Murder Below Montparnasse - By Cara Black Page 0,94
champagne, and then reached into Svetla’s jacket pocket. The cell phone was gone. Only silver-foiled breath mints came back in her hand. She scanned the room again, noting the chair, the desk, the telephone. But fancy hotels often had phones in the bathroom.
“Chilled and perfect,” Aimée said, walking in. She popped the cork and set the champagne on the edge of the tub, beside Svetla’s phone. Apparently it never left her side.
“Get in.”
Aimée grinned. “I still have everything on. Champagne glasses?”
“Grab a tooth mug by the sink.”
She poured, careful to spill on Svetla’s phone. “Zut … desolée. Let me dry it.”
Aimée reached for a towel from over the tub. “Hear that?”
But Svetla grabbed her and stuck Aimée’s hand on her soapy nipple.
“They’re calling me with the party location,” Aimée said, a tremble in her shoulders. “Oops, let me dry this off. I’ll be right back.”
Before Svetla could get out of the marble tub, she’d closed the door, tied the handle with her scarf, and knotted it to the gilt chair and braced it before the door. If Svetla pulled, the pressure would jam the door tighter against it. Then she tugged the small dresser and wedged it in place.
Aimée hoped that Svetla would take a while to figure out how to unscrew the gold-plated door hinge. Figured it would hold her for fifteen minutes. Unless the scarf tore—she doubted Hermès had intended it for this kind of work. She grabbed the belt from Svetla’s jeans and fastened it around the doorknob. Yelling and pounding came from inside.
“Bitch! I’m calling hotel security!” Aimée heard the whacks of what sounded like a hair dryer against the wood. Good thing four-star hotels supplied strong wood doors.
“Do that and you lose your job, Svetla.” Aimée flicked on the ringer switch. Two missed calls from Marina. “What’s Marina’s room number?”
“You’ll die, bitch.”
“Try to act helpful.”
“Marina calls and checks on me,” she yelled. “If I don’t answer—”
“Then I’ll tell her she needs a new bodyguard. What did Tatyana tell Marina about the painting?”
“Painting? I don’t know.”
Liar. Svetla had sat beside them in the bar, in the limo—she’d heard everything. “Forget a bonus from your employer if you don’t warn her. Tatyana’s a fraud. Isn’t your job to anticipate and avoid issues?”
“Tatyana’s a wannabe, an amateur,” Svetla yelled. “Marina’s bored. Laughs behind her back.” More loud banging on the door.
“What about the painting?” Keep her talking.
Aimée scooped up Svetla’s jeans and jacket, unplugged the room phone, and threw it all in the dressing room with the rest of her clothes. She locked the door and put the key in her pocket. That should give her a few more minutes.
Scraping metallic noises came from the bathroom as Svetla worked the hinges. Tweezers from her manicure set? Merde. She should have taken Svetla’s toiletry bag.
“Tell me about the painting,” Aimée said.
“Painting for paper museum?” A laugh. “Good luck.”
She wondered what that meant. “Paper museum? Explain. One more chance to tell me, Svetla,” she said.
“I kick your butt first,” Svetla yelled. The door rattled.
No doubt she would. In Svetla’s jeans pocket, she’d found two hotel key cards. But no room numbers.
Aimée let herself out and hung a DO NOT DISTURB sign from the handle. Even with Svetla’s racket, no staff would dare open it. One of the key cards opened Svetla’s room. The other must be for Marina’s.
She hit Marina’s number. On the tenth ring, the diva’s slurred voice answered. “Da?”
“Madame Bereskova, Svetla gave me her phone. It’s important.”
“What you mean? Who is this?”
“What’s your room number? Svetla’s gone and you’re in trouble.”
“You the Parisienne shopping girl?”
“Mais oui. What’s your room number?”
“I don’t know … Dmitri know.”
“Where’s Dmitri?”
“What trouble?”
Aimée’s ballet slippers sank in the plush carpeted hallway as she tried the key card in the door across the hall. No luck. Her stomach clenched. Three doors down, the key card lit up the green light and buzzed her in.
Vases of lilies, a fruit basket, and several champagne bottles littered the suite. Some full, most empty. Marina, her smeared mascara and black sequin top clashing with her pink flannel pajama pants, sat cross-legged on the bed. She flipped channels with the remote.
“Drink Bollinger? Then we go shopping, da?”
“All the boutiques are closed, Marina,” Aimée said.
“Dmitri make them open. He can. Opened Harrods once like for Queen.”
“The way he’s buying a Modigliani of Lenin for his museum?”
Marina drank a flute of champagne. Handed Aimée one. “Lenin, schmenin,” she said, clinking Aimée’s flute with her own.