Alibi in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

  Somewhere around midnight I awoke from a dream of Ramirez's granite features invading my sleep. At two a.m. it was Felix's lips that jostled me awake. Three-thirty had pink and green palm tress dancing through my subconscious. And by the time I dreamed of myself, on my knees, pleading with Ramirez not to walk away from me again, I woke up to find it was five-fifteen and I didn't have the energy to dream anymore.

  Instead, I reluctantly dragged myself out of bed and into a long hot shower. I did a blow dry and hairspray thing, adding an extra layer of mascara afterward in hopes of disguising the sleepless night bagging under my eyes. I did a swipe of Raspberry Perfection along my lips and threw on a pair of jeans, a stretchy black knit top and a low black wedge heeled sandal. A wedge didn't really count as a heel, right? It was more of a platform.

  I ordered a pot of coffee and a brioche from room service and made myself wait until 8:30 before hopping into a cab and making my way the few block to the Hotel de Crillon, where I promptly took the elevator to the fourth floor and knocked on Donata's door. I paused, listening for any sign of movement from the other side. None. I waited a beat, then knocked again. Still nothing.

  I looked down the hall and spied a maid's cart three doors down. I hobbled over to the open door of the room, where a young, dark haired woman in a pink starched uniform stretched to its limit over her ample derriere was making the bed. I cleared my throat and knocked on the doorframe to get her attention.

  "Excuse me," I called.

  She looked up and said something in French.

  "I'm sorry, I don't speak French," I said, doing an apologetic, palms up thing.

  The woman nodded, then smiled and responded in heavily accented English. "I said there are extra soaps on the cart. Take all you like."

  "Oh, thanks. But actually I was wondering if I could ask you a question about room 405."

  She scrunched up her nose, shaking a pillowcase out. "I suppose."

  "Have you cleaned that room yet this morning?" I asked, wondering if maybe Donata was an early riser.

  She shook her head. "I did not need to. No one had slept in it last night."

  "Why not?"

  She shrugged. "I believe the woman checked out."

  I mentally banged my head against the wall. "Checked out? Do you know when?"

  "Yesterday sometime."

  "I don't suppose you happen to know where she went?"

  She shook her head, grabbing a clean set of sheets from her cart. "No. Sorry."

  Rats.

  I thanked the maid, ducking back out into the hallway.

  Okay, time to try Plan B.

  I pulled my cell out of my purse and dialed the Plaza's main number as I rode the elevator back down to the lobby. I asked for Angelica's room and, after a moment, the woman at the switchboard put me through and I heard the number ringing. Four rings into it, Angelica's sleepy voice answered.

  "Bon jour?"

  "Hi, Angelica, it's Maddie."

  There was a pause on the other end as if the name didn't register this early in the morning. "Maddie?'

  "The shoe designer for Jean Luc's show."

  "Oh. Right. The killer."

  I rolled my eyes. "Listen, I was wondering if you knew where Donata went? She checked out of her hotel room yesterday."

  I heard Angelica yawn on the other end. "She flew back to Milan. She said she had some urgent business to take care of and that she'd be back in time for the show. Why?"

  "I just wanted to ask her something about Gisella," I hedged. "Speaking of which, why didn't you tell me that you and Gisella shared an agent?"

  She was quiet for a moment. "Look, I know it looks like I was jealous of Gisella," she said. "But I wasn't. I mean, yeah she and I were always competing, but I thrived on it. I didn't mind. It kept me on my toes, you know?" she said, throwing another Americanism out.

  "It never became a problem? Donata sending Gisella out to jobs instead of you?" I asked, crossing the lobby and stepping outside.

  Again she paused, as if choosing her words carefully. And I wondered if there wasn't more than a translation issue going on there. "It pissed me off a little, yeah. Last month I wanted to do a shoot for Corbett Winston, but Donata wouldn't even set up a go-see. She said it was Gisella's project."

  Corbett Winston. The jeweler. I perked up. "Did she say why?"

  I could hear Angelica's shrug in her voice. "No. Just that she knew Gisella was perfect for that job. Though, I guess it turned out to be a good thing I didn't get it in the end."

  "Why is that?"

