Alibi in High Heels (5 page)

"Ohmigod, you're serious?
Lord
Ackerman?"

Felix nodded slowly.

I turned to Felix, pretty sure my mouth was unattractively gaping open. "You've got to be joking. What, did you buy the title online or something?"

Felix did a wry grin. "Worse. I was born into it. On my father's side, a quite distant cousin of the queen's."

"The
queen
? Wait, are you trying to tell me that you're actual royalty?"

"Oh don't worry, only about a hundred people would have to die before I'd come close to the throne."

"So, hold on here. " I held up one hand. "You're telling me that Gisella's half-million dollar diamond necklace was on loan from
you
?"

Felix nodded slowly, carefully watching my reaction. Which I'm pretty sure was a cross between pure shock and total disbelief.

I'll admit, I'd never really known that much about Felix's background. I knew his mother was Scottish, which is where Felix claimed he inherited his "thriftiness" as he called it. Though, I'd pointed out to him on more than one occasion that tipping a waiter in nickels wasn't thrifty, it was downright cheap. All I knew of his father was that he was English and Felix had inherited a good deal of family money from him at some point. And, apparently, a title. I'd always referred to Felix as a "cheap rich guy." But I'd never imagined him as an actual member of the aristocracy.

A titled Tabloid Reporter. What was this world coming to?

Though I didn't have a chance to question the Lord any further as my cell rang from the depths of my shoulder bag. I pulled it out and flipped it open, checking the caller ID. Ramirez.

I closed my eyes and did a little mini meditation before clicking the on button.

"Hello?" I asked tentatively.

"Hey, beautiful."

Despite the morning I'd had, I felt comfort wash through me at the sound of his voice. I suddenly really wished he wasn't an ocean away.

"Look, I know what you're going to say and it's not my fault," I quickly said into the phone. "I just found her. And I know it's a huge coincidence the way she was killed with the shoe in her neck and all, well, at least Moreau thought it was, but that's all it is! I swear! I had nothing to do with it. All I wanted to do was come to Paris for Fashion Week and maybe catch a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower, and then the accident and this stupid cast, and now they're taking my DNA, even though they don't have a warrant, and saying I don't have an alibi!"

There was a pause on the other end. Then Ramirez's voice came in a slow deliberate cadence. "Maddie, what is going on over there?"

"Don't you know?"

"No," he said, concern lacing his words. "I just called to tell you I was sorry I didn't get a chance to call you back last night. What the hell is going on? What's this about DNA and warrants?"

Oh hell. I swear, one of these days I'd learn to keep my mouth shut. Obviously today wasn't that day.

Quickly I filled him in on the morning's events, pussyfooting the best I could around my interrogation, lest I reveal just how blonde I'd sounded. I must not have done a very good job, however, because when I finished he was silent. Just the sound of his breath coming in tightly restrained pants.

"Hello? Are you still there?"

"I'm booking the next flight."

"No!" I shouted into the phone. Okay, I'd kind of freaked out facing Moreau, I'll admit. And having Felix show up had been a huge relief. And, I'll admit, the second I'd heard Ramirez's voice I'd instantly felt better. But having him fly halfway around the world just to hold my hand was tantamount to saying that he was right. That I couldn't take care of myself. That I did need a chaperone as badly as he and my mother thought. No way was I admitting that.

"No, really, I'm fine."

"You're not fine, Maddie. You're a homicide suspect."

"Well, sort of, but..."

"Look, I don't want you there alone."

"I'm not alone," I said, glancing over to Felix who'd been pretending not to listen to the conversation up to this point.

"Felix is here."

Silence. Then, "Felix? As in the reporter Felix."

"Uh, yeah."

"The same Felix who got you kidnapped in Vegas?"

"Uh..."

"And the same Felix who gave you a gun last spring?"

"Well, um..."

"And," he said, really gaining steam now, "the same Felix who looks at you like you're dessert and he hasn't eaten in weeks?"

"He does not!" I glanced over at him again. Did he? "But, uh, yeah. That Felix."

"I'll be there by morning." Then he hung up.

I stared at the silent phone in my hand. Then up at Felix, still looking out the window, pretending not to eavesdrop.

Great. Just what I needed. A pissing contest.

