The Scarlet Suit Murder Page 3

  “No, I said, ‘I guess I need to get going.’”

  He probably thought he was being clever by manipulating the words, but I wasn’t fooled for an instant. And I wasn’t crazy either. I knew exactly what he had said. “You can deny it all you want, pilot. But I know what I heard.”

  “Okay Natalie, look, I really do need to get going. I have a meeting in less than an hour with some airline officials,” Charles said, already starting to back away from me.

  Alone on the Parisian sidewalk, I felt like everything was spinning around me. Cigarette smoke swept chokingly into my face while excited tourists clicked their digital cameras at every nondescript sight they passed. As the city whirred around me like a washing machine on spin cycle, I felt a stab of homesickness for the mountains. All too often homesickness assailed me. I longed to breathe the clean alpine air, see familiar faces on a daily basis, and fulfill the dream that I had tidily packed away in my luggage: owning a bed and breakfast. Serving people on solid earth had to be better than catering to them 20,000 feet in the sky. Instead of earphones in a plastic bag, I would dole out home cooked meals and turn-down service with chocolate mints slipped underneath pillows that didn’t reek of moth balls.

  Tucking away my dreams the way I always did, I walked aimlessly down the street, pondering what to do next. Meeting with my three colleagues had been uncomfortable but enlightening. Charles was definitely hiding something, and I needed to find out what it was. On a lark, I decided to crash the meeting he was attending with the airline officials. Meetings for Paris Rouge Airlines were usually held in the Beaubourg area of Paris, at the airline headquarters across from the Centre Georges Pompidou, a contemporary art museum.

  If I could grab a quick taxi ride, I figured I could slip discreetly into the meeting and corner Charles for a more detailed conversation. Gazing down at my ultra casual garb that bordered on sloppy, I frowned, knowing that I would be anything but discreet entering a business meeting. Enter Plan B. Instead of crashing the meeting, I could use my employee ID to access the building and then use one of the computers to track down a passenger list. If I could find out Stavros’s last name, then I could probably find him too. At least then I would have an alibi and could focus on finding Robin’s real killer.

  Satisfied that my idea was foolproof, I flagged down a taxi and tried to relax as the driver recklessly careened onto the jam-packed rush hour road. In slow motion, the cab crawled through Paris as I rolled down the window to inhale the scents of freshly baked bread and artisan pastries. Anything to get my mind off of Robin and the traumatizing memory of discovering her lifeless body in the scarlet suit. I wanted to take my own uniform and snip it to shreds with the sharpest pair of scissors I could find.

  My stomach rumbled as the cab driver pulled up to Paris Rouge Airlines HQ. Realizing that I hadn’t eaten since my date with Stavros, I searched my purse for a few coins to purchase an express breakfast from the lobby café. Breakfast, or petit-déjeuner, in France is generally an excuse to load up on sugary carbs. As the saying goes: when in Rome, do as the Romans do. Well, when in Paris, eat as the Parisians do. I selected an assortment of buttery mini rolls and a raspberry cream puff for a touch of sweetness.

  Scarfing down the pastries, I slipped into an elevator and headed to the fifth floor where the technology department was located. If I could just get ten minutes in front of the terminal of one of those computers, then I might be able to solve the mystery about Stavros so I could move on to the mystery that really mattered.

  Flashing my employee ID like an official badge, I made my way seamlessly past security and into a reception area lined with computer terminals. Most of them were occupied with staff members crouched over, their backs rounded and their eyes fused to the screens. Silently, I glided over to an unoccupied computer at the end of a row of cubicles. The terminal was switched on, making me wonder if the employee had just stepped away for a few minutes. The brass name plate on the desk revealed that the employee was Rachelle DeNeuve. Hopefully, she was a calm, cool, and understanding person who wouldn’t cause a scene.

  Frantically, knowing that I was working on borrowed time, I clicked onto a document folder and scanned the files. Most of them were dull spreadsheets with file names like Preliminary March Profits and Updated Employee Procedures. Completely useless to me. I had to keep snooping. Clicking on the Paris Rouge intranet, I skimmed the databases until one caught my eye: Passenger Records.

