Gemma Halliday - Alibi In High Heels

Everyone had speculated Donata was a former model, but no one seemed to know the details of her past career. Could that be because Donata was a male model? I thought about the amount of obvious plastic surgery she'd gone through. At the time I'd assumed it was because the years have been unkind to her. Now I realize it was a different kind of surgery altogether.

I was sure my breath was still coming out in quick, tell-tale pants as I entered the lobby, but Debbie didn't seem to notice, deep in conversation with Dana about the merits of New York sushi bars versus L.A. ones.

"Ready?" I asked, hoping my voice didn't betray the erratic thumping of my heart against my rib cage.

Dana nodded. "Yep. Thanks again, Debbie."

"No problem," she called after us. "I hope to see you again." She flashed us a big smile before her headset rang, and she fielded another hopeful call from the paparazzi.

I waited until we'd cleared reception and were in the elevator before blurting out my finding to Dana.

"No freakin way!" she shrieked.

"Way!" I assured her.

"But if she was trying to hide her past, why keep the photos around all these years?" Dana asked.

I thought about the unmarked file. The photos hadn't looked aged at all. In fact, they looked like they'd been freshly printed. "Maybe she didn't. Maybe someone else sent them to her."

"Who would do that?"

"How about this," I said as the elevator doors slid open and we crossed the air-conditioned lobby again. "What if someone found out about her past and sent her those pictures?"

"Like, blackmail?"

I nodded. "Maybe that was how Gisella was getting all the right jobs. Maybe someone was blackmailing Donata."

Dana nodded. "I like it."

I grinned. So did I.

"But, there's only one problem," she said.

"What?"

"Proving it to Moreau."

I frowned. "I think it's time we had a little chat with Donata."

As Dana hailed us a cab, I pulled out my cell, dialing Ann's number. I had a feeling everyone who was anyone had their addresses stored in her BlackBerry. I hoped that Donata's was among them.

"Yes?" Ann answered in a clipped tone.

"Hi, Ann. It's Maddie."

"Yes?" she repeated. Obviously she had no time for pleasantries. I could hear Jean Luc in the background shouting something and could almost picture the pinched look on poor Ann's face.

"I was wondering if you have Donata Girardi's home address?"

There was a pause. "Why?"

Good question. I bit my lip, willing my overtaxed brain to think fast. "I feel terrible about what happened to Gisella. I wanted to send her agent a sympathy card." I cringed. That excuse sounded thinner than Kate Moss even to my own ears.

Luckily, Ann had about fifteen million other things on her mind and didn't question me. "Hold on," she said instead, and I could hear her shuffling her phone around. "Okay, here it is." She quickly read off the street to me as I motioned to Dana for a pen. She produced one from her purse and I wrote the address on my palm.

"Thanks, Ann!"

"Sure. Oh, and don't forget, Jean Luc wants you here tomorrow for the final fitting."

The final fitting. My stomach clenched as I realized the show was less than 48 hours away. If I couldn't convince Moreau of my innocence by then, I could kiss my chances of a big Fashion Week debut good-bye.

I tried not to dwell on that, instead pushing it to the back of my mind as I assured Ann I'd be there and hung up.

Considering it was closing in on rush hour in Milan, it took us a few minutes to catch the attention of a cab (Which was finally achieved only through the very kind assistance of a man in a pinstriped business suit who gave Dana no less than three kisses on each cheek before seeing us off). Once in, I repeated the address that Ann had given me to the driver, who nodded and said he knew that area of town well.

We slowly inched along the busy streets as I watched the sun sinking lower over the gorgeous old buildings. By the time we finally pulled up to Donata's apartment, the sky was a dusty pink and orange, prefect for a picture postcard of Milan. I paused on the sidewalk a moment taking it in, realizing I'd been to three European countries in as many days and had failed to take one photograph. Granted, I wasn't exactly on a typical tourist vacation, but I made a mental note to buy a disposable camera next time I was in an airport. As sordid as our reason for being here was, the beauty of the city was inescapable.

And Donata's building was no exception. Unlike her office, it was the picture of classic Italian architecture. A tall, narrow structure, rimmed in detailed moldings from centuries past, set back from the street by ornate iron fence work. As our cab pulled away from the curb, we climbed the stone steps to an intricately carved wood door and knocked.

Only no one answered. Instead, the door swung open all on its own.

Dana and I looked at each other. We'd both watched enough horror movies to know that when a door swung open on its own, it was never a good idea for the blonde to go inside unarmed.

"Hello?' I called instead, my eyes scanning the foyer for any sign of life. Marble floor, antique sideboard, a tall, curving staircase to one side. No sign of Donata.

"Maybe she's upstairs," Dana whispered.

"Maybe she's not here."

"Maybe we should come back another time."

And had Ann not just reminded me of the ticking clock on my career's life span, I might have agreed with her. As it was, I ignored all the warnings signs and stepped into the foyer, the sound of my crutches echoing on the marble foyer. "Miss Girardi?" I called. "Donata?"

"Maddie," Dana said, grabbing my arm. She pointed toward a doorway to our right. A glass of red wine sat on an end table, just near the entrance as if someone had set it down in a hurry.

"Miss Girardi?" I called again, peeking into the room, Dana one step behind me.

We did a simultaneous gasp as we took in the scene. And for once I was infinitely glad to have my crutches to lean on. Because had they not been there, I'm pretty sure I would have crumpled to the ground like a sack of potatoes as I stared at the scene before me.

Laying in the middle of an impeccably decorated room, filled with clearly priceless antiques, was Donata Girardi. Face up on a Persian rug, eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling.

A slim, black, stiletto heel protruding from her neck.

The room swayed, my stomach clenched, my lungs suddenly unable to drag in a full breath.

"Ohmigod," Dana said beside me, her face draining of all color. "Is she…?"

I looked down at the stiletto, buried mid heel, surrounded by a pool of sticky red stuff. I gulped back the taste of bile in the back of my throat. "Uh huh."

"Ohmigod, ohmigod," Dana started shaking her hands and jogging in place as if to shake off the dead person cooties.

"I think I'm going to be sick," I croaked out, and swung around so fast one of my crutches hit the end table by the door, jostling the wine glass to the floor where it broke, spilling red wine all over the marble tiles.

"Shit." I bent down, automatically picking up the shattered pieces.

"Ohmigod, Maddie, what do we do?" Dana asked, still jogging.

I stood up, closed my eyes, and took a couple of deep breaths. "We call the police."

"Right." Dana stopped hopping up and down. She dug in her purse and pulled out her cell, her hands shaking so badly she dropped it on the marble tile with a clatter. Scooping it back up, she paused, her fingers hovering over the keys. "How do we call the police?"

Good question.

I scanned the foyer, looking for a landline. None was visible, so I squeaked my crutches down a dark hallway to the right, Dana one step behind me. I peeked in the open doors until I found a room that looked like it doubled as an office. On the mahogany desk sat a cordless. I picked it up and hit the "0", hoping for an operator. Luckily, I got one. Unluckily she spoke Italian.