Alibi in High Heels (8 page)

"We went undercover as Fashion Week tourists," Mom said, her eyes shining.

I looked down at the bags. "Mom, you are tourists."

"Anyway, you'll never guess what we learned, Mads. That necklace you said went missing at the Le Croix show? Four of the other designers Gisella was working for said they've had pieces go missing as well. We asked, but only a couple of them had reported the thefts to the police. The others figured the pieces were just misplaced in the chaos of getting ready for the event and would turn up soon enough."

"Just like Jean Luc."

Mom nodded. "Interesting coincidence?"

As much as I was beginning to hate that word, I had to agree with her. I wished we'd had time to check the pockets of Gisella's Chanel. I'd bet my ballet flats there were more than hankies in them.

"All right, so let's assume that Gisella was taking the jewelry. Then what? What did she intend to do with them?" I asked.

Mom shrugged. "Sell them?"

"On the black market! She had to have someone fencing the jewels for her. A partner," Mrs. R said. "My third husband, Alf, had a pawn shop for a while. They're real particular about what they take. They don't wanna get busted. It ain't as easy as it looks to unload hot stuff."

"So, assuming it was Gisella, who was unloading it for her?" I wondered out loud.

"Another model?" Mom offered. "Mystery boyfriend?"

"Maybe her agent?" Mrs. R piped up.

I thought about that. Angelica had said that Gisella called her agent numerous times a day. Maybe the calls hadn't been about booking a cover after all, but about where to get rid of a half million dollars in stolen diamonds. "Did you find anything on who her agent is?" I asked, shuffling through the computer printouts.

"Here," Mrs. R said, pointing to a printout of a website that read "Girardi Models" across the header. "Donata Girardi. She's based in Milan, Gisella's hometown."

"Oh, I saw something about that," Mom said, grabbing the stack from me. More shuffling. "Ah!" She pulled a gossip column out. "Donata Girardi is staying at the Hotel de Crillon. She's the one that threw the party where Gisella wore the necklace."

I stared at the party photos. I wasn't entirely convinced that Gisella was a master thief, but I figured it wouldn't hurt to have a conversation with her agent.

"Okay, first thing tomorrow, we'll question her."

"Question who?"

Mom, Mrs. Rosenblatt and I snapped our heads up in unison, all eyes pointed at the adjoining doorway where Ramirez's frame had suddenly appeared.

"Who are you going to question?" he repeated, stepping into the room.

"No one," I said quickly. Then gave Mom and Mrs. R serious psychic vibes to ix-nay on the estions-quay. "We're not questioning anyone."

"Okay." Ramirez narrowed his eyes. "Maybe I should rephrase. Who are we
not
questioning, then?"

I planted my hands on my hips. "How did you even get in here?" I asked.

"The door next door was open. This," he held up a red shopping bag with the word "Dior" on the side, "was wedged in the door jamb. And don't change the subject."

"Oops," Mrs. R said, taking the bag from his hand. She looked from Ramirez's narrowed eyes to my hands-on-hips. "Uh, maybe we ought to let you two alone."

She gestured to Mom, who quickly dumped the printouts into a "Hermes" bag and followed Mrs. Rosenblatt to the door. She gave me a quick co-conspiratorial wink and mouthed the words "call me" behind Ramirez's back as they slipped out.

Ramirez latched the door shut behind them before turning his cat-like slits of eyes on me. "Okay, you want to tell me what that was about now?"

I bit my lip. And shook my head.

Ramirez sat on the double bed beside me. Close beside me.

Despite our little standoff, I was suddenly reminded of how much I'd missed him.

"Maddie, I'm serious," he said. "You've got to let the police handle this."

"But the police think I did it."

He let out a long breath and rubbed at his temple. "I don't want you questioning anyone."

I opened my mouth to protest but he quickly put a hand over my lips and talked right over me.

"I don't want you nosing through anyone's stuff for some sort of non-existent evidence. I don't want you following anyone, spying on anyone, or impersonating anyone."

Wow. He knew me well.

"And most of all," he said, leaning in until the scent of his aftershave settled over my senses like a mellow fog. "Most of all, I don't want you anywhere near Felix Dunn again." He pulled his hand away from my mouth. "That guy is bad news. Every time you're around him, he gets you into trouble."

"Well, technically it was me that got him into trouble this time."

He gave me a look. "Promise me."

I took a deep breath of Ramirez scented air. And nodded.

He looked so relieved I almost felt guilty that I'd had my fingers crossed behind my back.

"Good," he said. "Oh, and one more thing?"

I raised an eyebrow at him. "What now?"