  My heart pounding, I opened up a new window, hoping that Rachelle DeNeuve was already signed into the database so I wouldn’t need a password. She was. My heart drummed even harder against my sternum as I typed the name Stavros into the search box. Apparently, my cowardly date wasn’t the only Stavros who had ever flown with Paris Rouge Airlines. Half a dozen men’s names appeared on the screen as I clicked on each one of them, hoping to eliminate them systematically based on date of birth.

  Stavros Bopolous. Born in 1969. Stavros the guitarist was older than me, but he couldn’t possibly be in his forties yet. Stavros Cefkas. I stifled a laugh as I read the year 1937. That one could be easily eliminated. The next name on the alphabetical list was Stavros Devlos, born in 1981. Holding dual Greek and French citizenship, this Stavros appeared to be the one. Just to be sure, I clicked on the remaining men’s names, eliminating all of them based on year of birth.

  Grabbing a pen and scrap paper from Rachelle’s desk, I scrawled down the name Stavros Devlos, along with his personal contact information. I knew that what I was doing would not only get me fired if I was caught, but also possibly jailed. Scribbling like a madwoman, I recorded every detail about Stavros that the database provided, including his passport numbers. There was no time to verify that he had recently flown on the airline. I had enough information to lead me to believe that this was no imposter. This was the man I had sat across the table with during the most romantic evening of my life that had somehow degraded into the most horrifying.

  Stuffing the scrap paper into my purse, I shot out of the swivel chair, ready to flee the building. Before I could take another step, a young, impeccably dressed woman with an auburn chignon blockaded my path.

  “Excusez-moi? Qu’est-ce que vous faites?” She demanded briskly.

  Um, what am I doing? Yes, just what am I doing? I tried and failed to come up with a quick, clever response. “Um, sorry, I thought this was my desk,” I mumbled stupidly.

  “Your desk?” She asked doubtfully. “Is your name Rachelle DeNeuve?”

  “No…”

  “No, that’s right, it couldn’t be. Because that’s my name! Now what were you doing spying at my computer?” Rachelle placed her hands on her hips and waited for an explanation.

  “I told you, I…”

  “You don’t work in this department. I’ve never seen you before. And you’re really not dressed for a day at the office.” She judgmentally appraised my slovenly attire.

  “Isn’t this the fourth floor?” I asked desperately.

  “This is the fifth floor,” Rachelle answered crisply.

  “Oh, well, my desk is on the fourth floor. I must have gone one level too high on the elevator! Need a cup of coffee…” I stammered, dashing in the other direction and taking the long way back to the elevator.

  Daring to look over my shoulder, I saw that Rachelle wasn’t following me. Maybe she actually believed my lie that I worked on the fourth floor. Or maybe she was about to call security…

  Either way, I needed to get out of the building faster than a bolt of lightning. Opting to race down the stairs rather than wait for the snail-paced elevator, I zipped up my purse so the information would stay secure until I needed it. Arriving at lobby level, I sighed with relief, feeling that I was home free.

  “Natalie? What are you doing here?”

  I stopped short with dread seeping into my bones. “Hi Charles,” I said nonchalantly, facing the pilot and trying to appear relaxed.

  “Were you invited to the meeting too?” He asked suspiciously.
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  “Um, no, I was just visiting an old friend who works in Accounting,” I told the bold-faced lie, certain that I would turn into Pinocchio by the end of the day if the untruths kept slipping from my lips.

  “Really?” Charles sounded highly skeptical.

  “Yup!” I said hurriedly, cutting the conversation off and rushing out of the building as Charles eyes burned into my backside like blackened barbeque skewers.

  ***

  Safely around the corner outside an old librairie (bookstore) I snatched the crumpled sheet of paper out of my purse. Somehow, I had managed to reproduce every nugget of information, including addresses in both Paris and Santorini. Hoping that Stavros was still at his Paris address, I waved at the next taxi that passed and ordered, “Take me to Rue de Soie, number 577. S’il vous plait!”

