Alibi In High Heels

ceiling.

I closed my eyes.

Obviously Gisella was the key to all this. Why had she been killed in the first place? She had taken an awful risk stealing so many jewels this week. And Jean Luc had been in a tizzy about the necklace. Sooner or later, he would have realized it was stolen. Sooner or later one of the designers would have called the police in. Considering this, it had been especially bold of Gisella to wear it out to a party the night before pocketing it.

The party. Had that been the catalyst? Had the killer seen her wearing it and realized she was getting too reckless?

So, who'd been at the party?

Felix, of course, I reluctantly admitted. Angelica. Ryan. Donata, though by her current deceased status, she obviously wasn't the killer.

I went over the conversation that I'd had with Felix about Gisella and his last night with her. I'd been a little preoccupied with Ramirez walking into the room at the time, but something had bugged me about Felix's story even then. Felix had readily admitted to arguing with Gisella, but he'd sworn he hadn't slept with her. And, oddly enough, I was inclined to believe him. (And no, not because he was a good kisser. Not that I was even admitting that he was. He wasn't. At least, not that good.) What reason would he have to lie about it now? So, unless Angelica was making things up, someone else had been in Gisella's room before Felix.

I got up and grabbed my purse, rummaging around until I found the camera and the list of names I'd pulled from it. I turned the camera on, hoping that maybe the files would have miraculously reappeared. Not such luck. I hit a few buttons and pulled up a couple of beautiful pictures Gisella had taken of the Eiffel Tower that made me sigh with envy, but no video files. I mentally thunked my head against the wall. The best evidence we'd had of her accomplice and I'd erased it. Some days, I swore I really was blonde.

In lieu of actual video, I pulled out the list of file names I'd written down. Had one of these guys been the Mystery Man in her room that night? What if he was her partner? They'd had sex, he'd left, then told her to meet him at the tents early that morning. Where he'd killed her.

Rocco. Marcel. Charlie. Roberto. Ryan.

I'd already met Ryan. And while he wasn't totally cleared as a suspect, the way Gisella had dumped him for Felix didn't speak of a continuing criminal partnership to me. Angelica had said Rocco was a one night stand and Roberto was in New York. Both unlikely candidates. That left Marcel and Charlie.

I took my list and went downstairs to the business center and booted up a computer. Going on the assumption that Gisella's partner in crime had ties to the fashion industry, I figured I would see what I could dig up on the two names. I had to admit, I felt slightly awkward at the unfamiliar terminal. I wished Mom and Mrs. R were around to do this for me, as I tried to punch in Google keywords to narrow my search.

An hour later I was cross-eyed from reading tiny print on the screen and not a whole lot closer to finding Gisella's last lover.

There were more Charlie's in fashion than I could count – a handful of young, beautiful models as well as three designers who were showing at Fashion Week and countless booking agents. And those were just the ones I found. I set that name aside and tried Marcel instead.

That list was considerably smaller and, once I whittled it down to only those currently in Paris for Fashion Week, I had three Marcels to choose from. A makeup artist (who I dismissed as soon as I read that he was seen at a party with his boyfriend the night before), a style reporter for the TV entertainment show Paris Spectacle and a male model currently living just outside the city.

I found Paris Spectacle's webpage and, after calling up the site directory, a contact page listing the telephone number of a Marcel Dubois, Style Reporter.

I slipped my cell out and dialed, waiting while it rang on the other end. Finally, five rings into it, a man picked up.

'Bon jour, ce Dubois?' he answered.

'Uh, English?' I asked, crossing my fingers.

'Oui, how may I help you?'

I did a sigh of relief. 'Hi, my name is Maddie Springer and I'm a-'

But I didn't get any further as I heard him suck in a quick breath. 'The Couture Killer?'

I gritted my teeth. I was really beginning to hate that nickname.

'Yes. I mean, no, I'm not a killer but, yes, that's what the press is currently calling me.' I paused.

'You prefer to be called something else?' he asked.

I rolled my eyes. 'I prefer not to be called anything! I didn't do it.'

'No, no, of course not,' he said, his voice laced with a Spanish accent. 'So, you are denying the current allegations?' he asked, and I could here him scrambling for a pen and paper in the background.

I bit my lip. Obviously Marcel thought I was calling him for an exclusive. But, for the moment, I decided to play along.

'Yes, I am denying them. I had nothing to do with Gisella's death. Or Donata's,' I added as an afterthought. 'I've been…' I cringed, borrowing a phrase from Mrs. Rosenblatt said, 'Set up.'

'I see.' I heard the sound of furious scribbling. 'By whom?'

'The real killer.'

'Ah! The real killer,' he repeated as he jotted down my comments. 'And did you know the deceased?'

'I'd met her.' I paused. 'Did you know her?'

'Me? Uh…' he trailed off, not prepared to be the one questioned. 'Yes, of course I knew who she was. Gisella Rossi. Everyone knows her.'

'That's not what I meant. Did you know her personally?'

'Uh, I met her once or twice. But I am deeply saddened by her death. Which is why I promise a very tasteful segment. Now, the police say you have no alibi for the night of the murder, is this true?'

I bit my lip. 'Yes. I was alone at the time of her death. Uh… how about you?'

'Me?' Clearly this was not how most of his interviews went.

'Yes, you.'

'Well, I was here. Working.'

'And other people saw you there?'

'Oui. But as soon as I heard, I was at the tent. I am very thorough in my investigations. I promise, I will not leave any details out. Anything you want to share with me, I will report.'

'Hmmmm.' I was beginning to think I was on the wrong track with this guy. If he'd really been working that night, and had witnesses, there was no way he was Gisella's partner. But, just for good measure, I had to ask. 'Did you ever sleep with Gisella Rossi?'

'Eh… no.' he answered, taken aback. 'Why?' he asked, a devilish tint creeping into his voice. 'Did you?'

Oh brother. 'No. And I have no further comment at this time.'

'Wait I-' he said.

But I hung up. Clearly he was not my mystery man. That left one more Marcel. The male model, Marcel Bertrand.

I looked up at the clock. Two thirty. I was due back at the tent in half an hour, anyway, I might was well go talk to Miss Everyone Who's Anyone and see if her BlackBerry could spit out a number for Mr. Bertrand.

I popped by Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt's room one more time (still empty) before grabbing my shoulder bag and heading down to the lobby.

Though as soon as I got off the elevators, I froze.

He was standing at the front desk, his back to me as he spoke with Pierre. From the back, his worn-in-the-right places jeans clung to his frame so tightly that every woman in the lobby gave a second (and sometimes third) glance his way. His black T-shirt was just a little too tight across his biceps, and a growth of stubble across his chin that looked like he hadn't slept or shaved in days. And his dark hair curled at the nape of his neck, like he was a week past a decent haircut.

Ramirez.

A black duffel bag sat at his feet and he slid a keycard across the counter to Pierre. Clearly he was checking out.