Alibi In High Heels

suggestive elbow in the ribs.

The dome went red and his eyes hit the floor. 'Ah, Americans,' he said quickly, switching to English. 'And how may I help you lovely young ladies?'

Mrs. Rosenblatt snorted. 'We're young ladies,' she said to Mom. Mom giggled.

I handed over my credit card. 'Maddie Springer. And entourage,' I added, glancing over my shoulder.

'Don't mind us, we're just here to sightsee,' Mom said, waving me off.

'You, ah, got any recommendations where two young ladies could have a good time there, Pierre?' Mrs. R licked her lips and leaned suggestively on the counter, her bright orange muumuu dipping down to expose a pair of breasts that gravity hadn't been kind to.

The clerk cleared his throat, going a deeper shade of crimson. ' Pardon moi , mademoiselle , but the name is actually Andre.'

'Really? 'Cause you look like a Pierre to me. Must be that sexy French accent of yours.'

Andre suddenly became engrossed in his computer screen. 'Ah, yes, we have two rooms on the 15^th floor. Adjoining.'

'Oh, this is going to be so much fun, Maddie,' Mom squeaked, giving my arm a squeeze. 'It'll be like one big slumber party.'

'Uh, do you have anything maybe not so adjoining?' I asked.

But unfortunately Andre was currently hypnotized by Mrs. R running her tongue suggestively over her lipstick stained teeth. I admit, it was kind of like a car wreck – hideously unreal yet impossible to turn away.

'So, what time do you get off work, Pierre?' Mrs. R asked.

The clerk gulped. 'Uh, rooms 702 and 704. Enjoy your stay.' He quickly slid the card keys across the marble counter, then scurried off to help the next customer.

'I think he kinda liked me,' Mrs. R said.

'I think you kinda scared him.'

'Oh, Maddie, we're in Paris! This is going to be so fun!' Mom squeezed my arm again and steered me toward the elevators.

Visions of Karaoke in French flashed before my eyes.

Thankfully Mom and Mrs. R decided to take a nap in their suite before going out for an afternoon of sightseeing. I left them at their door, promising to call once I got safely to the site of Jean Luc's tent.

I slipped my keycard in the door, stepped into my room, and suddenly felt like I'd entered a dollhouse. A white, four poster bed sat in the middle, draped in bright yellow floral patterns and piled high with about a million pillows. Beneath the window sat a long chaise and on the far side of the room, a lovely antique bureau next to a small writing desk. The room was feminine, bursting with ruffles and had Paris written all over it. I loved it.

I immediately went to the window overlooking the city and craned for a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower. But, while I could see clear to the mountains, there was sadly no tower in sight. Clearly not an Eiffel view room.

I didn't stop to unpack, instead quickly changing into a breezy red, spaghetti strap sundress I'd bought at French Boutique on Melrose, a white shrug sweater and red and white polka dotted ballet flats (okay, one ballet flat and one ugly blue boot) before grabbing my purse and heading out to find a cab to Le Carrousel du Louvre – site of Jean Luc's show. Fashion Week, here I come!

* * *

If you've never been backstage at a fashion show, there are few things in life that can compare to it. The excitement, the energy, the sheer chaos. And while Jean Luc's show wasn't scheduled for another week, as I neared the white tent with the words 'Le Croix' painted in bold, black letters, the air was already electric with anticipation and the chaos was in full swing. Men in white coveralls converged on piles of lumber that in just a few short days would be transformed into runways the world would be watching to learn what they'd be wearing this season. Reporters with cameras slung around their necks stood in the corners, interviewing anyone who'd stand still. And models, tall, slim almost inhumanly beautiful creatures, were everywhere. Sipping water bottles, smoking slim, brown cigarettes, and strutting their impossibly long legs in impossibly beautiful couture.

This was as close to heaven as I think I'd ever been.

In the center of it all, like a clever ringmaster, stood the man himself, Jean Luc Le Croix. He was tall and thick, in his forties. Jet black hair, dark sunglasses, a look on his face like he was perpetually constipated. He wore black jeans, black snakeskin boots, and a black cashmere sweater with a big gold medallion hung around his neck. His voice reminded me of an auctioneer, constantly barking out orders at whomever happen to be within earshot.

'Maddie!' he cried as I approached.

'Hello, Jean Luc.' I leaned in and did a very French pair of air kisses at him.

'We've been expecting you. It is madness, yes?' he asked gesturing around himself. 'Come, come, we've got the models being fitted inside.' Jean Luc lead the way through the construction toward a large building beside the famous Louvre museum. Me hobbling awkwardly behind, trying to keep up with his long-legged gait.

The room he led me into was full of worktables, dress forms and tall, rail thin models in various states of undress. Among them flitted assistants and seamstresses, long yellow measuring tapes draped around their necks. A chorus of different languages were being spoken, Italian, French, Spanish, and even a few words of English here and there.

Jean Luc barked to the models as we threaded our way through the room. 'Tanya, darling, that's a top not a skirt. Angelica, you need a necklace with that shirt. No, no, no, Bella, that color is all wrong on you. Take it off, quickly, darling!' He turned to me. 'You'll have to excuse me, the majority of the models only came in yesterday and I'm still in the middle of a full blown aneurysm.'

I grinned. Despite his brusque manner it was impossible not to like him.

'Becca! You're killing me,' he shouted to a pouty redhead. 'That's a front closure, you must wear undergarments with it!'

'Jean Luc,' called a voice from the back of the room. 'Jean Luuuuuuuuc.' A short, slim brunette wearing all black, thick glasses, and a headset hailed him from across the room, making purposeful strides toward him.

Jean Luc closed his eyes in a mini meditation. 'Not again,' he mumbled under his breath. Then he turned around, all smiles.

'Maddie, meet Ann, my assistant.'

'Charmed,' Ann shot, giving only a cursory glance my direction. 'Listen, Jean Luc, it's Gisella. She's lost her necklace for the finale.'

'Christ, not again.'

Ann gestured toward a tall, long legged brunette with stick straight bangs and thighs so slim I could wrap my hands around them. She looked bored, jutting one bony hip out and contemplating her fingernails.

'She says she left it in her room, but we can't find it anywhere.'

'Fine, I'll be right there.' Ann walked away and Jean Luc turned to me. 'I'm sorry, apparently my two second break from crisis has ended. But come, I'll introduce you to Gisella.'

I hobbled after Jean Luc again, as he stalked toward the bored brunette.

'Maddie,' Jean Luc said as I caught up, huffing just a little, 'I'd like you to meet my lead model, Gisella Rossi.

'Nice to meet you,' I said, sticking out my hand while simultaneously trying not to lose my grip on my crutches.

Gisella gave me a limp wristed squeeze and a wan smile. 'Ciao.'

'Gisella will be wearing the black baby doll in the finale, so we'll need a tall heel for her. But nothing chunky.'

'Got it. No problem.' I had just the right shoe in mind for her already. A black, three inch, pointy stiletto, with rhinestone studded ankle strap I'd put the finishing touches on last week. I looked down at her feet, trying to gauge her size.

'Now, Gisella, darling, what's this I hear about the necklace gone missing?'

Gisella rolled her eyes. 'I dunno where it is,' she answered in heavily accented English.