Chapter Five

By the time we got back to the hotel, I was beat, mentally and physically, the jet lag catching up to me big time.

The front of the hotel was crammed with paparazzi. As if the Fashion Week photographers weren't enough, now every newshound in Europe was covering the sensational death of their favorite supermodel. I could see Felix mentally sizing them up, his hands fidgeting in his lap with nervous energy. If there was one thing Felix hated, it was to be scooped.

The cab driver pulled as close to the front doors as he could manage, then dropped Felix and me off at the sidewalk. I awkwardly angled Wonder Boot out of the cab, sticking the crutches under my armpits and hobbling toward the hotel doors and leaving Felix to pay the fare. Hell, he was related to the queen. He could handle it.

By the time I made it to the glass front doors, Felix had easily caught up and we pushed our way through the crowd. Unfortunately, the lobby wasn't any less populated, the chatter of reporters echoing off the marble floors. I kept my head down and plowed straight for the elevators, letting out a sigh of relief as the doors closed behind us. Two minutes later I was at my door, fumbling in my shoulder bag for my key card.

As it turned out, I didn't need it. The door flew open.

"Oh lordy, Maddie, I'm so glad you're okay!" Mom grabbed me in a big bear hug, knocking both crutches to the ground.

"Mom, I can't breathe."

"Sorry." She stepped back. "I was just so worried. You're on every TV station. Not that I can understand most of what they're saying about you."

"Is it true? Did you stab that model with your shoe?" Mrs. Rosenblatt asked, waddling up behind.

"Of course it's not true!" Mom shouted, turning on her. Then she paused and leaned in close to me. "Is it?"

"No! It's just a coincidence."

"See," Mom shot to Mrs. R. "I knew it wasn't true. I knew you couldn't do the horrible things the TV says you did."

"What are they saying?" Felix asked, walking into the room behind me.

"They're calling her the Couture Killer," Mrs. R piped up.

Felix winced. "Wish I'd thought of that," he muttered under his breath.

I resisted the urge to kick him. Mostly because I couldn't balance on one foot.

"Who's this?" Mrs. Rosenblatt asked, gesturing to Felix.

"This is Felix Dunn."

"The reporter?" Mom narrowed her eyes. She knew all too well how I'd felt about my head being pasted on Pamela Anderson's body.

"The one and only." Felix bowed. "I've heard so much about you, Mrs. Springer. It's lovely to finally meet you." He grasped one of Mom's hands in both of his.

Mom blushed. "Oh, well."

"And you," he said, advancing on Mrs. R, "you must be the charming Mrs. Rosenblatt. A true pleasure, ma'am." He leaned down and kissed her hand.

Mrs. Rosenblatt giggled. "I could get used to these European men."

Oh brother.

"Maddie, what exactly happened today?" Mom asked, gathering my fallen crutches for me.

I hopped over to the double bed and sat down, pillows floofing around me. Reluctantly, I filled Mom and Mrs. R in on the events of the morning. I glossed over my run in with Moreau as best I could (in case you hadn't noticed, Mom tended to be a little overprotective) but by the time I was done, she still had her lips clenched together in a tight white line.

"How could they possibly think you had anything to do with this, Maddie?" she asked.

"Wow. Creepy finding her like that. You've definitely got some bad karma issues,
bubbee,
" Mrs. Rosenblatt said, putting a sympathetic hand on my arm. "You wanna aura cleansing?"

What I wanted was a long hot bath, a handful of pain pills, and a nap. But I had to agree with her, my karma did suck.

"What she needs is a lawyer. The nerve of that policeman questioning you," Mom said.

"It sounds like a set-up to me," Mrs. Rosenblatt offered. "Someone's trying to make you look guilty."

Which, thus far, was working splendidly.

"Who would want to do that to my baby?" Mom asked, her eyes going big and round beneath her powder blue eye shadow.

"You pissed anybody off lately, doll?" Mrs. R asked.

I shrugged. "How could I? I don't even know anyone here. It's got to be a coincidence."

"The real question is who would want Gisella dead?" Felix piped up from the corner.

He'd been so quite I'd almost forgotten he was there, sitting at the mini desk, absently doodling on a pad of hotel stationary. His forehead creased as he went on. "Anyone could have read about your exploits, Maddie, and decided you'd make a convenient scapegoat. The real question we should be asking is who had issues with Gisella? When was the last time you saw her?"

