Alibi in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

  And now he'd screwed my chances with Ramirez too.

  The tears felled in big fat drops down my cheeks as I sped way too fast through the village and back to the M1. As if to match my mood, the fog thickened into menacing rain clouds, a down pour to match my own sobs hitting the tinny roof of the little car, drowning out my hiccupping and keeping me company all the way back to London.

  By the time I returned the rental and hobbled back to the Queen's Cozy I was drenched, shivering, and didn't have a tear left in me. I staggered through the door, stripping off my wet clothes, and took a long, almost warm shower. After which I wrapped myself in a towel and collapsed onto the bed.

  I stared at the picture of the Queen.

  "Your cousin's an asshole," I told her. She didn't respond. I closed my eyes, and contemplated calling Ramirez. But I didn't even know what I'd say. I'd already apologized. Sorry just didn't seem adequate. And, quite frankly, I didn't even know if he'd pick up. He needed some space, right? Just some time. To either forgive me or... well, I didn't even want to think about the "or". The "or" made tears I didn't know I had left well up behind my eyes again.

  My love life was seriously in the toilet, my career was virtually over, and I was one DNA test away from being locked up in a Paris prison. I was pretty sure my life could not get any worse.

  At the moment, there was nothing I could do about my love life, and unless a miracle occurred and Moreau gave back my shoes, the career things was pretty dismal as well. But, I could at least try to keep my butt out of jail.

  I rolled over and grabbed a pad of hotel stationary and a pen from my purse.

  As much as I absolutely loathed Felix right now, I had to admit that I still wasn't convinced he'd killed Gisella. Not really. Lying, yes. Cheating, yes. Printing vulgar pictures by the truckload, of course. But stabbing her with a stiletto seemed a stretch.

  So if it wasn't me and it wasn't Felix, who did that leave?

  I clicked open my pen and wrote "Suspects" at the top of the page. Only I wasn't sure what to write next. Assuming Gisella was actually stealing jewelry from the shows, obviously her accomplice was my first choice for her killer. Maybe he or she had wanted a larger portion of the proceeds. Maybe they thought Gisella was getting sloppy and they'd be found out. Maybe they just plain didn't like her.

  I wrote the word "Accomplice" down under "Suspects". The only problem was, I had no idea who the accomplice was. So, I put a big question mark next to that one.

  Okay, so who did I know that might have had a grudge against Gisella? Her agent? Suppose Donata was the accomplice. To be any kind of agent, she had to have had lots of contacts all over Europe. And it was the agent that had booked Gisella in the Jean Luc show in the first place. I was beginning to like this theory.

  Of course, there was always the angry, jealous boyfriend theory, too. I wrote Ryan's name down next to Donata's. Unrequited love, jealousy - both classic reasons for wanting someone dead. And didn't they always say on Law & Order that it's usually the boyfriend?

  And, while we were talking jealousy, how about Angelica? I added her name to the list. We only had her word for it that she hadn't gone in to see Gisella after Felix left. It would have been easy for Angelica to slip out of her room and lure Gisella to the tent unnoticed.

  I paused, my pen hovering in mid air. Why the tent, I wondered. What had Gisalla been doing there so early? Was she meeting someone there?

  Then a terrible thought occurred to me. When I'd walked into the tent, she hadn't been alone. Jean Luc had been there, too. I'd assumed at the time that Jean Luc had come in just before I had. But what if he'd been there all along? What if he'd been the one to stab Gisella? Why, I couldn't imagine, but he had both ample opportunity and means. I wondered just how well Jean Luc had known Gisella and what kind of history lay between the two. He had mentioned how difficult she was to work with. Had he just meant this show, or were there others?

  Reluctantly I wrote his name down, too. Then stared at my list.

  One thing was certain. It was time to go back to Paris.

