Alibi in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

  He paused. "Seriously?"

  "Seriously."

  He let out a deep sigh, then rolled back to his side of the bed. "I fly all the way to Paris just be denied by the morning breath."

  I swatted at him, throwing my one good leg over the side of the bed and hopping to the bathroom. "Give me five minutes."

  "Four!" he called as I shut the door.

  I loaded my toothbrush with Crest and, figuring I might as well go all the way, turned on the shower and quickly did a shampoo and rinse. I towel-dried my hair into a fairly passable sexy-wet look and threw on a little make-up. Hey, just because we'd seen each other naked didn't mean Ramirez had to see me without my eyeliner. By the time I emerged from the bathroom, a white hotel-issue towel wrapped around my midsection, Ramirez was propped up in bed, one hand behind his head as he watched a soccer match on TV.

  "That was one hell of a tooth brushing."

  I shrugged. "What can I say? I'm a hygienic sort of gal."

  He shook his head at me, the corner of his mouth twisting up until a dimple flashed in his left cheek. He curled an index finger at me. "Come 'ere."

  I shook my head. "Uhn uh. Your turn."

  His grin faltered for a half a second before he conceded, sliding out of bed. "All right. But that towel better be history by the time I come out," he warned.

  I shot him my best come hither look as he brushed past me and into the bathroom.

  And as soon as he shut the door I sprang into action. I dropped the towel and threw on a denim skirt, pink baby T, and a deconstructed jacket to match my one black ballet flat. Thankfully, I still heard the water running as I grabbed my purse and crutches and bolted out the door.

  I know. Totally dirty trick to play on Ramirez. Especially when he was being all cute. But there was no way I was going to question Gisella's agent with Ramirez playing bodyguard. And, as much as I loved him, there was no way I was leaving this all to the police.

  The thing about Ramirez was that he wasn't a guy who did gray. Life was either black or white to him. Cops: good. Criminals: bad. Victims were victims and if you found yourself behind bars, there was probably a good reason for it. Which is why Ramirez and I spent 90% of our time together butting heads. Me - I was all about the gray stuff. Sometimes I wasn't entirely sure Ramirez could handle a girlfriend who, once in awhile, found herself sitting in a holding cell. Or who, on the rare occasion, had been known to do a little B&E for a good cause. I wasn't sure Ramirez could handle gray. And, on days like this, I wasn't sure how much longer he'd continue trying to for my sake.

  Especially when he found the hotel room empty.

  I tried to shrug that thought to the back of my mind as I grabbed a cab outside the hotel. As we pulled away from the curb, I glanced over my shoulder, afraid any second now Ramirez would come bolting out the front doors wearing nothing but his boxers. Luckily we were weaving our way into morning traffic before my cell rang, my own room number showing up on the caller ID.

  I bit my lip. Then hit the "ignore" button with a deep pang of Catholic guilt.

  Even if Moreau never formally charged me with Gisella's killing, I could tell the press had already convicted me. Unless I found out who had really done this, my career as a designer was in the toilet.

  So, really, I was sure Ramirez would understand. I was just doing my job.

  Fifteen minutes (and two more phone calls) later we pulled up to the Hotel de Crillon. Thankfully, it was relatively paparazzi free, every news hound in town still haunting the Le Croix tent and the Plaza Athenee. I stopped in the lobby only long enough to a) grab a cup of coffee and b) ask which room Donata Girardi was staying in. Of course the kid on duty, a short, chubby guy with bad acne, said it was against hotel policy to give out that information. Instead, he handed me a courtesy phone and dialed in Donata's number for me. Luckily, she was in. And, after I briefly explained who I was, agreed to see me.