"Yesterday. Jean Luc introduced me to her right after she lost the necklace, then I did a fitting for her shoes right before we left for the night."

"Hold on." Felix stopped me. "Go back. What necklace did she lose?"

"Lord Ackerm-" I started. Then checked myself. "I mean, uh... yours."

Felix lifted an eyebrow. "Mine?"

Oops. "Uh, Jean Luc didn't tell you?"

He shook his head from side to side. "Care to fill me in?" he asked, leaning forward.

I quickly relayed the scene I'd witness the day before between Gisella and Jean Luc. When I finished, Felix looked deep in thought.

"So, the necklace goes missing, then Gisella ends up dead."

"I betcha it was stolen." Mrs. R nodded sagely, her chins (plural) bobbing up and down. "You know France is crawling with them cat burglars."

I rolled my eyes. "Only in Carey Grant movies."

"But then, why kill her after they already stole it?" Mom asked, pursing her drawn-in eyebrows.

"Good point. Why kill her if they'd already gotten away with the necklace?" I asked.

"I say we start with the necklace anyway. It's our best lead," Felix decided.

"This wouldn't have anything to do with you wanting to recover it, would it?" I asked.

Felix shrugged. "It's insured. But, yes, I wouldn't mind if it showed up."

"I have an even better idea," I offered. "How about we just leave this to the police?"

Three pairs of eyes turned my way.

"So they can arrest you?" Mom asked, voicing everyone's thoughts.

"But I'm innocent."

Silence.

"I am!"

Mom reached over and patted my arm. "Of course you are, baby.
We
believe you."

I looked around the room. Clearly I was outnumbered.

"Okay, fine. Where do we start?"

* * *

Taking Felix's suggestions, Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt decided to find out all they could about Gisella by doing some serious Googling downstairs in the hotel's business center. Felix said he had some things he wanted to check on (though I suspected he really wanted to call in the story to his editor at the
Informer
) and would meet up with me in the lobby later that afternoon. For lack of a better direction, I decided to see if there were any new developments at the show site. In lieu of actually braving the paparazzi (not to mention risking a run-in with Moreau) I dialed Jean Luc on his cell.

He answered on the third ring.

"Yes?" he barked out, his voice tense.

"Hi, Jean Luc. It's Maddie."

"Oh," he answered on a sigh. "Maddie. Are you all right? What happened to you?"

"I'm fine. I'm back at the hotel."

"Thank God! I was afraid they'd taken you into custody."

I winced. Not yet. "Have there been any new developments since I left?"

Jean Luc sighed into the phone. "Not that I know of. They've been back and forth with their evidence bags all day. Maddie, I swear I'm on the verge of a breakdown. They've taken every last pair of your shoes into evidence."

I grabbed a bed poster for support. "They've taken my
shoes
?" I repeated, hoping I'd heard him wrong, visions of my Paris debut fading faster than a bad dye job.

"Can you believe it? What am I supposed to do, send all the models out barefoot? Good God, this isn't some mall, it's Fashion Week!"

I felt a mini-heart attack coming on. This could not be happening.

Jean Luc's voice got high and whiney as he continued, voicing my exact thoughts. "This cannot be happening to me! Not only do I have to find a replacement for Gisella when everyone who's anyone is already booked, but now I've got to contend with barefoot models, too. I cannot believe this is happening to me." I heard Jean Luc unwrap another antacid and crunch down loudly on it.

I closed my eyes and took deep breaths. Okay, so they'd taken my shoes. It was fine. They'd dust them, process them, whatever it was they did with evidence, and see that I did not kill Gisella. So, really, this was a good thing, right? (Am I the denial queen or what?)

"Do you have any idea who could have done this?" I asked.

Jean Luc paused. And I could hear the silent question.

"I didn't do it!"

"No, of course you didn't, Maddie."

Why was it no one sounded completely convinced when they said that?

"Look, I didn't even know Gisella."

Jean Luc sighed again. "Honestly, I'm not sure any of us knew her that well. She tended to keep to herself. That is when she wasn't complaining. I hate to speak ill of the dead, but she wasn't exactly the easiest person to work with."