  "Well, right after the shoot, someone broke in and stole the diamond necklace Gisella was modeling. Winston didn't want the theft publicized, so the ad campaign never ran. A lot of work for nothing, if you ask me."

  Alarm bells were going off in my head left and right. "Was Gisella upset?"

  "Actually, she didn't really seem to care. She said she got paid the same either way."

  I'll bet. A diamond necklace was a handsome payoff for a few hours work in front of a camera.

  "Thanks, Angelica," I said.

  She yawned again. "No problem," she replied, then hung up.

  I flipped my phone shut and hailed a cab, directing him back the Plaza Athenee as I digested this bit of information, a clearer picture of Gisella's role in all this forming. Supposing Gisella had taken the job at Winston, just to get a lay of the land, so to speak. Then, she'd gone in afterwards to steal the necklace. Or perhaps the partner had? Either way, like the designer showing at Fashion Week, Gisella must have known Winston wouldn't want the media attention of publicly announcing the theft. Instead, they probably filed a very quiet claim with their insurance company and swept the whole thing under the rug. Meanwhile, Gisella and her partner sell the necklace and pocket the profits.

  I had to admit, it was looking more and more likely that Donata had something to do with it. That fact that she refused to send Angelica out on the job seemed proof enough. Either Donata was being bribed by Gisella and company to target specific jobs for Gisella, or she was the mastermind behind the whole thing, orchestrating Gisella's movements like a puppeteer.

  Suddenly I wondered what kind of "urgent business" had called Donata away.

  I flipped my cell back open as the cab dropped me off in front of the Plaza and hit number one on my speed dial. Before I was even through the lobby, Dana picked up.

  "Hello?"

  "Hey, it's me. Listen, what's on your schedule for today?"

  "I'm being fitted at eight for a second outfit. But after that I'm pretty much free. Why?"

  "How do you feel about Milan?"

  * * *

  While Dana went to her fitting, I prayed my Visa hadn't hit its limit as I booked us two seats on a flight to Milan for that afternoon, then went to the hotel business center to research everything I could about the Corbett Winston theft online. Which wasn't much. As Angelica had said, they hadn't wanted to publicize the theft, so only a few small articles had run in the local papers, buried in the back of the style section. According to the reports, the theft had occurred about six weeks ago. A thirty-carat diamond and sapphire necklace had been taken from their showroom. Generally the necklace was kept in the back vault, but since it had been out for a photo shoot the day before, it was temporarily being housed in the less secure glass case at their main showroom. No mention of Gisella, though the article had said the value of the stolen necklace was an estimated 220,000 Euros. After calling up a currency conversion site, I learned that was roughly the equivalent to 300,000 American dollars. I did a low whistle. I was so in the wrong business. I wondered if it was too late to learn jewelry design.

  I printed out everything I'd learned and quickly went upstairs. I stopped in briefly at Mom and Mrs. R's room, but no one was in. Instead, I left the print outs on Mom's bed with a little note: Gisella strikes again? The went next door to pack an overnight bag (I learned my lesson with the inside-out panties the first night) before picking up Dana.

  As I was thr
owing my hair dryer into the bag (lesson number two - travel with your own appliances to foreign countries) my cell rang, displaying an unfamiliar number. My heart did a little leap, praying it was Ramirez.

  "Hello?" I asked, suddenly breathless.

  "Maddie, it's Felix."

  "Oh." I felt my entire body slump with disappointment.

  "Well, don't sound so thrilled."

  "Sorry, I was expecting... someone else."

  "He still hasn't called, huh?"

  I narrowed my eyes at the phone. "How do you even know who I was expecting?"

  He sighed. "Maddie, I saw the look on his face. And believe me, if I'd been your boyfriend and walked in on that scene, I'm not sure I would have called either."

  "Gee, thanks. I feel much better now."

  "Where are you?"

  "In my room. Packing. I'm going to Milan to see Gisella's agent. As if it's any of your business," I couldn't help adding.

  "You're still upset about yesterday."

  "What tipped you off?"

  Again with the sigh. "Look, that's actually why I called. I wanted to apologize."

  I raised an eyebrow at the phone. Felix apologizing? Unheard of.

