Alibi in High Heels (3 page)

* * *

There are few truly unstoppable forces in nature. Tornadoes, hurricanes, an unexpected shift of the San Andreas fault line. And - you guessed it - my mother.

Which is why, one week later, as I hobbled through the front doors of the Plaza Athenee in Paris, France, I had a pair of awkward metal crutches shoved under my armpits and a pair of middle aged women flanking my sides.

"Oh my God, Maddie, would you take a look at this place?" Mom's mouth gaped open.

"It's like where them rock stars stay," Mrs. Rosenblatt said. "I bet Gwen Stefani stays here."

"I bet the queen stays here."

"I bet this is gonna max out my Visa."

They were right. The place was amazing. The floors were a pale taupe marble beneath a sparkling crystal chandelier that was larger than my bathroom. Bright red fresh cut flowers hung from tall pillars that flanked the lobby, and the walls were done in delicately painted frescoes of wildflowers and serene lakes. The entire place felt opulent, glamorous, and oh so very French.

Okay, so I was here with two postmenopausal chaperones. But I was here. In Paris. Despite the eleven hour flight, I couldn't help a goofy grin from cracking my face.

"
Puis-je vous aider
?" a man behind the counter asked as we approached. He was in his fifties, tall and slim with a large nose and receding hairline exposing a shiny dome of a forehead.

"I don't know what he said," Mrs. Rosenbaltt commented, "but he sure looked good saying it." She gave me a suggestive elbow in the ribs.

The dome went red and his eyes hit the floor. "Ah, Americans," he said quickly, switching to English. "And how may I help you lovely young ladies?"

Mrs. Rosenblatt snorted. "We're
young
ladies," she said to Mom. Mom giggled.

I handed over my credit card. "Maddie Springer. And entourage," I added, glancing over my shoulder.

"Don't mind us, we're just here to sightsee," Mom said, waving me off.

"You, ah, got any recommendations where two
young
ladies could have a good time there, Pierre?" Mrs. R licked her lips and leaned suggestively on the counter, her bright orange muumuu dipping down to expose a pair of breasts that gravity hadn't been kind to.

The clerk cleared his throat, going a deeper shade of crimson. "
Pardon moi
,
mademoiselle
, but the name is actually Andre."

"Really? 'Cause you look like a Pierre to me. Must be that sexy French accent of yours."

Andre suddenly became engrossed in his computer screen. "Ah, yes, we have two rooms on the 15
^th
floor. Adjoining."

"Oh, this is going to be so much fun, Maddie," Mom squeaked, giving my arm a squeeze. "It'll be like one big slumber party."

"Uh, do you have anything maybe not so adjoining?" I asked.

But unfortunately Andre was currently hypnotized by Mrs. R running her tongue suggestively over her lipstick stained teeth. I admit, it was kind of like a car wreck - hideously unreal yet impossible to turn away.

"So, what time do you get off work, Pierre?" Mrs. R asked.

The clerk gulped. "Uh, rooms 702 and 704. Enjoy your stay." He quickly slid the card keys across the marble counter, then scurried off to help the next customer.

"I think he kinda liked me," Mrs. R said.

"I think you kinda scared him."

"Oh, Maddie, we're in Paris! This is going to be so fun!" Mom squeezed my arm again and steered me toward the elevators.

Visions of Karaoke in French flashed before my eyes.

Thankfully Mom and Mrs. R decided to take a nap in their suite before going out for an afternoon of sightseeing. I left them at their door, promising to call once I got safely to the site of Jean Luc's tent.

I slipped my keycard in the door, stepped into my room, and suddenly felt like I'd entered a dollhouse. A white, four poster bed sat in the middle, draped in bright yellow floral patterns and piled high with about a million pillows. Beneath the window sat a long chaise and on the far side of the room, a lovely antique bureau next to a small writing desk. The room was feminine, bursting with ruffles and had Paris written all over it. I loved it.

I immediately went to the window overlooking the city and craned for a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower. But, while I could see clear to the mountains, there was sadly no tower in sight. Clearly not an Eiffel view room.

