AL07 - Murder on the Ile Saint-Louis

A loud voice filled the courtyard. “No one leave the building, please.” She looked back, saw blue uniforms. Talk about fast response! But since the nearby bomb threats, they were on high alert.

The third door opened. She ran inside a vestibule where hanging coats and damp umbrellas leaned against the paneled walls. The next door, was locked, too. She took off her wet heels and found her red high-tops, emergency footwear, in her bag and laced them up. The door scraped opened.

Voices and dense cigarette smoke emanated from the next room.

“Entrez,” someone said. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

Before she could stuff her wet shoes into her bag and leave, a man’s face appeared at the door.

“Aaah, you’re changing. But we’ve only got five minutes. You’re the last one.”

She nodded.

“After you,” he said, gesturing her inside. “Here, I’ll take your things.”

“Wait . . .”

But he’d taken her shoes and the bag with her laptop and gone ahead.

Nothing she could do but walk in, make an excuse, and retrieve her bag.

Bright lights and a haze of cigarette smoke hit her.

“Mademoiselle, if you don’t mind,” another voice said. “Go to the right.”

She turned.

“Non, face right. Bon.”

She felt like a deer caught in the headlights.

A murmur of voices: “ . . . tall enough, what’s with the shoes? Non, it’s eclectic . . . androgynous look . . . too skinny?”

She could distinguish several heads through the haze of smoke and the burning orange tips of cigarettes.

“Dip, please.”

What the hell did that mean?

“From the knees, please.”

She took a step and tripped. An arm caught hers.

“We’re making a video, not auditioning for a clown act, Mademoiselle.”

What?

She bent her knees and kept her back straight, afraid to bump into anything else.

“Now lower, more decolletage!”

A porn video? They wouldn’t see much of her in this agnes b. spaghetti-strap dress. She bent and thrust her chest out while peering through the haze for another door.

“Now jump in place once, then run over there—make space for her, please—as if you’re afraid.”

At this moment, that wouldn’t require her to act.

Someone pounded on the door.

She jumped higher than she’d intended, heard the table vibrate when she landed, then kept running.

“Over here,” someone said. She found herself by a group of women sitting on the edge of a small stage. Some filed their nails; one thumbed a Marie Claire magazine. All wore foundation, black eye makeup, and had platinum or dirty-blonde hair reaching below their shoulders.

A number was thrust at her.

“We’re ready. Mount the stage, please, Mesdemoiselles.”

She followed them, out of place except for the number that she—like the rest of them—held. Unlike the others, she had dark spiky hair, wore no heels, and had no decolletage to speak of. They stood on the stage like a lineup of Barbie dolls; she was the black sheep.

“One last dip, please.”

What was with this dip?

She watched the others, mimicked them, and thrust her chest out even more. Several men had entered the room. She heard the static of a walkie-talkie. The flics.

She was caught in bright lights on stage.

“Number 13.”

She waited for one of the women to step forward. Looked around behind her for a door. Saw a red lighted EXIT sign. But she needed her bag with her laptop, and the man had taken it!

“Number 13!”

“That’s you,” the blonde woman next to her hissed. And she shoved Aimee forward.

“We need to question everyone,” a flic was saying.

Her hands shook.

The man who’d taken her bag clutched her arm and guided her to the table, behind which several men were seated. She saw a pile of whips and jackets on the chair. “I’m cold, do you mind?” Without waiting for a reply, she pulled the closest jacket to her—a hand-stitched feathered brocade affair further adorned with a vintage diamante brooch—and slipped her arms into the sleeves.

“Your portfolio’s not here,” said a man at the table.

The flics stood in a circle by the strobe lights. “Auditions, I told you,” a tall man was saying. “We’ve been here all afternoon, Officer. We rent this room by the hour. Now can we get back to work, eh?”

“Who’s your agent?” the man asked her.

Aimee thought quickly. “Her card’s in my bag. Can I have it?” She beamed her brightest smile at him. “I just switched to a new agency.”

Her eyes stung from the smoke and the glare of the lights. Someone thrust her bag and shoes into her lap. She dug into her card case, picked one of her aliases with a Saint Germain address, and handed it to him.

“If you’ll assemble everyone in the courtyard,” the flic said, annoyance in his voice. “It won’t take long.”

They’d have a crowd to question with the actors, the women at the audition, and the crew. Before they could proceed, they would try to contain the possible witnesses while waiting for the medical examiner.

“I’ll be in touch,” the man with the tousled hair said, his gaze skimming her legs.

I bet you will, she thought.

“Feel like an aperitif?” he asked.

Fluff from the feather edging on the jacket got in her eyes and she blinked.

“Love to,” she smiled. Glanced at her watch. Shrugged. “But”—she leaned forward—“this will take forever.”

He turned around. “Merde!”

She grabbed her tube of Stop Traffic Red and swiped it across her lips.

“Unless we go out the back door.” She licked her lips.

He grinned. “Bet you look good in just feathers.”

“I need to make a list,” the flic was saying, “Everyone who’s here. Get your things, ladies.” A flic gestured to them. “You two, now.”

She lingered at the back of the line filing out, trying to catch the eye of the man with the tousled hair. But the flic clapped him on the shoulder and guided him to the front of the line. So much for her hope to use him as cover. What could she do? She leaned down as if to pick up her bag, got onto her hands and knees, and crawled under the table. She could see several pairs of black-stockinged legs and two pairs of solid police brogues just beyond her nose.

The damn feathers kept coming off. She was molting. She crawled sideways, thankful for the dim light. If she could just reach the stage curtains and get behind them . . .

“Wasn’t there another one?” a flic asked.

She reached for the loose change in the bottom of her bag and pitched the coins out onto the floor. They hit the surface, then rolled.

“Et alors, someone dropped a purse,” a voice said.

Heads ducked, eyes focused on the coins, and she crab-walked behind the curtains. She stood against the wall and pulled the dusty curtains around her, trying to cover her toes.