The Scarlet Suit Murder

  The

  Scarlet Suit

  Murder

  Anisa Claire West

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and events depicted in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, either living or deceased, is purely coincidental.

  Prologue

  Midnight Flight to Paris

  Somewhere Over the Atlantic Ocean…

  Blackness enshrouded the jetliner as it cruised incognito over the chilly waters of the Atlantic Ocean. Passengers leaned back against sanitized pillows and tried to catch a wink or two of sleep. Along with the other scarlet-clad stewardesses, I prepared breakfast trays with cartons of orange juice, crumbly croissants, and packets of whipped butter. By the time we landed at Charles de Gaulle Airport, rays of sunlight would be shimmering over Paris.

  My feet ached from the high heels I had been wearing for the past five hours since the flight departed from New York. Ignoring the blistering pain, I adjusted my beret, wondering how many more transatlantic flights I could endure. Working as a flight attendant for Paris Rouge Airlines had initially seemed so glamorous. For a small town girl from the mountains of Pennsylvania, it had been the opportunity of a lifetime. But after three years of smiling my way through jet lag and coddling disgruntled passengers, I was ready to turn in my little red uniform and run back to the peaceful Pocono Mountains I had once called home.

  “I really don’t feel well,” Robin, one of the other fed up flight attendants whispered to me.

  “Do you need some aspirin? I think I have some in my purse,” I offered compassionately.

  Wobbling on her feet, she pressed her hand into a wall to steady herself. “That’s okay, Natalie. I don’t have a headache. I just feel kind of dizzy.” Perspiring, Robin swept away moist strawberry blond bangs from her forehead.

  “It must be the altitude,” Christine, the lead stewardess, surmised. In her late thirties, the Dallas native was a full decade older than most of the stewardesses and famous for her no-nonsense attitude. “Either that or we’ve been booking you girls for too many long flights lately.”

  “We’re all definitely overworked,” I asserted. “But we’re used to the altitude.” I looked at Robin with concern, wrapping an arm around her slender frame to support her as she swayed.

  “I need to sit down. Or lie down,” Robin said, clutching a hand to her gut as though she felt nauseous.

  “Go ahead. I’ll take care of breakfast with Natalie,” Christine said firmly. “You better go straight to your apartment as soon as we land in Paris.”

  “I will, believe me,” Robin said weakly.

  Adjusting the lapels of my form-fitting jacket, I prepared to stroll the aisles and ask the same questions 300 times: Coffee or tea? Milk and sugar? Marmalade or grape jam? Blah, blah, blah!

  My mind was elsewhere, someplace off in the smoky clouds, as I served breakfast to the cranky customers. I wondered how much worse it would be to work for an “ordinary” airline. Paris Rouge prided itself on being a first class air carrier, paying meticulous attention to every detail of the customer experience right down to the fashionable uniforms the stewardesses had to wear. And yes, they called us stewardesses. In our tidy scarlet suits and stilettos, our purpose was to return passengers to a bygone era of flying, a time when traveling by air was a luxurious and enviable experience.

  “Do you have any extra butter? These croissants are very dry,” a male passenger grumbled, raking his eyes unabashedly up and down my body.

  I wanted to smear the butter all over his leering face, knowing that he was only asking for an extra supply in order to get an eyeful of me. “Of course, sir. Here you go.” With a stiff smile, I handed him three more packets of butter. Go have yourself a heart attack.

  The passengers became progressively crankier as I reached the rear of the plane. One man even slapped his hand impatiently on his empty fold-out tray as I paused for a five second conversation with another passenger. Dreamily, I thought of Stavros, the Greek musician I had met on my last flight from New York. Once I arrived in Paris, I would take a taxi with Robin to the apartment we shared, hopefully get a few hours of sleep, and then meet Stavros for dinner at Le Jules Verne, a dazzling restaurant atop the Eiffel Tower. Sigh. If only life had a fast forward button.

