Deciding that anger was a much more appealing emotion than grief I continued this train of thought all the way though the lobby and out to a waiting cab. By the time I arrived at the Carrousel de Louvre, I'd worked myself into a pretty nice indignant rage, even if I did say so myself. I hobbled out of the cab, making angry little divots in the grass with my crutches as I passed the tents, hobbled across the courtyard and into the workroom.
If Jean Luc had seemed stressed before, he was a stressed guy on crack now. He paced the length of the workroom, arms waving above his head, French, Italian and English all jumbled together as he spoke, antacids popping into his mouth one after another.
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."
"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 runaway 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 Gislla.
"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?"