The Scarlet Suit Murder Page 5

  Other than for some brief turbulence, the flight was blissfully uneventful and we made a smooth landing at JFK. Standing like an upright ironing board, I stiffly wished the disembarking passengers a pleasant stay in New York. Once the plane had been emptied, I cornered Charles as he undid the first few buttons of his shirt and exhaled with relief.

  “Charles? Can I talk with you?” I asked, handing the exhausted pilot a bottle of spring water.

  “Thanks,” he clipped, accepting the bottle. “Do you really need to talk now? I just want to get off this plane already.”

  “Yes, we all do,” I replied. “But I really need to talk to you.”

  “Is it about Robin?” He asked warily, taking a big gulp of water.

  “Yes! Look, Charles, I don’t know what’s eating you up inside, but you’ve got to let it out. It’s so obvious that something is bothering you.” Stepping closer so he could feel the fanning of my breath, I demanded in a low tone, “What do you know?”

  “I don’t know anything,” he declared with finality. “And I don’t have time to talk. My brother is picking me up at baggage claim. Today is our parents’ 45th wedding anniversary, and we’re having a big party at the Waldorf.”

  “That sounds expensive,” I commented, wondering how Charles could afford to throw such a lavish bash on a pilot’s modest salary.

  “Yeah, well my brother works on Wall Street. That’s what I should have done with my life! But no, I had to fly planes!” Charles exclaimed bitterly as I wondered if I should add him to the list of soon-to-be former employees of Paris Rouge Airlines. He could quit if he wanted to. The whole airline could shut down for all I cared, but not before I found out the truth of what happened to Robin…and uncovered how Charles was intertwined with the tragedy.

  Chapter 8

  One Week Later

  Like a merry-go-round without the merriment, I was once again back in Paris. Charles had remained unreachable on his cell phone during the week in New York, and I hadn’t been in contact with any of my other colleagues. The week had evaporated into a milky haze as I strode the crowded streets of Manhattan, feeling more alienated with every passing hour. Dreams of returning to Pennsylvania had carried me through the isolated week in the concrete jungle. The Big Apple’s fruit tasted increasingly sour as I penned my letter of resignation and emailed it to a hierarchy of superiors. Back in Paris for another 48 hour stint, all I wanted to do was permanently pack up the apartment I had shared with Robin and dodge any further inquisitions from Detective LeRoi.

  I shivered with dread as the taxi deposited me at my apartment by the Seine. Annalise was supposed to meet me there at noon to provide moral support, but at the moment I was on my own. Slowly ascending the stairs, I noticed the crime scene tape surrounding our unit and eagerly got out of the building. Heading down the street, I went in search of an energizing cup of coffee.

  Sitting inside the bustling café with a cup of espresso cradled between my hands, I wondered if a court date would be in my future. Or maybe even two court dates. One for Stavros’s ridiculous restraining order and the other for Robin’s murder. Drowning my fears in the potent French roast, I tried to distract myself with a little people watching. Gazing out the café window, I watched as loving couples strolled by, as enamored with each other as they were with the romantic city. As I tried not to focus on how lonely I was, a familiar figure rushed past the café.

  Frantically, I shot out of my chair, determined to come face to face with the dunce who had filed a restraining order against me. I took longer strides to keep up with Stavros as he plowed down the rue. He was traveling so fast that I suspected he might have seen me and was trying to avoid me. But I wouldn’t let him slip away again. I was already in trouble with the law and Stavros had already pegged me as a deranged stalker. What did I have to lose?

  “Stavros!” I shouted as he accelerated his pace, toppling over a table where a florist was selling spring bouquets.

  “Merde! Come back here!” The livid florist screamed, but Stavros kept running as I chased him.

  “Stavros!” My voice was breathless and my chest ached from exertion.

  Channeling all my power and endurance, I ran so fast that even a cheetah wouldn’t be able to escape me. Finally catching up to Stavros, I planted myself in front of him and blocked his way.

  “Why are you running away from me? And why did you report me to the police?” I demanded, wheezing for breath.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Stavros said slowly as though he were talking to a madwoman.

