High Heels Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-5)

by Gemma Halliday

  I slipped into the room, trying to get Ann’s attention before Jean Luc drafted me to fit models.

  “Pssst,” I whispered in Ann’s direction. She was standing next to Angelica, instructing the seamstress on just how high the hem was supposed to go on the leg. I noticed, with a pang of regret, that Angelica was already dressed in her makeshift replacement pumps. I’d done a key-hole design along the front and sprayed the heels a gold color to match the rim of her skirt. They were passable. But certainly nothing to write home about.

  Or mention in your style column as the next best thing to hit feet since Jimmy Choos.

  “Ann,” I whispered again, waving my hand to get her attention. She finally looked up and saw me, clomping to the door in her clogs.

  “You’re early. Great. You can help with the girls in the back. We’ve got Polaroids of each outfit, if you can help get them on.”

  I nodded. “Sure. But, I was wondering if I could ask you something first?”

  Her face puckered as if questions weren’t on the schedule today, but she didn’t say no.

  “I was wondering if you had contact information for a Marcel Bertrand? He’s a model in the area.”

  Her forehead puckered. “We don’t do menswear again until spring.”

  “I know. I just…” I paused, racking my little brain for a plausible reason for calling him. Unfortunately, what with the dead bodies, dead career and dead relationship, my little brain had been through too much lately. “I, uh, think he’s kinda cute.” I cringed.

  Ann cocked her head to the side. “Cute?”

  I decided to run with it. “Uh huh. Do you know if he’s already seeing anyone?” I asked. Like Maybe Gisella?

  She shrugged. “Yeah, like I can keep up with their love lives, too. Hang on.” She pulled out the BlackBerry. “What was his last name?”

  “Bertrand,” I repeated, looking over her shoulder. She scrolled through numbers until she got to the “B”s. “No direct number but his agent is David Callabra.” She showed me the screen and I pulled out a pen and wrote down the agent’s cell number on my hand.

  “Thanks, Ann,” I said, ducking back out the door.

  “Hey!”

  I froze. “Yeah?”

  “What about the fitting?’

  Oh yeah. “Uh, I’ll be right back.

  I slipped outside before she could protest, stepping a few feet away before pulling out my cell and making the call to Marcel’s agent. It rang three times before he picked up and I could hear the steady pulse of loud techno music in the background

  “Bonjour?” he answered.

  “Hi, I’m with Le Croix designs,” I said, fibbing only a little. “We’re looking to book a male model next week for a shoot. I heard you represented Marcel Bertrand?”

  “Oui, uh, un moment.” I heard him cover the mouthpiece. When he came back on the music had faded some. “Pardon, Le Croix designs, did you say?”

  “Yes. Marcel came highly recommended to us by Gisella Rossi.”

  There was a pause on the other end. “Gisella Rossi?”

  “Marcel did know Gisella, didn’t he?” I asked, crossing my fingers.

  “Oui,” Callabra said slowly. “But I’m surprised she would recommend him.”

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  “Uh, why don’t we talk about this in person? I am at the Gaultier show right now.”

  “Perfect, I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.”

  * * *

  Gaultier was showing in a large venue in the Rue Saint-Martin. Unlike New York’s Bryant Park, Paris’s Fashion Week is spread between a variety of historically rich and architecturally gorgeous sites within a few blocks radius, with top tier designers showing throughout the week. When I arrived at the Rue Saint-Martin it was packed. We’re talking Nordstrom’s semi-annual clearance sale packed. My cab circled the block twice before double parking and letting me out at the curb, amidst the angry horns of the other drivers.

  I threaded my way through a solid wall of photographers, columnists, and general fashionistas until I heard the tell-tale pulsating music of the Gaultier show.

  I ducked my head in, not actually getting any further without a ticket. But even from there I could see that the folding chairs two and three rows deep were already long filled. The show was standing room only and I craned to see the last few models strut their stuff down the runway. I slipped between two guys wielding cameras for a better position and caught a glimpse of a long legged woman in a streamlined wool jacket and thigh high books doing a pose at the end of the runway before strutting away. Despite my reasons for being here, my heart gave a little leap at being among the very first to see the season’s hot items.

  Especially when the next model stopped and posed in a gorgeous off the shoulder, white, mid thigh dress with butterfly cutouts in the back. I had to have one of those.

  By the time the last model had made her journey up and down the sleek, black runway and Jean Paul himself came out to the sounds of thunderous applause, I was right there clapping along with everyone else, and completely caught up in the infectious excitement of Fashion Week.

  So caught up that I jumped when someone tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Maddie?”

