Alibi in High Heels (4 page)

I made a mental note to buy a disposable camera before coming in tomorrow morning as I chucked my paper cup into a nearby trash can and hobbled through the plastic flaps of the Le Croix tent.

But I didn't get far as I ran smack into Jean Luc.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I'm still a little clumsy on these things. The doctor said I'd get used to them, but-"

Jean Luc cut me off, grabbing me by both shoulders. His face was white as a sheet, his eyes wide, pupils dilated. "Maddie," he said in strangled voice. "It's Gisella."

He gestured toward the newly constructed runway. It was missing a few boards and the sides were still unfinished. Flanking it on one side was a pile of lumber scraps and on the other a sawhorse, ready for the coverall fellows to resume their work.

And in the center of it was Gisella. Jean Luc's top model. Laying face up. Her stick straight hair fanned around her head, being consumed by a thick, dark pool of crimson. One of my pointy toed, black ankle strap stiletto heels sticking out of her jugular.

Chapter Four

I staggered, my crutches slipping out from under me. I focused my eyes on the ground, the flapping plastic doorway, the image of the perfect Parisian sky beyond. Anywhere but at the ugly red pool of blood surrounding Gisella's head. I took in a deep breath. Bad idea. It held a cloyingly sweet scent that made my stomach roil in protest. Quickly, I made for the door. If I was going to puke, I didn't want to contaminate the crime scene. Because it was painfully obvious that's what this was.

And the worst thing about it all - I knew this crime scene. The stiletto heel to the neck. Just like I'd done to Miss When Mistresses Attack right after popping her implant. It had been unnerving then, but seeing a repeat of the same scene was creepy enough to make my latte feel like motor oil in my stomach.

And it didn't help that the shoe sticking out of her neck was
my
design.

I closed my eyes, the landscape waving, as I slipped to the ground outside the tent, my one good leg giving out. I put my head between my knees, taking deep breaths that smelled like coffee, wet grass, and leather ballet flats.

"We've got to call the police," Jean Luc said, beside me, his voice sounding oddly far away.

With a shaky hand I reached for my cell phone. After staring at the buttons for what seemed like way too long, I realized I had no idea who to call and handed the phone over to Jean Luc.

Then promptly stuck my head between my knees again.

* * *

Minutes later, the tent was swarming with people.

Jean Luc had, thankfully, known exactly who to call. And within minutes they had arrived in droves. Policemen in blue uniforms that looked strikingly similar to American ones, crime scene technicians in black windbreakers with cases full of evidence baggies, and two men in long coats who'd wheeled in a metal gurney and black tarp. Then the second wave had arrived, the paparazzi. Flash bulbs went off, notepads came out and TV cameras from every country of the world fixed on the white, flapping door of the tent, waiting for a glimpse of Gisella's mangled body. I periodically scanned the crowd for a glimpse of Felix. I knew he wouldn't be far from a story like this.

Ann, Jean Luc and I waited off to one side, next to the growing group of models, dabbing at their eyes with tissues and muttering subdued ohmigod's as they arrived and heard the news. Ann's headset was eerily silent as we watched the scene unfold and Jean Luc was a sickly shade of yellow, popping antacids into his mouth like Pez. Me - I was still crumpled on the ground, my crutches splayed out beside me. Though, I was happy to report, my stomach had stopped trying to relieve me of my morning caffeine fix.

"I, I can't believe this," Jean Luc said, his voice shaking as he popped another chalky white tablet into his mouth. "This just can't be happening. Not a week before the show!"

"It is," Ann assured him, her dark eyes intently watching the growing number of reporters.

"First the necklace, now this." Jean Luc was wringing his hands. "I've got to call Lord Ackerman. He's going to be livid."

The tent flaps opened and we all held our breath, the paparazzi straining forward for on last shot of Gisella. Instead, a tall, stoop shouldered man with a mustache that looked like a small, furry animal had died on his upper lip emerged. He wore a cheap gray suit that was at least two sizes too big and had a cell phone glued to his ear. He spoke quickly into it in French, then snapped it shut, scanning the area until his eyes settled on our little group.

"Which one of you found the body?" he inquired in accented English as he approached.

I cleared my throat, grabbing my crutches and struggling to a vertical position.

"I did," Jean Luc piped up. "And, shortly after, Maddie arrived."

"Ah. Mademoiselle..." The man pulled a small notebook encased in leather out of his pocket and consulted it. "Springer?" he asked, nodding my direction.

I nodded.

