I staggered, my crutches slipping out from under me. I focused my eyes on the ground, the flapping plastic doorway, the image of the perfect Parisian sky beyond. Anywhere but at the ugly red pool of blood surrounding Gisella's head. I took in a deep breath. Bad idea. It held a cloyingly sweet scent that made my stomach roil in protest. Quickly, I made for the door. If I was going to puke, I didn't want to contaminate the crime scene. Because it was painfully obvious that's what this was.
And the worst thing about it all – I knew this crime scene. The stiletto heel to the neck. Just like I'd done to Miss When Mistresses Attack right after popping her implant. It had been unnerving then, but seeing a repeat of the same scene was creepy enough to make my latte feel like motor oil in my stomach.
And it didn't help that the shoe sticking out of her neck was my design.
I closed my eyes, the landscape waving, as I slipped to the ground outside the tent, my one good leg giving out. I put my head between my knees, taking deep breaths that smelled like coffee, wet grass, and leather ballet flats.
"We've got to call the police," Jean Luc said, beside me, his voice sounding oddly far away.
With a shaky hand I reached for my cell phone. After staring at the buttons for what seemed like way too long, I realized I had no idea who to call and handed the phone over to Jean Luc.
Then promptly stuck my head between my knees again.
Minutes later, the tent was swarming with people.
Jean Luc had, thankfully, known exactly who to call. And within minutes they had arrived in droves. Policemen in blue uniforms that looked strikingly similar to American ones, crime scene technicians in black windbreakers with cases full of evidence baggies, and two men in long coats who'd wheeled in a metal gurney and black tarp. Then the second wave had arrived, the paparazzi. Flash bulbs went off, notepads came out and TV cameras from every country of the world fixed on the white, flapping door of the tent, waiting for a glimpse of Gisella's mangled body. I periodically scanned the crowd for a glimpse of Felix. I knew he wouldn't be far from a story like this.
Ann, Jean Luc and I waited off to one side, next to the growing group of models, dabbing at their eyes with tissues and muttering subdued ohmigod's as they arrived and heard the news. Ann's headset was eerily silent as we watched the scene unfold and Jean Luc was a sickly shade of yellow, popping antacids into his mouth like Pez. Me – I was still crumpled on the ground, my crutches splayed out beside me. Though, I was happy to report, my stomach had stopped trying to relieve me of my morning caffeine fix.
"I, I can't believe this," Jean Luc said, his voice shaking as he popped another chalky white tablet into his mouth. "This just can't be happening. Not a week before the show!"
"It is," Ann assured him, her dark eyes intently watching the growing number of reporters.
"First the necklace, now this." Jean Luc was wringing his hands. "I've got to call Lord Ackerman. He's going to be livid."
The tent flaps opened and we all held our breath, the paparazzi straining forward for on last shot of Gisella. Instead, a tall, stoop shouldered man with a mustache that looked like a small, furry animal had died on his upper lip emerged. He wore a cheap gray suit that was at least two sizes too big and had a cell phone glued to his ear. He spoke quickly into it in French, then snapped it shut, scanning the area until his eyes settled on our little group.
"Which one of you found the body?" he inquired in accented English as he approached.
I cleared my throat, grabbing my crutches and struggling to a vertical position.
"I did," Jean Luc piped up. "And, shortly after, Maddie arrived."
"Ah. Mademoiselle…" The man pulled a small notebook encased in leather out of his pocket and consulted it. "Springer?" he asked, nodding my direction.
I nodded.
"Detective Moreau." The detective didn't offer his hand, instead flipping the notebook shut. "Yes, I'd like to ask you some questions."
I took a deep breath, trying to inhale some bravery I certainly didn't feel. "Go ahead."
"Actually, I would prefer to speak with you in private." He shot a look at Jean Luc, whose face was whiter than a goth girl's. "Is there somewhere we can go?" he asked, gesturing around the courtyard.
"The workroom," Ann supplied. "This way."
She led the way through the growing crowd, across the courtyard to the workrooms, unlocking the door and letting Moreau and myself in.
"Merci," Moreau said with a tiny bow. Then gave Ann a pointed look that was clearly a dismissal.