  I spun around to face a short, balding man with a pointed goatee that looked like it was modeled after Beelzebub himself. He was dressed in all black – slacks, sweater, and pointy toed shoes. Which matched his pointy features, a sharp nose, small, calculating eyes. In fact the only thing not pointy about him was his round little head, balding and gleaming under the still blaring show lights.

  “Yes?” I asked tentatively.

  “David Callabra,” he said, sticking out his hand. “We spoke on the phone.”

  I nodded. “Oh, right.” I cleared my throat. “Uh, how did you know who I was?’

  He did a wry grin. “Your face has been all over the news, Maddie. Everyone in Paris knows who you are.”

  At any other time everyone in the fashion world knowing my name might have been a good thing. Today, it made my stomach hurt.

  “Right.” I paused. “I didn’t do it, by the way.”

  He waved me off. “Guilty, innocent, I do not care. As long as the pay is right, I am willing to chance it, as they say.” He grinned. And I had the feeling he was at least half kidding.

  “So,” he said, leading the way outside, “you said you had a job for Marcel?”

  I cleared my throat, “Right. Uh, Gisella had recommended him.”

  He shook his head. “Like I say, I can hardly believe that.”

  I froze. Uh oh. Was the jig up? And here I’d thought it was such a good jig.

  “From what I heard, Marcel was hardly Gisella’s favorite person. They parted on hardly the best of terms the last time they worked together.”

  “Oh,” I said, relived he hadn’t seen through my cover. “What happened?”

  “Her allegations were completely fabricated,” he said.

  Allegations? This sounded promising. “Go on,” I said as we threaded our way through the mass of people milling around the street, comparing notes from the show.

  “Well, they were working together in Cannes and Gisella accused Marcel of stealing something from her.”

  “Stealing?” An ironic accusation coming from Gisella.

  “It was a silly misunderstanding. Gisella was wearing a tennis bracelet in the shoot and afterward, it went missing. Gisella accused Marcel of taking it.”

  “He didn’t?”

  “No, of course not. But that didn’t stop them from searching his things. Of course he came up clean, but it left a taint on his name.”

  I knew how that felt. “Was the bracelet ever recovered?”

  “I assume so. I really do not know. After they searched his belongings, Marcel left the set. The whole thing put a, uh… as you say, bad taste in his mouth. Especially considering his relationship with Gisella.”

  “Relationship? So they were dating?”

  “Oui. W
ere, past tense. Like I said, they did not have anything to do with each other after that. Though, I’m glad to hear that there were no hard feelings on Gisella’s part. Ah, when did you say you needed Marcel by?”

  “What?” I was still digesting this information. Another item of jewelry gone missing in Gisella’s presence. The girl had balls, I’ll say that. Especially to accuse Marcel. Though, it didn’t seem likely that if Marcel were her partner, she’d have thrown suspicion on him that way.

  “When is the shoot?” David repeated.

  “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 a 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. “Marcel has 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 on 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 filled her in on my afternoon’s activities.

  “Well, someone must have known this guy. I mean, especially if he’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 known?”

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

  My shoulders 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 trusting him. But, I mean, do you think I can trust him? Damn, this monogamy thing is so hard.”

  Tell me about it. “If he says she doe
sn’t mean anything to him, then she doesn’t.”

  “But what if she does?”

  I was about to give the 50/50 trust speech for the second time today when my cell rang from the depth of my purse. I fished around and looked down at the readout. Mom.

  “Where have you been?” I asked, hitting the on button.

  Only there was no response. Just breathing.

  “Mom?”

  More breathing.

  I rolled my eyes and hit the off button. Love my mom as I do, she was not the most technologically advanced person on the planet. When she’d first gotten her cell last year, she’d insisted on shouting every conversation through it. I wouldn’t be surprised if a compact in her purse had hit the speed dial.

  I waited a beat, then called her number back. It rang four times, then went to a recording.

  “Hi this is Betty. I’m either not available or screening my calls and you didn’t make the cut.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Please leave a message.”

  A loud beep sounded in my ear and I did, informing her that her purse had just called me, then hung up.

  Wherever she was I hoped she as having a better day than I was.

  A completely futile wish, as I was about to find out.

  Chapter Seventeen

  After dinner, I went back to the workroom where Jean Luc ran everyone ragged until long after the sun had set. At which point Dana and I took a cab back to the hotel, dragging ourselves through the lobby. It was sparsely populated at this time of night, but I noticed Pierre on duty still.

  “Don’t they ever let you sleep?” I asked.

  Though he didn’t seem to mind being on duty again. He wore a big smile across his features and his eyes held a look that could only be called a twinkle. Even his bald head seemed to shine extra brightly this evening.

  He turned and gave me a smile that was all teeth. “Ah, Mademoiselle Springer. What a lovely evening, no?”