  Finally, the last breakfast tray had been served, which meant it was already time to clean up. Starting all over again at the front of the plane, I transformed into the best dressed janitor in the world, collecting crumpled napkins and other offensive trash. At the tail end of the nasty task, our pilot Charles announced that the plane was making its initial descent into Paris. I scurried to the stewardess section of the plane, buckling my seatbelt and preparing for landing.

  Robin’s freckled face was drained of her usual vibrant color as sweat continued to drip down her face. Gloomily, I wondered if there was some sort of virus going around. It wouldn’t be the first time the crew had gotten sick on a flight and spread the illness.

  “Are you okay, Robin? Do you need some water?” I asked soothingly.

  Feebly, she waved her hand at me. “No, I don’t need anything. Except a doctor! I think I’m about to pass out!”

  Chapter 1

  Two Hours Later

  Natalie & Robin’s Apartment in Paris

  Overlooking the fabled Seine River, our two bedroom apartment was a haven from the noise pollution of New York City and the incessant demands of serving grown up brats on board. Robin hadn’t passed out and upon landing changed her mind about seeing a doctor, feeling silly that she had overreacted. Judging from her ghostly complexion, though, I didn’t think she had overreacted at all.

  Unsteadily, Robin trudged up the flights of stairs to our third floor apartment. “I just need to lie down,” she said quickly as my eyes darkened with worry.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to call a doctor? Or take you to the emergency room?”

  “I’m sure. I don’t feel comfortable seeing a doctor in France. It’s not like being at home in New York,” Robin said wistfully.

  Wondering if the Brooklyn native was homesick, I suggested, “Maybe you should switch to a domestic airline so you don’t have to spend so much time in Europe.”

  “Or maybe I should quit being a flight attendant altogether!” She burst out. “I’m so sick of being hit on. Not just by the passengers but the crew too.”

  “I know what you mean. I’ve been thinking the same thing lately,” I sighed, holding Robin’s hand and leading her to her bedroom which faced the river. “Why don’t you just take a nap? I’m going to do the same.” I opened the window facing her bed so a fresh river breeze would cascade in and clear her head.

  “Good idea. I don’t think I’ve ever been so tired in my whole life.” Robin rubbed her brown eyes as though she couldn’t keep them open for another minute.

  “Just rest. I’ll be in the next room if you need anything,” I said, shutting the door and retreating to my own chamber.

  Entering my room, I groaned, realizing that I had forgotten to make my bed before flying home to New York. Too tired to clean up, I flopped onto the bed and pulled the crumpled polyester sheets up to my neck. Sleep must have come instantaneously because I don’t remember anything else after that blissful moment of collapsing onto the bed and drowning in unconsciousness.

  ***

  I awoke with a jumpy sensation in my veins, bolting upright and reading 5:30 pm on the digital clock on my nightstand. Clamoring out of bed, I stumbled into the shower, trying not to focus on the fact that I had exactly 90 minutes to get to the Eiffel Tower for my date with Stavros. Showering briskly, I let the hot water ease my tight muscl
es and the mango scented shampoo refresh my senses.

  Brushing my flowing raven hair in front of the mirror, I grimaced at the scarlet suit on the ottoman. If I never had to wear that thing again, I might just throw a block party and invite half of the sixth arrondissement. Dressing in a figure-conscious peacock blue dress and slipping into a pair of cushy sandals that were kind to my pinched feet, I envisioned the romance of meeting my Greek guitarist at the magnificently illuminated Eiffel Tower. The top of the world, or at least the top of my world for tonight.

  I tip-toed into Robin’s room to check on her before I left the apartment. The steady rise and fall of her chest from her quiet breathing told me that she was sleeping peacefully. Still wearing her scarlet suit, she resembled a slumbering child in her tranquil state. Satisfied that she would be okay on her own, I slung my purse over my shoulder and stepped out into an intoxicating April evening.