  * * *

  It was dark by the time my plane landed again at Charles De Gaulle. It took a cab to the hotel and let myself into my room. A small part of me had hoped a pissed off cop might be waiting for me there, but that was dashed quickly enough as I entered the dark, empty room. Ramirez's bags were gone. No note. No sign he'd even been there except for the lingering scent of his aftershave in the bathroom. I inhaled deeply, telling myself I was not going to cry again. Instead, I pulled off my dress and changed in to a pair of black capris and a black long sleeved DKNY logo T. I slipped on a sliver ballet flat and added an extra layer of eyeliner to my eyes to compensate for the slightly red, puffy look. I took a blow dryer to my hair, but even that didn't help the French braid plus rainwater thing I had going on, so instead I pulled it back in a messy ponytail before grabbing my crutches and heading out to Le Carrousel du Louvre.

  The first person I saw when I arrived back on the site was Dana. She was sitting with a group of the other models outside the tent, sipping Perrier through a straw.

  "Mads!" She jumped up and dragged me to the side, just out of earshot. "What happened?" she asked, her voice low. "Did Felix do it? Did you confront him?"

  I felt that lump form in my throat again, but quickly pushed it back down and filled Dana in. She was such a good friend that when I was finished I thought I saw tears in her eyes.

  "Oh, Mads, I'm so sorry." She leaned in and gave me a long hug. "Don't worry. I'm sure Ramirez will come around. That man is nuts about you."

  I wasn't so sure. But somehow, it was comforting to pretend. "Yeah?"

  Dana nodded. "Of course. Just give him a little time."

  "Right. Thanks. I'm fine. Really." I sniffed back tears - so not convincing. "Is Jean Luc around?"

  Dana nodded. "He's in the workroom. He got a case of plain black pumps that he's trying to convince himself will work for the show."

  I cringed.

  It must have been visible because Dana said, "I know. So lame. I tried them on with my silk dress and ohmigod, total clash. I think Jean Luc's about to slit his wrists."

  "I'll go see what I can do."

  I left her sipping her bubbly water and ducked inside.

  Jean Luc was, as Dana said, about one Xanax away from suicidal. He was pacing the room, a pump in each hand, shouting in French to poor Ann who was furiously dialing up numbers on her BlackBerry. He stopped when he saw me, throwing his hands in the air.

  "Maddie, thank God you're here. These are all I could get on short notice." He held up a pair of black pumps with pointy toes. "Hideous, aren't they?"

  I bit my lip. "Um, well, I guess they're not that bad."

  "Please tell me you can do something with them, darling? If not, I may be forced to swan dive from the top of a very tall bridge."

  "I can try," I hedged.

  "We'll get you anything you need. Just please make these knockoffs into something that doesn't scream 'off the rack' when my girls wear them down the runway. I'll be the laughing stock of Fashion Week!"

  I took one pump from him, turning it over in my hands Already ideas started to brew about how to embellish it for Angelica's outfit in the finale. Granted, they were a far cry from what I'd originally planned, but they beat barefoot.

  "Jean Luc, I was actually wondering if I could speak to you for a moment?"

  He put up one finger. "Un moment." He turned to Ann and barked out a quick stream of orders in French. Ann nodded and I could mentally see her ticking items off a checklist before she scurried off to fulfill Jean Luc's every demand.

  Once she was gone, he turned to me again. "Not only do we have to find shoes, but now Becca is scared to go on, worried someone will commit random violence on her, too. Models," he said shaking his head.

  I hesitated, wondering if I should share just how un-random I suspected Gisella's death was. "You know, it's possible that Gisella wasn't just an innocent victim. We think she may h
ave had something to do with the necklace going missing," I said slowly, watching Jean Luc's reaction.

  He nodded. "Oui. She was much too careless."

  "I meant, she may have had something to do with it that goes beyond careless."

  "Oh?" He raised an eyebrow. "But I thought the police found the necklace in one of her coat pockets?"

  "Yes," I conceded, "but I'm not sure it was put there by mistake."

  Jean Luc blanched, pulling out a fresh roll of antacids. "Please don't tell me I hired a thief."

  "How well did you know Gisella?"

  Jean Luc shrugged. "How well does anyone know anybody these days? We worked together. I certainly didn't socialize with the girl."

  "Had you worked with her before?"

  "Once. Gisella has been on the circuit for quite a while now. I had always heard nasty things about her temperament, but, once Donata took her on last year, she starting hitting some of the bigger campaigns and making a name for herself. Honestly, I would have been a fool not to jump when I had the chance to book her. She was in Cannes when I was doing a photo shoot, so Donata asked if I'd like to have her for the day."