I didn't stop to unpack, instead quickly changing into a breezy red, spaghetti strap sundress I'd bought at French Boutique on Melrose, a white shrug sweater and red and white polka dotted ballet flats (okay,
one
ballet flat and one ugly blue boot) before grabbing my purse and heading out to find a cab to Le Carrousel du Louvre - site of Jean Luc's show. Fashion Week, here I come!

* * *

If you've never been backstage at a fashion show, there are few things in life that can compare to it. The excitement, the energy, the sheer chaos. And while Jean Luc's show wasn't scheduled for another week, as I neared the white tent with the words "Le Croix" painted in bold, black letters, the air was already electric with anticipation and the chaos was in full swing. Men in white coveralls converged on piles of lumber that in just a few short days would be transformed into runways the world would be watching to learn what they'd be wearing this season. Reporters with cameras slung around their necks stood in the corners, interviewing anyone who'd stand still. And models, tall, slim almost inhumanly beautiful creatures, were everywhere. Sipping water bottles, smoking slim, brown cigarettes, and strutting their impossibly long legs in impossibly beautiful couture.

This was as close to heaven as I think I'd ever been.

In the center of it all, like a clever ringmaster, stood the man himself, Jean Luc Le Croix. He was tall and thick, in his forties. Jet black hair, dark sunglasses, a look on his face like he was perpetually constipated. He wore black jeans, black snakeskin boots, and a black cashmere sweater with a big gold medallion hung around his neck. His voice reminded me of an auctioneer, constantly barking out orders at whomever happen to be within earshot.

"Maddie!" he cried as I approached.

"Hello, Jean Luc." I leaned in and did a very French pair of air kisses at him.

"We've been expecting you. It is madness, yes?" he asked gesturing around himself. "Come, come, we've got the models being fitted inside." Jean Luc lead the way through the construction toward a large building beside the famous Louvre museum. Me hobbling awkwardly behind, trying to keep up with his long-legged gait.

The room he led me into was full of worktables, dress forms and tall, rail thin models in various states of undress. Among them flitted assistants and seamstresses, long yellow measuring tapes draped around their necks. A chorus of different languages were being spoken, Italian, French, Spanish, and even a few words of English here and there.

Jean Luc barked to the models as we threaded our way through the room. "Tanya, darling, that's a top not a skirt. Angelica, you need a necklace with that shirt. No, no, no, Bella, that color is all wrong on you. Take it off, quickly, darling!" He turned to me. "You'll have to excuse me, the majority of the models only came in yesterday and I'm still in the middle of a full blown aneurysm."

I grinned. Despite his brusque manner it was impossible not to like him.

"Becca! You're killing me," he shouted to a pouty redhead. "That's a front closure, you must wear undergarments with it!"

"Jean Luc," called a voice from the back of the room. "Jean Luuuuuuuuc." A short, slim brunette wearing all black, thick glasses, and a headset hailed him from across the room, making purposeful strides toward him.

Jean Luc closed his eyes in a mini meditation. "Not again," he mumbled under his breath. Then he turned around, all smiles.

"Maddie, meet Ann, my assistant."

"Charmed," Ann shot, giving only a cursory glance my direction. "Listen, Jean Luc, it's Gisella. She's lost her necklace for the finale."

"Christ, not again."

Ann gestured toward a tall, long legged brunette with stick straight bangs and thighs so slim I could wrap my hands around them. She looked bored, jutting one bony hip out and contemplating her fingernails.

"She says she left it in her room, but we can't find it anywhere."

"Fine, I'll be right there." Ann walked away and Jean Luc turned to me. "I'm sorry, apparently my two second break from crisis has ended. But come, I'll introduce you to Gisella."

I hobbled after Jean Luc again, as he stalked toward the bored brunette.

"Maddie," Jean Luc said as I caught up, huffing just a little, "I'd like you to meet my lead model, Gisella Rossi.

"Nice to meet you," I said, sticking out my hand while simultaneously trying not to lose my grip on my crutches.

Gisella gave me a limp wristed squeeze and a wan smile. "Ciao."

"Gisella will be wearing the black baby doll in the finale, so we'll need a tall heel for her. But nothing chunky."

