I hoist the girl up from the floor and pull her away from the body, from the blood.
“Vas-y!” Go! I yell when her feet refuse to move.
Finally, Delphine flees the dressing room, leaving me alone with Gisèle.
Beautiful, beautiful Gisèle.
Like a porcelain doll’s, her luminous skin, dainty pink lips, and sweet, delicate features are eerily frozen into place. I kneel by her side, ripping the red-sequined bodice off her tiny figure to find the wound. A bullet hole to her chest, right over her heart, spills warm blood onto my hands, soaking right through every piece of cloth I can find to stop it.
I’ve seen a wound just like this one before. I know it’s too late.
She’s gone.
“Did you have a nice rendez-vous with the detective?”
The smooth, cool voice snuck up on me like a rattlesnake in a desert, startling me from that vivid, chilling memory, bringing me back to the present. The fresh blood was gone, and in its place stood a rail-thin brunette with hazel eyes and outrageously high cheekbones. She circled me like a lion would its prey, her pointy silver heels stomping over the bloodstains, the sound ringing in my ears. She stopped a few inches from me, one perfectly manicured hand hoisted on her bony hip.
Véronique.
She was the dancer who’d shot me the evil eye earlier this morning. The one who, according to Titine, wanted my new starring role in the show.
“This little memory loss act you are playing, Ruby…it will not work, you know,” she said, her voice cool and unforgiving.
I didn’t respond, though, because as I studied her face, another memory burst through my consciousness. I’d seen Véronique that night—the night I’d found Gisèle. I’d bumped into her in the wings, not far from this dressing room. The flash or the vision or whatever it was played out clearly in my head—Véronique’s dash toward the front of the club, then her startled expression when she’d nearly knocked me over. We’d met eyes for only a second, and in that time, I’d registered that her cheeks were red and splotchy, not from a bad makeup job as much as from adrenaline. And her hazel eyes had darted frantically over my face, like she was scared. Like she was running from something.
As quickly as it had entered my mind, the memory faded to nothing, leaving me standing in front of the ice-cold, collected woman who appeared so opposite of the racing, frenzied dancer I’d bumped into that night. Had I run into her before I’d found Gisèle? Or after?
“You don’t have to pretend with me, Ruby. I know it was you. We all do. And it’s only a matter of time before the detective finds la preuve he needs.”
“I saw you that night,” I said coolly, my voice refusing to reveal even a trace of the nerves that swam just below the surface.
Véronique’s eyes flickered, and for a moment, I detected a hint of the fear I’d seen in her that night. But then it was gone, the iciness returning in full force. “Mais bien sûr. We both dance here. Everyone was here that night. Do not be stupide.”
“No, I mean, I saw you. Running from something. Scared. What were you doing back here?”
She crossed her arms over her chest and drummed her long fingernails over her tiny bicep. “I thought you lost your mémoire, non?”
An intense stubbornness coupled with a deep-seated rivalry overpowered my best reasoning as I took a purposeful step toward Véronique, squaring my face directly in front of hers. “Some of my memory appears to be intact. What did you see that night, Véronique? Or more important, what did you do?”
She puffed an annoyed breath into my face and narrowed her eyes. “First, you are sleeping with Jean-Pierre, then you are the second one to supposedly find Gisèle’s dead body, and finally, Jean-Pierre gives you the starring role when you have only been performing here less than one year. And you actually think anyone is going to be looking to me? You are a salope, Ruby. And it is only a matter of time before the police and everyone else see right through you, the way I already have.”
True to form, I understood her. She’d called me a slut.
I told myself to walk away. I didn’t know the whole story with Véronique. Why she hated me so much. What she’d been doing that night in the wings. And as for the slut accusation…well, Ruby did do her fair share of sleeping around.
But Ruby’s instincts won out yet again over my practicality. And before I could tell my hand to stop its swinging motion, I’d slapped Véronique across the face.
“C’est toi, la salope,” I said, the French insult rolling off my tongue as if I’d been practicing for years.
