Gemma Halliday - Alibi In High Heels

I stuck my tongue out at the phone as it clicked over. "End of new messages." I deleted both of them, hung up and tried Mom's cell. It went to voicemail, so I left a message of my own saying I was in the room.

Since room service still hadn't made it up with my soup, I grabbed the remote and flipped on the TV to wait. Unfortunately, the first thing that hit the screen was a picture of my own face staring back at me. I sat straight up, stabbing a finger at the volume control. The sound filled the room, but I couldn't understand a word they were saying. Damn. I strained, trying to pick out any phrases from the French for the Traveler book I'd picked up in the airport. Unfortunately they clearly weren't asking where the bathroom was or what time the train arrived, so I was out of luck.

The only thing I did understand was the headline that shot across the bottom of the screen in English as the picture switched back to the anchor at the news desk:

The Couture Killer Strikes Paris

I was in the Le Croix tent. Flashbulbs going off, music pumping through the speakers, models in various states of undress running back and forth behind the stage. The show was in full swing. Jean Luc barked orders from one end of the room, a long line of models standing at the head of the runway, waiting for their cues to strut its length for all the world to see.

Suddenly, Ann grabbed me. She said something in French to me, which I didn't understand in the least. I shook my head, tried to tell her I couldn't understand her. But she just kept talking, getting more and more upset. Finally some English came through.

"You're next!" she told me.

I looked down. I was wearing one of Jean Luc's creations – the bright blue ruffle skirt that I'd seen him fitting Gisella for earlier.

Ann shoved me ahead of her, toward the runway, to the front of the line of waiting models.

"Wait!" I cried. "I'm not a model, I don't know how to do this!"

But it was too late. She pushed me through the white flap and onto the runway.

The lights were blinding, I couldn't see a thing except the white flashes of cameras going off. I couldn't make out faces, but I knew the tent was packed. I heard a chorus of voices oo-ing and aw-ing. I took a tentative step forward. Then anther, feeling my way down the runway through the blinding spotlights. I finally felt like I was getting the hang of it. People started clapping and I started strutting in earnest.

Until my toe hit something.

I tripped, falling forward, my arms splayed out in front of me to break my fall. Which seemed to go on forever. The ground was suddenly miles away from me. And as I looked down to see what I'd tripped over, I heard myself scream.

There, lying beneath me was Auntie Charlene in a pool of blood. With a stiletto heel sticking out of her neck.

I sat straight up in bed, my heart pounding, my ducky jammies sticking to my sweaty body.

I was not on a runway. I was not falling. I was not looking down at a pool of blood. I was in my hotel room, surrounded by ruffles and very civilized French decor. I closed my eyes, letting my head fall back on the pillows and I took great big gulps of air, trying to reign in my heart rate from Autobahn to something slightly less hectic than L.A. freeway.

First a stomach bug. Now nightmares. Come on, girl, get a grip.

Throwing off the covers, I set my one good leg down on the ground and hopped into the bathroom.

One steamy hot shower and three layers of mascara later, I was feeling more like myself again. I slipped on a white, empire waisted sundress, a red cropped cardigan, and one red sandal with white beading along the strap and just the teeniest tiniest half inch heel. I know, if Doctor Ponytail saw it she'd probably have a cow. But considering half the population of France thought I was a murderer, I needed a little something to lift my sprits. Even if it was only half an inch.

I was just making my way through a cafe au lait and a pain au chocolat (a croissant filled with gooey, delicious chocolate – do Parisian's know how to do breakfast or what?) from room service when my cell rang and Felix's number popped up.

I flipped my Motorola open. "Yeah?"

"Do you always answer your phone that way?" Felix asked.

"No. I checked the caller ID. I knew it was you."

"Ah. So, you save your most charming self just for me, then, that it?"

I ignored the sarcasm and shot back some of my own. "How was dinner with Auntie ?"

"Lovely. How was your evening? Stab anyone else I should know about?"

"I hate you."

"Yet you continue to call."

"Hey, you called me, pal."

"Because you asked for a favor. Considering which, one would think you'd be nicer to me."

I shoved a large piece of croissant in my mouth to keep from shooting something nasty back at him. Mostly because he was right. I did need his help.

"So, what's the favor?" he asked, as I chewed.

"I 'eed' ur icks."

"What?"

I swallowed the bite. "I need your picks. Your lock picking set. I want to take a look in Gisella's room and it's locked."

He was silent for a moment. Then, "Here in the hotel?"

I nodded at the phone. "Yes."

"Maddie, these aren't the kind of locks you can just jimmy open. You need the key card."

"Okay, how do we make one of those?"

Felix sighed. "Well, first you'd have to know the code for that particular room. Then you'd have to program the card with the proper code."

"Like with a computer?"

"Trust me, these hotels are very secure. We cannot just 'make' a key card."

Damn. I shoved another piece of croissant into my mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "Okay, how about I go to the front desk and tell the clerk I'm in room 1243 and that I've lost my keycard."

"Hmm…" Felix said on the other end. "That might work. I'm sure the clerk wouldn't check your name against the hotel register and even if he did, I'm sure he wouldn't put it together with the stream of reporters outside all vying for statements about the dead woman whose last residence was room 1243."

"You know, you're a very sarcastic person."

"It's one of my better traits."

I gave my phone the finger.

"Okay, Felix, you come up with a better plan."

He sighed. "Alright, if you're determined to get into Gisella's room, I'll meet you there in half an hour."

"And exactly how will you get us in?"

"Trust me." And he hung up.

Trust me – famous last words.

If I'd had any better ideas, I might have exercised them. As it was, I finished my breakfast, grabbed my crutches and made my way to the elevators and up to room 1243.

Felix was standing outside waiting, fresh pair of rumpled khakis on, his hair a little wet as if he'd just showered.

"So?" I asked as I approached.

He flashed me a smile large enough to create dimples. Then held up a key card.

"No way!"

He nodded. "Yes way."

He stuck the card in the slot above Gisella's door handle. And, amazingly, the little light turned green.

"Okay, spill it, Tabloid Boy. How did you get the card?"

"It pays to be Lord Ackerman," he said, opening the door.

"What about the dead woman, the press, all that? What, just because you're Lord Ackerman, Andre gave you the keycard?"

"No, he gave it to me because I'm Lord Ackerman who told him that I was dating the deceased and had left a priceless family heirloom in the room the last time I'd been in here and didn't trust the police not to make off with it."

"And he bought that?"

Felix gave me a look. Then held up the card again.

I shook my head. Like I said, Felix may be one step above pond scum, but he knew how to think like a criminal. Which, in certain situations, like this, came in very handy.