Dancing with Paris (A Paris Time Travel Romance) Page 6

  And as the musicians picked up the pace and I belted a high note into the microphone, I suddenly felt a oneness with Ruby I hadn’t yet experienced since I’d arrived here. For that brief moment, I didn’t feel separated from her, but instead felt for certain that I had been Ruby in the past, and that somewhere, deep down, she still lived inside of me.

  With my connection to this life and this stage taking root, I felt that same rush I’d known each time I’d stepped foot into my grandma Martine’s dance studio. But this time it was stronger—it was laced in my bones, in my entire being, like a drug.

  I loved performing.

  This was something I’d felt a hint of as Claudia, but now it was clear to me why I’d always felt that odd pull toward the dance floor. It was because in this life as Ruby, I was a dancer. I was a performer. And judging by the sly grin that had transformed Jean-Pierre’s otherwise harsh features, I was a damned good one.

  Halfway through the song, ten other dancers joined me on stage, and as I took my place in the front and kicked and shimmied and sang my heart out, I’d never felt so utterly alive. Titine’s words from earlier rang in my ears, a truth that I knew now, I couldn’t deny.

  This was our dream. To be dancers in Paris.

  I remembered then. The feeling of wanting to sing and dance and perform more than anything. The rush, the incredible high I’d felt each time I’d stepped on stage. The excitement at taking over the starring role. The burning desire to go even further—to make it to the top.

  And the willingness to do anything to get there.

  Ruby’s hopes and dreams burned themselves on my heart, and I knew that I would never again be the same. But as I fueled my performance with this renewed desire, a terrifying thought shot into my mind.

  Ruby had wanted to be the star of this show—it was her absolute, number one dream. And if she’d been willing to do anything to make it to the top, was it possible that she—that I—had been responsible for Gisèle’s death? Was that why Jean-Pierre had insisted on me telling that story to the police about where I’d been while Gisèle was murdered?

  Was I the murderer? And did this François Lefevre man have something to do with it as well?

  “Arrêtez!” Jean-Pierre’s agitated yell cut through my frantic thoughts. “Ruby, what are you doing? I’ve never seen you dance so well, and then you just stop and stand there like a lost puppy. Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?” What’s the matter?

  I grabbed on to the chair as my gaze slid over the other dancers, the spotlight’s red glow highlighting the chilly disdain on their faces.

  With the exception of Titine, my only friend in this world, each of those dancers believed I’d done it. There was no mistaking the scorn in their eyes.

  They thought I’d killed Gisèle to steal her starring role.

  Were they right?

  Before I could search Ruby’s memories for the answer to that burning question, the blinding overhead lights flickered on. In the audience stood a French detective, the glare from his shiny badge only slightly less daunting than his stern gaze.

  EIGHT

  Clad in a crisp black suit with a gun sitting comfortably in a holster at his hip and a large manila envelope in hand, the tall, lanky detective marched up to the stage and nodded at me.

  “Mademoiselle Kerrigan. Suivez-moi, s’il vous plaît.” Follow me, please.

  Jean-Pierre’s face had visibly paled at the detective’s arrival. He raised his eyebrows at me and motioned for me to go ahead.

  But I didn’t budge. What was I supposed to say to this man?

  “Mademoiselle.” The detective’s impatient voice boomed once more through the silent club.

  The heat of the other dancers’ glares burned into my back as I walked across the stage and met the detective face on. The minute I got a closer look at his olive complexion, the frown lines around his mouth, and his dark-brown eyes, I knew I’d met him before. Feeling one of those eerie déjà-vu flashes coming on, I reached for the wall as I trailed him to the rear of the club and out into a damp hallway. Every time I blinked, I saw a vision of the detective’s face, his brow furrowed, the corners of his lips turned down as he leaned over and examined something.

  And just before the he opened up an office door, I remembered what he’d been examining.

  Gisèle’s dead body.