His eyes crinkled at the corners, going all dark and warm as his face broke into a Big Bad Wolf grin - all teeth like he might eat me up at any second. "This."

He dipped his lips in to meet mine, his stubble tickling my cheek as his tongue brushed against my lower lip.

Instantly my mind went mush. The prison cell, Felix, Moreau, the whole mess the press was making of my life all disappeared as I leaned into his kiss, my lips melting under his. I closed my eyes as his arm wrapped around my middle, laying me back on the bed. In an instant, the hard planes of his body were covering mine. One hand dove into my hair, the other hiking up the hem of my skirt as his hips pressed into mine. I kissed him back. Hard. As I fumbled with the top button of his jeans. When I popped it open, he did a low growl thing in the back of his throat.

"It's been too long," he mumbled into my mouth.

"It's only been a couple of days."

He paused, then looked down at me, his eyes glazed over with a look that could only be described as pure lust. "Yeah, like I said, too long."

I laughed as he dove back in, his lips locking onto my throat, nibbling at my pulse in a way that made my body shiver from my head clear down to my toes. I wrapped one bare leg around his torso, navigating my gimp leg out of the way.

Ramirez looked down. "Can you have sex in that thing?" he asked, gesturing to Wonder Boot.

I felt a devilish grin of my own sliding across my face.

"We're about to find out."

Chapter Eight

I awoke to the sounds of room service carts being wheeled down the hallway outside my room. I gingerly opened one eye, then the next. It felt like I'd been asleep for days, my mouth full of that morning gym socks flavor. I turned over and looked at the digital numbers of the alarm clock. Seven fifteen.

"Mmmm," Ramirez moaned beside me. He rolled over, wrapping an arm round me and pulling me to him, spoon fashion. "Good morning, beautiful," he mumbled into my hair.

I grinned, wiping the sleep out of my eyes. "Yes. Yes it is."

"I had a dream about you last night," he said. He rubbed his pelvis against my bare tush, leaving very little to the imagination as to just what kind of dream I'd awakened him from.

"Was I good?" I joked.

"Oh yeah," he growled, his breath tickling my ear. I ducked, giggling.

"And just where do you think you're going?" he asked. He pulled me onto my back and sat up, straddling me. Then he slid one hand down my arm, twining his fingers with mine as he stared down at me.

"Police brutality," I teased, wiggling beneath him.

He just flashed me a wicked grin and raised his eyebrows suggestively. "You ain't seen nothing yet." He leaned in close, his eyes intent on my mouth.

"Halt!" I quickly covered my mouth with my free hand. "I have morning breath."

He chuckled. "Me too. Who cares?" He zoned in again.

"Gross. You may be cute, but I am so
not
kissing you with morning breath," I mumbled behind my hand.

He paused. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

He let out a deep sigh, then rolled back to his side of the bed. "I fly all the way to Paris just be denied by the morning breath."

I swatted at him, throwing my one good leg over the side of the bed and hopping to the bathroom. "Give me five minutes."

"Four!" he called as I shut the door.

I loaded my toothbrush with Crest and, figuring I might as well go all the way, turned on the shower and quickly did a shampoo and rinse. I towel-dried my hair into a fairly passable sexy-wet look and threw on a little make-up. Hey, just because we'd seen each other naked didn't mean Ramirez had to see me without my eyeliner. By the time I emerged from the bathroom, a white hotel-issue towel wrapped around my midsection, Ramirez was propped up in bed, one hand behind his head as he watched a soccer match on TV.

"That was one hell of a tooth brushing."

I shrugged. "What can I say? I'm a hygienic sort of gal."

He shook his head at me, the corner of his mouth twisting up until a dimple flashed in his left cheek. He curled an index finger at me. "Come 'ere."

I shook my head. "Uhn uh. Your turn."

His grin faltered for a half a second before he conceded, sliding out of bed. "All right. But that towel better be history by the time I come out," he warned.

I shot him my best come hither look as he brushed past me and into the bathroom.

And as soon as he shut the door I sprang into action. I dropped the towel and threw on a denim skirt, pink baby T, and a deconstructed jacket to match my one black ballet flat. Thankfully, I still heard the water running as I grabbed my purse and crutches and bolted out the door.

I know. Totally dirty trick to play on Ramirez. Especially when he was being all cute. But there was no way I was going to question Gisella's agent with Ramirez playing bodyguard. And, as much as I loved him, there was
no way
I was leaving this all to the police.