  I downed my coffee and made for the elevators. With no small effort, I ignored the "William Tell Overture" ringing from my purse yet again as I knocked on Donata's door. I heard movement on the other side, then it was opened by a slim woman in her fifties, with thick black hair, thick black lashes, and I suspected without the help of Nair, a thick black mustache. She wore a pale blue tailored suit with a cream colored scarf knotted at her neck and pointy-toed leather heels on her feet. Her eyes held a slightly squinty appearance, as if she'd had an aggressive facelift in the recent past, and her lips puckered in an unnatural way beneath her coral colored lipstick. Despite the obvious work, I could tell by her high cheekbones and heart shaped chin that she was once a very naturally beautiful woman. She was slim though the hips, with long legs, and had the faintest hint of a small, heart shaped birthmark just above her left cheek at the hairline. I immediately got the sense that, like so many other agents, Donata was a former model herself. An idea that was reinforced as she ushered me in and crossed the room with a grace I sorely coveted at the moment. I awkwardly hobbled in, setting my crutches down as I clumsily plopped into an armchair by the window.

  "Your purse appears to be ringing," she said, a soft Italian lilt coloring her voice.

  I waved the comment off. "Voicemail will get it."

  "I see. So, you are one of Le Croix's designers, si?"

  I nodded. "Yes, Maddie Springer. I'm doing the shoes for his collection."

  She nodded. "The black stiletto heel."

  I cringed. "Yes. And I want to express my sincere condolences. I'm sorry for what happened to Gisella."

  She raised an eyebrow. "You are sorry?"

  "Yes. I mean, no, not that I'm sorry, like I'm apologizing. I mean, I'm sorry it happened, not I'm sorry I did it. Because I didn't. I had nothing to do with it happening. This was just a coincidence."

  "I see." Though I noticed she scooted her chair a fraction of an inch away from me. Clearly she wasn't entirely convinced.

  Join the club.

  "And, what is it I can do for you, Signorina Springer?"

  Tell me who was fencing stolen property for your client. But I figured the subtle approach was probably best. "I was wondering what you could tell me about Gisella's social life?"

  Donata looked out the window. "Gisella was a very social girl. She loved parties."

  "Like the one you threw here in the hotel?"

  Donata nodded. "Si." She clasped her hands in her lap but didn't elaborate. I had the feeling she was a woman who had learned to play her hand close to her heart.

  "Do know if Gisealla was seeing anyone?"

  "Gieslla always had men around."

  "Anyone special?"

  She shrugged, a barely detectable movement of her shoulders.

  "What about Ryan? Does that name ring a bell?" I asked, reciting the last file entry from Gisella's camera.

  Donata paused. "She mentioned a Ryan. I think they may have dated."

  "Did she happen to mention Ryan's last name?"

  She sucked in her cheeks. "Jones? Jeffries? One of those, I believe. He was English."

  My phone took that moment to chirp to life inside my purse again. I ignored it.

  "Do you know if Ryan was here in Paris with Gisella?"

  Donata looked down at my Kate Spade. "Are you not going to answer that?"

  I shook my head. "Nope."

  She raised an eyebrow at me, but said nothing.

  "So, was Ryan in Paris?"

  She shrugged. "I could not tell you. Gisella and I, we were not so close that she would informed me of her boyfriends' whereabouts."

  "But you did talk often. Several times a day?"

  She nodded. "Si. For work."

  Hmm... modeling work or burglary? "When was the last time you saw Gisella?"

  Donata's lips twitched and I watched her throat bob up and down. She looked down at her hands to hide some emotion flitting across her eyes. Though whether it was guilt or genuine sorrow I'd be hard pressed to answer.

  "The night before she died. I went up to her room to fill her in on t
he next day's fitting schedule. But I was there only a brief time. She said she was expecting company."

  I wondered if that company was Ryan Jones slash Jeffries.

  "Did Gisella bring Ryan with her to your party?"

  Again, Donata shrugged her slim shoulders. "I did not notice. I was busy playing hostess. But I would not be surprised. Gisella was almost never unaccompanied by a man. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a client to meet with." She rose and walked to the door, effectively ending the interview. I grabbed my crutches and followed her, though she already had the door open and waiting by the time I got there. I paused before stepping through the doorway.

  "Do you have any idea who could have killed Gisella?" I asked, starting to sound desperate now.

  She didn't answer, instead gave me a pointed look.

  I rolled my eyes.

  "Beside me."

  Donata slowly shook her head. "Her death is a tragedy. She will be missed," she said, sounding like she was reading off a teleprompter.

  And with that she closed the door behind me. I stood in the hallway a moment, listening, hoping to catch some sort of sound on the other side. Nothing.

