Alibi in High Heels

by Gemma Halliday

  I heard Ramirez mutter a "Jesus," under his breath, then he was suddenly at my side.

  "Are you okay?" he asked, lifting me up by my armpits.

  "I think so," I replied. Only it came out more like, "I ink ow" as my lip was already rapidly swelling.

  Ramirez looked at me, his eyes doing a quick assessment of my person. He reached one hand out and ran the pad of his thumb lightly along my injured lip.

  My breath caught in my throat.

  "Jack," I whispered.

  His dark eyes met mine.

  And he quickly pulled his hand away, clearing his throat. He turned and swiftly picked up his duffel bag from the floor.

  "I never got to thank you for bailing me out in Italy," I said.

  No response.

  "Thank you.

  "So, you're leaving?" I asked. Though the answer to that was pretty obvious.

  He nodded. "Captain called. They've got a double homicide in Brentwood."

  I bit my lip to keep from protesting that there was a double homicide here. Because, sadly, between his captain and me, I already knew who'd win out.

  "My flight leaves in two hours," he continued, making for the door.

  "Wait," I called, gathering up my crutches and hobbling after him. "Please, just let me explain."

  He shook his head. "You don't need to."

  "I want to."

  He didn't stop, if anything his pace picking up as he stalked purposefully toward the front doors.

  "It didn't mean anything," I said, trailing after him. "You have to trust me, this was all just a big mistake."

  He stopped just short of the front doors, then turned, his face inches from mine.

  "Please don't go like this," I said.

  He took a deep breath, shaking his head as he blew it out. "Like what, Maddie?"

  I swallowed. "Mad."

  He gave me his best Bad Cop stare. "I'm not mad."

  "You look mad."

  "No." He paused. "I'm disappointed."

  I bit my lip. Wow. Somehow that was even worse. "In me?" I squeaked out.

  He looked at a spot just over my head as if searching for the right words there. Finally he seemed to find them, giving me a long stare. "In us."

  Again, worse. "Look, I don't know how many times I can say, it, Jack. I'm sorry. It was mistake. We all make mistakes."

  He shot me a look.

  "Okay, fine, some of us make more than others," I conceded. "But, come on. Nobody's perfect. You have to trust me when I say that this meant nothing."

  "Trust you?" he said, throwing his arms up in the air. "Trust you? Right, the way I trusted you to still be in the room when I finished brushing my teeth?"

  I bit my lip. "Okay, that was a dirty trick."

  "Damn straight," he ground out through clenched teeth.

  "But I only played it because you didn't trust me. It goes both ways you know. Trust is a 50/50 street."

  He narrowed his eyes and growled deep in his throat.

  "Okay, 60/40."

  He stared at me for a long moment. Then shook his head. "Look, I've got to go. I'll miss my flight."

  "So that's it?" I asked, feeling tears back up in my throat. "You're just leaving?"

  He shot me a look. Almost sad. Almost regretful. Totally final. "Yes, Maddie. That's it."

  And then he walked out the door.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I didn't have the heart to watch Ramirez's cab drive away. Instead I ducked into the cafe and ordered myself a decadent hot chocolate. A large. With whipped cream. And a chocolate pastry. It was shaping up to be that kind of day.

  And the thing that upset me most as I dug into my chocolate indulgence was that even though it was me that had screwed up this time, Ramirez had been far from Mr. Perfect up until now. Hadn't I forgiven him when the captain had called interrupting our evening at the Venice pier last month, even when Jack had promised he'd take me on the giant Ferris wheel? I'd been bummed, but I'd understood. I'd forgiven him.

  And when we'd planned a weekend getaway to Palm Springs and then at the last minute he'd had to cancel because of a murder/suicide by the Hollywood Bowl. All our plans, ruined. Our first vacation together. The non-refundable deposit on the time share condo, the brand new bikini that I'd shopped all day for to find just the right cut that made my legs look long, my tummy look flat, and my barely B's into something that resembled cleavage. But had I complained? Okay, fine I'd complained a little. I mean, it was a rocking bikini gone to waste. But I'd been understanding. I'd known that when he said he was really, really sorry about canceling, he'd meant it. I hadn't stalked off to sulk (much) and I certainly hadn't gotten on the first flight out of the country to avoid him.