"Got it. No problem." I had just the right shoe in mind for her already. A black, three inch, pointy stiletto, with rhinestone studded ankle strap I'd put the finishing touches on last week. I looked down at her feet, trying to gauge her size.

"Now, Gisella, darling, what's this I hear about the necklace gone missing?"

Gisella rolled her eyes. "I dunno where it is," she answered in heavily accented English.

"Honey. Sweetie," Jean Luc said, though the look on his face said he was mentally calling Gisella a whole host of less endearing names. "That necklace is worth a lot of money. We have to find it."

Gisella shrugged again. "It could be anywhere."

"Where was the last place you saw it? Retrace your steps."

She blew a puff of air toward the ceiling, ruffling her stick straight bangs. "Last night, I went to the party at Hotel de Crillon. Then, after, I go back to my own room. I put the necklace in my room. Then, I go to bed. I wake up, the necklace is missing."

Jean Luc started breathing hard like he needed a paper bag. "You wore the necklace to the party? And took it back to your own room!?"

Gisella contemplated her nails. "Yes. It is a fancy party."

Jean Luc looked ready to spout steam from his ears.

"You took a priceless piece of jewelry from
my
show to a private party?"

Gisella didn't answer, thoroughly engrossed in her cuticles.

Jean Luc pinched the bridge of his nose, struggling to compose himself. "At least tell me you put it in you room safe?" he finally mumbled.

Gisella bit the inside of her cheek. "I dunno."

"What do you mean you 'dunno?'"

"It was a late party. I had a lot to drink. I can't remember."

Jean Luc took deep breath through his nose.

"Maybe it is stolen," Gisella said.

Jean Luc visibly paled. "No. No, no, no, no. It cannot be stolen. It's on loan from Lord Ackerman's private collection. It is not stolen. You just misplaced it, Gisella."

Gisella shrugged. "We'll just have to get another one." And she stalked off, her long legs gliding with a grace that was at complete odds with her grating disposition.

Jean Luc pinched the bridge of his nose again. "Get another one? Christ, it's worth over 300,000 euros. Get another one?! Good God, Lord Ackerman would kill me," he mumbled to himself as he walked away.

Well, I guess life could be worse. I could be Jean Luc.

After settling in at a table in the back, I spent the rest of the day seeing one model after another, trying to match shoes to outfits. In most cases, the shoes I'd brought with me were a little on the larger size, something I'd been prepared for, bringing a whole bag of tricks to make large shoes fit a medium foot. One thing they'd taught us in design school was that it was always easier to fit a larger shoe on a small model than have her try to squeeze into a too tight one. The only one that fit perfectly was, ironically, Gisella's. It was almost as if the black stiletto had been made for her foot. A good thing too, as she wasn't the most patient of subjects, fidgeting and twisting in her seat the entire fitting.

By the end of the day, I was beat. The pain pills were wearing off, my leg was throbbing, and I was seriously wondering what the French equivalent to Starbucks was. I was relieved when Ann walked through the workroom, announcing they were packing it in for the night.

One cab ride later (during which I had my nose pressed to the glass the entire time, trying to catch a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower) I was dragging my tired self through the lobby of the Plaza Athenee. It took all the energy I had left to concentrate on keeping my crutches from slipping on the marble floor. Not an easy thing to do. And one that inevitably led to me running smack into some poor soul getting off the elevators.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," I mumbled to the ground. "
Je suis
... uh...
muy, muy
sorry." No wait, that was Spanish. "Uh,
je suis
..."

"No problem, Maddie."

I froze. And looked up into the man's face for the first time, sucking in a breath of surprise. There, standing in front of me, was the last person I expected to see in Paris.

Felix.

Chapter Three

Two years ago I had investigated the disappearance of my former boyfriend, who, as it turned out, had been involved in an embezzlement scheme that ended in murder. I'd confronted the killer head-on, and during the resulting struggle, I'd inadvertently popped one of her saline breast implants with a nail file. And then stabbed her in the side of the neck with a stiletto heel. I know. Very girly of me. But, what can I say? Shit happens.