The thing about Ramirez was that he wasn't a guy who did gray. Life was either black or white to him. Cops: good. Criminals: bad. Victims were victims and if you found yourself behind bars, there was probably a good reason for it. Which is why Ramirez and I spent 90% of our time together butting heads. Me - I was all about the gray stuff. Sometimes I wasn't entirely sure Ramirez could handle a girlfriend who, once in awhile, found herself sitting in a holding cell. Or who, on the rare occasion, had been known to do a little B&E for a good cause. I wasn't sure Ramirez could handle gray. And, on days like this, I wasn't sure how much longer he'd continue trying to for my sake.

Especially when he found the hotel room empty.

I tried to shrug that thought to the back of my mind as I grabbed a cab outside the hotel. As we pulled away from the curb, I glanced over my shoulder, afraid any second now Ramirez would come bolting out the front doors wearing nothing but his boxers. Luckily we were weaving our way into morning traffic before my cell rang, my own room number showing up on the caller ID.

I bit my lip. Then hit the "ignore" button with a deep pang of Catholic guilt.

Even if Moreau never formally charged me with Gisella's killing, I could tell the press had already convicted me. Unless I found out who had really done this, my career as a designer was in the toilet.

So, really, I was sure Ramirez would understand. I was just doing
my
job.

Fifteen minutes (and two more phone calls) later we pulled up to the Hotel de Crillon. Thankfully, it was relatively paparazzi free, every news hound in town still haunting the Le Croix tent and the Plaza Athenee. I stopped in the lobby only long enough to a) grab a cup of coffee and b) ask which room Donata Girardi was staying in. Of course the kid on duty, a short, chubby guy with bad acne, said it was against hotel policy to give out that information. Instead, he handed me a courtesy phone and dialed in Donata's number for me. Luckily, she was in. And, after I briefly explained who I was, agreed to see me.

I downed my coffee and made for the elevators. With no small effort, I ignored the "William Tell Overture" ringing from my purse yet again as I knocked on Donata's door. I heard movement on the other side, then it was opened by a slim woman in her fifties, with thick black hair, thick black lashes, and I suspected without the help of Nair, a thick black mustache. She wore a pale blue tailored suit with a cream colored scarf knotted at her neck and pointy-toed leather heels on her feet. Her eyes held a slightly squinty appearance, as if she'd had an aggressive facelift in the recent past, and her lips puckered in an unnatural way beneath her coral colored lipstick. Despite the obvious work, I could tell by her high cheekbones and heart shaped chin that she was once a very naturally beautiful woman. She was slim though the hips, with long legs, and had the faintest hint of a small, heart shaped birthmark just above her left cheek at the hairline. I immediately got the sense that, like so many other agents, Donata was a former model herself. An idea that was reinforced as she ushered me in and crossed the room with a grace I sorely coveted at the moment. I awkwardly hobbled in, setting my crutches down as I clumsily plopped into an armchair by the window.

"Your purse appears to be ringing," she said, a soft Italian lilt coloring her voice.

I waved the comment off. "Voicemail will get it."

"I see. So, you are one of Le Croix's designers, s
i
?"

I nodded. "Yes, Maddie Springer. I'm doing the shoes for his collection."

She nodded. "The black stiletto heel."

I cringed. "Yes. And I want to express my sincere condolences. I'm sorry for what happened to Gisella."

She raised an eyebrow. "You are sorry?"

"Yes. I mean, no, not that I'm sorry, like I'm apologizing. I mean, I'm sorry it happened, not I'm sorry I did it. Because I didn't. I had nothing to do with it happening. This was just a coincidence."

"I see." Though I noticed she scooted her chair a fraction of an inch away from me. Clearly she wasn't entirely convinced.

Join the club.

"And, what is it I can do for you, Signorina Springer?"

Tell me who was fencing stolen property for your client. But I figured the subtle approach was probably best. "I was wondering what you could tell me about Gisella's social life?"

Donata looked out the window. "Gisella was a very social girl. She loved parties."

"Like the one you threw here in the hotel?"

Donata nodded. "S
i.
" She clasped her hands in her lap but didn't elaborate. I had the feeling she was a woman who had learned to play her hand close to her heart.

"Do know if Gisealla was seeing anyone?"

"Gieslla always had men around."

"Anyone special?"

She shrugged, a barely detectable movement of her shoulders.

"What about Ryan? Does that name ring a bell?" I asked, reciting the last file entry from Gisella's camera.

Donata paused. "She mentioned a Ryan. I think they may have dated."

"Did she happen to mention Ryan's last name?"

She sucked in her cheeks. "Jones? Jeffries? One of those, I believe. He was English."

My phone took that moment to chirp to life inside my purse again. I ignored it.

"Do you know if Ryan was here in Paris with Gisella?"