"Detective Moreau." The detective didn't offer his hand, instead flipping the notebook shut. "Yes, I'd like to ask you some questions."

I took a deep breath, trying to inhale some bravery I certainly didn't feel. "Go ahead."

"Actually, I would prefer to speak with you in private." He shot a look at Jean Luc, whose face was whiter than a goth girl's. "Is there somewhere we can go?" he asked, gesturing around the courtyard.

"The workroom," Ann supplied. "This way."

She led the way through the growing crowd, across the courtyard to the workrooms, unlocking the door and letting Moreau and myself in.

"Merci," Moreau said with a tiny bow. Then gave Ann a pointed look that was clearly a dismissal.

Ann took the hint. "Let me know if you need anything else," she offered before leaving.

Moreau shut the door, then indicated a hard backed chair behind a work table holding a half-sewn pencil skirt. "Please, take a seat."

I did, as Moreau pulled out his notebook again, along with a stubby yellow pencil that looked like the ones they issued you when miniature golfing.

"So, you were the one who found the deceased. Gisella..." He consulted his notes. "Rossi?" he asked as if he'd never heard the name. Clear he didn't subscribe to French Vogue.

I nodded.

"When was this?"

"I don't know. Maybe an hour ago. As soon as we found her, Jean Luc called you guys."

"Jean Luc. This would be Monsieur Le Croix, your employer, yes?"

I nodded again, starting to feel like a bobble doll. "Yes."

"And he called the police right away?"

"Yes."

"When was the last time you saw Gisella, Mademoiselle Springer?"

I thought back. The previous day had been a blur of activity. "I-I'm not sure. There was so much going on yesterday."

"You didn't see her this morning, then?"

"No, not until..." I trailed off, my eyes cutting to the door.

"Right. And where were you earlier this morning?"

My head snapped up. "What?"

"I asked where you were this morning," he said, leaning two hands on the table.

I gulped. "Why? Am I a suspect?"

Moreau stared at me. "This isn't the first time you have come across a dead body, is it?"

I bit my lip. I had to admit, it wasn't. Call me unlucky, but I seemed to be jinxed that way. "No."

"Isn't it true, in fact, that you once before stabbed a woman with a shoe?"

I paused. Then nodded slowly. "Yes, but-"

"And isn't it true," he continued, raising his voice to steamroll right over my objections, "that she was also stabbed in the neck?"

I said nothing. Damn, news traveled fast.

"An interesting coincidence, no?"

"Look, I didn't have anything to do with this. I barely even knew Gisella. I just met her yesterday. Yes, it's just a weird coincidence." But even as I said it my mind was rejecting that thought. What were the chances of a something like that happening twice? "Look, stilettos are sharp. They're pointy. They're a good weapon choice."

He looked unconvinced, his dead squirrel mustache twitching with every breath.

"It could have been anyone! Gisella wasn't exactly popular, you know."

"And, you are the designer of the shoe in question, are you not?"

"Um... yes?" I said. Only it sounded more like a question.

"Another coincidence that she was stabbed with your shoe?"

I jutted my chin out defiantly. "Yes. Another coincidence."

Moreau snorted. "That's quite a few, isn't it?"

I pursed my lips together, refraining from comment. Mostly because I didn't have one.

A knock sounded at the door and an officer in blue appeared. He was carrying a black bag with him and said something in French to the detective. Moreau responded with a, "Oui, oui," and waved him in.

The second guy laid his bag on the table and opened it up, pulling out a long stick with a cotton swab on the end that looked like a super sized Q-tip.

"Since this is all one giant
coincidence
," Moreau said, heavy on the sarcasm, "I don't suppose you would mind giving us a sample of your DNA? To rule you out, of course."

I looked at the Q-tip, then back to Moreau. I squared my shoulders. "No, of course not."

Moreau nodded to the uniform, who gestured for me to open my mouth. I did, and he stuck the Q-tip in, gently scraping it along the side of my cheek. Then he placed it in a plastic case and snapped the top shut, dropping it into his black bag. He mumbled something else in French to Moreau, then nodded and left the room.

I stared after him, suddenly wary. Though I wasn't sure why. Surely whatever they did with my DNA would prove me innocent, right?

"You never answered my initial question, Mademoiselle Springer," Moreau said, scrutinizing me.

I snapped my eyes back to meet his.

"Gisella was killed between one and four am. Where were you this morning?"

"I woke up and came straight from the hotel to here. Where I found Gisella."

"Alone?"

"Yes. No. I mean, I was with Jean Luc."

"All morning?"