  Granted, I hadn’t made myself look very sane by showing up outside his apartment…or racing him down a street in broad daylight…but I wasn’t a psychopath. I just needed answers. Now.

  “I’m not trying to stalk you. I’ve just been trying to talk to you so you can confirm my alibi to the police. You’ll never hear from me again if you just tell the police that I was with you when my roommate died,” I promised, my breathing still harsh in my own ears.

  “Why should I do that?” Stavros asked impudently.

  “Because the detective thinks I had something to do with my roommate’s death! And I didn’t! I was with you having dinner at the Eiffel Tower. Why won’t you help me?” I wanted to grab the man by the collar and shake him.

  “How do I know you didn’t kill her before having dinner with me?” Stavros asked suspiciously.

  “What?! That’s crazy!”

  “No, YOU are crazy. I don’t know you at all. We only had two dates. How do I know that you didn’t poison your roommate?” Stavros asked as I flinched.

  “Poison her?” I whispered in shock. “She was poisoned? How did you know that?” Suddenly, the tables were turned, and I was the one feeling suspicious.

  “Her autopsy results were published in the newspaper today,” Stavros replied without blinking.

  “And how do you know they’re her results? I only told you her first name, not her last name,” I continued, my suspicions growing.

  “Yes, you said her name is Robin. That’s not a common name in France. How many women named Robin died in Paris this past week? I would guess just one,” Stavros replied sardonically.

  “Okay, that’s true,” I muttered.

  “Natalie, there you are!” Charles called to me, jogging down the block.

  Coming face to face with Stavros, he gave the Grecian a dark, disgusted look. Without warning, Stavros started running again, dodging a maze of vendors and cannon balling across the street as I stared after him in bewilderment. Turning to Charles, I searched his face for clues.

  “Do you know that man?” I asked.

  “Do you?” Charles countered.

  “I went out on two dates with him, but I definitely don’t know him,” I replied firmly. “Why did you look at him that way?”

  “What way?”

  “Damn it, Charles!” I swore, my inner thermometer on the brink of bursting into flames. “What do you know?!”

  “Actually, I was trying to find you at your apartment to talk to you, but the crime scene tape is blocking everything,” Charles said awkwardly. “But if that creep is a friend of yours, there’s no way I can tell you anything.”

  “He is not a friend of mine. If anything, he’s an enemy. He refuses to be my alibi for the police even though he was with me when Robin died,” I said sullenly.

  “I have to go,” Charles mumbled, racing down the street in the same direction that Stavros had taken.

  “Charles!” I yelled. “Wait a second!”

  As Charles hopped into a taxi cab and sped away, I knew there was no way I could catch him. Where was he going? Was he going to confront Stavros? How did the two know each other? The questions multiplied like fleas as I walked to the nearest newsstand, purchasing a copy of the day’s paper.

  Flipping through the French newspaper past the press releases about the Tour de France cycling competition to be held in July and the reviews of the latest cabaret shows, I found a short article detailing Robin’s death.
The article translates as follows:

  Robin Yardley, a 28 year old American flight attendant employed by Paris Rouge Airlines, was found dead on April 17th in her riverfront apartment. The death has been ruled a homicide. Autopsy results indicate the causes of death to be acute antifreeze poisoning and asphyxiation. Police are requesting that citizens with any information regarding the homicide come forward immediately.

  Choking with emotion, I contemplated what the article had revealed; Robin’s death had dual causes. The first cause, poisoning, would explain why she had felt ill on the plane. The second cause, asphyxiation, meant that someone had been inside our apartment while I was having dinner with Stavros. And that someone had suffocated her to death.

  Struggling to wrap my mind around these shocking revelations, I stood immobile with the paper clutched between trembling fingers. Now more than ever, I needed to speak with Charles and find out what on earth he knew about Robin’s death. Maybe he was even the murderer himself. I shuddered at the thought. Whoever the murderer was, one thing was clear: Robin had been killed by someone who was on the flight from New York to Paris. The question “how” had finally been answered. Now I just needed to focus on the “who” and “why.”