Ann took the hint. "Let me know if you need anything else," she offered before leaving.
Moreau shut the door, then indicated a hard backed chair behind a work table holding a half-sewn pencil skirt. "Please, take a seat."
I did, as Moreau pulled out his notebook again, along with a stubby yellow pencil that looked like the ones they issued you when miniature golfing.
"So, you were the one who found the deceased. Gisella…" He consulted his notes. "Rossi?" he asked as if he'd never heard the name. Clear he didn't subscribe to French Vogue.
I nodded.
"When was this?"
"I don't know. Maybe an hour ago. As soon as we found her, Jean Luc called you guys."
"Jean Luc. This would be Monsieur Le Croix, your employer, yes?"
I nodded again, starting to feel like a bobble doll. "Yes."
"And he called the police right away?"
"Yes."
"When was the last time you saw Gisella, Mademoiselle Springer?"
I thought back. The previous day had been a blur of activity. "I-I'm not sure. There was so much going on yesterday."
"You didn't see her this morning, then?"
"No, not until…" I trailed off, my eyes cutting to the door.
"Right. And where were you earlier this morning?"
My head snapped up. "What?"
"I asked where you were this morning," he said, leaning two hands on the table.
I gulped. "Why? Am I a suspect?"
Moreau stared at me. "This isn't the first time you have come across a dead body, is it?"
I bit my lip. I had to admit, it wasn't. Call me unlucky, but I seemed to be jinxed that way. "No."
"Isn't it true, in fact, that you once before stabbed a woman with a shoe?"
I paused. Then nodded slowly. "Yes, but-"
"And isn't it true," he continued, raising his voice to steamroll right over my objections, "that she was also stabbed in the neck?"
I said nothing. Damn, news traveled fast.
"An interesting coincidence, no?"
"Look, I didn't have anything to do with this. I barely even knew Gisella. I just met her yesterday. Yes, it's just a weird coincidence." But even as I said it my mind was rejecting that thought. What were the chances of a something like that happening twice? "Look, stilettos are sharp. They're pointy. They're a good weapon choice."
He looked unconvinced, his dead squirrel mustache twitching with every breath.
"It could have been anyone! Gisella wasn't exactly popular, you know."
"And, you are the designer of the shoe in question, are you not?"
"Um… yes?" I said. Only it sounded more like a question.
"Another coincidence that she was stabbed with your shoe?"
I jutted my chin out defiantly. "Yes. Another coincidence."
Moreau snorted. "That's quite a few, isn't it?"
I pursed my lips together, refraining from comment. Mostly because I didn't have one.
A knock sounded at the door and an officer in blue appeared. He was carrying a black bag with him and said something in French to the detective. Moreau responded with a, "Oui, oui," and waved him in.
The second guy laid his bag on the table and opened it up, pulling out a long stick with a cotton swab on the end that looked like a super sized Q-tip.
"Since this is all one giant coincidence," Moreau said, heavy on the sarcasm, "I don't suppose you would mind giving us a sample of your DNA? To rule you out, of course."
I looked at the Q-tip, then back to Moreau. I squared my shoulders. "No, of course not."
Moreau nodded to the uniform, who gestured for me to open my mouth. I did, and he stuck the Q-tip in, gently scraping it along the side of my cheek. Then he placed it in a plastic case and snapped the top shut, dropping it into his black bag. He mumbled something else in French to Moreau, then nodded and left the room.
I stared after him, suddenly wary. Though I wasn't sure why. Surely whatever they did with my DNA would prove me innocent, right?
"You never answered my initial question, Mademoiselle Springer," Moreau said, scrutinizing me.
I snapped my eyes back to meet his.
"Gisella was killed between one and four am. Where were you this morning?"
"I woke up and came straight from the hotel to here. Where I found Gisella."
"Alone?"
"Yes. No. I mean, I was with Jean Luc."
"All morning?"
"No, just when we found her."
"What about last night?" he asked, his questions falling like rapid fire one on top of the other.
"I was working."
"Alone?"
"No. I was with Jean Luc."
"All night?"
"Yes."
"So, you are lovers?"
"What? No. I mean, no, not all night, not like that."
"Like how then?"
