"Your cousin's an asshole," I told her. She didn't respond. I closed my eyes, and contemplated calling Ramirez. But I didn't even know what I'd say. I'd already apologized. Sorry just didn't seem adequate. And, quite frankly, I didn't even know if he'd pick up. He needed some space, right? Just some time. To either forgive me or… well, I didn't even want to think about the "or". The "or" made tears I didn't know I had left well up behind my eyes again.
My love life was seriously in the toilet, my career was virtually over, and I was one DNA test away from being locked up in a Paris prison. I was pretty sure my life could not get any worse.
At the moment, there was nothing I could do about my love life, and unless a miracle occurred and Moreau gave back my shoes, the career things was pretty dismal as well. But, I could at least try to keep my butt out of jail.
I rolled over and grabbed a pad of hotel stationary and a pen from my purse.
As much as I absolutely loathed Felix right now, I had to admit that I still wasn't convinced he'd killed Gisella. Not really. Lying, yes. Cheating, yes. Printing vulgar pictures by the truckload, of course. But stabbing her with a stiletto seemed a stretch.
So if it wasn't me and it wasn't Felix, who did that leave?
I clicked open my pen and wrote "Suspects" at the top of the page. Only I wasn't sure what to write next. Assuming Gisella was actually stealing jewelry from the shows, obviously her accomplice was my first choice for her killer. Maybe he or she had wanted a larger portion of the proceeds. Maybe they thought Gisella was getting sloppy and they'd be found out. Maybe they just plain didn't like her.
I wrote the word "Accomplice" down under "Suspects". The only problem was, I had no idea who the accomplice was. So, I put a big question mark next to that one.
Okay, so who did I know that might have had a grudge against Gisella? Her agent? Suppose Donata was the accomplice. To be any kind of agent, she had to have had lots of contacts all over Europe. And it was the agent that had booked Gisella in the Jean Luc show in the first place. I was beginning to like this theory.
Of course, there was always the angry, jealous boyfriend theory, too. I wrote Ryan's name down next to Donata's. Unrequited love, jealousy – both classic reasons for wanting someone dead. And didn't they always say on Law & Order that it's usually the boyfriend?
And, while we were talking jealousy, how about Angelica? I added her name to the list. We only had her word for it that she hadn't gone in to see Gisella after Felix left. It would have been easy for Angelica to slip out of her room and lure Gisella to the tent unnoticed.
I paused, my pen hovering in mid air. Why the tent, I wondered. What had Gisalla been doing there so early? Was she meeting someone there?
Then a terrible thought occurred to me. When I'd walked into the tent, she hadn't been alone. Jean Luc had been there, too. I'd assumed at the time that Jean Luc had come in just before I had. But what if he'd been there all along? What if he'd been the one to stab Gisella? Why, I couldn't imagine, but he had both ample opportunity and means. I wondered just how well Jean Luc had known Gisella and what kind of history lay between the two. He had mentioned how difficult she was to work with. Had he just meant this show, or were there others?
Reluctantly I wrote his name down, too. Then stared at my list.
One thing was certain. It was time to go back to Paris.
It was dark by the time my plane landed again at Charles De Gaulle. It took a cab to the hotel and let myself into my room. A small part of me had hoped a pissed off cop might be waiting for me there, but that was dashed quickly enough as I entered the dark, empty room. Ramirez's bags were gone. No note. No sign he'd even been there except for the lingering scent of his aftershave in the bathroom. I inhaled deeply, telling myself I was not going to cry again. Instead, I pulled off my dress and changed in to a pair of black capris and a black long sleeved DKNY logo T. I slipped on a sliver ballet flat and added an extra layer of eyeliner to my eyes to compensate for the slightly red, puffy look. I took a blow dryer to my hair, but even that didn't help the French braid plus rainwater thing I had going on, so instead I pulled it back in a messy ponytail before grabbing my crutches and heading out to Le Carrousel du Louvre.
The first person I saw when I arrived back on the site was Dana. She was sitting with a group of the other models outside the tent, sipping Perrier through a straw.
"Mads!" She jumped up and dragged me to the side, just out of earshot. "What happened?" she asked, her voice low. "Did Felix do it? Did you confront him?"
I felt that lump form in my throat again, but quickly pushed it back down and filled Dana in. She was such a good friend that when I was finished I thought I saw tears in her eyes.
"Oh, Mads, I'm so sorry." She leaned in and gave me a long hug. "Don't worry. I'm sure Ramirez will come around. That man is nuts about you."
I wasn't so sure. But somehow, it was comforting to pretend. "Yeah?"
Dana nodded. "Of course. Just give him a little time."
"Right. Thanks. I'm fine. Really." I sniffed back tears – so not convincing. "Is Jean Luc around?"
Dana nodded. "He's in the workroom. He got a case of plain black pumps that he's trying to convince himself will work for the show."
I cringed.
It must have been visible because Dana said, "I know. So lame. I tried them on with my silk dress and ohmigod, total clash. I think Jean Luc's about to slit his wrists."
"I'll go see what I can do."
I left her sipping her bubbly water and ducked inside.
Jean Luc was, as Dana said, about one Xanax away from suicidal. He was pacing the room, a pump in each hand, shouting in French to poor Ann who was furiously dialing up numbers on her BlackBerry. He stopped when he saw me, throwing his hands in the air.
"Maddie, thank God you're here. These are all I could get on short notice." He held up a pair of black pumps with pointy toes. "Hideous, aren't they?"
I bit my lip. "Um, well, I guess they're not that bad."
"Please tell me you can do something with them, darling? If not, I may be forced to swan dive from the top of a very tall bridge."
"I can try," I hedged.
"We'll get you anything you need. Just please make these knockoffs into something that doesn't scream 'off the rack' when my girls wear them down the runway. I'll be the laughing stock of Fashion Week!"
I took one pump from him, turning it over in my hands Already ideas started to brew about how to embellish it for Angelica's outfit in the finale. Granted, they were a far cry from what I'd originally planned, but they beat barefoot.
"Jean Luc, I was actually wondering if I could speak to you for a moment?"
He put up one finger. "Un moment." He turned to Ann and barked out a quick stream of orders in French. Ann nodded and I could mentally see her ticking items off a checklist before she scurried off to fulfill Jean Luc's every demand.
Once she was gone, he turned to me again. "Not only do we have to find shoes, but now Becca is scared to go on, worried someone will commit random violence on her, too. Models," he said shaking his head.
I hesitated, wondering if I should share just how un-random I suspected Gisella's death was. "You know, it's possible that Gisella wasn't just an innocent victim. We think she may have had something to do with the necklace going missing," I said slowly, watching Jean Luc's reaction.
He nodded. "Oui. She was much too careless."
"I meant, she may have had something to do with it that goes beyond careless."
"Oh?" He raised an eyebrow. "But I thought the police found the necklace in one of her coat pockets?"
"Yes," I conceded, "but I'm not sure it was put there by mistake."
Jean Luc blanched, pulling out a fresh roll of antacids. "Please don't tell me I hired a thief."