  ***

  Crouching in the chandelier-lit corridor of Charles’ apartment building, I felt like I had traded in a career in flight for one in espionage. Ignoring the stares of Charles’ neighbors who unceremoniously stepped over me on the carpet, I grasped the newspaper like it was solid gold. Charles couldn’t run away from me this time. Once he returned to his apartment, I would force him to look at the facts and then reveal what knowledge he had regarding them.

  Patiently, I waited, prepared to camp out in the hallway until sunset if necessary. I closed my eyes, sinking into the plush carpet and daydreaming about the great outdoors. I had gone from the stinky interior of a plane to the ornate but suffocating environment of an apartment complex. Suffocating. I winced as the word echoed in my mind. Who could be heartless enough to suffocate sweet Robin to death?

  As the possibilities tossed like ocean waves in my head, I reached another conclusion: whoever had poisoned Robin on the plane had probably also been the one to finish her off. Maybe the murderer had thought that Robin would have died in flight from the antifreeze poisoning. But when Robin merely felt sick, the murderer had to try another tactic. But why? Why? The unanswered question swarmed maddeningly around me like a distorted reflection in a house of mirrors.

  I almost jumped out of my skin as a baritone voice muttered, “Do I need to get a restraining order against you too?”

  Chapter 9

  Meeting Charles’ glacial gaze felt like skinny dipping in Antarctica. Involuntary chills pulsed through me as I mimicked his wintry stare. “So you did chase after Stavros?” I surmised.

  “Excuse me?”

  “How else would you know that there was a restraining order against me? And don’t even try to deny it. You’re a really bad liar, Charles,” I instigated, hoping his temper would blow up and lead him to expose his cache of information.

  “Stavros and I had some business to discuss,” Charles informed brusquely.

  “How do you know him?” I grated out the question, not expecting an answer, but hoping to throw some more combustible fuel into Charles’ fire. “Come on, pilot,” I taunted. “How do you know him? Dirty dealings? Money laundering? Fake passports? What’s the deal?”

  “It’s not what you think, Natalie,” Charles replied with his hands balled into fists.

  I shrank back an inch or two, hoping he would slam those fists into the wall and not me if he became too incensed. “If it’s not what I think, then what is it? Obviously it’s something,” I chided as Charles color reddened to the shade of my despised stewardess uniform.

  “Stavros just needs to keep his hands to himself, that’s all,” Charles answered tensely.

  Perplexed, I asked, “What does that mean?”

  “You should know. You went out with him. He’s very aggressive with the women.”

  “He wasn’t aggressive with me,” I argued, feeling lost in a forest with a road map of Milwaukee.

  “Well he was with Christine,” Charles muttered bitterly, searching his pants pocket for a key and opening the apartment door.

  “Christine!” I echoed as Charles slammed the door in my face, audibly dead bolting the lock.

  Frozen, I stood in the hallway, wondering what had transpired between Christine and Stavros…and why Charles would care. The only explanation was that Charles and Christine were lovers. Why else would he care about who she dated? Thinking back to the dinner at Annalise’s, I recalled how the interaction between Christine and Charles was very strained. They had behaved almost like a bickering married couple.

  Scurrying down the hall, I scrambled to the ground floor and hailed a taxi at the curbside. Charles could lock himself up for now, but he had only begun talking. I just needed someone to help me pull the puppet strings and manipulate him into blurting out every last detail.

  Ten minutes later, the cab dropped me off outside Annalise’s sprawling family home. Knocking on the door, I hoped she was home. The investigation had veered off onto a detour, and I wasn’t about to make a U-turn.

  “Natalie! Hi! Come in,” Annalise said warmly.

  Forgoing the formalities, I shoved the newspaper into her hands. “Read this, Annalise. It’s Robin’s autopsy results.”

  “Oh, I don’t want to read it. It’s too gruesome! I can’t even watch horror movies!”

  Rapidly losing patience, I urged, “Don’t be a baby. Just read it and tell me what you think.”

