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).