Unfortunately, it was just the kind of story that the
L.A. Informer
, Southern California's sleaziest tabloid, lived for. That was my first encounter with Felix Dunn, the only reporter in all of L.A. County who had published no less than five articles revolving around Bigfoot's secret love child with the Crocodile Woman. Felix had taken the popped implant story and run with it, even going so far as pasting a picture of my head on Pamela Anderson's body under the caption: Big Boobs Beware! I'd briefly contemplated hiring a hit man.

Since then, Felix and I had, on occasion, worked together for the greater good. Okay, I'd worked for the greater good. Felix had worked for a juicy story to land him on the front page. Felix had the moral fiber of pond scum, which came in handy when dealing with the criminal element, but I wasn't entirely sure he wouldn't eat his young to sell a few more papers.

During brief moments, Felix did, I admit, appear to have a human side. Born in England, he wore his cropped blond hair a little on the messy side, had twin dimples that appeared in his tanned cheeks quite frequently, and had the Hugh Grant charm thing down pat. And he had, at least once, expressed genuine concern over my well being. It was during one of those rare moments that I'd last seen Felix. I'd been spending the night at his house and, in a completely accidental move, kissed him. On the lips. With tongue.

The kiss had been meant for his cheek but I swear he'd turned his head at the last minute. Like I said, complete accident. But, considering we hadn't seen each other since then, I still felt heat creeping into my cheeks and the taste of his lips slipping to the forefront of my memory as I stood in the lobby of the Plaza Athenee staring up into his blue eyes.

"Maddie. How are you, love?" he asked, his voice holding the slightest hint of a British accent.

"Fine." I cleared my throat. "Uh, great. Wonderful."

His gaze strayed down to Wonder Boot. "You don't look all that great wonderful."

"Gee, thanks. Just what every girl wants to hear."

His eyes crinkled at the corners, those dimples making an appearance. "That's not what I meant." His eyes roved appreciatively over my red dress. "And you know it,"

My cheeks went lava girl again. "Tibial fracture," I blurted out. "I got hit by a Mustang. Mrs. Rosenblatt. I'm fine."

Felix clucked his tongue. "You've got to be more careful, love. Let me guess, stumbled over a heel? Not the most practical footwear now, are they?"

I resisted the urge to stick my tongue out at him. "Fashion is not about practicality. And, no, I didn't stumble. I was the victim of a psychic who couldn't work a clutch."

Felix chuckled. "Only you, Maddie."

I ignored his amusement at my expense. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

Felix raised an eyebrow at me. "It's Fashion Week, what do you think I'm doing here?"

"Hoping one of Versace's models runs off with the Loch Ness Monster?"

Again those dimples flashed. "Actually, I'm here with my auntie. She never misses Fashion Week, but she does hate coming alone."

I narrowed my eyes at him. Dutiful Nephew didn't fit Felix's usual M.O. any more than G.I. Jane fit mine. I could hardly see him accompanying a doddering blue hair to runway after runway.

He paused. Then added, "And, of course, if some top model should happen to trash her hotel room or collapse from an anorexic laxative overdose while I'm here, so much the better."

Ah. Now there was the Tabloid Boy I knew and loved.

I mean, hated.

"And you? What brings our Maddie to Paris?"

I lifted my chin, making the most of my 5'1 1/2" frame. "I happen to be showing this week."

He raised a blond eyebrow, suitably impressed. "Really?"

"Yes, at the Le Croix show. All the models will be wearing Maddie Springer originals."

"I should say you've finally arrived then." He looked down at my one polka dotted ballet flat. "This from your collection?"

"No. Thanks to the broken leg, I'm on a no-heels diet."

"No heels?" He did a mock gasp. "Good God, how will our Maddie survive?"

"Ha, ha. Very funny, Tabloid Boy."

"Well, congratulations on the show. I'll look forward to seeing you there. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm afraid I'm keeping Auntie waiting. Good to see you again, Maddie. Uh..." He gestured down to Wonder Boot. "Need a hand getting up to your room, love?"

I squared my shoulders (not an easy thing to do while holding onto a pair of crutches, by the way). "No, thank you. I'm quite capable of taking care of myself."

Again with the grin. "Suit yourself." Felix did a little bow, then took off in the direction of the hotel's restaurant.

