt asked from the bathroom.
"Shut up!" Charlene yelled. Punctuating this by shooting at the bathroom door.
I thought I heard Mom's voice shout a "Holy shit," but my mother never swore.
"You," Charlene said, straight-arming the gun at me. "You have been more trouble than you're worth. Up against the wall."
I complied, my hands still up, backing up until I felt my back hit the wallpaper.
"Just tell me one thing," I said, doing a silent prayer that someone - anyone - had heard the gunshots.
She narrowed her eyes at me. "A dying request?"
"Why kill Gisella? Was it because she was getting sloppy?"
She shook her head. "Gisella was always sloppy. She was so obvious no one would have ever suspected her."
"So then why kill her?"
Her eyes went cold. "Because of Felix. I killed her because she was dating Felix. Felix was mine! He wasn't supposed to marry her. There was no way I could let that greedy little stick figure ruin everything. Felix belongs to me. That castle belongs to me!" She paused, reigning in her volume. "And, so, I had to put an end to our business arrangement."
She took a step forward, the gun pointed at my chest. "Just like I'm putting an end to this farce. Goodbye - Maddie," she said, her voice low, her eyes flat.
Chicken that I am, I closed my eyes. I know. Silly. But if my brains were going to be splattered all over this lovely Parisian hotel room, that wasn't the last thing I wanted to see.
I held my breath and felt tears well up.
And my last irrational thought as I stood there was that I was sorry. So amazingly sorry for dragging Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt into this. Sorry that I'd ever thought the killer could be Felix. And most of all, sorry that I'd hurt Ramirez. A picture of his face as he'd stared at me through the doorway of Felix's room haunted me as the tears fell down my cheeks in wet, hot streams. I would never, ever be able to forgive myself for hurting him. I hoped though that maybe, some day, he might forgive me.
I did a little hiccup sob as I heard the chamber of Charlene's gun cock, time seeming to stand still.
I held my breath, turned my head in anticipation.
But the next sound I heard was not the report of gunfire ripping into me, but the sound of a door bursting open.
I peeked one eye open.
"Freeze!" a voice yelled.
I froze. Willing myself not to pee my pants.
Until I realize the command was not directed at me - but at Charlene.
Only she wasn't quite as compliant as I was. She turned her gun on the voice, shooting off two rounds.
"What's going on out there!" Mrs. R cried from the bathroom.
"Duck, Betty," she told my mom.
The voice returned fire, hitting Charlene once in the shoulder and again in the kneecap. She screamed, dropping her gun and falling to the floor like a sack of potatoes. Then three armed officers wearing bullet proof vests ran into the room, converging on Charlene. One applied pressure to her gunshot wounds while another stuck handcuffs at her back and yet a third kept a gun trained on her.
I blinked, the air rushing out of me, the tears flowing freely again, but for a whole different reason as I looked up and saw the fourth guy walk into the room.
Moreau.
I shook my head, my mouth moving but no words coming out. Finally I managed one. "How...?"
Moreau smiled. "You didn't really think I suspected you, did you?"
My shoulders sagged and I crumpled to the ground.
Among cries from the bathroom of, "What the hell is going on out there?!"
Chapter Twenty
I'm not sure how long I was crumpled like that on the floor, but at some point a uniformed officer scooped me up and moved me across the hall to another hotel room full of police scanners, walkie talkies, and other electronic devise I couldn't begin to guess the functions of. He sat me on the edge of the bed and a man in a white uniform with a red cross on it asked me a bunch of questions in French, to which I just shook my head, more tears falling. Finally he gave up, pulling out a first aid kit and checking me from head to toe. I had a few bruises, and very sore roots, but other than that I think he gave me a clean bill of health. I think, as he did it all in French. Though my leg throbbed like crazy under Wonder Boot. I guess fighting off a homicidal maniac was putting a little more pressure on it than Doctor Pontytail would advise.
I don't know long my exam took, but a few minutes later, Mom and Mrs. Rosneblatt were ushered across the hall, as well. I jumped up, giving them both a hug. For a second we kind of stuck to each other from the duct tape residue, but I didn't care. I'd never been so happy to see anybody in my life.
"I've never been so happy to see you in my life," Mom said, voicing my exact thoughts. "Oh, honey, are you okay?"
She finally pulled back a moment to look at me. I'm pretty sure I had long, horror movie streaks of mascara running down my cheeks, but at least I was minus gunshot wounds.