"No, just when we found her."

"What about last night?" he asked, his questions falling like rapid fire one on top of the other.

"I was working."

"Alone?"

"No. I was with Jean Luc."

"All night?"

"Yes."

"So, you are lovers?"

"What? No. I mean, no, not all night, not like that."

"Like how then?"

"I... we... we were working. Until late. Or at least it felt late with the jet lag. Then I went to my own room."

"Alone?"

"Yes." I said vehemently.

"So, you were alone then. No alibi?"

"What? No, wait I wasn't... I mean..."

Damn he was good. He'd effectively gotten me to say exactly what he wanted to hear. "Look, I didn't do this."

"So you say."

"It's true!"

"Yet you were alone, you have no alibi, your shoe was used as the murder weapon. And the crime fits your... how do you say... MO to a tee."

"What MO? No, I'm not a criminal, I don't have an MO! I... I..."

I was rapidly losing this battle. For all his ridiculous looks, Moreau was good. Too good. So good I had a bad feeling that if he was convinced I'd done this, he'd find a way to prove it. Even if it wasn't true.

I was just about to pull out my one and only secret weapon - crying like a girl and hoping for mercy - when the door swung open. And a vision in khaki Dockers and a white rumpled button-down filled the doorway.

Felix.

"What the hell is going on here?" he asked. "Why is that chap taking her DNA sample?"

Okay, so white knight he wasn't, but I'd never been so glad to see anyone in my life.

Moreau, on the other hand, didn't look at all pleased. "And you are?" he asked.

Felix squared his shoulders. "Lord Ackerman."

I blinked.

"Lord Ackerman?" I asked. "
Lord
?"

Felix shot me a look that clearly said shut up. Which I did, clamping my lips together to keep from laughing.

"I'm sorry, Lord Ackerman," Moreau said, his voice suddenly filled with a note of respect despite Felix's worn Sketcher sneakers and I-just-rolled-out-of-bed hair. "But, this is an official
murder
investigation." He emphasized the word, throwing a pointed look my way.

Damned if I didn't
feel
guilty under his gaze.

Felix narrowed his eyes at the detective and shot back, "
Qu'est-ce que tu fais
?"

Wow. Item number forty-million I didn't know about Felix. He spoke French.

Moreau seemed a bit surprised, too, his mustache twitching ever so slightly. But he parried back quickly, responding in rapid French something that prompted Felix to throw his hands up in an exasperated gesture, then shout something back. I watched the two of them go back and forth, wishing like anything I'd taken French in high school instead of ceramics. The ability to make a clay pencil holder that said "Happy Mother's Day" was completely useless right now.

Finally Felix thumped his hands on the desk, bringing home his point (whatever it was) and grabbed me by the arm, hauling me to my feet. "Let's go Maddie, we're done here."

I expected the detective to protest, but instead Moreau just watched, his eyes intent on Felix, narrowing above his mustache. (Which was twitching double time now.)

I tried not to look too smug as we left the room.

"What did you say to him?" I asked, as Felix navigated the hallways, one hand still firmly grasped around me.

"I said that if he came near you again without a warrant, I'd have his badge."

I stopped. "Warrant?"

We were just outside the tent, police vans and numerous cop cars circled around the courtyard, the long stretch of press and tourists being held back by wooden by police barricades. The main point of interest at the Louvre was definitely not the Mona Lisa today.

"Do you seriously think he'd get a warrant?" I asked.

Felix turned to face me, his eyebrows hunkered down in concern. "Maddie, she was killed with one of your designs. And, you have to admit, the shoe to the neck... not a common way to kill someone."

I gulped. I knew. I also knew I didn't do it. Which meant someone not only wanted Gisella gone, but had tried to make it look like I'd been the one to do it. A disconcerting thought. Sadly, thanks to the
L.A. Informer
, my past exploits weren't exactly a secret. Anyone could have heard about the shoe to the jugular.

"That was genius, by the way," I said, as Felix steered me through the crowd, signaling for a taxi. "The whole pretending to be Lord Ackerman. Really got Moreau's attention."

Felix gave me a funny look over his shoulder as a black and white cab pulled up to the curb. "I wasn't pretending."

"What do you mean you weren't pretending?" I asked, slipping onto the vinyl seat.

Felix spoke to the driver in French, giving him the address of the hotel, before turning to me.

"I really am Lord Ackerman."

I snorted. "No you're not. You're Felix."

He didn't say anything. But the tell-tale amused twinkle I'd come to associate with his teasing was noticeably absent from his eyes.