  I'd said I was sorry. I'd told him the kiss didn't mean anything. If he couldn't get past it... well, maybe he didn't deserve someone as understanding as me anyway. Besides, it's not like Ramirez had any claim on me. It's not like we were married or anything. I was a single girl. I could kiss whomever I wanted. Not that I wanted to kiss Felix, but, well, if I did I could. And I shouldn't have to grovel at Ramirez's feet for forgiveness.

  Deciding that anger was a much more appealing emotion than grief I continued this train of thought all the way though the lobby and out to a waiting cab. By the time I arrived at the Carrousel de Louvre, I'd worked myself into a pretty nice indignant rage, even if I did say so myself. I hobbled out of the cab, making angry little divots in the grass with my crutches as I passed the tents, hobbled across the courtyard and into the workroom.

  If Jean Luc had seemed stressed before, he was a stressed guy on crack now. He paced the length of the workroom, arms waving above his head, French, Italian and English all jumbled together as he spoke, antacids popping into his mouth one after another.

  I slipped into the room, trying to get Ann's attention before Jean Luc drafted me to fit models.

  "Pssst," I whispered in Ann's direction. She was standing next to Angelica, instructing the seamstress on just how high the hem was supposed to go on the leg. I noticed, with a pang of regret, that Angelica was already dressed in her makeshift replacement pumps. I'd done a key-hole design along the front and sprayed the heels a gold color to match the rim of her skirt. They were passable. But certainly nothing to write home about.

  Or mention in your style column as the next best thing to hit feet since Jimmy Choos.

  "Ann," I whispered again, waving my hand to get her attention. She finally looked up and saw me, clomping to the door in her clogs.

  "You're early. Great. You can help with the girls in the back. We've got Polaroids of each outfit, if you can help get them on."

  I nodded. "Sure. But, I was wondering if I could ask you something first?"

  Her face puckered as if questions weren't on the schedule today, but she didn't say no.

  "I was wondering if you had contact information for a Marcel Bertrand? He's a model in the area."

  Her forehead puckered. "We don't do menswear again until spring."

  "I know. I just..." I paused, racking my little brain for a plausible reason for calling him. Unfortunately, what with the dead bodies, dead career and dead relationship, my little brain had been through too much lately. "I, uh, think he's kinda cute." I cringed.

  Ann cocked her head to the side. "Cute?"

  I decided to run with it. "Uh huh. Do you know if he's already seeing anyone?" I asked. Like Maybe Gisella?

  She shrugged. "Yeah, like I can keep up with their love lives, too. Hang on." She pulled out the BlackBerry. "What was his last name?"

  "Bertrand," I repeated, looking over her shoulder. She scrolled through numbers until she got to the "B"s. "No direct number but his agent is David Callabra." She showed me the screen and I pulled out a pen and wrote down the agent's cell number on my hand.

  "Thanks, Ann," I said, ducking back out the door.

  "Hey!"

  I froze. "Yeah?"

  "What about the fitting?'

  Oh yeah. "Uh, I'll be right back
.

  I slipped outside before she could protest, stepping a few feet away before pulling out my cell and making the call to Marcel's agent. It rang three times before he picked up and I could hear the steady pulse of loud techno music in the background

  "Bonjour?" he answered.

  "Hi, I'm with Le Croix designs," I said, fibbing only a little. "We're looking to book a male model next week for a shoot. I heard you represented Marcel Bertrand?"

  "Oui, uh, un moment." I heard him cover the mouthpiece. When he came back on the music had faded some. "Pardon, Le Croix designs, did you say?"

  "Yes. Marcel came highly recommended to us by Gisella Rossi."

  There was a pause on the other end. "Gisella Rossi?"

  "Marcel did know Gisella, didn't he?" I asked, crossing my fingers.

  "Oui," Callabra said slowly. "But I'm surprised she would recommend him."

