Gemma Halliday - Alibi In High Heels

No, the Maddie Springer who had fought her way to the top of the class at the Academy of Art College did not feel sorry for herself. The woman who had designed Beverly Hills most sought after line of shoes since Manolo did not feel sorry for herself. And the new designer that Jean Luc Le Croix himself had personally requested outfit all his models did not feel sorry for herself. I'd had enough. No paparazzi, no snooty French police officer and no damned Nerf Wonder Boot were going to stand in my way any more.

I rolled myself out of bed and jumped into the shower, dressing in a pair of tight, black jeans, rolled at the ankles, and a black tank top with little rhinestone studs along the neckline. Throwing caution to the wind I put on a three inch, strappy red stiletto. Screw Wonder Boot.

Okay, fine. I'll admit, the extra height was a little awkward with Wonder Boot, but after I adjusted the crutches a couple inches higher, it was manageable. And it felt good.

I suddenly felt like myself again. I was calm. I was in control.

And I had a plan.

I grabbed my cell and dialed Marcel Debois's number at the Paris Spectacle . After three rings he picked up with a, " Bonjour, ce Debois ?"

"Hi. I called yesterday, Maddie Springer."

" Oui , oui !" He sounded like I'd just told him he'd won the lottery. Which, I guess, journalistically speaking, he kind of had. "Mademoiselle Springer, of course. Lovely to speak with you again."

If only everyone was so happy to get my phone calls.

"Listen, I've decided I want to give you that exclusive after all."

I sincerely hoped Felix would forgive me for this. An exclusive to the competition was tantamount to severing a limb. But, on the itty bitty off chance that maybe Felix was involved, how ever inadvertently, in all this, I could hardly pull this off if he was the one I was giving my information to. So, I plowed ahead.

"That is, if you're still interested?"

"In an exclusive?" Debois's voice went high and I could hear him shuffling papers in the background. " Oui , of course. That would be wonderful, fantastic. Uh, where can we meet? I would love to interview you in person."

I shook my head. "I'm sorry I don't have time until after the Le Croix show today," I said.

I could almost hear his shoulders sag over the phone.

"But, I do have something you can run with now."

"Oh?" And just like that he was back. " Oui , go ahead?"

I took a deep breath, crossed my fingers, and prayed to the saint of little white lies.

"I have incontrovertible evidence that I did not kill Gisella."

This piqued his interest enough that I actually heard him gasp. "What kind of evidence?" he asked, his voice breathless.

"A camera. It belonged to Gisella Rossi. And, it contains proof that not only was she stealing jewelry from her employers, but also that she had an accomplice. An accomplice who most likely killed her."

He was silent a moment, digesting this information.

"What kind of proof?"

"Video files. Gisella tapped her… exploits."

"And you currently have this camera in your possession?"

"I do," I said. Which wasn't a complete lie. I did have the camera. It just didn't contain squat. But the killer didn't know that. And, if my bluff worked, he would do whatever it took to make sure that file didn't get out.

"And you will release this evidence to me after the show?"

I nodded at the phone. "Absolutely. On one condition."

" Oui ?" he said. Though I was ninety nine percent sure he'd do anything to get his hands on a story like this.

"I want you to go on the air now letting the public know that I have this evidence, it's secure in the safe in my hotel room, and that I'll be talking to you and making the evidence public immediately after the Le Croix show."

I could hear his frown through the phone. "Why?"

Because I had a plan to catch the killer red-handed trying to steal the camera. But I figured that was a little too direct. Instead I told him, "Those are my terms. Take it or leave it."

He paused for a moment. " Oui , I will do it."

I grinned. Then arranged to meet him in the hotel lobby after the show.

I slipped Gisella's camera out of my purse and opened the closet doors, exposing the little floor safe in the corner. I crouched down and opened it, sliding the camera inside before shutting it and securing the door with a click.

Phase one, complete.

Now, all I needed was a way to catch the thief in the act.

I made a quick stop in Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt's room (still empty – where the hell where those two?) before riding the elevator back down to the lobby. Luckily I caught Andre slash Pierre at the front desk.

"Good morning," I said doing an awkward one heel one boot hobble.

"Bon jour, Mademoiselle Springer," he responded. He glanced behind me. "Eh, no Rosenblatt?" he whispered.

I shook my head. "No. No Rosenblatt."

He visibly relaxed. "What can I do for you this fine morning then?"

"I wanted to ask if you have security cameras in the hotel?"

He nodded. " Oui , oui . Our guests' safety is of the utmost importance to us. Why do you ask, mademoiselle ? You are worried about intruders?"

"Um, sort of. I was wondering…" I paused, unsure how much of my plan to share with him. "I was wondering if there is a camera in the hallway outside my room."

Pierre nodded. "All the hallways are monitored."

"I have a feeling…" I paused again.

" Oui ? A feeling?"

"A feeling that someone may try to break into my room today. During the Le Croix show."

His eyebrows shot north. "You have received a threat?"

"Uh, well, no."

"A warning?"

"Not exactly."

He narrowed his eyes. "That Mademoiselle Rosenblatt and her mumbo-jumbo premonitions?"

"Um, no. I just… well, had a feeling."

"Hmm." He thought about that. "Okay, then. We should inform the police, oui?"

"No!"

Pierre jumped.

"Uh, I mean, no. No police. It's, uh, probably just a prank, right? No point in bringing the authorities in for nothing. I just wanted to make sure that should I report a theft later, there would be visual evidence of someone breaking into my room. Should they try to break in."

Pierre sucked in his cheeks, contemplating me. Finally he said, "I will make sure the security team has a camera on your door."

I grinned. "Thank you, Pierre!" I slapped a palm over my mouth. "I mean, Andres."

"Hmph," he said again.

I grabbed my crutches and hobbled across the marble floor (slowly this time, one embarrassing face plant per vacation was enough for me) toward the glass front doors, where the doorman hailed me a cab.

I slid in to the seat and gave the driver the address of Le Carrousel du Louvre, before pulling out my cell and dialing Dana's number. She picked up on the second ring.

"Hello?"

"Hey, it's me. Where are you?"

"I'm at the tent already. I had a six a.m. fitting. You?"

"I'm on my way there now. I'll see you in a few minutes. And, Dana?"

"Yeah?"

I couldn't help a grin. "We're catching a killer today."

Dana did a little squeal of excitement in my ear, before hanging up.

I settled back down into my seat, crossing my fingers I wouldn't live to regret this as a mix of anticipation, fear, and excitement churned in my stomach. No matter what else happen today, one thing was for sure.

The show must go on.

The ride to Le Carrousel du Louvre took longer than normal, as the streets were packed once we neared the Le Croix tent. I finally had the driver drop me off down the block and hopped along on my crutches to get through the milling crowds. At the entrance I was stopped by two security guards who looked like Popeye clones – both sporting crew cuts and forearms larger than most model's thighs. They went through my shoulder bag and did a cursory pat down before allowing me entry. Which, I honestly found a little ridiculous, considering both Gisella and Donata had been killed by shoes, not handguns or switchblades. Though, I'm pretty sure they knew if they laid a hand on the guests' footwear, there'd be mutiny.