Véronique barely registered a flinch on her stone-cold face whereas I stood, frozen in place, stunned at what I’d just said, what I’d just done. Again, I was speaking perfect French. And more important, I’d never slapped someone in my life. Not even Ian.
Not after I’d told him I was pregnant and he’d returned the favor by telling me he was married and that he wanted nothing to do with the child.
I hadn’t even slapped him then.
Yet I’d smacked this woman across the face without a second thought.
Who had I become?
Véronique shook her head at me and curled her lips into a wicked grin. “Such petty arguments won’t matter when you are in prison for the rest of your life.” She turned on her heel and sauntered out of the bloodstained dressing room and back toward the stage, where the scarlet-red lights swallowed her secrets.
Since I did not plan on spending the rest of my days in a French prison, I needed to find François Lefevre and try to put together the rest of the pieces from that night.
Now.
I turned around to head to the staircase that led up to my apartment, but just as I was taking off in the opposite direction from the stage, a tiny hand seized my arm.
“Ruby!” It was Titine, her green eyes flashing. “Where are you going? Rehearsal isn’t over yet.”
“I can’t rehearse right now, Titine. I have to go.”
“Listen, Ruby. I don’t know what has gotten into you, but you’re really making things difficult. What did the detective say to you? Doesn’t he believe you?”
“That’s why I have to go. I have to take care of something important. I can’t rehearse right now.”
A few of the other dancers filtered through the wings and walked past us, their eyes not hiding their curiosity…or their blame.
Titine took a step closer to me and lowered her voice. “I don’t know what happened in there or what on earth you could possibly need to take care of since you were not the one responsible for Gisèle’s death. But we don’t have the time or the privacy to talk about any of that right now. The detective is with Jean-Pierre, but as soon as he gets back, you have to be out on that stage. You’ll lose your role if you don’t do this, Ruby. And you might even lose your job.”
I could see the determination in my young grandmother’s eyes, and I knew that she wouldn’t let me go anywhere, no matter how hard I tried. I’d seen the stubborn, diva-like fits she’d thrown as a seventy-six-year-old woman. I could only imagine what she’d been like in her twenties when she didn’t get what she wanted.
“How much longer is rehearsal?” I asked.
“A couple more hours. Then we can talk about whatever is scaring you, okay? Well, besides the obvious problems of you being investigated for Gisèle’s murder and losing your memory.” She ran the back of her hand over her forehead and let out a sigh. “If we can just make it through the next few weeks in one piece without anyone going to jail or to a hospital, it will be a miracle. Come on, Ruby, let’s go.”
As I followed Titine toward the stage, the red lights faded and the glaring overhead lights flickered on once more. I noticed that Titine’s rosy cheeks had paled, and gray circles surrounded her gorgeous eyes.
“Are you feeling okay, Titine?” I asked.
“What? Me? Oh…I might’ve just caught a little bug or something, but I’ll be fine.”
Grandma Martine had always been a horrible liar. But as
the young Titine, she was even worse.
“Titine, are you sure—”
But I didn’t have the chance to finish my sentence, because as we made it into the brightly lit space where the troupe of long-legged, busty performers awaited, I spotted Jean-Pierre and Detective Duval looming at the edge of the stage.
My stomach curled at the sight of the detective, who knew I’d been lying. Couldn’t he just leave? What more could there be?
Jean-Pierre’s nose twitched again, the crease lines in his brow revealing his agitation. “Ladies, the police need to investigate the club once more,” he said in French, my mind needing no instruction to translate immediately into English. “Rehearsal is off for today. I expect to see you all tomorrow morning at ten sharp.”
Then, as Jean-Pierre’s eyes squinted down at us, his hard gaze landed on me. “That means no messing around tonight. Tomorrow is a big performance.”
No rehearsal meant I could go upstairs and ransack Ruby’s apartment to find François Lefevre’s contact information. Surely Ruby had kept his phone number somewhere.
I tore my eyes from Jean-Pierre’s menacing stare and pushed my way through all of the scantily dressed dancers. I needed to get out of here before he stopped me. I was sure he’d want to know what I’d said to Detective Duval.