  ***

  With his grizzly black beard and penetrating walnut eyes, Stavros looked even more enchanting than when I had first glimpsed him on the plane. Waiting for me in the lobby of the restaurant with a single red rose in his hand, he bowed slightly as I hesitated, unaccustomed to receiving the royal treatment from men. Most of my dating life had taken place in yawn central Pennsylvania or manic-paced Manhattan. In my hometown, a date at a bowling alley wasn’t uncommon, and in New York City an informal meeting of dirty martinis and greasy appetizers was the norm. In neither place would I ever expect a man to plan such a lavish date as Stavros had.

  “Good evening, Natalie,” he drawled, just as polite as he had been on my flight. It was his civilized manners that had really caught my attention…well, in addition to his dark handsomeness.

  “Good evening, Stavros,” I replied shyly, accepting the rose that he handed to me. I felt like pinching myself. This wasn’t an episode of The Bachelor, and I wasn’t competing against 24 catty women for his attention. This evening was made exclusively for two.

  Over a delicious bottle of Côte du Rhône, we learned about each other’s histories from his first guitar lesson in Santorini to the day I had packed my bags and fled the Poconos. As gorgeous as my date was, I found my eyes roaming from his face to the spectacular panoramic views of Paris. I could drink in the entire picture like my glass of red wine, feeling as though I was floating on air into the glowing action of the starlit city.

  “I’m only in Paris for a week,” Stavros said intimately, reaching a large hand across the table.

  “Well, I’m only here for a weekend,” I countered, inwardly shuddering at the thought of getting back into my uniform in less than 48 hours and pampering a whole new crop of privileged flyers.

  “Then I must see you tomorrow night as well. We can explore Versailles, perhaps. I’ve performed several concerts there,” Stavros said invitingly in his subtle Greek accent.

  “That sounds nice,” I said calmly, even though my heart was racing with anticipation.

  Finishing our meals of shrimp quiche and salmon braised with cognac, we resisted a tempting dessert cart as I said, “Maybe we could have a cup of coffee at my apartment.”

  “Perfect,” Stavros replied with gleaming eyes as I winced, hoping he didn’t think he was going to get lucky. All I was offering was coffee and a little more conversation.

  We climbed into a taxi and headed back to my apartment as visions of Robin surfaced in my mind. I definitely needed to check on her again before sitting down to coffee with Stavros. Smoothly, the taxi deposited us in front of my apartment as Stavros offered his hand to help me out of the car.

  “My apartment’s on the third floor. And my roommate is there, but she won’t bother us. She wasn’t feeling well before, so I’m pretty sure she’s asleep,” I whispered as we ascended the stairs.

  “Who’s your roommate?” Stavros inquired.

  “Robin. She’s a stewardess too. Maybe you saw her on the flight when we met. She and I always fly the same route together.”

  “I don’t remember,” Stavros replied, shrugging.

  The apartment was deathly still as we walked inside and I switched on the lights. “Wait here a second. I’ll be right back,” I said, gesturing to the sofa so he would take a seat.

  “I’ll be here waiting, Natalie,” Stavros spoke seductively.

  Ignoring the presumptuous tone of the Grecian’s voice, I slipped down the hallway and knocked on Robin’s door. “Robin, are you still sleeping? I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

  No response. I knocked on the door a few more times, receiving no reply except for the echo of my own voice in the empty corridor. “She must still be sleeping,” I mumbled, pushing the door open a crack and peering inside.

  Robin lay motionless on the bed, apparently lost inside a profound sleep. Uneasily, I crept inside the room, feeling that she was abnormally frozen in place. “Robin?” I ventured, lightly touching her skin and recoiling in abject horror to find that she was stone cold.

  Chapter 2

  I dared to touch Robin’s clammy skin again, hoping unrealistically that a fever had caused her body to get the chills and go cold. But deep inside of me, I knew that my hand was touching a dead body. The thought made my stomach contract with fear and disgust as I ran out of the room, shaking like an earthquake had struck.

  “Stavros!” I screamed as he jumped up off the sofa in alarm.

  “What’s going on?” He asked with a furrowed brow.

  “My roommate…she…I just found her…I think she’s dead!” The choppy words sounded even more like a nightmare out loud.