"I… we… we were working. Until late. Or at least it felt late with the jet lag. Then I went to my own room."
"Alone?"
"Yes." I said vehemently.
"So, you were alone then. No alibi?"
"What? No, wait I wasn't… I mean…"
Damn he was good. He'd effectively gotten me to say exactly what he wanted to hear. "Look, I didn't do this."
"So you say."
"It's true!"
"Yet you were alone, you have no alibi, your shoe was used as the murder weapon. And the crime fits your… how do you say… MO to a tee."
"What MO? No, I'm not a criminal, I don't have an MO! I… I…"
I was rapidly losing this battle. For all his ridiculous looks, Moreau was good. Too good. So good I had a bad feeling that if he was convinced I'd done this, he'd find a way to prove it. Even if it wasn't true.
I was just about to pull out my one and only secret weapon – crying like a girl and hoping for mercy – when the door swung open. And a vision in khaki Dockers and a white rumpled button-down filled the doorway.
Felix.
"What the hell is going on here?" he asked. "Why is that chap taking her DNA sample?"
Okay, so white knight he wasn't, but I'd never been so glad to see anyone in my life.
Moreau, on the other hand, didn't look at all pleased. "And you are?" he asked.
Felix squared his shoulders. "Lord Ackerman."
I blinked.
"Lord Ackerman?" I asked. "Lord?"
Felix shot me a look that clearly said shut up. Which I did, clamping my lips together to keep from laughing.
"I'm sorry, Lord Ackerman," Moreau said, his voice suddenly filled with a note of respect despite Felix's worn Sketcher sneakers and I-just-rolled-out-of-bed hair. "But, this is an official murder investigation." He emphasized the word, throwing a pointed look my way.
Damned if I didn't feel guilty under his gaze.
Felix narrowed his eyes at the detective and shot back, "Qu'est-ce que tu fais?"
Wow. Item number forty-million I didn't know about Felix. He spoke French.
Moreau seemed a bit surprised, too, his mustache twitching ever so slightly. But he parried back quickly, responding in rapid French something that prompted Felix to throw his hands up in an exasperated gesture, then shout something back. I watched the two of them go back and forth, wishing like anything I'd taken French in high school instead of ceramics. The ability to make a clay pencil holder that said "Happy Mother's Day" was completely useless right now.
Finally Felix thumped his hands on the desk, bringing home his point (whatever it was) and grabbed me by the arm, hauling me to my feet. "Let's go Maddie, we're done here."
I expected the detective to protest, but instead Moreau just watched, his eyes intent on Felix, narrowing above his mustache. (Which was twitching double time now.)
I tried not to look too smug as we left the room.
"What did you say to him?" I asked, as Felix navigated the hallways, one hand still firmly grasped around me.
"I said that if he came near you again without a warrant, I'd have his badge."
I stopped. "Warrant?"
We were just outside the tent, police vans and numerous cop cars circled around the courtyard, the long stretch of press and tourists being held back by wooden by police barricades. The main point of interest at the Louvre was definitely not the Mona Lisa today.
"Do you seriously think he'd get a warrant?" I asked.
Felix turned to face me, his eyebrows hunkered down in concern. "Maddie, she was killed with one of your designs. And, you have to admit, the shoe to the neck… not a common way to kill someone."
I gulped. I knew. I also knew I didn't do it. Which meant someone not only wanted Gisella gone, but had tried to make it look like I'd been the one to do it. A disconcerting thought. Sadly, thanks to the L.A. Informer, my past exploits weren't exactly a secret. Anyone could have heard about the shoe to the jugular.
"That was genius, by the way," I said, as Felix steered me through the crowd, signaling for a taxi. "The whole pretending to be Lord Ackerman. Really got Moreau's attention."
Felix gave me a funny look over his shoulder as a black and white cab pulled up to the curb. "I wasn't pretending."
"What do you mean you weren't pretending?" I asked, slipping onto the vinyl seat.
Felix spoke to the driver in French, giving him the address of the hotel, before turning to me.
"I really am Lord Ackerman."
I snorted. "No you're not. You're Felix."
He didn't say anything. But the tell-tale amused twinkle I'd come to associate with his teasing was noticeably absent from his eyes.
