Alibi in High Heels (21 page)

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 letting 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?"

"We had to make it look as though we suspected her."

I narrowed my eyes at him.

Moreau's expression softened. "I'm sorry, Maddie. I know you wanted to show at Fashion Week."

I had. And, at the time, it had meant the world to me. But just now, knowing Mom and Mrs. R were safe, I could care less where my shoes were.

"So, I get them back now?"

Okay, fine, maybe a teeny tiny part of me cared a little.

He grinned, that dead squirrel on his upper lip twitching. "Yes. You may have your shoes back."

* * *

Two hours and many, many blue unformed officers later, Mom, Mrs. R and I were all escorted back to our rooms. It was past midnight before we finally said goodnight in the hallway, promising to meet in the morning for breakfast. I closed the door to my room, the sudden silence after the night's chaos almost unreal. I stripped off my jeans and tank in the dark and crawled into bed. I closed my eyes, and willing myself not to dream, fell into a much needed sleep.

* * *

I'm not sure how many hours I slept, but by the time I cracked my eyes open my hotel room was filled with sunshine and there wasn't a part of my body that wasn't sore. I rolled over and groaned, looking at the clock. Noon. I couldn't believe I'd slept that long. I slowly got out of bed, flexing my limbs, and dragged myself into the bathroom. Bruises covered my upper arms, a nice shiner on my left eye where Charlene's elbow had connected and my leg throbbed almost as badly as the day I'd been hit. And my hair looked like it belonged on a troll doll.

I turned away, figuring mirrors were not my friends at the moment. Instead, I took a long hot shower, probably using up half the hotel's hot water supply, and did the best I could with concealer to hide the majority of my bruises. I slipped into a comfortable pair of white capris and a pink T with rhinestones that spelled the word "Princess" on it and one pink flat.

I called Mom's room but she and Mrs. R still had the do not disturb on their phone. Instead, I dialed room service, ordering croissants, brioche, jams, cheese, orange juice, coffee, and one grapefruit half (no need to go overbaord).

No sooner had I hung up than a knock sounded at the door. I checked the little peep hole and saw Dana standing in the hallway.

I opened the door and barely got out a, "hi" before she was grabbing my in a bear hug.

"Ohmigod, Maddie! I'm so glad you're okay. I like totally couldn't find you after the show and then you weren't at the after party either and then I came back to the hotel and there were, like, these policemen everywhere and I tried to go see you, but they wouldn't let me through and then finally that detective guy said you were okay but that you'd gone to sleep and I've been like totally waiting to come wake you up. And ohmigod, I can't believe it was Charlene!"

"Dana, I can't breathe."

"Oh." She let go of my midsection. "Sorry."

I ushered her into the room and we sat on the bed as I filled her in on the previous evening's events. Ending with the good news that Moreau had promised my shoe collection would be placed back at the Le Croix tent this morning.

"Oh, that reminds me," Dana said, grabbing her purse. "Have you seen this morning's
Informer
?"

I shook my head. I figured even with the news of Charlene's arrest, it may be a while before tabloids were my friends again.

Dana pulled the folded paper out of her purse. "Okay, good news first, better news second. Check out page seven."

I grabbed the paper from her, open to page seven. And saw a picture of Ricky and Natalie Portman. They were outside a restaurant, stuck together in a lip lock.

"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry," I said. Then paused as I looked up and saw Dana beaming from ear to ear. "Uh, I don't get it. You're happy Ricky is kissing some movie star?"

She giggled. Then pointed to Ricky's left hand, zoning in on Natalie's boobs. "Look," she instructed. "He had a little mole right by his thumb."

"Uh huh."

"Well, Ricky doesn't have a mole! Don't you see, they totally pasted his head on someone else's body. My boyfriend is totally not kissing Natalie Portman." She sat back, a smug smile on her face.

I couldn't help but grin back. "Congratulations."

"Thanks," she said, taking the paper. "Okay, now for the better news, ready?" she asked, flipping to the front page.

"Always ready for good news."

She slid the paper across the bed to me.

The headline read: Couture Killer Cleared. But the part that immediately caught my eye were the photographs. Somehow they had gotten pictures of every single one of my shoes that were supposed to have been in the Le Croix show and blown them up on the front page. Okay, so it wasn't quite the same as showing in Paris, but you couldn't buy this kind of publicity. I quickly scanned down to the byline. Sure enough, it read: Felix Dunn.

I bit my lip, suddenly all the more sorry I'd ever suspected him of having anything to do with the deaths, let alone his crazy aunt drugging me.

"Wow," I said. "I can't believe he did this for me."

"Believe it, girl," Dana said. Then added with a smirk, "So, tell me again what a terrible kisser he is?"

I snapped my head up.

But I didn't get to answer as a knock sounded at the door. I padded over and looked out the little peep hole. Only all I could see were flowers.

I opened the door.

"Mademoiselle Springer?" asked a voice. Only I wasn't sure whose, as the guy's face was completely covered by a huge bouquet of red roses.

"Yes?" I asked tentatively.

The guy lowered the flowers and a pimply kid with a shock of red hair appeared. "A flower delivery for you."

"Who are they from?"

He shrugged. "There is a card. Please sign here, Mademoiselle," he said, shoving a clipboard at me. I awkwardly balanced the roses in one hand while I took his pen in the other and signed his form.

"Merci," he said, before turning down the hallway.

I looked at the roses. I sniffed them. I couldn't help a little lift at the corners of my mouth.

"Whoa! Who are those from?" Dana asked as I came back into the room.

I shrugged. "I don't know." I sat down on the bed and fished a little white envelope from a plastic fork shaped thing at the top of the bouquet.

The outside simply said: Maddie.

I opened it and felt my heart speed up as I read the card. "We need to talk. Meet me tonight. 6pm. The top of the Eiffel Tower."

I flipped the card over. It wasn't singed. I bit my lip. The Eiffel Tower. The most romantic place in all the world.

But who was I meeting?

* * *

"My money's on Felix," Dana said, digging into my grapefruit twenty minutes later as we devoured the last of my room service breakfast. I'd put the mystery roses in water in the hotel issue ice bucket on the dresser and couldn't help staring at them every ten seconds.

"Felix?" I scrunched up my nose. "Why?"

"Well," Dana said, a frown settling between her strawberry blonde brows. "First the article. Now flowers. I mean, has Ramirez ever sent you flowers?"

I paused. Then shook my head.

"So it has to be Felix."

"But Felix hasn't sent me flowers before either."

"Yeah, but does Ramirez seem like the roses kind of guy?"

I had to admit, she had a point.

"What do you think Felix wants to talk about?" I asked, thinking back to our last interrupted conversation at the show.

Dana shrugged. "Maybe how he's madly in love with you."

"He is not!"