Just as I made it to the foot of the stairs, Titine’s urgent voice came from behind. “Ruby, wait!”
“I really have to go, Titine. I’m sorry.”
She laid a shaky palm on my arm. “I’m sorry if I’ve been a little hard on you. I know this week has been awful, and to tell the truth, you haven’t been yourself at all since you fell this morning. You’re scaring me, Ruby. Do you want me to come upstairs with you? We can call the doctor to come, now that rehearsal is off. What do you think?”
I couldn’t get my young grandmother involved in this mess with François Lefevre. Based on what she’d said earlier, Titine didn’t even know that I’d been involved with him. Plus, I needed to think through the details of the vivid memory I’d just had of finding Gisèle. I needed to find out what Véronique had been doing that night, why I’d stayed so calm in the face of a gruesome murder—a murder of one of my supposed friends, no less—and why I’d felt that unmistakable notion of having seen a gunshot wound just like Gisèle’s before.
Was it because I’d killed her just moments before Delphine had found her?
That would explain the absence of panic.
But something in my gut told me it wasn’t that simple. There was more to this complicated story. And I needed to speak with François Lefevre. Alone.
“Thanks, Titine. But I just need to get some rest. I’m sure I’ll feel better soon.”
“Ruby, what happened with the detective? He believes you, right?” Desperation seeped through her usually strong voice, and her cheeks grew paler than before. “Why do they have to search the club again? This is insane! They already spent three days right after she died. We just opened back up yesterday, for God’s sake, and they’re already taking our rehearsal space away the day before a huge performance.”
“I’m sure they’re just covering their tracks again, making sure they didn’t miss anything.”
“So why were you and Jean-Pierre the only ones they wanted to talk to today? Do they really think you did it, Ruby?”
I opened my mouth to tell her that she didn’t need to worry, but stopped when I noticed Jean-Pierre speaking with two new police officers in the wings. The sight of more badges and guns kicked my adrenaline into gear.
I didn’t have much time. I had to go.
“I’m sorry, Titine. I really need to get some rest.” I tore my arm from her grasp and ran toward the staircase. I took the steps two at a time, not even noticing that I was in three-inch heels.
Once in my apartment, I flew over to the desk and riffled through the papers that the crazy windstorm had whipped to the floor earlier. Ruby’s scribbles had seemed meaningless to me this morning, but now I scanned every inch of her messy, handwritten notes, desperately hoping I would find a phone number, an address, anything that could lead me to François Lefevre.
When I came up empty-handed, I headed to the bedroom dresser—the place where I had always hidden my journal in my regular life back in San Diego. I was hoping Ruby had had the same idea.
But stuffed inside her tall black dresser, I did not find the usual stacks of conservative cotton bikini underwear I normally wore. Instead I found piles upon piles of skimpy négligée: bras in hot pink, purple, red, and black, and pairs of silver and black thigh highs trimmed in lace. After digging through the fourth and last drawer and realizing the entire dresser was filled with nothing but racy undergarments, I swallowed the realization once more that I, Claudia Davis, a single, thirty-five-year-old therapist who wanted nothing more than to marry Édouard Marceau and have my baby girl, had been a prostitute in my past life.
Unbelievable.
The only comfort was in the fact that even though Ruby had been a full-blown prostitute in the past, she sure as hell wouldn’t be one now that I was running this show.
I gave up on the lingerie-filled dresser and turned to the closet, where Ruby housed her regular clothes.
There were no sweats or chunky sweaters here. No T-shirts. No pencil skirts and crisp collared shirts to match. No sundresses. No flip-flops. No sneakers.
Instead I found short, tight black dresses; flowing evening gowns in red, silver, and gold; sequined headpieces; and rows upon rows of the most elaborate, gorgeous high heels I’d ever seen. It was a full-on costume closet.
If she wasn’t wanted for murder and involved in life-threatening circumstances, I would’ve thought that playing around in Ruby’s glamorous life for a little while could actually be fun.
But as I recalled the vision of that jagged knife coming at me and slicing through my back, I knew that no amount of dazzling clothes could ever compensate for the dark sides of this woman’s life.
