Alibi In High Heels

'Oh, too bad,' Charlene said. Then gave Felix's thigh a squeeze. 'I was so looking forward to getting to know one of Felix's little friends.'

My turn to flash the fake smile.

'Tomorrow, then?' Felix asked, rising from his chair. Auntie Charlene did the same, quickly linking one arm trough Felix's.

'Sure. Tomorrow.'

'Right. I'll call you in the morning then. 'Night, Maddie.'

''Night,' I said to his retreating back.

Wondering why the hell the sight of Charlene's mini-dress encased hips wiggling back and forth beside Felix's should make that bad latte rise like bile in my throat.

* * *

I got back to my room and, considering my ill state, promptly ordered a bowl of chicken soup from room service. There. That oughtta shut my stomach up.

I then chucked the crutches and settled down on the chaise by the window to check my messages.

The first one was from Mom, saying she and Mrs. R had printed out a ream of papers on Gisella and to call her as soon as I got in.

The second message was from Ramirez. I felt that clenching sensation in my gut fade as his deep voice filled my ear.

'Hey, it's me,' he said. 'I'm at the airport. I booked a seat on the red-eye. I'll be there by morning.'

Okay, so I know I'd put up a fuss about him coming over, but in all honesty, it made my little heart go pitter patter that he was racing across an ocean to be by my side.

That is until he added, 'Don't do anything stupid until I get there.'

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?'