  "Oh? Why is that?"

  "Uh, why don't we talk about this in person? I am at the Gaultier show right."

  "Perfect, I'll meet you there in ten minutes."

  * * *

  Gaultier was showing in a large venue in the Rue Saint-Martin. Unlike New York's Bryant Park, Paris's Fashion Week is spread between a variety of historically rich and architecturally gorgeous sites within a few blocks radius, with top tier designers showing throughout the week. When I arrived at the Rue Saint-Martin it was packed. We're talking Nordstrom's semi-annual clearance sale packed. My cab circled the block twice before double parking and letting me out at the curb, amidst the angry horns of the other drivers.

  I threaded my way through a solid wall of photographers, columnists, and general fashionistas until I heard the tell-tale pulsating music of the Gaultier show.

  I ducked my head in, not actually getting any further without a ticket. But even from there I could see that the folding chairs two and three rows deep were already long filled. The show was standing room only and I craned to see the last few models strut their stuff down the runway. I slipped between two guys wielding cameras for a better position and caught a glimpse of a long legged woman in a streamlined wool jacket and thigh high books doing a pose at the end of the runway before strutting away. Despite my reasons for being here, my heart gave a little leap at being among the very first to see the season's hot items.

  Especially when the next model stopped and posed in a gorgeous off the shoulder, white, mid thigh dress with butterfly cutouts in the back. I had to have one of those.

  By the time the last model had made her journey up and down the sleek, black runaway and Jean Paul himself came out to the sounds of thunderous applause, I was right there clapping along with everyone else, and completely caught up in the infectious excitement of Fashion Week.

  So caught up that I jumped when someone tapped me on the shoulder.

  "Maddie?"

  I spun around to face a short, balding man with a pointed goatee that looked like it was modeled after Beelzebub himself. He was dressed in all black - slacks, sweater, and pointy toed shoes. Which matched his pointy features, a sharp nose, small, calculating eyes. In fact the only thing not pointy about him was his round little head, balding and gleaming under the still blaring show lights.

  "Yes?" I asked tentatively.

  "David Callabra," he said, sticking out his hand. "We spoke on the phone."

  I nodded. "Oh, right." I cleared my throat. "Uh, how did you know who I was?'

  He did a wry grin. "Your face has been all over the news, Maddie. Everyone in Paris knows who you are."

  At any other time everyone in the fashion world knowing my name might have been a good thing. Today, it made my stomach hurt.

  "Right." I paused. "I didn't do it, by the way."

  He waved me off. "Guilty, innocent, I do not care. As long as the pay is right, I am willing to chance it, as they say." He grinned. And I had the feeling he was at least half kidding.

  "So," he said, leading the way outside, "you said you had a job for Marcel?"

  I cleared my throat, "Right. Uh, Gisella had recommended him."

  He shook his head. "Like I say, I can hardly believe that."

  I froze. Uh oh. Was the jig up? And here I'd thought it was such a good jig.

  "From what I heard, Marcel was hardly Gisella's favorite person. They parted on hardly the best of terms the last time they worked together."

  "Oh," I said, relived he hadn't seen through my cover. "What happened?"

  "Her allegations were completely fabricated," he said.

  Allegations? This sounded promising. "Go on," I said as we threaded our way through the mass of people milling around the street, comparing notes from the show.

  "Well, they were working together in Cannes and Gisella accused Marcel of stealing something from her."

  "Stealing?" An ironic accusation coming from Gislla.

  "It was a silly misunderstanding. Gisella was wearing a tennis bracelet in the shoot and afterward, it went missing. Gisella accused Marcel of taking it."

  "He didn't?"

  "No, of course not. But that didn't stop them from searching his things. Of course he came up clean, but it left a taint on his name."

  I knew how that felt. "Was the bracelet ever recovered?"

  "I assume so. I really do not know. After they searched his belongings, Marcel left the set. The whole thing put a, uh... as you say, bad taste in his mouth. Especially considering his relationship with Gisella."

  "Relationship? So they were dating?"