  Great. I hadn't really learned anything more about Donata and still wasn't sure where the jewels fit in to all this. If they fit into it at all.

  But, I did glean one little kernel of info from Donata. Ryan's last name.

  * * *

  I was heading through the Crillon's lobby when my cell rang again. I almost didn't even pull it out of my purse, but the odd stares I was getting hobbling across the marble tiles to the tune of "William Tell" finally made me slip it out. And I was glad I did. Dana's number lit up my LCD.

  "Hello?"

  "Mads! Guess where I am?"

  I shifted the phone to the other ear, trying not to drop it as I leaned on my crutches. "I give up."

  "Paris! I got the spot in the Le Croix show."

  Perfect timing. "Dana you are amazing. Where are you?"

  "I'm still at the airport. My plane just landed. I'll meet you at the Plaza in about half an hour."

  "Uh..." Visions of a pissed off Ramirez flitted through my head. "That might not be a good idea. How about meet me at the Hotel de Crillon instead. I'll be..." I paused, looking around the lobby. I spied a cafe across the street through the glass front doors. "...across the street at the cafe."

  "Cool. Just let me drop my bags and I'll be right there."

  I shoved my cell back into my purse, feeling guilt gnaw at me again as I notice the "Three new messages" alert across the screen. Instead of dwelling on it, I hobbled across the street to the cafe where I ordered a large cafe au lait (a girl could get addicted to these things) and a pastry made of flaky, buttery crust and a sweet honey-like filling.

  While I waited, I tried Felix's cell. Hey, I promised Ramirez I would stay away from him, not lose his number. And I was away. Besides, I wanted to make sure he had gotten out of police custody okay.

  Unfortunately, there as no answer. I left a voicemail, then dialed Jean Luc's number to thank him for hiring Dana and see if there were any new developments at the tent. He informed me that the police still weren't giving back the shoes, he was trying to find replacements that I could "add some touches to" and that he'd call me if anything new came up.

  As soon as I hung up, my cell chirped to life again with Ramirez's number. I hit ignore. I know, he was so gonna be pissed later, but what could I do?

  I finished my coffee instead while I waited for Dana.

  Fifteen minutes later, she came through the doors wearing a pair of black stretch leggings, a black long sleeve with a picture of a tiny pink poodle on it and a jaunty black beret.

  I looked her up and down and I'm pretty sure my expression betray my thoughts as she said, "What?"

  "Poodles?"

  "I'm in Paris! I'm doing French chic. You like?" She did a little spin and I couldn't help but grin.

  "It's very French."

  "Thanks." She sat down, depositing her purse on the empty chair beside her. "So, spill it. What's the latest?"

  I did, catching her up to date on the Googling twins and my chat with Donata. By the time I'd finished, my coffee was history and Dana was swirling the dregs of her herbal tea in her cup, her strawberry blonde brows drawn together in thought.

  "Okay, so putting aside the whole jewel thief thing for a moment, this Ryan guy was likely the last person to see her alive?"

  "Right. Well, before the killer. If he isn't the killer, that is."

  "So, what do we know about him? Just that his name is Jones or Jeffries?"

  "And that he's English."

  "Do they have a yellow pages for England?"

  I gave her my best "get real" face. "Yellow pages?"

  "What?"

  "I say we go talk to Angelica again. Who knows, maybe this was another stolen boyfriend?"

  "Perfect! I told Jean Luc I'd check in with him today anyway. How freaking perfect is this, Maddie? Not only do I get to strut a designer runway, but ohmigod, I get to do it in the most romantic city on earth!"

  "Speaking of romance, how goes the long distance thing with Ricky?" I asked, as we gathered our things and hailed a cab.

  "Ugh! Don't ask."

  "That good, huh?"

  "I take it you haven't seen the latest issues of the Informer?"

  I shook my head. "I try to steer clear of Felix's smut. Why?"

  "Well, according to their sources, Ricky was seen kissing Natalie Portman outside the set."

  "According to their sources the Loch Ness Monster is the product of toxic dumping in Canada. You can't believe a word they print."

  "You think?"