  This must’ve been the same detective who’d arrived on the scene the night I had found Gisèle, the same detective who’d questioned me, and the one who’d heard the story that Jean-Pierre and I had apparently told him of where I’d been before the murder.

  Inside the cramped office, framed photographs of topless dancers wearing enormous, gaudy headpieces stared down at us as the detective rounded the desk and took a seat at what I assumed was Jean-Pierre’s desk.

  His deadpan gaze sent a chill down my spine. “Detective Duval,” he said with a cold nod. “But I trust you remember my name by now since we have already met twice this week.”

  Trusting me to remember anything accurately right now was a terrible idea, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.

  He gestured to the chair facing him. “Asseyez-vous.” Sit down.

  I lowered myself into the stiff wooden chair, my mind running a mile a minute, wondering if I really was the guilty party he was searching for and praying with all my might that I wasn’t. But when a whiff of pine and musk passed under my nose, a new memory flooded my mind and made me forget that I was about to be questioned for Gisèle’s murder.

  When I closed my eyes, I saw myself as Ruby, strutting around the desk of this exact office, wearing a scanty red-sequined costume that barely covered my firm behind and flat stomach. And like the dancers peering down at us from inside their picture frames, my voluptuous breasts were completely nude. I didn’t seem to be the least bit concerned about my lack of apparel as I gazed at the man waiting for me on the other side of the desk. His faint wrinkles and thinning dark hair told me that he was at least forty-five, but his sapphire eyes, which traveled deliberately down the length of my body, and his cheeks, burning red with desire, told me that he very much liked younger women.

  “Mademoiselle Kerrigan, you are enjoying your new position as zee star of zee show?” The detective’s heavy French accent distracted me momentarily, but when the memory continued playing uninterrupted in my head, I forgot all about his horrible pronunciation.

  In the vision, the man with the thinning hair and blue eyes shot me a devious grin before I straddled his lap, then leaned over and kissed him on the lips.

  It was that sly, conniving grin that made me remember his name.

  François Lefevre.

  And I knew immediately. For lack of a better term, he’s what I’d been doing the night Gisèle was murdered. In this office. On this desk.

  Oh, God. Was Ruby a prostitute?

  “Since it appears that you do not want to make zee small talk, let us go down to zee business.” It was the detective again, in his intense accent, pulling me back to the present moment.

  I opened my mouth to tell him that the night Gisèle was murdered, I’d been here, in this office, sleeping with some man named François Lefevre, and all we had to do was find Mr. Lefevre and he’d surely verify that he’d been with me that night.

  But one question remained: Had I actually been with Mr. Lefevre while the murder had taken place?

  Before I spoke, I remembered Jean-Pierre’s words.

  If you even think about mentioning François Lefevre’s name to the police, you will lose everything—your career, your apartment, your reputation, everything.

  “Mademoiselle Kerrigan, is something the matter? I need you to focus. I do not have all zee day to speak with you, you know.”

  But who was François Lefevre? And why couldn’t I at least mention his name as an alibi? Was it because after we’d been together in this office, I had killed Gisèle to win the starring role? I closed my eyes again, trying with all my might to remember what had happened after Ruby and François�
��s romp in the office, but this confused mind of mine refused to oblige.

  “I do not have time for your games. You will either focus and answer my questions right here, or I will take you to zee station. It is your choice.”

  “I’m sorry, Detective. I’m ready.”

  “Bon. I am here to give you one more chance to tell me la verité about what happened the night of Mademoiselle Richard’s death.”

  I cringed internally as I realized I was going to have to stick to the story I’d apparently already told the police. I hated lying, but I couldn’t mention my tryst with François Lefevre until I found out who he was and why I shouldn’t mention his name to Detective Duval.

  Gripping my knees underneath the desk, I cleared my throat, determined not to show him an ounce of the fear that was making my palms sweat and my chest ache. “After the show, I didn’t feel very well, so I went up to my apartment to rest. After about half an hour, I started to feel better, and I came back down to the club to mingle. But on my way back through the wings, I heard a scream coming from Gisèle’s dressing room, and that’s when I ran in and found Delphine lying over Gisèle’s body.”