Donata looked down at my Kate Spade. "Are you not going to answer that?"

I shook my head. "Nope."

She raised an eyebrow at me, but said nothing.

"So, was Ryan in Paris?"

She shrugged. "I could not tell you. Gisella and I, we were not so close that she would informed me of her boyfriends' whereabouts."

"But you did talk often. Several times a day?"

She nodded. "S
i
. For work."

Hmm... modeling work or burglary? "When was the last time you saw Gisella?"

Donata's lips twitched and I watched her throat bob up and down. She looked down at her hands to hide some emotion flitting across her eyes. Though whether it was guilt or genuine sorrow I'd be hard pressed to answer.

"The night before she died. I went up to her room to fill her in on the next day's fitting schedule. But I was there only a brief time. She said she was expecting company."

I wondered if that company was Ryan Jones slash Jeffries.

"Did Gisella bring Ryan with her to your party?"

Again, Donata shrugged her slim shoulders. "I did not notice. I was busy playing hostess. But I would not be surprised. Gisella was almost never unaccompanied by a man. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a client to meet with." She rose and walked to the door, effectively ending the interview. I grabbed my crutches and followed her, though she already had the door open and waiting by the time I got there. I paused before stepping through the doorway.

"Do you have any idea who could have killed Gisella?" I asked, starting to sound desperate now.

She didn't answer, instead gave me a pointed look.

I rolled my eyes.

"Beside me."

Donata slowly shook her head. "Her death is a tragedy. She will be missed," she said, sounding like she was reading off a teleprompter.

And with that she closed the door behind me. I stood in the hallway a moment, listening, hoping to catch some sort of sound on the other side. Nothing.

Great. I hadn't really learned anything more about Donata and still wasn't sure where the jewels fit in to all this. If they fit into it at all.

But, I did glean one little kernel of info from Donata. Ryan's last name.

* * *

I was heading through the Crillon's lobby when my cell rang again. I almost didn't even pull it out of my purse, but the odd stares I was getting hobbling across the marble tiles to the tune of "William Tell" finally made me slip it out. And I was glad I did. Dana's number lit up my LCD.

"Hello?"

"Mads! Guess where I am?"

I shifted the phone to the other ear, trying not to drop it as I leaned on my crutches. "I give up."

"Paris! I got the spot in the Le Croix show."

Perfect timing. "Dana you are amazing. Where are you?"

"I'm still at the airport. My plane just landed. I'll meet you at the Plaza in about half an hour."

"Uh..." Visions of a pissed off Ramirez flitted through my head. "That might not be a good idea. How about meet me at the Hotel de Crillon instead. I'll be..." I paused, looking around the lobby. I spied a cafe across the street through the glass front doors. "...across the street at the cafe."

"Cool. Just let me drop my bags and I'll be right there."

I shoved my cell back into my purse, feeling guilt gnaw at me again as I notice the "Three new messages" alert across the screen. Instead of dwelling on it, I hobbled across the street to the cafe where I ordered a large cafe au lait (a girl could get addicted to these things) and a pastry made of flaky, buttery crust and a sweet honey-like filling.

While I waited, I tried Felix's cell. Hey, I promised Ramirez I would stay away from him, not lose his number. And I was away. Besides, I wanted to make sure he had gotten out of police custody okay.

Unfortunately, there as no answer. I left a voicemail, then dialed Jean Luc's number to thank him for hiring Dana and see if there were any new developments at the tent. He informed me that the police still weren't giving back the shoes, he was trying to find replacements that I could "add some touches to" and that he'd call me if anything new came up.

As soon as I hung up, my cell chirped to life again with Ramirez's number. I hit ignore. I know, he was so gonna be pissed later, but what could I do?

I finished my coffee instead while I waited for Dana.

Fifteen minutes later, she came through the doors wearing a pair of black stretch leggings, a black long sleeve with a picture of a tiny pink poodle on it and a jaunty black beret.

I looked her up and down and I'm pretty sure my expression betray my thoughts as she said, "What?"

"Poodles?"

"I'm in Paris! I'm doing French chic. You like?" She did a little spin and I couldn't help but grin.

"It's very French."

"Thanks." She sat down, depositing her purse on the empty chair beside her. "So, spill it. What's the latest?"

I did, catching her up to date on the Googling twins and my chat with Donata. By the time I'd finished, my coffee was history and Dana was swirling the dregs of her herbal tea in her cup, her strawberry blonde brows drawn together in thought.

"Okay, so putting aside the whole jewel thief thing for a moment, this Ryan guy was likely the last person to see her alive?"

"Right. Well, before the killer. If he isn't the killer, that is."