  Gingerly, she unfolded the newspaper and pursed her lips distastefully as she read the blurb. “Ah mon Dieu!” She exclaimed after finishing.

  “I know, it’s shocking, isn’t it?” I murmured.

  “Yes! Someone tried to kill her twice? But that’s crazy!” Annalise raved as I felt a twinge of guilt for upsetting her with the article. But she needed to know what had happened to Robin. She also needed to know the incriminating tidbit Charles had let slide.

  “Do you think Charles and Christine are…involved?” I asked delicately.

  Instead of seeming aghast with scandal, Annalise regarded me knowingly. “Yes, of course, Natalie. Everyone knows that.”

  “What?! Everyone knows that! Are you kidding me?”

  “Your head is always in the clouds daydreaming about Pennsylvania and a bed and breakfast. But anyone paying attention could see that Christine and Charles are lovers,” Annalise said as though she were trying to explain basic addition to a Kindergartner.

  “I can’t believe this. Did Robin know too?”

  “Probably. But I never discussed it with her. I never discussed it with anyone. It’s just one of those things that are obvious, but you don’t need to talk about,” Annalise explained softly.

  Totally blindsided, I thought how outrageous it was that Christine had apparently been involved with both a pilot and passenger. Reeling, I put the issue aside and focused on the more pressing concern. “What about the antifreeze poisoning? Did you see Robin drink anything on the plane? I asked Christine whether she had given Robin any aspirin or anything, and she said no.”

  “Right. She didn’t give Robin any aspirin. But she did fix her a drink before take off,” Annalise said casually before slapping her hand over her mouth. “Mon Dieu! No!”

  “Christine fixed Robin a drink?” I repeated expectantly, desperate for Annalise to finish shading in the blanks.

  “Yes, she did! I remember Robin was a little nervous when we boarded in New York. But I don’t know why she was nervous. Even though it’s against policy, Christine offered to fix her a rum and Coke.”

  “Alcohol? Christine served Robin alcohol?” I exclaimed in disbelief. “Why didn’t you report her? Christine would have been fired on the spot.”

  “Exactly. And so would Robin. I didn’t want to get them in trouble. So Robin drank the rum and Coke…every dro
p of it,” Annalise finished with dread.

  “If the antifreeze was in the rum and Coke that Christine served, then we know who killed Robin. But why?” I still couldn’t figure out a clear motive even though I felt that I had nailed the identity of the murderer.

  “I don’t know,” Annalise replied blankly.

  “Annalise, you need to come with me. To Charles’ apartment. I think he’ll be able to explain.” I took her hand and tried to lead her out of the house, but she resisted.

  “Natalie, I don’t want to get involved! Can’t we just tell Detective LeRoi how I saw Christine give Robin a drink and then we can let him handle it?”

  “No! I’m not leaving this in the detective’s hands. I’m going to figure it out and get justice for Robin. Are you with me?” I stood halfway between the door and the threshold as she reluctantly followed.

  ***

  Knowing that Charles would be appalled to see me at his doorstep again, I nudged Annalise to stand in front of me and knock on his door. Timidly, she tapped on the door, chewing on her lips nervously as male footsteps pounded closer.

  “Annalise,” Charles said haltingly.

  Pushing Annalise inside, I quickly wriggled in front of her, catching Charles off guard. Yanking Annalise inside his apartment, I boldly shut the door and barricaded it with my body.

  “Natalie!” He said furiously. “That’s it, I’m calling the police!”

  “No, don’t!” Annalise begged. “She’s only trying to help. And so am I.”

  “Did you see the autopsy results?” I inquired.

  “No, and I have no intention of seeing them.” He sliced his reply with an indignant blade.

  “Well you’re going to see them,” I declared, slapping the newspaper against his chest as he glowered at me.

  “Natalie was poisoned first. And then she was suffocated,” I said as his eyes skimmed the paper.

  “And Christine prepared a rum and Coke for Robin on the plane before we took off from New York,” Annalise softly interjected.