Alibi In High Heels

Okay, being accused of murder was bad. It really, really sucked. But the thought of missing my one big chance to show at Fashion Week was enough to make my insides shrivel up and cry. I bit my lip to keep the tears at bay as I prayed Moreau was being nice to my babies.

'Maddie?'

I sniffed back an unshed tear and turned around to find Ann hovering over my table.

'Yes?'

'Angelica told me you were asking about Ryan Jeffries?'

I sniffed again, a little bubble of hope welling in my chest. 'Do you know him?'

She nodded, her headset bobbing up and down. 'He used to model for Ralph Lauren. A couple years ago I did a show with him. Why are you looking for him?' she asked.

'I heard a rumor that he may have dated Gisella. Maybe even recently. Do you have any idea how I could get in touch with him?'

She pulled a BlackBerry from her pocket, punching in numbers. 'Last I heard he was living in London,' she said, scrolling through numbers.

I waited, trying not to get too excited. As I nervously tapped my ballet flat against the floor, craning to see the numbers on Ann's organizer, my purse started to ring again.

She looked down. 'You're ringing.'

'I know. I think it's broken.'

Ann gave me a funny look but didn't comment. 'Okay, here it is.' She handed the device to me. I grabbed a scrap of tracing paper and quickly copied down the address and phone number.

'Thank you so much,' I gushed.

'No problem. Trust me, anything to get this behind us and on with the show. I think Jean Luc's had four separate strokes today.' She tucked her BlackBerry back in her pocket just as her headset crackled to life. 'See what I mean,' she said, then started talking into the headset as he walked off to deal with another crisis.

I stared down at Ryan's number. I slipped my cell out and dialed. It rang four times, then clicked over to a machine where a very British sounding man told me to leave a message after the tone. I didn't, instead hanging up.

I looked down at the address. It was indeed in London.

Maybe had I not been sitting next to a completely empty rack of what were formerly my shoes, I wouldn't have contemplated it. Maybe if I hadn't thought the police were set against me, that a killer was out to frame me, and, hell, that even my own boyfriend wasn't sure whose side he was on. Maybe had I not had to deal with all this while dragging around a giant Nerf toy on my foot, I might have been more patient. I might have tried Ryan's number again. I might have left a polite message and waited to hear back from him.

But I didn't.

Instead, I picked up my cell and dialed the airline, booking two seats on the first flight to London Heathrow.

Chapter Nine

I drummed my fingers on the wooden tabletop, waiting for Dana to finish her fitting. A skinny guy in tight jeans and a painted-on Polo shirt was pinning a dress around her frame, periodically pausing to tell her to keep still. Even as I waited, I couldn't help the little puddle of drool forming at the side of my mouth as I took in the dress she'd be wearing down the runway. It was a pale green silk number, falling to mid-thigh, with a cross-cut back and a key- hole front. It was the kind of dress that you bought whether you had an occasion or not.

And hoped some hot guy would end up tearing it off of you.

Finally the guy with the pins slipped it over Dana's head and let her free. She came skipping over to me.

'Ohmigod, Maddie, did you see the dress?'

I wiped at my mouth to make sure the drool wasn't showing. 'No kidding. The sad thing is, I had the perfect pair of white pumps that would have gone with it. If they weren't in an evidence locker.'

Dana frowned. 'I'm so sorry, Mads.'

'Me too. But, listen, you think you could get Jean Luc to let you off the hook tonight?'

Dana raised an eyebrow. 'Why?'

I quickly filled her in on Ryan's whereabouts and our reservations on the seven thirty flight into London.

'We're going to play Angels again!' Dana cried, jumping up and down.

For a brief moment, I had second thoughts. The first time Dana and I had played Charlie's Angels she'd dressed me up as a hooker and we'd ended up getting shot at. Then there was the time we tried to outwit the mob, which had ended with Dana blowing a hole in some guy's chest. And, last but not least, the time we'd gone undercover on a TV set and nearly ended up becoming the next victims of a Hollywood strangler. Suffice to say, the term 'playing Angels' didn't totally thrill me.

On the other hand, that dress had screamed for my white pumps and if there was any chance of me getting them out of Moreau's evidence locker before the show day, someone had to be the crime fighting hotties. It might as well be us.

'Okay, but I get to be Farrah this time,' I told her.

Dana did a shoulder-shrug, nose-scrunching shriek thing, then promptly skipped (Yes, I swear she actually skipped. Wonder Boot and I were supremely jealous.) off to inform Jean Luc she would be back in the morning.

We stopped off only long enough to grab a couple of tartines – open faces sandwiches – at a sidewalk cafe along the way (Dana's a low-fat grilled veggie. Mine a ham and cheese loaded with mayo. Hey, hobbling around on Wonder Boot burned off a lot of calories.), before taking a cab to the airport.

Luckily, small commuter flights from Paris to London flew out of Paris's Charles de Gaulle almost every other hour. We had two seats on the 7:30 flight, arriving in London one hour later. I briefly contemplated stopping at the hotel first to pack a couple of items, but considering that was where I'd most likely run into Mr. Pissed Off Voicemails, I decided to chance it and travel light.

By the time we were flying over the famous London Eye and taxiing onto the runway at Heathrow, the sun had set, the city was a brilliant mosaic of twinkling lights, and, I'll admit, that familiar Farrah excitement was starting to niggle at the back of my brain. Dana and I hailed the first cab we saw and gave the driver the address I'd written down.

Which turned out to be a squat, brick building in a seemingly upper middle class looking neighborhood. Small trees lined the street, televisions flickered behind windows, and a guy in a checked cardigan sweater that looked like it came from a garage sale was walking a little terrier on a leash up the street.

'Doesn't exactly look like a jewel thief's place,' Dana observed.

'Well, you don't exactly look like Kate Jackson.'

'Hey, I thought I was Cheryl Ladd!'

'Come on,' I said, grabbing her by the sleeve as the cab driver gave us a funny look in his rear view mirror.

I asked the driver to wait. He nodded then pulled out a copy of the London Times as Dana and I hopped out.

The front doors to the building were locked, four call buttons on the wall indicating the flats inside. I hit the one marked 'Jeffries'. Unfortunately, nothing happened. I waited a beat, then tried again. No answer. Just for good measure, I whipped out my cell and keyed in the phone number again. After four rings the machine kicked in.

'Great. Now what?' Dana asked.

I glanced down the street as the guy in the cardigan stooped down to pick up a terrier dropping in a plastic baggie.

'Let's go talk to the neighbors.'

We crossed the small expanse of lawn in front of the building, the dog walker straightened as we approached, awkwardly fumbling with his baggie. ''Evening,' he mumbled.

'Hi. I was wondering if I could ask you about your neighbor?' I said, indicating the brick building next door.

'Oh, uh, I'm sorry, I don't really know them,' he stammered, tying a little twister around the top of his baggie.