  "I know. What does Ricky say?" I asked, as a taxi stopped at the curb and I tried to angle Wonder Boot in.

  "He denies it, of course. I told that bastard I'd gone a whole month without sex for him. He damn well better not be kissing Natalie Portman."

  I craned around in my seat as the cab took off in the direction of the Louvre.

  "What are you looking for?" Dana asked.

  "I'm trying to see the Eiffel Tower."

  "It's that way." Dana pointed out the other window.

  "How do you know?"

  "I saw it on my way here from the airport."

  "You saw it?" I asked, jealousy washing over me. "I've been here three days and still haven't seen it."

  "You should. It's totally cool."

  * * *

  Ten minutes later we were back at the Le Croix tent. Any evidence that it had once been a crime scene was completely gone, the interior a hum of pre-show activity. The only difference was the runway being reconstructed by the coverall crew, the stained boards having been confiscated into evidence by Moreau and company.

  I introduced Dana to Jean Luc, who immediately whisked her away to the fitting rooms. I tagged along (Wonder Boot precluded any sort of whisking on my part) and spied Angelica being pinned into a pleated mini skirt at a back table. I hobbled my way over to her.

  "Hi," I said as I approached. "Remember me?"

  She nodded. "The Couture Killer."

  The seamstress pinning Angelica snapped her head up.

  "I didn't do it," I reassured her.

  She looked from me to Angelica. Then got up and mumbled something about a measuring tape before backing quickly away.

  "Wow, you're popular," Angelica observed.

  No kidding.

  "Anyway," I continued. "I wanted to ask you if you knew a man named Ryan Jones or possibly Jeffries?"

  Angelica scrunched up her faces, squinting her brown eyes. "No, I'm sorry. Doesn't ring a bell. Why?"

  I felt my hope deflating. "It's possible he was dating Gisella."

  "I didn't really keep track of her current boy toys."

  "Hmm, well how about these? Any of these names stand out?" I handed Angelica the list of names I'd gotten off Gisella's camera.

  She stabbed a finger at the first one. "Oh, sure, I know Rocco. He was this Italian guy
we met while doing a shoot in Venice. Total meathead, but really cute. Gisella took him back to her place after we wrapped, but it was just a one night kind of thing. This one," she said, pointing to Roberto, "I think I met at a club in Milan. I think he's working in New York now. But the others, no idea."

  "Thanks anyway." I slipped the list back into my pocket as the seamstress returned, deeming it safe to approach Angelica again.

  For lack of anything else to do, I hobbled to the back table to wait for Dana. I sat down beside my empty shoe rack and felt a lump forming in my throat.

  Okay, being accused of murder was bad. It really, really sucked. But the thought of missing my one big chance to show at Fashion Week was enough to make my insides shrivel up and cry. I bit my lip to keep the tears at bay as I prayed Moreau was being nice to my babies.

  "Maddie?"

  I sniffed back an unshed tear and turned around to find Ann hovering over my table.

  "Yes?"

  "Angelica told me you were asking about Ryan Jeffries?"

  I sniffed again, a little bubble of hope welling in my chest. "Do you know him?"

  She nodded, her headset bobbing up and down. "He used to model for Ralph Lauren. A couple years ago I did a show with him. Why are you looking for him?" she asked.

  "I heard a rumor that he may have dated Gisella. Maybe even recently. Do you have any idea how I could get in touch with him?"

  She pulled a BlackBerry from her pocket, punching in numbers. "Last I heard he was living in London," she said, scrolling through numbers.

  I waited, trying not to get too excited. As I nervously tapped my ballet flat against the floor, craning to see the numbers on Ann's organizer, my purse started to ring again.

  She looked down. "You're ringing."

  "I know. I think it's broken."

  Ann gave me a funny look but didn't comment. "Okay, here it is." She handed the device to me. I grabbed a scrap of tracing paper and quickly copied down the address and phone number.

  "Thank you so much," I gushed.

  "No problem. Trust me, anything to get this behind us and on with the show. I think Jean Luc's had four separate strokes today." She tucked her BlackBerry back in her pocket just as her headset crackled to life. "See what I mean," she said, then started talking into the headset as he walked off to deal with another crisis.