Gemma Halliday - Alibi In High Heels

Especially when the next model stopped and posed in a gorgeous off the shoulder, white, mid thigh dress with butterfly cutouts in the back. I had to have one of those.

By the time the last model had made her journey up and down the sleek, black runaway and Jean Paul himself came out to the sounds of thunderous applause, I was right there clapping along with everyone else, and completely caught up in the infectious excitement of Fashion Week.

So caught up that I jumped when someone tapped me on the shoulder.

"Maddie?"

I spun around to face a short, balding man with a pointed goatee that looked like it was modeled after Beelzebub himself. He was dressed in all black – slacks, sweater, and pointy toed shoes. Which matched his pointy features, a sharp nose, small, calculating eyes. In fact the only thing not pointy about him was his round little head, balding and gleaming under the still blaring show lights.

"Yes?" I asked tentatively.

"David Callabra," he said, sticking out his hand. "We spoke on the phone."

I nodded. "Oh, right." I cleared my throat. "Uh, how did you know who I was?'

He did a wry grin. "Your face has been all over the news, Maddie. Everyone in Paris knows who you are."

At any other time everyone in the fashion world knowing my name might have been a good thing. Today, it made my stomach hurt.

"Right." I paused. "I didn't do it, by the way."

He waved me off. "Guilty, innocent, I do not care. As long as the pay is right, I am willing to chance it, as they say." He grinned. And I had the feeling he was at least half kidding.

"So," he said, leading the way outside, "you said you had a job for Marcel?"

I cleared my throat, "Right. Uh, Gisella had recommended him."

He shook his head. "Like I say, I can hardly believe that."

I froze. Uh oh. Was the jig up? And here I'd thought it was such a good jig.

"From what I heard, Marcel was hardly Gisella's favorite person. They parted on hardly the best of terms the last time they worked together."

"Oh," I said, relived he hadn't seen through my cover. "What happened?"

"Her allegations were completely fabricated," he said.

Allegations? This sounded promising. "Go on," I said as we threaded our way through the mass of people milling around the street, comparing notes from the show.

"Well, they were working together in Cannes and Gisella accused Marcel of stealing something from her."

"Stealing?" An ironic accusation coming from Gislla.

"It was a silly misunderstanding. Gisella was wearing a tennis bracelet in the shoot and afterward, it went missing. Gisella accused Marcel of taking it."

"He didn't?"

"No, of course not. But that didn't stop them from searching his things. Of course he came up clean, but it left a taint on his name."

I knew how that felt. "Was the bracelet ever recovered?"

"I assume so. I really do not know. After they searched his belongings, Marcel left the set. The whole thing put a, uh… as you say, bad taste in his mouth. Especially considering his relationship with Gisella."

"Relationship? So they were dating?"

"Oui. Were, past tense. Like I said, they did not have anything to do with each other after that. Though, I'm glad to hear that there were no any hard feelings on Gisella's part. Ah, when did you say you needed Marcel by?"

"What?" I was still digesting this information. Another item of jewelry gone missing in Gisella's presence. The girl had balls, I'll say that. Especially to accuse Marcel. Though, it didn't seem likely that were Marcel her partner, she'd have thrown suspicion on him that way.

"When is the shoot?" David repeated.

"Oh. Uh, next week."

Callabra clicked his tongue. "A pity. Marcel's in Spain. He has been doing a calendar shoot there for the past week and he is not scheduled back until the end of the month."

And unlikely just became impossible. How was it everyone had an alibi but me?

"I do have another young man who might interest you." Callabra reached into his briefcase and pulled out a photo of a twenty-something guy in a tiny Speedo laying on a beach. He had dark hair, dark eyes, and had set of abs that looked chiseled from stone.

I lifted my hand to the corner of my mouth, surreptitiously checking for drool.

"Wow."

"Attractive, oui ?" he said. "Marc had been on three covers so far and he was featured as the daily fix four times last year on Playgirl dot com. He is very hot right now."

No kidding. With some difficulty, I tore my gaze away from the picture. "He's very nice looking." Understatement alert. "But, we really just wanted Marcel."

His face fell as he put the pictures back in his pocket. "Oh. Sorry. But," he said, pulling a card out of his wallet. "Let me know if you change your mind."

As he walked away I slipped the card into my purse and mentally crossed Marcel's name off the list. That just left one identity for Mystery Man.

Charlie.

I fought my way back toward the curb in search of a cab, which, due to the mass of people leaving the Gaultier show, took another twenty minutes before I finally ended up sharing one with a reporter from the Metropole who kept sending me sidelong glances until I finally gave him a pointed, "Yes, I'm the Couture Killer and no, I have no comment."

After that he kept his eyes focused out the window the rest of the ride back to Le Carousel de Louvre.

Even with all the changes, pinning and sewing that had gone on with Jean Luc's creations over the past week, there were still a multitude of last minute adjustments that needed to be made. A seam tripped here, something puckering there, a model who had eaten too big a lunch. (Which, in their world, I supposed consisted of two Tic Tacs instead of one.)

I set up at a table in the back, filling in wherever Ann needed me. And trying not to look at the empty shoe rack where my first tastes of fashion fame were supposed to be sitting. Yeah. I know. I didn't try too hard. Every time I caught a glimpse of it out of the corner of my eyes, Moreau moved up that much higher in my shit list. Having him take the stiletto that had killed Gisella into evidence, that I could understand. But holding all of my creations hostage – now that was just mean. I made a mental note not to donate to the policemen's fund next time they came knocking on my door.

The only upside of the day was that as each model made her way to my station for last minute adjustments, I had an opportunity to quiz her about Gisella and her possible beau slash accomplice, the mysterious Mr. Charlie. The first two drew blanks saying they hadn't even known Gisella when they'd signed onto the Le Croix show. The next one, a girl from Northern California, vaguely remembered Gisella talking about some guy, but had no idea what his name was. And from the description ("a dude hecka into handcuffs") I'd venture to guess she'd been talking about Ryan and not our elusive Charlie.

Half a dozen models later and the most I had garnered was that a) Gisella had flaunted all her previous boyfriends to anyone who would listen and b) no one really paid much attention to what she said.

All in all a rather unproductive afternoon.

Though, one girl I spoke with, a long-legged brunette from South Africa, said that she had ridden the elevator up to the 14th floor the night Gisella was killed with a guy in khakis and a rumpled white shirt. She remembered the time exactly because she'd been late to meet a friend for drinks and, according to the timetable I'd gotten out of Angelica, it served to confirm Felix's story. It had been too late in the evening for him to have been her Mr. Roll-in-the-hay. Good to know, but hardly a step closer to finding our Mystery Man.

By the time Jean Luc yelled for a dinner break, I was beginning to feel desperation kick in that we might never find him.