Alibi In High Heels

'Oh. Uh, next week.'

Callabra clicked his tongue. 'A pity. Marcel's in Spain. He has been doing a calendar shoot there for the past week and he is not scheduled back until the end of the month.'

And unlikely just became impossible. How was it everyone had an alibi but me?

'I do have another young man who might interest you.' Callabra reached into his briefcase and pulled out a photo of a twenty-something guy in a tiny Speedo laying on a beach. He had dark hair, dark eyes, and had set of abs that looked chiseled from stone.

I lifted my hand to the corner of my mouth, surreptitiously checking for drool.

'Wow.'

'Attractive, oui?' he said. 'Marc had been on three covers so far and he was featured as the daily fix four times last year on Playgirl dot com. He is very hot right now.'

No kidding. With some difficulty, I tore my gaze away from the picture. 'He's very nice looking.' Understatement alert. 'But, we really just wanted Marcel.'

His face fell as he put the pictures back in his pocket. 'Oh. Sorry. But,' he said, pulling a card out of his wallet. 'Let me know if you change your mind.'

As he walked away I slipped the card into my purse and mentally crossed Marcel's name off the list. That just left one identity for Mystery Man.

Charlie.

* * *

I fought my way back toward the curb in search of a cab, which, due to the mass of people leaving the Gaultier show, took another twenty minutes before I finally ended up sharing one with a reporter from the Metropole who kept sending me sidelong glances until I finally gave him a pointed, 'Yes, I'm the Couture Killer and no, I have no comment.'

After that he kept his eyes focused out the window the rest of the ride back to Le Carousel de Louvre.

Even with all the changes, pinning and sewing that had gone on with Jean Luc's creations over the past week, there were still a multitude of last minute adjustments that needed to be made. A seam tripped here, something puckering there, a model who had eaten too big a lunch. (Which, in their world, I supposed consisted of two Tic Tacs instead of one.)

I set up at a table in the back, filling in wherever Ann needed me. And trying not to look at the empty shoe rack where my first tastes of fashion fame were supposed to be sitting. Yeah. I know. I didn't try too hard. Every time I caught a glimpse of it out of the corner of my eyes, Moreau moved up that much higher in my shit list. Having him take the stiletto that had killed Gisella into evidence, that I could understand. But holding all of my creations hostage – now that was just mean. I made a mental note not to donate to the policemen's fund next time they came knocking on my door.

The only upside of the day was that as each model made her way to my station for last minute adjustments, I had an opportunity to quiz her about Gisella and her possible beau slash accomplice, the mysterious Mr. Charlie. The first two drew blanks saying they hadn't even known Gisella when they'd signed onto the Le Croix show. The next one, a girl from Northern California, vaguely remembered Gisella talking about some guy, but had no idea what his name was. And from the description ('a dude hecka into handcuffs') I'd venture to guess she'd been talking about Ryan and not our elusive Charlie.

Half a dozen models later and the most I had garnered was that a) Gisella had flaunted all her previous boyfriends to anyone who would listen and b) no one really paid much attention to what she said.

All in all a rather unproductive afternoon.

Though, one girl I spoke with, a long-legged brunette from South Africa, said that she had ridden the elevator up to the 14th floor the night Gisella was killed with a guy in khakis and a rumpled white shirt. She remembered the time exactly because she'd been late to meet a friend for drinks and, according to the timetable I'd gotten out of Angelica, it served to confirm Felix's story. It had been too late in the evening for him to have been her Mr. Roll-in- the-hay. Good to know, but hardly a step closer to finding our Mystery Man.

By the time Jean Luc yelled for a dinner break, I was beginning to feel desperation kick in that we might never find him.

'Hey,' Dana said, approaching my table. 'You hungry?'

I nodded. Even though for perhaps the first time in my life, food held no appeal at all.

Dana must have sensed my mood. She cocked her head to the side. 'What's wrong?'

I gestured behind me to the empty shoes rack.

She laid a hand on my arm.

'Honey, I'm so sorry.'

'And I yelled at Ramirez.'

She raised an eyebrow.

'And, I can't find Charlie.'

'Charlie?'

I nodded, then quickly filling her in on my afternoon's activities.

'Well, someone must have known this guy. I mean, especially if here's here at fashion week.'

'I know,' I nodded. 'But I can't find anyone who heard Gisella talk about him.'

'Maddie,' Ann called, walking by my table, her headset already squawking at her about something. 'Jean Luc wanted me to reassure you that he's still putting your name in the billing as the shoe designer. Even though…' she trailed off, gesturing to the empty rack behind me.

'Thanks,' I said. Then cringed at just what my name would be attached to. 'I think.'

'Hey, Ann,' Dana asked, grabbing her arm as she moved to walk away.

'Yes?' Ann gave her a look like human contact was not in her realm of comfort.

'Do you know a guy named Charlie?'

Ann crunched up her nose. 'Be more specific.'

'Do you know anyone here in Paris at Fashion Week named Charlie? That Gisella might have know'

Ann paused a moment. Then shook her head. 'I'm sorry, the name isn't ringing any bells.'

My shoulder sagged. 'Thanks anyway,' I called after her as she broke from Dana's grasp.

Dana puckered her forehead. 'You know that in itself is a little odd.'

'What?'

'The fact that Ann doesn't know him. Ann knows everyone.'

I shrugged. 'Let's get some food.'

* * *

Instead of going all the way back to the hotel, Dana and I walked two blocks south and found a cute little bistro that had an even cuter little waiter. We took a spot on the outside patio, next to a pair of tall heaters, and both ordered large pasta dishes with creamy sauces that would make Jenny Craig drool. Okay, fine, I ordered pasta with a decadent cream sauce. Dana ordered a salad and a small platter of pasta in light virgin olive oil.

As Cutie Waiter brought out our food, he was sure to ask Dana's chest if there was anything more she needed.

'He's kinda cute, huh?' Dana asked, licking her lips as she bit into her salad, her eyes riveted to his retreating tush.

'Uh huh. Heard anything from Ricky lately?' I asked.

'Who?' her eyes snapped back to me.

'Your boyfriend?'

'Oh.' Dana instantly became engrossed in her meal. 'Um, yeah, sorta. He called.'

'And?'

'He said he would be home in a couple of weeks.'

'And?'

She sighed. 'And that the Natalie Portman thing was totally made up by the press. Maddie, I feel so bad for not