I watched his retreating back. He'd traded in his usual uniform of a white, button down shirt and rumpled khaki pants for a more sophisticated look of tailored slacks and a soft gray blazer. The color of the jacket brought out the highlights in his blond hair, the line of the slacks accentuating his long, lean form. I had to admit, it looked good on him.

Not, mind you, that I was looking.

I turned and hit the elevator button, immensely relieved that for all his teasing, at least Felix hadn't mentioned The Kiss. (Accidental as it was.) I'd expected some snide comment, but he hadn't even hinted. In fact, it was almost as if he'd completely forgotten all about it. Good. Perfect. Me too. What kiss? See? It never happened. Completely forgotten.

The carriage arrived and I awkwardly hobbled into the elevator, glancing briefly toward the restaurant as Felix disappeared inside.

I had to remember to ask Ramirez if he owned a blazer.

* * *

I opened the door to my room and immediately spied a note on hotel stationary slipped under the door. Ditching the crutches with a clattering thud on the carpet, I leaned down and picked it up. "Went to Moulin Rouge. Don't wait up. Mom." Mom and Cancan dancers. Now there was a combination.

I hopped over to my ruffled four poster bed on one ballet flat and flopped down on my back, spread eagle. I closed my eyes, and lay there contemplating the back of my eyelids. One day down, six more to go until Show Day.

I was hovering in that place somewhere between semi-consciousness and dead-to-the-world sleep when the "William Tell Overture" started singing from the region of my purse. I groped, refusing to open my eyes as I fished by brail for my cell. "Hello?" I asked as I flipped it open.

"How's my favorite designer this morning?"

Ramirez. Despite the tired ache in my limbs a smile lifted the corners of my mouth at his smooth voice, sounding deceptively close.

"Evening. It's eight o'clock. I'm beat."

"Aw, poor girl. Slide a little closer, I'll give you a massage."

I grinned in the dark. "Don't tempt me, it's only an eleven hour flight."

"Paris is that bad, huh?"

I sighed. "No, actually it's wonderful. Absolutely amazingly exhaustingly wonderful."

"Good. I'm glad to hear it." Though I'd swear a tiny corner of his voice almost sounded disappointed.

"I still haven't even got a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower yet, though."

"I'm sure Jean Luc wouldn't mind you taking a little time off to do some sightseeing."

"Ha! You don't know Jean Luc."

"What if you just go in a little early tomorrow and take a quick trip to the tower in the afternoon?"

I rubbed my temples. I had to admit, it wasn't a bad idea. "Maybe."

"Hey, by the way, I dropped by your place last night and watered your plants."

Last spring Ramirez and I had finally taken the plunge and exchanged house keys. Probably the biggest commitment I could ever expect out of a guy like Ramirez. When I'd showed Dana the pink copy of Ramirez's house key that he'd had made for me, she'd warned that once the keys came out the ring wasn't far behind. I'd had a brief moment of panic until I realized a) this was Ramirez we were talking about and b) Dana's longest lasting relationship thus far had been with a battery powered rabbit. She wasn't exactly an expert.

I frowned into the phone. "Um, honey, I don't have any plants."

"Okay, I dropped by and watched the game on your TV. Cable was out at my place."

"You are such a guy."

"And that's a bad thing?"

I felt myself smiling in the dark again. "No. Definitely not."

"So, when are you coming home? Your place isn't the same without you."

"A week from Sunday."

Ramirez groaned into the phone. "That's a long time."

"Only ten days."

"
Only
?" He groaned again. Though this one held a hint of his wicked Big Bad Wolf smile behind it. "You know, I think you're going to have to make this up to me when you come home."

I quirked an eyebrow in the darkness. "Oh yeah? What did you have in mind, pal?"

"Oh, I've got a couple of ideas. How do you feel about whipped cream?"

I giggled into the phone. Even as my body went warm in places completely inappropriate to talk about in mixed company. "Whipped cream, huh? What am I, an ice cream sundae?"