  Detective Duval leaned back in his chair and drummed his long fingers on the desk. “I see. You have nothing new to add to your story? No details you may have…forgotten?”

  Damn.

  “No, Detective. That’s all.”

  “I see.” He grabbed the manila envelope he’d been carrying, opened it up, and slid an eight-by-ten black-and-white photo across the desk. “Maybe this will refresh your mémoire.”

  I glanced down at the 1950s photograph and saw myself—Ruby—standing outside on a shadowy street corner, my back up against the building, a seductive grin on my lips. Leaning over me, with one hand on the wall, was the same man from my vision—François Lefevre.

  In his other hand was a wad of cash, which he appeared to be handing over to me.

  Oh, dear God.

  It was official.

  In my past life, I wasn’t only a bombshell blonde performer, I was also a prostitute.

  “This photo was taken the night of Gisèle’s death. Just before you supposedly found her lying on her dressing room floor, already dead. Can you explain to me what is going on in this picture?”

  I barely heard the detective’s pointed questions, though, because my gaze caught something else in the photograph.

  A female silhouette lingered down the alley, just beyond Ruby and François. The dim glow of one lonely streetlamp reflected off what appeared to be a dangly diamond earring.

  I closed my eyes, willing the memories from that night to come into focus. But beyond my steamy romp with François in this office, I couldn’t recall anything else…anything except seeing that slithering silhouette and that impressive diamond earring.

  “Mademoiselle Kerrigan!” Detective Duval pounded his fist on the desk. “Répondez à la question, or I will not hesitate to take you to zee station.”

  A bead of sweat dripped down the back of my neck as I slid the portrait across the desk and pointed to the creepy woman hovering in the shadows. For all I knew, she was another dancer stepping outside for a smoke, but I had to at least try to take the focus off of myself until I could figure out what had really happened that night. “Do you know who this woman is?” I asked the detective.

  Detective Duval leaned forward, the unforgiving expression on his face making me wish with all my heart that I was anywhere but here. “Your plan to distract me will not work, Mademoiselle Kerrigan. Let us go back to the matter on hand. Monsieur Lefevre is a powerful man who comes from an even more powerful family. I imagine you are aware that he holds a prominent role in the French government as a député of France’s Assemblée Nationale. And I am sure you did not miss the part about his father being an advisor to the newly elected Président de Gaulle. So, tell me if I am wrong, but if you happened to have some sort of arrangement with Monsieur Lefevre, he would surely be able to use his political connections to clear your name from a murder investigation. In exchange, you would, of course, keep his indiscretions a secret from his family and from the press.”

  “No, Detective. That’s not what is going on here. I…I didn’t realize he was—”

  Detective Duval ripped the photo from the desk, his olive-colored cheeks suddenly a blazing red. “You are wasting my time, Mademoiselle Kerrigan. I will give you one day to get your story straight, and when I come back, you and your petit-ami François Lefevre better be ready to tell me the truth about what happened that night.”

  “Have you spoken to him about this already?”

  “I do not make it a habit of sharing investigation details with the suspects.” He raised a black eyebrow at me. “But I am sure you can imagine what would happen to Monsieur Lefevre’s career, to his family, and consequently, to you, if this photo were to find itself in the wrong hands. However, if the two of you decide you want to talk, I can assure you that will not happen.”

  “I hardly doubt it’s legal for you to use blackmail as an investigation tool,” I spat.

  Detective Duval raised a brow. “And I hardly think a prostituée who is having relations with a top official is in any position to lecture me on my morals.” He walked purposefully toward the door, clearly finished with me.

  “I didn’t kill her,” I called out just as his hand reached the doorknob. “We were good friends, and I never would’ve harmed her. You have to believe me.” I sincerely hoped the words that had just flown out of my mouth were true…but I also knew that whether Ruby had been involved in Gisèle’s murder or not, my time here was limited. And I surely wouldn’t find a way home to my real life, or to my future child, if I was locked up in a cold French jail cell.