  "Out of curiosity, anything go missing from the site that time?"

  His forehead wrinkled like a Shar Pei as he tried to think. "Not that I remember. But then again, it was a swimsuit shoot. Not a lot of accessories involved."

  I nodded. "You said she didn't start booking real jobs until she started with Donata. What do you know about her?"

  "Donata? She's very well respected. I think she used to be a model herself, but I don't know the details. Of course that was eons ago," he said, rolling his eyes. "But she's done well as an agent. She has a good stock of girls. I've used a few. I believe Angelica's with her, as well."

  "Really?" Small world. And something Angelica had failed to mention when she'd said Gisella was burning up her cell minutes hounding her agent for a cover. If Donata was sending Gisella out to jobs instead of Angelica, I saw another mark in the motive column for Angelica to want Gisella out of the way.

  "Do you have any idea what Gisella was doing out at the tent that morning?" I asked.

  Jean Luc shook his head slowly. "Gisella was never early. Not a morning person, as they say. I have no idea."

  "So, you didn't call her in?"

  "Who, me? No, I know better than to wake her before noon. Besides, Ann usually sets the models' schedules. She takes care of those kinds of details."

  I made a mental note to ask Ann about Gisella's schedule that morning.

  "When did you leave the night before?"

  "Late. It was past midnight."

  Considering Jean Luc was in essence my employer, I worded my next question carefully. "And when, exactly, did you arrive on site the next morning?"

  Jena Luc's eyebrows headed toward his hairline. "Why, just before you did of course."

  I nodded. "Of course."

  "And before you ask, yes, I was alone." He did a wry smile. "I supposed I don't have an alibi either."

  "Join the club."

  "But Ann can tell you that I was with her until almost two that night. We were going over the lineup and couldn't agree on where to put Bella's third outfit. It seemed to clash with everything but was just too stunning on her to leave out."

  "I guess you didn't sleep much that night."

  "Of course not," Jean Luc responded, popping an antacid into his mouth. "It's Fashion Week."

  Of course.

  "Speaking of which..." He trailed off, pointing to the pump still in my hand. "We have fifteen of those. And I know if anyone can make a plain pump sparkle, it's you, Maddie."

  Then a seamstress pinning an empire waisted baby doll dress near the door caught his attention and he was off, with a "No, no, no, dahling, it's a loose drape."

  I stared down at the pump in my hands. Well, at least someone had faith in me.

  Chapter Twelve

  I spent the rest of the day doing what I could to turn plain black pumps into designer worthy creations. Little embellishments here and there helped, but the more I looked at them, the more they looked like plain black pumps that someone had tried to embellish. It was a depressing thought that these were what would go down the runway with my name attached to them.

  By the time I finally finished the last one, I was beat. Dana and I shared a cab back to the Plaza where I hobbled up to my room and promptly collapsed, fully clothed, onto the bed, spilling half a dozen pillows onto the floor in the process.

  Only, tired as I was, as I closed my eyes, I couldn't sleep. Part of me kept listening for my phone to ring, silently willing Ramirez to call. Wondering what I'd say when he did. That is, if he ever did.

  I had almost convinced myself to pick up the phone and dial his number, pleading for the zillionth time for forgiveness, when the door to my room flew open.

  "Maddie, I'm so glad you're back," Mom cried, plopping down on the bed beside me. "We need your advice."

  I groaned into my pillow as I felt Mrs. Rosenblatt sit on the other side of the bed, her weight causing me to roll toward her. "I'm kind of tired, Mom. It's been a long day."

  "I got me a hot date with Pierre tonight," Mrs. R said, completely ignoring me, "and I can't decide what to wear."

  I peeked my head up. Then let out an involuntary, "Eek!" as I took in Mrs. Rosenblatt's outfit.

  She was dressed in a muumuu, of course, this time in a shocking green color with pink hibiscus flowers printed haphazardly across the front. Her Lucille Ball red hair was piled on top of her head in a frizzing lump that looked like blue birds should be nesting in it, and a pair of pink and green plastic palm tree earrings hung from her ears. She'd followed Mom's more-is-always-better philosophy of eye shadow application, drawing a thick green line from her eyelashes all the way up to her eyebrows, and, if I wasn't mistaken, a fake little mole made of black eyeliner pencil sat on her upper lip. All in all, she made an excellent drag queen.