In the midst of tearing apart Ruby’s beautiful closet, a jarring slam rattled the apartment, making me drop the shoe box in my hands.
It was the front door.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I’d locked that door. I was certain of it.
I crept to the bedroom doorway and peeked out, only to find Jean-Pierre charging through the apartment, his cheeks and ears blazing red, his brown squinty eyes focused on the kitchen cabinet.
I stared at him incredulously. This man was out of control. And he needed to leave. “How did you get in here? This is my apartment. You can’t just barge in like you live here!”
He didn’t acknowledge me as he removed a bottle of liquor, poured himself a half glass, and downed it on one violent gulp. He filled the glass back up again, this time to the brim, then marched over to me.
“You seem to be forgetting who pays for this apartment,” he spat, the strong odors of alcohol and cigarettes wafting from his mouth and making me feel nauseous.
I took a step back, my eyes combing the space around me for a letter opener or a pen, anything with a sharp end. But I didn’t have time to find something to defend myself with because Jean-Pierre moved in on me, pinning me against the wall.
He lowered his mouth to my ear, his hot breath scalding my skin. “You may be the new star of the show, but I can take everything away from you in the blink of an eye, Ruby. This apartment. Your reputation. Your money. Your dreams.”
“Get off of me,” I hissed in his ear.
But Jean-Pierre didn’t budge. Instead, he hurled his glass against the wall, the shattering sound piercing my ears, the stench of liquor pooling at my feet. Then he seized my shoulders so forcefully that I couldn’t help but let out a low cry.
“What did you say to Detective Duval?” he growled as he pressed his sweaty, hot body into mine.
“I told him exactly what you told me to say.”
Jean-Pierre’s jaw hardened as he tightened his hold on my shoulders. “Then can you tell me why they are searching m
y club again? And why did the detective not seem to believe a word I told him? And why did he mention François Lefevre’s name to me?”
When I didn’t respond, he ground his teeth together, the sound like nails down a chalkboard. “Putain! Tell me, Ruby! Why?”
I swallowed hard, but didn’t break his gaze. “Detective Duval has a photograph of François Lefevre paying me outside the club. He thinks I killed Gisèle to take her starring role and that I’m hoping to use my relationship with François Lefevre to keep me out of prison.”
“Merde. And what did you tell him?”
“I told him that it isn’t true and that I never would’ve harmed Gisèle. He didn’t believe me, though, and said he’s coming back tomorrow. And that if Mr. Lefevre and I don’t start talking, he will release the photo to the press.”
“What is wrong with you, Ruby?” Jean-Pierre kept me pressed against the wall as he ran a warm finger down my cheek. “You had the detective alone in my office. Why did you not make him an offer he couldn’t refuse?”
I strained to get out of Jean-Pierre’s grasp, but he was too strong for me, his hold too overpowering. “You know, ma chérie, there isn’t a man in this world who can say no to you. In fact, I know I have promised you to that American film director who is coming to the performance tomorrow, but I will have to have you at least once before he does.” He lowered his face to mine, his thin lips barely brushing over my mouth. “And since you didn’t give me what I needed last night, I think now will be a good time.” He plunged his face into my neck, his hands groping my breasts, his erection filling up the space between my legs.
I swallowed the bile that rose in my throat and pushed against him with every ounce of strength in my body. He was ready for my opposition, though. He grabbed my wrists and pinned them up over my head, then blew his offensive alcohol-and-cigarette breath straight into my face.
“Fine, Ruby. I will not force you to make love to me. That is not how a relationship works, n’est-ce pas? In case that little bump on your head is making you forget, you do not have a relationship with François Lefevre. He pays you to fuck him.” Jean-Pierre thrust his groin hard into my hips then cupped my chin in his hand. “You have a relationship with me. You fuck me whenever I want you to, and I do not have to pay you for it. And if you do not keep your end of our relationship, I am sure Véronique will be happy to take your apartment, share a bed with me, and of course, steal your starring role.”
Dancing with Paris (A Paris Time Travel Romance) Page 7