  “Dead?! No, she must just be sleeping. Didn’t you say that she was feeling sick?” Stavros said reasonably as I shook my head frantically.

  “No, I’m sure that she’s dead! She’s so cold! Come and see!” I urged as he crossed his arms defensively across his chest.

  “I don’t want to see if there is a dead body in there. Listen, I have to get going…” His deep voice faded away as he rushed towards the door.

  “You’re just going to leave me here with a corpse?!” I sobbed, my fears swirling like a tornado.

  “This is too much for a second date,” Stavros muttered uncomfortably. “Goodbye Natalie.”

  Without another word, Stavros bolted out the door, leaving me standing in the middle of the living room with hot tears streaming down my face. I couldn’t believe that the man had abandoned me. What a coward! But I couldn’t focus on the cad; I needed to get in touch with the police and report Robin’s death.

  With jerky finger spasms, I dialed 112 (Paris’s version of 911) and sobbed my story in trembling French. “Au secours! My roommate is dead! I just found her in her bed! Please send police officers and an ambulance…please hurry! Elle est morte!”

  “What’s the address, Mademoiselle?” The dispatcher’s voice was eerily calm, but then again it was their job to stay in control.

  “189 Rue des Voiles, Apartment 3D on the third floor! Please hurry!” I begged, shivering violently as I recalled the iciness of Robin’s skin.

  “I’m sending someone right now,” the detached voice on the other end of the line assured.

  Breathing irregularly, I disconnected the call and huddled into myself on the sofa, rocking back and forth in a ball. How could a young, healthy woman of 28 die in her sleep? Did she have a preexisting heart condition that no one knew about? Had she eaten rotten food that made her sick? Could she have contracted some sort of strange, deadly virus? The endless possibilities made me sick as a timeline of memories flashed through my mind.

  Robin had been my greatest ally at Paris Rouge Airlines. She and I had become experts at fending off unwanted advances from lewd passengers. We had shared Chinese take-out at our shoebox apartment in New York after countless grueling international treks. I smiled, remembering how Robin had always eaten her fortune cookie first, reading her lucky numbers out loud and giggling like a little girl. And in Paris, we had become like sisters, exploring the city by métro and taking occasional daytrips to the Côte d’A
zur to relax on the beach when our schedules permitted. How could my sweet friend, roommate, and colleague be dead?

  Aggressive knocks on the door snapped me out of my reminiscing. I uncurled myself from my protective cocoon and hurried to admit the officers. Swinging the door open so eagerly that it nearly broke off its hinges, I gratefully looked at the duo of police officers who stood stern-faced at the door.

  “Please come in!” I said a little too loudly as the officers made their way through the door, followed by a small team of paramedics.

  “Where is the body?” A stocky, fair haired medical tech asked.

  “In the bedroom,” I replied with an audible swallow.

  The paramedics and one of the police officers headed to Robin’s bedroom while the other cop stayed with me in the living room. “I’m Detective LeRoi. Let’s have a seat and talk about what happened.”

  “Okay.” I sat down on the edge of the sofa, wringing my hands restlessly in my lap.

  “State your name for the record,” Detective LeRoi ordered, looking at me through beady green eyes.

  “Natalie McGleason,” I replied, trying to add a French twist to my name as I pronounced it.

  “You are American?”

  “Yes, but I live 50% of the time in Paris and the other half of the time in New York,” I replied.

  “And what is the victim’s name and your relationship to her?” The detective queried with a poker face of thin, poorly defined features.

  “Robin Yardley,” I said with a tremor in my voice. “She was one of my best friends. And my roommate. And we also worked together as flight attendants for Paris Rouge Airlines.”

  “How did you come to discover her body tonight, Mademoiselle McGleason?” Detective LeRoi continued to stare at me through unyielding eyes.

  I sighed and began, “Well, it’s a long story.” Proceeding to tell him about how Robin had felt dizzy on the flight from New York, I revealed every detail that my memory could recapture as the detective listened closely.