"Ohmigod, you're serious? Lord Ackerman?"
Felix nodded slowly.
I turned to Felix, pretty sure my mouth was unattractively gaping open. "You've got to be joking. What, did you buy the title online or something?"
Felix did a wry grin. "Worse. I was born into it. On my father's side, a quite distant cousin of the queen's."
"The queen? Wait, are you trying to tell me that you're actual royalty?"
"Oh don't worry, only about a hundred people would have to die before I'd come close to the throne."
"So, hold on here. " I held up one hand. "You're telling me that Gisella's half-million dollar diamond necklace was on loan from you?"
Felix nodded slowly, carefully watching my reaction. Which I'm pretty sure was a cross between pure shock and total disbelief.
I'll admit, I'd never really known that much about Felix's background. I knew his mother was Scottish, which is where Felix claimed he inherited his "thriftiness" as he called it. Though, I'd pointed out to him on more than one occasion that tipping a waiter in nickels wasn't thrifty, it was downright cheap. All I knew of his father was that he was English and Felix had inherited a good deal of family money from him at some point. And, apparently, a title. I'd always referred to Felix as a "cheap rich guy." But I'd never imagined him as an actual member of the aristocracy.
A titled Tabloid Reporter. What was this world coming to?
Though I didn't have a chance to question the Lord any further as my cell rang from the depths of my shoulder bag. I pulled it out and flipped it open, checking the caller ID. Ramirez.
I closed my eyes and did a little mini meditation before clicking the on button.
"Hello?" I asked tentatively.
"Hey, beautiful."
Despite the morning I'd had, I felt comfort wash through me at the sound of his voice. I suddenly really wished he wasn't an ocean away.
"Look, I know what you're going to say and it's not my fault," I quickly said into the phone. "I just found her. And I know it's a huge coincidence the way she was killed with the shoe in her neck and all, well, at least Moreau thought it was, but that's all it is! I swear! I had nothing to do with it. All I wanted to do was come to Paris for Fashion Week and maybe catch a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower, and then the accident and this stupid cast, and now they're taking my DNA, even though they don't have a warrant, and saying I don't have an alibi!"
There was a pause on the other end. Then Ramirez's voice came in a slow deliberate cadence. "Maddie, what is going on over there?"
"Don't you know?"
"No," he said, concern lacing his words. "I just called to tell you I was sorry I didn't get a chance to call you back last night. What the hell is going on? What's this about DNA and warrants?"
Oh hell. I swear, one of these days I'd learn to keep my mouth shut. Obviously today wasn't that day.
Quickly I filled him in on the morning's events, pussyfooting the best I could around my interrogation, lest I reveal just how blonde I'd sounded. I must not have done a very good job, however, because when I finished he was silent. Just the sound of his breath coming in tightly restrained pants.
"Hello? Are you still there?"
"I'm booking the next flight."
"No!" I shouted into the phone. Okay, I'd kind of freaked out facing Moreau, I'll admit. And having Felix show up had been a huge relief. And, I'll admit, the second I'd heard Ramirez's voice I'd instantly felt better. But having him fly halfway around the world just to hold my hand was tantamount to saying that he was right. That I couldn't take care of myself. That I did need a chaperone as badly as he and my mother thought. No way was I admitting that.
"No, really, I'm fine."
"You're not fine, Maddie. You're a homicide suspect."
"Well, sort of, but…"
"Look, I don't want you there alone."
"I'm not alone," I said, glancing over to Felix who'd been pretending not to listen to the conversation up to this point.
"Felix is here."
Silence. Then, "Felix? As in the reporter Felix."
"Uh, yeah."
"The same Felix who got you kidnapped in Vegas?"
"Uh…"
"And the same Felix who gave you a gun last spring?"
"Well, um…"
"And," he said, really gaining steam now, "the same Felix who looks at you like you're dessert and he hasn't eaten in weeks?"
"He does not!" I glanced over at him again. Did he? "But, uh, yeah. That Felix."
"I'll be there by morning." Then he hung up.
I stared at the silent phone in my hand. Then up at Felix, still looking out the window, pretending not to eavesdrop.
Great. Just what I needed. A pissing contest.