There was that growl again. "Uhn huh. With maybe a cherry or two on top. Then I'd lick-"

But he didn't get to finish that thought as Ramirez's pager chirped to life in the background. I heard him shift, then curse under his breath. "Shit. Maddie, Captain's paging me. I gotta go. Call you back?"

I swallowed down a lump of disappointment. Just when we were getting to the good part. "Sure."

"Five minutes. Promise," he shot out. Then a click and silence sounded in my ear.

I looked at the phone in my hands. I swear if Ramirez paid half as much attention to me as he did his Captain, we'd be married and cooking babies by now. Not that I necessarily wanted to be a baby cooker, but quite honestly I wouldn't thumb my nose at a night of being a human ice cream sundae. I closed my eyes, wondering just how Ramirez had anticipated finishing that last thought.

There went that inappropriate heat again. I stared at my cell. Five minutes, huh?

I got up, rummaging in my suitcase for something suitable to wear while having intercontinental phone sex with my boyfriend. Unfortunately, the best I could come up with were the flannel pajamas with little ducks printed on them that I'd packed. Not necessarily Fredericks of Hollywood, but they'd have to do. I slipped the top on, giving up on the bottoms as they stretched and strained around Wonder Boot. I guess I could have taken the boot off. But I only had two more minutes. Besides, the shirt was long enough to cover all the important parts. I grabbed my cell, flipped the lights off and crawled back into bed with one minute to spare.

I sat there staring at my phone. A minute went by. Then another. One more. Okay, don't panic. Five minutes, ten minutes - what's the difference, right? I decided that a watched cell never rings and grabbed the remote on the night table, switching on the TV to wait it out. Surely Ramirez would call any second.

I surfed through one channel after another of people speaking way too quickly me for me to catch even a word or two, until I found a station airing
Friends
reruns dubbed in French. I still couldn't understand what they were saying, but I remembered this one as the episode where Rachel got drunk and confessed her attraction for Ross and could follow the plot well enough from memory.

Fifteen minutes later Rachel was blasted, leaving Ross's answering machine her thoughts on closure, and I was staring at my own very silent phone.

"
ca, mon ami, est aboutissement
" Rachel said with a smirk. Canned laughter erupted, then the screen switched to a commercial for either tennis shoes or fitness water, I couldn't really tell.

I looked down at my cell readout. Completely dark. Five minutes, huh? I flipped open my phone. Yes, battery was charged. No, I hadn't missed any calls. Damn.

I'd give him another ten minutes.

By the time
Friends
was over and I was watching a dubbed
I Love Lucy
rerun where Ricky told Lucy she had some
explicitation
to do, I realized a) my libido had completely faded into exhaustion and b) I'd been stood up.

While I was disappointed, it was depressing to realize I wasn't entirely surprised. When the choice was between me or a case, I knew exactly where I stood with Ramirez. When a homicide came up, Maddie disappeared. I flipped off Lucy and closed my eyes, wondering if I'd ever have Ramirez's full attention.

* * *

Bright and early the next morning my alarm blared, a Black Eyed Peas song breaking through the pre-dawn light. For half a second I had seriously second thoughts about my getting up early plan. But, it was the Eiffel Tower we were talking about. Reluctantly, I dragged myself out of bed and hopped (quite literally) into the shower, doing a one-leg-in, one-leg-out thing with Wonder Boot, which resulted in shampoo in the eyes, a funky shaving job on my one good leg, and an aerobic workout to rival Dana's Step and Sculpt class. Twenty minutes later I felt like I'd run a marathon, but I was clean and dressed in black jeans (one leg rolled up past my knee), an Ed Hardy shirt with a skull and daisies printed on it, and a silver ballet flat (just one). I had the doorman grab me a cab and made tracks through the crisp morning air toward the Louvre. This time with a large cafe au lait from the Plaza's cafe. Don't ever let it be said that I'm not a fast learner.

By the time I arrived, the sun was just starting to peek out from behind the buildings, illuminating the impressive glass pyramid structure in the Louvre courtyard from behind. The light reflecting off the angles and slopes gave it an almost other worldy look that reminded me of the New Year's ball in New York. I took a moment just to watch the spreading pink hues of the sunrise reflecting off its surface as I finished my cafe au lait.