Luckily, Ann had about fifteen million other things on her mind and didn't question me. "Hold on," she said instead, and I could hear her shuffling her phone around. "Okay, here it is." She quickly read off the street to me as I motioned to Dana for a pen. She produced one from her purse and I wrote the address on my palm.
"Thanks, Ann!"
"Sure. Oh, and don't forget, Jean Luc wants you here tomorrow for the final fitting."
The final fitting. My stomach clenched as I realized the show was less than 48 hours away. If I couldn't convince Moreau of my innocence by then, I could kiss my chances of a big Fashion Week debut good-bye.
I tried not to dwell on that, instead pushing it to the back of my mind as I assured Ann I'd be there and hung up.
Considering it was closing in on rush hour in Milan, it took us a few minutes to catch the attention of a cab (Which was finally achieved only through the very kind assistance of a man in a pinstriped business suit who gave Dana no less than three kisses on each cheek before seeing us off). Once in, I repeated the address that Ann had given me to the driver, who nodded and said he knew that area of town well.
We slowly inched along the busy streets as I watched the sun sinking lower over the gorgeous old buildings. By the time we finally pulled up to Donata's apartment, the sky was a dusty pink and orange, prefect for a picture postcard of Milan. I paused on the sidewalk a moment taking it in, realizing I'd been to three European countries in as many days and had failed to take one photograph. Granted, I wasn't exactly on a typical tourist vacation, but I made a mental note to buy a disposable camera next time I was in an airport. As sordid as our reason for being here was, the beauty of the city was inescapable.
And Donata's building was no exception. Unlike her office, it was the picture of classic Italian architecture. A tall, narrow structure, rimmed in detailed moldings from centuries past, set back from the street by ornate iron fence work. As our cab pulled away from the curb, we climbed the stone steps to an intricately carved wood door and knocked.
Only no one answered. Instead, the door swung open all on its own.
Dana and I looked at each other. We'd both watched enough horror movies to know that when a door swung open on its own, it was never a good idea for the blonde to go inside unarmed.
"Hello?' I called instead, my eyes scanning the foyer for any sign of life. Marble floor, antique sideboard, a tall, curving staircase to one side. No sign of Donata.
"Maybe she's upstairs," Dana whispered.
"Maybe she's not here."
"Maybe we should come back another time."
And had Ann not just reminded me of the ticking clock on my career's life span, I might have agreed with her. As it was, I ignored all the warnings signs and stepped into the foyer, the sound of my crutches echoing on the marble foyer. "Miss Girardi?" I called. "Donata?"
"Maddie," Dana said, grabbing my arm. She pointed toward a doorway to our right. A glass of red wine sat on an end table, just near the entrance as if someone had set it down in a hurry.
"Miss Girardi?" I called again, peeking into the room, Dana one step behind me.
We did a simultaneous gasp as we took in the scene. And for once I was infinitely glad to have my crutches to lean on. Because had they not been there, I'm pretty sure I would have crumpled to the ground like a sack of potatoes as I stared at the scene before me.
Laying in the middle of an impeccably decorated room, filled with clearly priceless antiques, was Donata Girardi. Face up on a Persian rug, eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling.
A slim, black, stiletto heel protruding from her neck.
Chapter Fourteen
The room swayed, my stomach clenched, my lungs suddenly unable to drag in a full breath.
"Ohmigod," Dana said beside me, her face draining of all color. "Is she…?"
I looked down at the stiletto, buried mid heel, surrounded by a pool of sticky red stuff. I gulped back the taste of bile in the back of my throat. "Uh huh."
"Ohmigod, ohmigod," Dana started shaking her hands and jogging in place as if to shake off the dead person cooties.
"I think I'm going to be sick," I croaked out, and swung around so fast one of my crutches hit the end table by the door, jostling the wine glass to the floor where it broke, spilling red wine all over the marble tiles.
"Shit." I bent down, automatically picking up the shattered pieces.
"Ohmigod, Maddie, what do we do?" Dana asked, still jogging.
I stood up, closed my eyes, and took a couple of deep breaths. "We call the police."
"Right." Dana stopped hopping up and down. She dug in her purse and pulled out her cell, her hands shaking so badly she dropped it on the marble tile with a clatter. Scooping it back up, she paused, her fingers hovering over the keys. "How do we call the police?"
Good question.
I scanned the foyer, looking for a landline. None was visible, so I squeaked my crutches down a dark hallway to the right, Dana one step behind me. I peeked in the open doors until I found a room that looked like it doubled as an office. On the mahogany desk sat a cordless. I picked it up and hit the "0", hoping for an operator. Luckily, I got one. Unluckily she spoke Italian.
"Desidera?"
"Uh, I need help. I have a dead woman."
"Come?"
"Uh," I looked to Dana. "How do you say 'dead' in Italian?"
Dana shrugged.
"Uh, dead-o. Molto, molto dead-o. Si?"
There was silence on the other end. Then finally, "Polizia?"
"Yes! Polizia. Lots of polizia. Pronto!"
The woman busted out with another string of Italian, which I hoped meant, "We'll be right there," then I hung up.
"Come on," I said to Dana, who was still doing her Casper impression, "let's wait outside."
She nodded. "Yeah. Good idea."
We walked back down the hall, careful not to touch anything else, lest we disturb the crime scene. We both looked straight forward as if we were wearing blinders as we passed the room where Donata had enjoyed her last glass of wine, and did a collective slump once we made it outside, sitting down on the stone steps in silence.
The sky was a pale blue now, the fist glimmer of stars shining above us. A cool wind had picked up, whipping my hair against my cheeks. I inhaled deeply, dragging slow, deliberate breaths into my lungs. After a few beats, Dana's cheeks started to return to their normal color and I almost had the sickening smell of blood out of my nostrils.
"She was killed with a shoe, Maddie," Dana said quietly.
"I noticed that." A fact that made me want to run and hide, quick, before the polizia arrived and pulled out their handcuffs. But I knew that would just make me look even more guilty than Moreau already thought I was. Instead, I took Dana's hand and squeezed, waiting silently for the police to arrive.
What felt like an eternity later, they did, two blue and white cars rounding the corner, their lights blazing. Four officers emerged in starched blue uniforms, all advancing on Dana and me, waving their arms and shouting in Italian.
I just shook my head. "I have no idea what you're saying."
Dana pointed toward the house. "Dead woman. In there."
The officers looked at each other. Then at us. Finally one went in while the other three stayed on the porch. He emerged quickly enough and the wild gesturing started again, this time accompanied by the first officer shouting into his walkie talkie, then motioning for a second guy, a tall skinny man with a long beak of a nose, to take charge of Dana and me. He did, shoving us in the back of a squad car, where we remained until the rest of the posse arrived.
By the time the sky had turned pitch black, the street was crawling with cop cars, crime scene investigation teams, and the Italian equivalent to a coroners van. Finally a female officer who looked eerily like James Gandolfini in a wig approached our car and wrenched the door open.