Which was more than I could say for Charlene. I could still hear her howling across the hallway as more guys in white stabilized her.
The man with the red cross did a repeat of his head-to-toe with Mom and Mrs. R, checking their persons. Mrs. R said the guy got a little fresh, but I'm pretty sure that was just wishful thinking on her part. Finally they were pronounced fine. A little dehydrated and hungry from being locked up and given drugged tea for two days. But a meal and some fluids and they'd be okay.
Which prompted another round of sticky hugging and grateful tears all around.
Finally, the guy with the first aid kit left and Moreau walked into the room.
"Madame Springer, Mademoiselle Rosenblatt," he said, nodding in Mom and Mrs. R's directions. Then his eyes settled on me. "Mademoiselle Springer. We meet again."
I crossed my arms over my chest. "Yes we do. And I think it's you who has some explaining to do this time. What did you mean back there about not suspecting me?"
The dead squirrel on Moreau's upper lip shifted and I think it might have been his attempt at a smile. He sat down on an armchair opposite the bed.
"I'm sorry to have kept you in the dark, but I knew as long as the killer thought you were the prime suspect, she wouldn't flee."
"You used my daughter as bait?" Mom asked, doing a twin crossed arms thing.
"Uh..." Moreau looked from Mom to me, clearly feeling outnumbered. "No. Not exactly. But we felt as long as the killer thought her job of framing Mademoiselle Springer was working, she would feel safe enough to stay in Paris."
"So, you knew it was Charlene all along?"
He paused. "I'll admit, at first you were the focus of our investigations. It was impossible to overlook the similarities in the current deaths and your past, no?"
I shrugged. "I suppose."
"But," he went on, "as soon as we saw your DNA did not match the hairs found at the crime scene, you were cleared."
I'd forgotten all about the DNA sample I'd given up. "What about Charlene? What made you suspect her?" I asked.
He spread his hands out wide. "It was a simple matter of finances. She had recently made some large deposits which were unaccounted for. We did some digging into her life and found she had a record of petty thievery as a teenager. We were in the process of obtaining a warrant for a DNA sample from her when we were informed that you might be here with her."
I cocked my head to the side. "Informed?"
"Eh..." he paused. "How do you Americans say... a tip-off?"
"Who?"
He paused. His mustache twitching. "I'm sorry, I cannot say."
I narrowed my eyes. "Cannot or will not."
He looked down at the ground, up at the ceiling, everywhere but at my eyes.
I cleared my throat. "Look, I think after let
ting the press brand me as the Couture Killer to the entire free world, you owe me. Who was it?"
He did a little sigh, his mustache blowing north. "Detective Ramirez."
I felt my breath catch in my throat. "Ramirez?"
He nodded. "We got a call from the airport this morning. Apparently he was going back to the U.S., but apparently he missed his flight. He had to wait until this morning. Then he said he saw a news program and heard about your evidence and the interview scheduled for after the Le Croix show. He called, saying he smelled a... how did he put it... 'harebrained scheme?'"
For once I wasn't even peeved at the term. All I cared about was that he'd called! Okay, so he hadn't exactly called me, but he'd called someone about me. That was close, right?
I realized Moreau was still talking.
"...so, he changed his mind. He said he called his captain to tell him someone in Paris needed him more."
I blinked, unsure I had heard him right. Ramirez had blown of his captain for me? I felt my heart swell and those tears welled behind my eyes again as I dared to hope.
"Is... is he here?" I craned my neck toward the door.
"Uh..." Moreau looked away again, not meeting my eyes. "No. He left."
Just like that the hope crashed and burned.
"He left?"
Moreau nodded. "As soon as he knew you were safe."
"Oh," I said, my voice suddenly very, very small.
He was gone. Again. Okay, so he didn't want me to become maimed by some British nutcase. But he also didn't want to see me.
Moreau continued, "Detective Ramirez said he felt it best if we handled the situation. When he saw the news program, he warned me that we should keep an eye on you. That it was likely you would try to engage the killer. So, we put surveillance on you at the show. A good thing too, oui?" he asked, gesturing across the hall.
"Oui, oui!" Mrs. Rosenblatt piped up.
"You know, you could have come in a little sooner," I said, rubbing at my bruised neck.
Moreau shrugged. "We needed to hear her confession first. You did a fine job getting it out of her. You did wonderful!" He clapped his hands in front of him.
"Gee. Swell."
"Say," Mrs. R said, "if you know Maddie didn't do it, how come you took all her shoes?"
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