  The driver nodded curtly and stepped on the gas as I took a mental pause to reflect on what I was doing. If Stavros was at the address, then what would I say to him? And would I be safe there? He had shattered any modicum of trust I might have started to build in him the moment he abandoned me. Then again, he was such a fraidy cat that he’d probably be leerier of me and disconcerted that I had tracked him down. Based on the fact that he had never shared his phone number or last name, it was obvious that he didn’t want to be found. Well too bad! I needed him to corroborate my story that we were having dinner together when Robin died.

  Rue de Soie was located in a questionable part of Paris that I had never ventured to before. Far from the glamour of the Galeries Lafayette shopping district, the street was strewn with garbage and embellished with graffiti.

  “Could you wait for me here? I’ll pay extra,” I requested as the cabbie nodded and turned the radio up louder.

  The building that Stavros supposedly lived in was an apartment complex, but better classified as a tenement. Residents hung out the windows, shouting to each other in French slang and slamming water balloons to the ground. It was exactly the sort of place that a struggling musician would be expected to live. How he managed to pay for dinner at Le Jules Verne and travel between continents, I hadn’t a clue. Taking a deep breath, I glanced down at my paper, reading the number of Stavros’s apartment. Of course, it had to be on the top floor, so I would need to go deep into the belly of the building, climbing the stairs and praying that a water balloon would be the worst thing to hit me. I looked up towards the top floor and gasped, astonished to see Stavros staring directly down at me from his open window.

  Chapter 5

  No sooner had the visage of Stavros appeared in the window than it evaporated like a mirage. But no, it couldn’t have been a figment of my imagination! His face had been crystal clear, his rugged features carved in a steely expression that warned me not to come any closer. Why had he appeared so angry to see me? Perhaps it could be as simple as a man not wanting to be chased down by a woman. Maybe I had made him feel hunted. Or maybe it was something more sinister than that.

  Mustering a truckload of confidence, I ran into the building and flew up the stairs. Breathless by the time I reached Stavros’s floor, I paused just for an instant to wipe anxious sweat off my brow. Then I charged down the hallway and knocked on his door so loudly that surely the whole building could hear.

  “Stavros!” I hollered, not caring what the man thought of me. He was no longer a suitor, but a game piece that I needed to set into place in order to keep my reputation unblemished. “Stavros!” My fists banged against the hollow door. Pressing my ear against the door, I listened, trying to discern any sound inside. If I listened carefully enough, maybe I could hear the whisper of Stavros’s breath.

  But I heard nothing. The apartment was so quiet that I started to second guess myself and wonder if maybe my imagination had run a little wild. I was running on empty nutritionally, and my sleep had been marginal at best since departing New York. Maybe I had only conjured the image of his face in the hopes that he would be here. But that furious expression had seemed so real…

  Defeated, I retreated from the door, trying to remember which way I had come in. My desperation to reach Stavros had been so keen that I hadn’t even paid attention to where I was going. Randomly making a left down the hallway, I arrived at a different part of the building. A draft gusted through an open door, beckoning me to come closer and inspect it. Peering out the door, I saw that it led to a fire escape with a snaking set of black stairs that led to the street below. Stavros must have taken the fire escape to avoid seeing me! Why else would the door be wide open like that?

  Relieved that I wasn’t going bonkers after all, I carefully climbed down the fire escape, finding myself in the rear of the building facing an even shadier part of town. I turned around in circles, searching for any sign of Stavros. But all I saw were scruffy little boys kicking a soccer ball around and greasy men stomping cigarette butts into the ground. Either Stavros had gotten away in a vehicle, or he was an incredibly fast runner.

  Weighing my options, I walked around the building to the curb where my taxi was parked. I could simply forget about confronting Stavros and bring the information to the police. But then I would be forced to reveal my less than scrupulous methods of obtaining the private data. Alternatively, I could pursue Stavros until he eventually had to yield and talk to me. But that would be risky in a different way. I knew so little about the enigmatic Greek guitarist. He could have a violent streak, or he could report me to the police for harassing him. None of my options were appealing.

