Gemma Halliday - Alibi In High Heels

And in the center of it was Gisella. Jean Luc's top model. Laying face up. Her stick straight hair fanned around her head, being consumed by a thick, dark pool of crimson. One of my pointy toed, black ankle strap stiletto heels sticking out of her jugular.

I staggered, my crutches slipping out from under me. I focused my eyes on the ground, the flapping plastic doorway, the image of the perfect Parisian sky beyond. Anywhere but at the ugly red pool of blood surrounding Gisella's head. I took in a deep breath. Bad idea. It held a cloyingly sweet scent that made my stomach roil in protest. Quickly, I made for the door. If I was going to puke, I didn't want to contaminate the crime scene. Because it was painfully obvious that's what this was.

And the worst thing about it all – I knew this crime scene. The stiletto heel to the neck. Just like I'd done to Miss When Mistresses Attack right after popping her implant. It had been unnerving then, but seeing a repeat of the same scene was creepy enough to make my latte feel like motor oil in my stomach.

And it didn't help that the shoe sticking out of her neck was my design.

I closed my eyes, the landscape waving, as I slipped to the ground outside the tent, my one good leg giving out. I put my head between my knees, taking deep breaths that smelled like coffee, wet grass, and leather ballet flats.

"We've got to call the police," Jean Luc said, beside me, his voice sounding oddly far away.

With a shaky hand I reached for my cell phone. After staring at the buttons for what seemed like way too long, I realized I had no idea who to call and handed the phone over to Jean Luc.

Then promptly stuck my head between my knees again.

Minutes later, the tent was swarming with people.

Jean Luc had, thankfully, known exactly who to call. And within minutes they had arrived in droves. Policemen in blue uniforms that looked strikingly similar to American ones, crime scene technicians in black windbreakers with cases full of evidence baggies, and two men in long coats who'd wheeled in a metal gurney and black tarp. Then the second wave had arrived, the paparazzi. Flash bulbs went off, notepads came out and TV cameras from every country of the world fixed on the white, flapping door of the tent, waiting for a glimpse of Gisella's mangled body. I periodically scanned the crowd for a glimpse of Felix. I knew he wouldn't be far from a story like this.

Ann, Jean Luc and I waited off to one side, next to the growing group of models, dabbing at their eyes with tissues and muttering subdued ohmigod's as they arrived and heard the news. Ann's headset was eerily silent as we watched the scene unfold and Jean Luc was a sickly shade of yellow, popping antacids into his mouth like Pez. Me – I was still crumpled on the ground, my crutches splayed out beside me. Though, I was happy to report, my stomach had stopped trying to relieve me of my morning caffeine fix.

"I, I can't believe this," Jean Luc said, his voice shaking as he popped another chalky white tablet into his mouth. "This just can't be happening. Not a week before the show!"

"It is," Ann assured him, her dark eyes intently watching the growing number of reporters.

"First the necklace, now this." Jean Luc was wringing his hands. "I've got to call Lord Ackerman. He's going to be livid."

The tent flaps opened and we all held our breath, the paparazzi straining forward for on last shot of Gisella. Instead, a tall, stoop shouldered man with a mustache that looked like a small, furry animal had died on his upper lip emerged. He wore a cheap gray suit that was at least two sizes too big and had a cell phone glued to his ear. He spoke quickly into it in French, then snapped it shut, scanning the area until his eyes settled on our little group.

"Which one of you found the body?" he inquired in accented English as he approached.

I cleared my throat, grabbing my crutches and struggling to a vertical position.

"I did," Jean Luc piped up. "And, shortly after, Maddie arrived."

"Ah. Mademoiselle…" The man pulled a small notebook encased in leather out of his pocket and consulted it. "Springer?" he asked, nodding my direction.

I nodded.

"Detective Moreau." The detective didn't offer his hand, instead flipping the notebook shut. "Yes, I'd like to ask you some questions."

I took a deep breath, trying to inhale some bravery I certainly didn't feel. "Go ahead."

"Actually, I would prefer to speak with you in private." He shot a look at Jean Luc, whose face was whiter than a goth girl's. "Is there somewhere we can go?" he asked, gesturing around the courtyard.

"The workroom," Ann supplied. "This way."

She led the way through the growing crowd, across the courtyard to the workrooms, unlocking the door and letting Moreau and myself in.

"Merci," Moreau said with a tiny bow. Then gave Ann a pointed look that was clearly a dismissal.

Ann took the hint. "Let me know if you need anything else," she offered before leaving.

Moreau shut the door, then indicated a hard backed chair behind a work table holding a half-sewn pencil skirt. "Please, take a seat."

I did, as Moreau pulled out his notebook again, along with a stubby yellow pencil that looked like the ones they issued you when miniature golfing.

"So, you were the one who found the deceased. Gisella…" He consulted his notes. "Rossi?" he asked as if he'd never heard the name. Clear he didn't subscribe to French Vogue.

I nodded.

"When was this?"

"I don't know. Maybe an hour ago. As soon as we found her, Jean Luc called you guys."

"Jean Luc. This would be Monsieur Le Croix, your employer, yes?"

I nodded again, starting to feel like a bobble doll. "Yes."

"And he called the police right away?"

"Yes."

"When was the last time you saw Gisella, Mademoiselle Springer?"

I thought back. The previous day had been a blur of activity. "I-I'm not sure. There was so much going on yesterday."

"You didn't see her this morning, then?"

"No, not until…" I trailed off, my eyes cutting to the door.

"Right. And where were you earlier this morning?"

My head snapped up. "What?"

"I asked where you were this morning," he said, leaning two hands on the table.

I gulped. "Why? Am I a suspect?"

Moreau stared at me. "This isn't the first time you have come across a dead body, is it?"

I bit my lip. I had to admit, it wasn't. Call me unlucky, but I seemed to be jinxed that way. "No."

"Isn't it true, in fact, that you once before stabbed a woman with a shoe?"

I paused. Then nodded slowly. "Yes, but-"

"And isn't it true," he continued, raising his voice to steamroll right over my objections, "that she was also stabbed in the neck?"

I said nothing. Damn, news traveled fast.

"An interesting coincidence, no?"

"Look, I didn't have anything to do with this. I barely even knew Gisella. I just met her yesterday. Yes, it's just a weird coincidence." But even as I said it my mind was rejecting that thought. What were the chances of a something like that happening twice? "Look, stilettos are sharp. They're pointy. They're a good weapon choice."

He looked unconvinced, his dead squirrel mustache twitching with every breath.

"It could have been anyone! Gisella wasn't exactly popular, you know."

"And, you are the designer of the shoe in question, are you not?"

"Um… yes?" I said. Only it sounded more like a question.

"Another coincidence that she was stabbed with your shoe?"

I jutted my chin out defiantly. "Yes. Another coincidence."

Moreau snorted. "That's quite a few, isn't it?"

I pursed my lips together, refraining from comment. Mostly because I didn't have one.