Designs in Crime (6 page)

“Let me guess,” Beau said. “You want to know why I put up with Mrs. Chong's attitude.”

Bess rolled her eyes. “The woman's about as subtle as a bulldozer—and she scares me.”

Beau smiled. “Ah, but there's a heart of gold inside that bulldozer. Mrs. Chong hasn't had it easy. She fled China years ago and came here with just the clothes on her back and her incredible sewing ability.”

“And what about Angel?” Nancy asked.

“His family moved to New York from Puerto Rico when he was a kid,” Beau explained. “We met when I gave a speech at a design institute where he was a student. He's bright and talented.”

“Does he ever design for you?” Bess asked.

“He's always sketching,” Beau said, “but none of his designs have worked for me yet. I know he'll break through one of these days.

“Anything on Joanna's gown?” Beau asked. “I know it's early.”

“Not yet,” Nancy told him. “We spent the evening with her family and fiancé last night, but I still don't have any clues about her gown.”

“What a mess,” Beau said. “We're working against the clock, trying to finish designs for next
week's show. Meanwhile, Mrs. Chong is tied up, altering the substitute gown that Joanna is less than thrilled with.” Frustrated, he raked his fingers through his long hair. “This studio has seen better times.”

“For now you need to focus on getting your collection ready for next week,” Nancy said. “I'll do my best to find your leak—
and
Joanna's gown.”

“In the meantime I'll be putting you to work,” Beau said, turning to Bess. “Angel and I have picked out some gowns we'd like to alter for the Petite Elite line. If you try them on, one of my assistants will pin the hems and mark the other alterations.”

“Let's go!” Bess said, jumping to her feet.

While Beau and Bess went off to work on Petite Elites, Nancy got to work on the case.

Nancy thought through what she knew, which wasn't much. She did know that Budget Fashions was producing the knockoffs of Beau's designs. She decided that maybe she could find the thief through his or her connection to Budget.

Pulling a phone book down from Beau's bookcase, she found a listing for Budget and called the number. The woman who answered told her the showroom was open only to retail buyers.

Another obstacle, Nancy thought as she hung up the phone. If Jill were in town, she could use Mitchell's clout to get Nancy in, but Jill was in
Tokyo. Somehow Nancy had to find a way to do some investigating at Budget Fashions.

She called Jill's assistant at Mitchell's and explained the problem. The woman said she'd mention it to Jill when she called in. Nancy thanked her, then hung up.

In the meantime she could work the case from this end. Beau was sure that someone on his staff had to be the thief. Still, Nancy had to wonder how hard it would be for someone else—such as Mimi Piazza or Michael Rockwell—to break into the studio.

She started by checking the main entrance on the first floor. Unlike Mimi's building, no guard was stationed in the lobby.

Nancy pulled open one of the glass doors at the main entrance and inspected the lock. “A cinch!” she said, testing the way the bolt fit against the striker plate. A burglar could slip a thin piece of plastic—like a credit card—between the two parts of the lock. The door would open in seconds.

Nancy was about to close the door when the elevator opened and Eleni, one of Beau's employees, emerged carrying two plastic sacks.

“Guess who scored today's errands—and trash detail?” Eleni said wryly.

Nancy held the door open, then peeked outside to watch the girl walk to a metal Dumpster in front of the building and toss both bags in.

Another security risk, Nancy thought. Anyone
walking by could pick through the trash to find discarded sketches of Beau's designs.

Maybe the lock on the studio door is stronger and more efficient, she thought. But when she reached the fourth floor, she found that the door to the studio was unlocked. A sophisticated lock and alarm panel was built into the wall beside the studio door, but it wasn't activated.

The staff probably turned on the alarm only when they locked up at night. During the day anyone could sneak items out.

Inside the studio, Nancy went into the workroom and found Bess wearing an ice pink satin gown. Kneeling at her feet, a young woman was pinning up the hem.

“Isn't this gorgeous?” Bess asked, smoothing the material over her waist and touching the tiny satin-covered buttons that ran up the front. “They're going to take up the hem and shorten the bodice for women with my proportions.”

“It's lovely,” Nancy agreed, dodging an assistant who was carrying a bolt of fabric over his shoulder. The room buzzed with activity. Supervised by Angel, Mrs. Chong, and Beau himself, workers moved through their tasks, their fingers deftly stitching, pinning, or cutting.

Sunlight streamed in through the tall, arched windows along the outer wall. An adjacent wall contained floor-to-ceiling shelves full of binders and black portfolios. Against a third wall, bolts of material were stacked haphazardly. The center
of the room was dominated by two large work-tables.

Mrs. Chong tugged a bolt of lace from the stack, tucked it under her arm, then turned to Nancy. “You better find that gown—
soon,
” she barked at Nancy. “I'm sewing like crazy, and still I know Miss Rockwell won't be happy.” She snorted, then charged off to her sewing room, little more than a cubicle in the corner, attached to the workroom by a narrow door.

“Don't let her bother you,” Angel said, smiling up from his sketch. “Mrs. Chong is abrupt, but she means well.” He was drawing a gown that was on a dress form, a padded replica of a woman's torso that stood on a metal stand, like a statue without arms, legs, or a head.

Nancy peeked over Angel's shoulder and watched as his hand moved the pencil across the page in sure, even strokes. His drawing was a copy of the gown executed in sweeping, romantic lines.

“I don't understand,” Nancy said. “Isn't sketching a design the first step? Then don't you make a sample from the sketch?”

“Some designers work that way,” Angel explained. “But Beau likes to work with the fabric, playing with the texture and weight of the cloth. He drapes the fabric on a dress form or model until the right shape emerges. Then, after the design is complete, I sketch it.”