  “If you are truly innocent,” Detective Duval said on his way out the door, “I will need la preuve.”

  NINE

  La preuve. The French word for proof.

  Proving my innocence in this case would undoubtedly improve my grim circumstances as Ruby, but would it bring me any closer to finding a way back home to my life as Claudia, to Édouard, and to my baby?

  When I thought of my ultrasound photo and the way it had faded right in front of my eyes, I knew that whether Ruby was innocent or not, I had no other choice but to try.

  A jazzy piano rhythm and the clatter of high heels echoed down the long, shadowy hallway as I let myself out of Jean-Pierre’s office. I suspected that if he or any of the girls noticed that I’d finished speaking to Detective Duval, I would be expected to rehearse for the rest of the day. I didn’t have time for that, though. I needed to speak with François Lefevre and find out if our little office rendez-vous had taken place during the time of Gisèle’s murder. If it had, and if François was willing to discreetly admit our affair to the police, I could potentially clear my name from this investigation.

  On the other hand, if Ruby had killed Gisèle just after the steamy office romp, François’s statement could be a one-way ticket to prison.

  Plus, there was still the pressing issue of the threatening note I’d found under my pillow, and despite its clear order not to speak with A., I’d still agreed to meet Antoine tonight. And none of that was taking into consideration the haunting memory of that scarred hand coming at me with a knife. Who had wanted to hurt Ruby so badly? Was he here in Paris right now? Could he have something to do with Gisèle’s murder? Could he have written the note?

  My head spun from all of the unanswered questions, and before I realized where I was going, I emerged to an area of the wings that had been blocked off with yellow police tape.

  Gisèle’s dressing room.

  I knew I should stay out. But my desire to know the truth about that night won over. Maybe I would remember something that could help me find a way out of here.

  I scanned the wings to make sure no one was watching, then stepped over the glossy yellow tape and let myself into the forbidden dressing room.

  With its big, round lightbulbs hovering over tall, mirrored wa
lls, makeup strewn all over the countertops, and racks of scanty, gaudy costumes dangling from metal racks in the corner, the dressing room didn’t look much different from the one I’d been in this morning.

  But when my eyes met the reddish-brown stains splattering the concrete beneath my feet, I remembered.

  The blood.

  I flinched and jumped to the side to get away from where she’d been lying, from where she’d been killed. I didn’t want to remember anymore. I didn’t want to be involved in the murder of this innocent girl. I didn’t want to be here.

  But it was too late. The scents of lipstick and blood carried me right back to that moment, to the gruesome image that had plagued me when I’d first woken up as Ruby…except this time it was much, much clearer.

  My sparkly red stilettos pound through the wings toward the desperate screams emanating from inside Gisèle’s dressing room.

  Only they aren’t Gisèle’s screams. The cries are higher, younger, more frantic.

  I burst into the room, nearly slipping on the silky red blood pooling at my feet.

  A young dancer still in her silver sequins and red feathers is kneeling over Gisèle, shaking her shoulders and screaming, crying, begging the lifeless body laid out before her to wake up.

  The dancer turns to me, tears pouring out of her big, brown doe eyes, thick streaks of mascara and eyeliner smearing her rosy cheeks. It’s Delphine, the youngest girl in the troupe, only seventeen. Too young to see this. Too young to find the star of the show murdered in cold blood in her very own dressing room.

  “Delphine, qu’est-ce qui s’est passé?” What happened? I ask her, my voice surprisingly calm. I’ve seen this before. The blood. The body. I just need Delphine to get out. She’ll only make things harder.

  Delphine doesn’t respond, but instead keeps crying, her little hands trembling as she kneels in the blood, unable to get up.

  “Lève-toi.” Get up, I tell her. “Va trouver Jean-Pierre, et appelle la police.” Go find Jean-Pierre and call the police.