  "I like the green dress," Mom continued, pointing to Mrs. R's current outfit, "but she's afraid it's a little too subtle."

  I raised an eyebrow. Compared to what? A neon sign? "Where's he taking you?" I asked instead, propping myself up on my elbows.

  "Some fancy schmancy place on the Champs Elysees. He says they got the best authentic French cuisine in Paris. Though, I told him there's no way I'm eating a snail. I got them suckers in my garden back home. They are not food."

  I had to agree with that one.

  "So can you help?" Mom asked.

  I looked down at Mrs. R's outfit again, suddenly wishing I had a pair of sunglasses handy. "How much time have you got?"

  "I'm meeting him at nine."

  I looked at the digital clock by my bedside. 8:40.

  "Then we better get moving."

  I followed Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt through the adjoining door back to their room, filling them both in on my latest discoveries about Felix as I instructed Mrs. R to go wash off the make-up (over my mother's protests).

  "Oh, we have news, too!" Mom said, sitting up straight on the bed as I rummaged in the closet for something a little less "subtle" to wear. Unfortunately, this was Mrs. Rosenblatt we were talking about and it was slim pickings.

  "You'll never guess what Pierre told us last night. Apparently, after they found Felix and the necklace in Gisella's room, the police searched the place from top to bottom. They found three other pieces of jewelry stuffed into pockets."

  "Seriously?"

  "Seriously."

  The theory of Gisella the jewel thief was becoming more plausible. "You had said that four designers besides Jean Luc reported missing pieces. Did they find the fourth?"

  Mom shrugged. "Not as far as Pierre knew."

  Mrs. R piped up from the bathroom. "I'll bet she passed 'em along to her fence already. They're probably circulating the black market right now."

  While Mrs. Rosenblatt tended toward overly dramatic language, I couldn't help thinking she might be right. This time.

  "If
so, that means her partner has to be someone in Paris. Gisella wouldn't have had time to fly them somewhere else without Jean Luc noticing she was gone," I said, flipping through muumuu after muumuu.

  "Which brings us back to her accomplice being someone she knew here," Mom said, even as I started mentally going down my suspect list. I had to admit, her agent still seemed the most likely candidate.

  "How about this one?" I held up a red and orange printed muumuu that could almost pass for tropical chic as Mrs. Rosenblatt came out of the bathroom, her cheeks a freshly scrubbed pink.

  She made a face. "You sure that's better than the green one?"

  I nodded. "I've never been so sure of anything in my life."

  I paired the dress with a red leather belt that gave Mrs. R's Pillsbury Doughboy figure some semblance of a waist, and a red cardigan borrowed from Mom's side of the closet. Granted, Mrs. R had about a hundred pounds and several inches on Mom, so the sweater didn't exactly close in front, but it was stretchy enough that she could fit her arms into it and it broke up the floral some. After trading in Mrs. R's palm trees for a pair of tasteful ruby dew drops from my own wardrobe and applying a thin swipe of dusty beige shadow over her eyes (just to the brow bone), she looked pretty darn good, even if I did say so myself. Except for the Birkenstocks on her feet. There wasn't much I could do about those. Luckily, as long as she didn't lift up her skirt and bust out with the Cancan, the muumuu was almost long enough to cover them up.

  "Well, what do we think?" she asked, twirling in front of the full-length closet mirror.

  Mom clapped her hands, giving her sign of approval. "It's lovely. Maddie, you are a lifesaver."

  "If this doesn't get me laid tonight, I don't know what will."

  I cringed. Big time TMI.

  I left Mom and Mrs. R putting the finishing touches on her hair - hairdresser I was not, she was so on her own there - and dragged my tired self back to my room. Where I stripped off my clothes, threw on my ducky jammies, and crawled into bed, visions of jewel thieves, murderers, and unfortunately, post-menopausal women in muumuus getting lucky, all sloshing together in my brain as I fell into a restless sleep.