  "Go on," I prompted.

  "I was out of line yesterday. I certainly didn't mean to bust things up between you and... him."

  Wow. That had actually sounded sincere. "Thanks," I said, so shocked I didn't even have a snide comeback ready for him.

  "But, I hope you'll forgive me for saying that you could do a lot better."

  And then he had to go and ruin it.

  "Excuse me?"

  "He's a bit on the caveman side, isn't he, love? I mean the whole protect the little woman thing."

  I put one hand on my hip. "He cares. There's nothing wrong with that."

  "Yes. So much so that you have to sneak off while he threatens to lock you up. Are you his girlfriend or his ward?"

  "He happens to worry about me," I said, my volume rising. Maybe I wouldn't have been so defensive if a tiny part of me didn't almost agree with Felix. "That's what people who love each other do. They protect each other."

  "But does he trust you? Isn't that a part of loving someone?"

  I opened my mouth to speak but realized I didn't have response for that. Dammit, why did Felix have to start making sense now?

  "Look, my love life has nothing to do with you," I shot back instead.

  He was quiet a moment. Then in a low, almost sad voice said, "No. No, I suppose it doesn't."

  "And for your information, Ramirez happens to be just my type. I happen to like the caveman thing, okay?"

  "If you say so."

  "Yes, I say so!" I yelled into the phone.

  He was quiet. The only sound the panting of my own worked-up breath.

  "Are you done apologizing?" I shouted.

  I thought I heard Felix do a little chuckle on the other end. "I think that about sums up my apology, yes."

  "Good. I have to go." I hit the off button, not waiting for Felix's response, and threw my phone on the bed.

  I hated to admit just how much the call had gotten to me. What I'd said was true - I knew Ramirez cared about me, worried about me. And most of the time, when he wasn't infuriating the heck out of me, I appreciated it. Who didn't want someone to care about them, right?

  But Felix was right. Ramirez didn't trust me. He never had. Ever since we'd met, I'd always been the cute, slightly ditzy blonde who needed his protection. As much as I'd tried to convince him otherwise in the time we'd known each other, I had a bad feeling that was how he still saw me. Granted, I did have an uncanny ability to shove my heel clad-foot firmly in my mouth, and, I'll admit, I did seem to be a magnet for trouble at times. So, I could see why he didn't always have complete faith in my abilities.

  But a little trust might be nice now and then.

  Only as I stared at my phone sitting silently on the floral duvet, I realized that I didn't trust him either. He asked me to trust in the legal system, to trust Moreau, to trust that, with Ramirez here, I wouldn't end up in jail. And what had I done? Gone off to London on a wild goose chase that had ended in me lip-locked with Felix, of all people.

  No wonder he wasn't calling.

  As if on cue, my cell chirped to life.

  I dove for it, hitting the on button without even looking at the readout.

  "Jack?" I asked, my heart leaping into my throat.

  "He still hasn't called, huh?" Dana's voice answered.

  I gulped down my disappointment. "No."

  "Sorry, hon. But, give him a little time. I'm sure he will."

  If only I was as sure.

  "Anyway, I just wanted to let you know I'm done with my fitting and on my way to the hotel. Give me ten minutes to pack a bag and I'm ready to go."

  I nodded at the phone. "Okay, meet you in the lobby in twenty."

  I hung up, flopping back onto the bed. I looked at the silent phone in my hands. Closed my eyes and willed it to ring. Come on, Jack. Please, please, please...

  I opened them. Nothing. Still silent.

  I took a deep breath and scrolled through the numbers in my address book until Ramirez's showed on the screen. I stared the entry. So hard that the numbers started swimming front of my vision. My finger hovered over the call button.

  I hit it, holding my breath as it rang on the other end. Once, twice, then to voicemail. My heart bottomed out. He wasn't calling and he still wasn't taking my calls.

  "Hey, it's me again. I just wanted to let you know I'm going to Milan," I told his voicemail, making good on my promise to keep him informed. "And I... I'm still sorry."

  I hung up, then flipped my phone shut and stared at the dark LCD screen.

  Dana was right. He just needed some time. He'd call. Eventually.