"How about the other models? Was she particularly close with any of them?"

Jean Luc paused and I could picture his eyebrow furrowing together. "Close, yes. Friendly, no. She spent most of her time with Angelica. But they had a very love-hate relationship. Mostly hate. Angelica was jealous of Gisella's contracts and rumor has it Gisella apparently fueled this by stealing Angelica's boyfriend."

I perked up. Stolen boyfriend was a strong motive for a stiletto to the jugular.

"Is Angelica there now?"

"No, she left about an hour ago. Said she was going back to the hotel."

I crossed my fingers. "Any idea what room she's staying in?"

"1245."

"Thanks. Let me know if you hear anything new."

Jean Luc promised he would and hung up as he crunched another chalky tablet.

I hopped into the bathroom, splashed a little cold water on my face and added a fresh swipe of Raspberry Perfection to my lips before grabbing my purse and crutches and making for Angelica's room.

Five minutes later I was knocking on the door to room 1245. I could hear a loud bass beat playing inside, but no one answered. I waited a couple of beats, then banged my fist on the door again. This time it opened a crack, the security bar still in place.

A redhead with Casper pale skin, thick curls and huge brown eyes appeared. "Yeah?" she asked, her accent an indistinguishable (at least to my ears) eastern European.

"Angelica?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Who are you?"

"I'm Maddie Springer. I'm doing the shoes for the Le Croix show."

Angelica's eyes went round as recognition dawned. "You! The murderer!"

I rolled my eyes. "I didn't do it!"

"They said on TV that you did."

"Don't believe everything you hear on TV. Listen, can I come in?"

"I don't think so."

"Please?"

"You might kill me."

If I hadn't been holding a pair of crutches, I would have thrown my hands up in exasperation. As it was, I just said a silent curse on the head of all misinformed reporters.

"Look, I didn't kill her. If I had, do you think the police would have let me go?" Never mind that it had been touch and go there for a few minutes.

Angelica chewed her plump bottom lip while she thought about this.

"Listen, I just wanted to ask you a few questions about Gisella. Jean Luc said you knew her?"

Angelica sunk her teeth into her lip for another beat before shutting the door and lifting the security latch. She pulled it back open wide, allowing me entry.

"Okay."

"Thank you."

"But keep your hands where I can see them."

I tried not to roll my eyes as I stepped into the room. It was a carbon copy of my dollhouse, only her ruffles were a pale sky blue and the place looked like housekeeping hadn't been there in weeks. Clothes covered every available surface, empty mini bar bottles spilling out of the trash can, and a hip-hop punctuated with a lot of "yo bitches" played from an iDock on the dresser. Out of habit, I crossed to the windows, futilely looking for a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower as Angelica turned the music down.

"So," she asked, plopping down cross-legged on the bed, "what do you want to know?"

"Jean Luc told me that you and Gisella were close?"

Angelica smirked. "Well, we weren't BFF's or anything," she responded, the Americanism seemed oddly comic coming through her thick accent.

"You'd had some issues with her lately?"

"Bitch stole my Sam away."

Unlike Jean Luc it was clear Angelica had no problem speaking candidly about the dead woman.

"Sam?"

"Someone I was dating."

I perched on the edge of the desk. "What happened?"

Angelica shrugged. "It wasn't like I was even that into Sam. Totally cute, but short term, you know? Anyway, the first time Gisella sees me at a club with Sam, she starts flirting all over the place. The next thing I know, Sam's telling me we should see other people and then
they
show up together at the Posner opening."

"When was this?" I asked, gauging her reaction. I had to admit, didn't exactly seem heartbroken over the guy, casually picking at her nail polish as she spoke.

"A couple months ago."

"And was she still seeing Sam?"

Angelica laughed. "Hardly. She dumped Sam after a few weeks. Like I said, it was all about stealing what I had. Gisella was like that. She didn't want anyone to have something that she couldn't have. She was always jealous of me."

I raised one eyebrow. "Really?" Jean Luc had indicated that their relationship was the other way around.

Angelica nodded, her red curls bobbing up and down. "Sure. When I landed the cover of
Elle
, she was livid. She was on the phone to her agent fifteen times a day trying to get her own cover. And then when I was booked for Jean Luc's show, she had to be booked too."