  "Oui. Were, past tense. Like I said, they did not have anything to do with each other after that. Though, I'm glad to hear that there were no any hard feelings on Gisella's part. Ah, when did you say you needed Marcel by?"

  "What?" I was still digesting this information. Another item of jewelry gone missing in Gisella's presence. The girl had balls, I'll say that. Especially to accuse Marcel. Though, it didn't seem likely that were Marcel her partner, she'd have thrown suspicion on him that way.

  "When is the shoot?" David repeated.

  "Oh. Uh, next week."

  Callabra clicked his tongue. "A pity. Marcel's in Spain. He has been doing a calendar shoot there for the past week and he is not scheduled back until the end of the month."

  And unlikely just became impossible. How was it everyone had an alibi but me?

  "I do have another young man who might interest you." Callabra reached into his briefcase and pulled out a photo of a twenty-something guy in a tiny Speedo laying on a beach. He had dark hair, dark eyes, and had set of abs that looked chiseled from stone.

  I lifted my hand to the corner of my mouth, surreptitiously checking for drool.

  "Wow."

  "Attractive, oui?" he said. "Marc had been on three covers so far and he was featured as the daily fix four times last year on Playgirl dot com. He is very hot right now."

  No kidding. With some difficulty, I tore my gaze away from the picture. "He's very nice looking." Understatement alert. "But, we really just wanted Marcel."

  His face fell as he put the pictures back in his pocket. "Oh. Sorry. But," he said, pulling a card out of his wallet. "Let me know if you change your mind."

  As he walked away I slipped the card into my purse and mentally crossed Marcel's name off the list. That just left one identity for Mystery Man.

  Charlie.

  * * *

  I fought my way back toward the curb in search of a cab, which, due to the mass of people leaving the Gaultier show, took another twenty minutes before I finally ended up sharing one with a reporter from the Metropole who kept sending me sidelong glances until I finally gave him a pointed, "Yes, I'm the Couture Killer and no, I have no comment."

  After that he kept his eyes focused out the window the rest of the ride back to Le Carousel de Louvre.

  Even with all the changes, pinning and sewing that had gone on with Jean Luc's creations over the past week, there were still a multitude of last minute adjustments that needed to be made. A seam tripped here, something puckering there, a model who
had eaten too big a lunch. (Which, in their world, I supposed consisted of two Tic Tacs instead of one.)

  I set up at a table in the back, filling in wherever Ann needed me. And trying not to look at the empty shoe rack where my first tastes of fashion fame were supposed to be sitting. Yeah. I know. I didn't try too hard. Every time I caught a glimpse of it out of the corner of my eyes, Moreau moved up that much higher in my shit list. Having him take the stiletto that had killed Gisella into evidence, that I could understand. But holding all of my creations hostage - now that was just mean. I made a mental note not to donate to the policemen's fund next time they came knocking on my door.

  The only upside of the day was that as each model made her way to my station for last minute adjustments, I had an opportunity to quiz her about Gisella and her possible beau slash accomplice, the mysterious Mr. Charlie. The first two drew blanks saying they hadn't even known Gisella when they'd signed onto the Le Croix show. The next one, a girl from Northern California, vaguely remembered Gisella talking about some guy, but had no idea what his name was. And from the description ("a dude hecka into handcuffs") I'd venture to guess she'd been talking about Ryan and not our elusive Charlie.

  Half a dozen models later and the most I had garnered was that a) Gisella had flaunted all her previous boyfriends to anyone who would listen and b) no one really paid much attention to what she said.

  All in all a rather unproductive afternoon.

  Though, one girl I spoke with, a long-legged brunette from South Africa, said that she had ridden the elevator up to the 14th floor the night Gisella was killed with a guy in khakis and a rumpled white shirt. She remembered the time exactly because she'd been late to meet a friend for drinks and, according to the timetable I'd gotten out of Angelica, it served to confirm Felix's story. It had been too late in the evening for him to have been her Mr. Roll-in-the-hay. Good to know, but hardly a step closer to finding our Mystery Man.