  Broodingly, I rode in the taxi, still looking around the neighborhood for Stavros but seeing only unfamiliar faces. Glancing at my watch, I noted that it was close to noon. I had only booked the hotel room for a night, and it was almost time to check out. Where would I go? Not back to my apartment/crime scene. And I couldn’t afford to spend another night in a hotel. Reaching for my cell phone, I dialed Annalise, saying a little prayer that she would help me.

  ***

  “Come in, Natalie! I should have invited you to stay with me as soon as you told me about Robin! You shouldn’t have had to ask,” Annalise said kindly, opening the door and relieving me of my overnight bag.

  “Thank you so much. You have no idea how much this means to me,” I whispered gratefully. “Should I take off my shoes?”

  “Yes, that would be nice,” Annalise replied, welcoming me into her parents’ palatial home. “But make yourself comfortable! My parents already know that you’ll be staying and they’re fine with it!”

  “I hope so. I really don’t want to impose.”

  “Stop it! After what has happened, you shouldn’t even think that way,” Annalise said softly, leading me through a gourmet chef’s kitchen with granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. “The guest room is this way.”

  “Your parents have a beautiful house,” I murmured.

  “Thanks,” Annalise chirped. “My dad is a financier at the Banque de France. He’s always working, but hopefully you’ll meet him later at dinner if he gets here on time,” Annalise explained as I immediately understood why her parents could afford such a regal home.

  “Why do you work such a hard job if your father has so much money?” I couldn’t resist posing the question, but I regretted it instantly, biting my lower lip as Annalise frowned thoughtfully. “Sorry, that was rude of me.”

  “No, it’s okay. Everyone always asks me that. Honestly, I just love to travel. Being a stewardess is hard, but the travel perks are so good. And I want to travel on my own, not with my father’s credit card if you know what I mean.”

  “I know exactly what you mean. That’s why I left home in Pennsylvania. To be independent,” I sighed, wishing for the thousandth time that I was sitting on the porch having tea and finger sandwiches with my mother while gazing up at a mountain summit.

  “Exactly. You understand,” Annalise said cheerfully. “Here’s your room.”

  I stepped inside a spacious guest suite equipped with a wood burning fireplace and writing desk. The room smelled of lavender potpourri, a w
orld away from the deplorable hotel room I had checked out of.

  “Beautiful,” I murmured. “Do you mind if I take a nap? I’m really beat.”

  “Of course not, go ahead! I’ll knock on your door when dinner’s ready!” Annalise said agreeably, gently shutting the door behind her.

  Tumbling onto the quilt-covered bed, I pressed my nose into the pillow, smelling faint aromas of lilacs and lilies. Mmmmm. Momentarily, I descended into a much needed sleep that was far more like a coma than a power nap.

  ***

  Gentle knocking at the door awakened me as I stretched luxuriantly and leisurely called out, “Come in!”

  Annalise popped her head through the door and announced, “Dinner’s ready! But my parents aren’t going to be joining us. They called and said they have plans to meet friends.”

  “So it’s just you and me?” I guessed, feeling immensely relieved. Making polite small talk with strangers was the last thing I felt like doing.

  “You and me and a couple of other people,” she said mysteriously before disappearing down the hallway.

  Other people? I groaned inwardly, wondering who the little sprite had invited. I thought she understood how raw my emotions were regarding Robin. Why would she invite other people to dinner? But I couldn’t complain. It was free room and board. And it was vastly superior to staying in a seedy hotel.

  Freshening up in the powder room, I tried to make myself look more presentable. Swiftly, I changed from my odorous sweats into a clean pair of jeans and scoop necked violet top. Brushing my onyx tresses until they gleamed, I headed towards the dining room, ready to face whoever was there.

  “Oh there you are, Natalie!” Annalise called. “Come on, we’re sitting down right now.”

  “Great!” I replied, breathing in the salty aroma of French onion soup and cheesy croutons.

  The oblong dining table was set for a party of four. Seated at the head of the table was Annalise. At her left and right, respectively, were two people I neither expected nor wanted to see.