  I hoped.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Those who know me well know that I am a bit of a celebrity junkie. I never miss a night watching the Emmys, Oscars, or SAG awards, and I'd have to say that my favorite all time awards show moment was when Roberto Benigni won the Oscar for his film Life Is Beautiful. In true expressive Italian fashion he jumped up and down, kissing everyone in sight, running down the aisles like a little kid at Christmas. You couldn't help but laugh, cry, and feel your heart beat a little faster right along with him.

  Milan was a city full of Benignis. As soon as our plane landed, Dana and I trudged our way through the airport amidst boisterous Italians hugging, laughing, and gesturing with their arms in an aerobic fashion. And kissing. Kissing seemed to be the national sport of Italy. Everywhere we went, men kissing each other on both cheeks, women kissing everyone on both cheeks, and children being kissed in all directions by everyone. In Italy, everyone kissed.

  By the time we hailed a cab and were on our way to the address Mom and Mrs. R had Googled for the Girardi Agency, I was seriously contemplating a disinfectant wipe for my cheeks, though I couldn't help the grin that had spread across my face. The Benigni-eque atmosphere was infecting.

  "I like it here," Dana said, waving to a friendly group of soccer players waiting at the curb. I was pretty sure at least one of them had slipped her his number.

  "Do you know where this address is?" I asked our driver, handing him the print out.

  "Si, si," he said, nodding his head. "I take you pretty signoras there." He gave Dana a wink in the rearview mirror. Dana giggled.

  "Heard from Ricky lately?" I asked, nudging her in the ribs.

  Immediately the smile left her face. "Oh yeah. The cheating bastard."

  "Uh oh. Trouble in Croatia?"

  "I guess you haven't seen the latest edition of the Informer?"

  I shook my head. Considering there was a ninety percent chance of seeing my own picture splayed across their pages, I was trying to stay clear. "What did they say this time?"

  "There was a picture, Maddie. Of Ricky and Natalie Portman on a beach. She was in a bikini and he was rubbing sunscreen all over her back. Her bare back."

&nbs
p; "So he's concerned about skin cancer?"

  "So he's definitely doing her."

  "You don't know that. For all you know, they pasted Ricky and Natalie's faces on Brad and Angelina's bodies. They do that, you know."

  Dana made a disbelieving "hmph" sound.

  "Have you asked him about it?"

  She nodded. "He's still denying it. He told me they're 'just friends,'" she said, doing air quotes with her fingers.

  "So, maybe they are."

  "Yeah, right."

  "Look, maybe he has a perfectly good explanation for it all. Maybe he didn't mean to rub sunscreen on her, maybe he was tricked, coerced. Maybe it was just moment of weakness. Maybe he's really, really sorry and really, really wishes you'd just call and forgive him."

  Dana gave me a look. "Um, we're not still talking about Ricky are we?" she asked.

  I bit my lip. "No."

  She patted my arm. "Don't worry. He'll call."

  While I appreciated the sentiment, I was beginning to believe that less and less.

  The ride from the airport to the Girardi Agency was, thankfully, a short one. Even with the packed city streets, we pulled up in front of the tall, modern glass building in less than twenty minutes. It was in a densely urban part of the city, which, unless you looked closely, could have resembled any part of L.A. Tall office buildings, parking garages, small coffee shops tucked on every corner, and men and women wearing everything from business attire to Bohemian peasant skirts and backpacks rushing to and fro on the sidewalks.

  Dana and I paid the driver, then got out and entered the lobby of the cool air-conditioned building. After consulting the directory, we hopped in the elevator and rode it to the twenty-first floor where the agency's offices were housed.

  The frosted glass doors simply read "Girardi" in black letters. The reception area beyond was a cool, sophisticated example of modern Italian design. Bright bold area rugs covered the floors, low chairs and tables in sleek chrome and colorful upholstery lined the waiting area. On the tables, a range of fashion magazines, most, I would assume, featuring the agency clientele. The walls were a soft cream color, punctuated with abstract art in a variety of bold geometric shapes, and the kidney shaped desk in the center featured a range of sleek, streamlined computers and other offices machines I'd be afraid to touch for fear of pushing the wrong button.