“What are the sketches for?” Nancy asked.

“Promotion pieces, catalogs, and records.” Angel pointed to the binders that lined the shelves on one wall. “Those books are filled with sketches of gowns in the Beau Bridal collection.”

“There are sandwiches for everyone in the lounge,” Beau announced. “We won't have time to break for lunch today.”

Angel added a few touches to the sketch, then stood up. “Hungry?” he asked Nancy.

“I could use a sandwich,” Nancy said, smiling at the soft-spoken young man. As she followed him down the hall, Nancy pointed to closed doors, and Angel told her what was inside.

“Those two are fitting rooms,” he explained. “That's a storage room. Bathroom. And this is our home away from home.” The lounge was a small room furnished with two sofas, a table and chairs, a microwave, and a refrigerator. On the table were a platter of sliced meats and cheeses and bowls of rolls, bread, salad, and pickles.

Angel bit into a pickle. “My mother always told me to eat my vegetables,” he teased.

Nancy laughed as she made herself a turkey sandwich. “And you'd better stay healthy with the show coming up.”

“That's for sure,” Angel agreed.

“How long have you worked for Beau?” she asked.

“Almost two years,” he answered. “I was hired
when Beau moved into this studio. Before that, he worked out of his apartment with Mrs. Chong and one or two part-time assistants.”

“You sketch beautifully,” Nancy said. “Do you enjoy your work?”

Angel shrugged. “It gets crazy around here, but I like working in the field. I'm actually trained as a designer.” His dark eyes took on a dreamy look as he added, “Beau might include some of my designs in his next collection, which would be a dream come true.”

Nancy was about to ask another question when two workers came in, chattering loudly as they pushed toward the food.

“Guess I'd better get back to work,” Angel said, heading down the hall with a plate of food.

After Nancy had finished her sandwich, she set off to check out the rest of the studio. The fitting rooms were furnished with a few chairs, thick carpeting, mirrors, and oriental screens.

Then she opened the door to the storage room Angel had pointed out. She could only make out heaps of clutter in the darkness. She switched on the light and found herself in an unfurnished room with exposed studs, laths, and wiring.

Dresses lined the walls. Nancy assumed they were old samples. A fallen dress form lay on the floor, its padded contours sagging, and dusty boxes were stacked against one wall.

Nothing here, Nancy thought, switching off the light. She was about to leave when she heard
voices. Realizing that the storage room must back up to Beau's office, she followed the source of the sound and found a crack in the plasterboard on Beau's side.

Pressing her face between the laths, she realized the crack wasn't wide enough to see through. She took a penknife out of her pocket and scraped out a hole only large enough to see through.

She could see Beau talking with Mrs. Chong now.

Twisting the ends of a measuring tape that dangled around her neck, the woman waited while Beau spoke. “About the money for your husband's treatment—” Beau said gently. “I want you to know that I'm still trying, but it's not easy to scrape together six thousand dollars.”

“No need,” Mrs. Chong said. “We have money.”

“So he can have the operation!” Beau sounded cheerful. “What happened? Did the insurance company finally come through?”

“No,” Mrs. Chong said. “Medical insurance won't pay for experimental treatment.”

“So how did you get the money?” Beau asked.

She pursed her lips. “Here and there. No more problem.” She nodded, then marched out of the office in her usual brusque manner.

Nancy moved away from the peephole and thought for a moment in the dark storeroom. Mrs. Chong had mysteriously found money—
and
lots
of it. Did she steal Beau's designs and sell them to Budget to pay for her husband's medical expenses?

Before Nancy could mull that over, she heard a man's voice. Peering through the hole, she saw that Angel had now gone into Beau's office.

“Why are you holding me back?” Angel asked, leaning over Beau's desk. “I've finished samples for two of my designs, and they're ready to show.”

Behind the desk, Beau shook his head. “Your designs don't fit in with the overall theme of my spring collection,” Beau said. “Next time, we'll work on something together. But for now, I just can't include two dresses that don't work.”

Angel's dark eyes glowered as he snatched up his sketches. “It's just not fair,” he said. “My designs deserve to be shown—and you know it.”

Nancy was amazed at how much more forceful Angel seemed now than he had when they'd talked earlier.

“I'm sorry,” Beau said sadly, “but—”

“We've had this conversation before,” Angel said, pounding his fist onto the desk. “You better listen to me. You can't ignore me forever.” Then he stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

S
ITTING BACK
on the floor, Nancy considered the situation. Angel obviously had a bone to pick with Beau. Would he steal Joanna's gown to further weaken his boss?

Nancy stood up, dusted off her pants, and headed for Beau's office. She found the door open. Head in hands, Beau was sitting, staring at his desktop.

“Got a minute?” she asked from the doorway.

“Only if you've got good news,” Beau said.

“I'm afraid not.” Nancy went in, closed the door, and sat in the chair opposite Beau's desk. “I've been checking out your setup here. Given the lack of security, I'm surprised you have a sewing machine left in the studio.”

Beau groaned. “Is it really that bad?”

Nancy ran down the list of problems from the
main lock downstairs to the Dumpster out front. “Anyone who wants to know what you're up to can just dig through that bin,” she finished off. “There are bound to be discarded fabric swatches and sketches—enough to allow someone to try to piece together your spring collection.”

“But I don't design on paper,” Beau said, wearily rubbing the back of his neck.

“Angel mentioned that,” Nancy said. “But I imagine that any botched sketches of the finished gowns would end up in the dumpster.”