trusting him. But, I mean, do you think I can trust him? Damn, this monogamy thing is so hard.'
Tell me about it. 'If he says she doesn't mean anything to him, then she doesn't.'
'But what if she does?'
I was about to give the 50/50 trust speech for the second time today when my cell rang from the depth of my purse. I fished around and looked down at the readout. Mom.
'Where have you been?' I asked, hitting the on button.
Only there was no response. Just breathing.
'Mom?'
More breathing.
I rolled my eyes and hit the off button. Love my mom as I do, she was not the most technologically advanced person on the planet. When she'd first gotten her cell last year, she'd insisted on shouting every conversation through it. I wouldn't be surprised if a compact in her purse had hit the speed dial.
I waited a beat, then called her number back. It rang four times, then went to a recording.
'Hi this is Betty. I'm either not available or screening my calls and you didn't make the cut.'
I rolled my eyes.
'Please leave a message.'
A loud beep sounded in my ear and I did, informing her that her purse had just called me, then hung up.
Wherever she was I hoped she as having a better day than I was.
A completely futile wish, as I was about to find out.
Chapter Seventeen
After dinner, I went back to the workroom where Jean Luc ran everyone ragged until long after the sun had set. At which point Dana and I took a cab back to the hotel, dragging ourselves through the lobby. It was sparsely populated at this time of night, but I noticed Pierre on duty still.
'Don't they ever let you sleep?' I asked.
Though he didn't seem to mind being on duty again. He wore a big smile across his features and his eyes held a look that could only be called a twinkle. Even his bald head seemed to shine extra brightly this evening.
He turned and gave me a smile that was all teeth. 'Ah, Mademoiselle Springer. What a lovely evening, no?'
Honestly, I'd had better.
'You're in a good mood,' I answered instead.
He did a deep, contented sigh. '
I felt a frown settling between my brows. 'Mrs. Rosenblatt isn't in yet?' I asked.
He shook his head. 'I have not seen her.' Another big grin.
I admit, I was beginning to get worried. It wasn't like Mom to just disappear like that.
My concern must have shown on my face, because Pierre asked, 'You want me to call their room,
I shook my head. 'No, no I'll call later. Listen, I was wondering if you could tell me if you have a Charlie registered as a guest here?' I asked. I know there were a dozen hotels in a two block radius he could have been staying at, but I was beginning to get desperate.
Pierre hit a button on his keyboard. 'But of course. This Charlie's last name?' he asked, his fingers poised expectantly.
'Well, that's kind of part of the problem. I don't exactly know.'
A frown puckered his features. 'Oh.'
'See, he was a friend of the murdered girl, Gisella.'
'Ah. Well, I'm sorry, but our database is arranged according to last name. There's no way to tell if Charlie is registered or not without a last name.'
Damn. So much for my last resort. 'Thanks anyway for looking.'
'Any time,' he said, waving as I walked off.
I rode the elevator up to the seventh floor alone, then paused outside Mom's door. I knocked. No answer. I opened it, then peeked my head inside.
'Hello?' I asked.
No response. I flipped on a light and walked in. It was impossible to tell how long they'd been gone, the beds made with military precision by housekeeping. Though, I noticed that both Mom's clunky old orange Samsonite and Mrs. R's pink polka dotted suitcase were still in the room. They hadn't packed for a long trip. I ducked into the bathroom and saw the multitude of moisturizers, eye rebuilding creams and anti wrinkle serums Mom used every night still sitting on the counter. There was no way Mom would go anywhere overnight without those things.
Maybe we'd just been missing each other?
I sat down on the bed and called her number again. Straight to voicemail this time. I left a message saying I was starting to worry, could she please call me back.
Sadly, I think was starting to sound a little like my mother.
I tried to think back to when the last time I'd seen her was. It had been… yesterday? Before Dana and I had gone to Milan. I glanced around the room again, trying to find any clue that Mom and Mrs. R had been here since then. But, thanks to fastidious housekeepers, if there had been a clue, it was gone now.
With an uneasy feeling, I switched off the light and left the room, trying to tell myself that Mom was a big girl. She could take care of her self. More than likely, she and Mrs. R were just having the time of their lives exploring Paris. Probably they'd found some French karaoke club. Who knows, maybe Mrs. R had even found some nice French guy who liked muumuus.
I shut the door behind myself, promising that I'd check in again first thing in the morning, and went next door to my own room. I took a long, hot shower and popped two pain pills in my mouth, the effects of the day taking its toll on my leg.
But as I lay in bed, my wet hair wrapped up in a towel, I couldn't sleep. Maybe because I'd slept past noon that day, or maybe because of the anxiety of the next day's coming show, or the hollow disappointment of not having my own shoes to show.
I rolled over and looked at the phone beside my bed.
I wondered if Ramirez was back home in L.A. yet. Maybe still on a plane somewhere over the Atlantic? Was he thinking about me? Wondering what I was doing? Did he even care what I was doing anymore?
I bit my lip and picked up the phone in the darkness. I dialed the first three digits of his cell number.
Then hung up.
No. I was not calling. I had done all I could. I had apologized, explained. I'd laid it all out there. Now it was his turn. I was not going to be the one to make contact first.
Only, what if he never made contact?
I stared at the phone again. What if he was waiting for me to call? What if he wasn't sure I wanted him to call? I had been a little mad this afternoon. Maybe I should call just to let him know that it was okay for him to call?
I lifted the receiver again, and this time got all the way through his number and heard it ring twice before hanging up.
I scrunched my eyes shut, rubbing my balled fists into them. Damn. I was such a chicken!
And, worse then that, I realized his cell would show a missed call from me. Great. He'd see I'd called and hadn't left a message. What kind of message would that send?
I figured I'd better call back and at least explain the hang up. You know, so he didn't think I'd dialed, then chickened out and hung up. (Never mind that was exactly what I'd done.)
I picked up the phone a third time and dialed his number. It rang three times, then went to voicemail.
