Stolen with Style (4 page)

Yes, ma'am
, I thought as I followed her to the booking table.

After Pat had introduced me to all the bookers, we made a quick trip to the floor below, where I met the accounting department, signed my contract with the agency, and was made aware of the labor laws in place for child performers—which is how anyone modeling under the age of eighteen in New York State is classified.

“Because you are only sixteen, these laws protect you from being exploited, too much overtime, that sort of thing,” explained Pat.

For a moment I panicked—then calmed down after realizing that the laws pertained to my modeling only, not my sleuthing.

But unfortunately Pat had caught my momentary anxiety. “That's the spirit, girl! I love that you want to work adult hours. But don't you worry, I'll keep you more than busy. When you aren't doing castings and bookings, I'll personally instruct you on a bit of fashion history, perfect your runway walk—you know, sharpen you up.”

I was about to say something about needing some time to solve the case when I remembered Miriam's parting comment to me when we'd last spoken. I could almost hear her breathless voice:

Axelle, I need hardly tell you how sensitive this matter is. Secrecy is paramount. For that reason, I am the only person aside from Cazzie Kinlan who is aware of your true intention in being in New York. I have mentioned to Pat, however, that you might need some time to yourself
.

Might
need some time to myself? Argh! I was here to solve a case. The modeling was only supposed to be a way for me to infiltrate the fashion world and get close to the suspects. Despite what Pat seemed to think, it wasn't supposed to be—nor would I ever let it become—an all-engrossing career.

“Work is all part of the game if you want to hit the top, Axelle,” Pat continued. “and I want you to.”

What a nightmare! Pat had no clue (no pun intended) about my real reason for being here. And she seemed even more ambitious for me than my mom (if that was possible).

I fell silent as the implications of this situation whirled through my mind:

A major case to solve on a very tight deadline + A booker who wants me to be a supermodel and is oblivious to the case = ARGH!

And
some
people
think
being
a
model
is
tough
, I thought.
They
should
try
being
an
undercover
model.

Just as I was starting to feel like a wet, wrung-out, jet-lagged rag, Pat finally said something that perked me up—perhaps the only thing that could have perked me up from the state I was in.

“I think it's time for lunch. Do you like hamburgers, Axelle?”

***

Lunch was a block and a half from the agency at Balthazar, a French-style brasserie with red awnings. From my banquette seat I watched as the restaurant hummed with a lively mix of fashionistas, stylish out-of-towners, and one or two famous faces. And the hamburgers and fries were as good as Pat had promised—she obviously enjoyed a good burger as much as I did. She attacked her cheeseburger with gusto, ketchup quickly replacing her lipstick.
At
least
, I thought grudgingly,
we
have
that
much
in
common
.

Our lunchtime chat, however, reinforced my earlier impression that I was going to have to take the term “undercover model” to a new level if I planned on solving this case under Pat's eagle eye.

“Axelle, your modeling career is on the cusp of something big. B-I-G, girl. We'd be silly if we didn't push it. Not every model is given the opportunities you had last week in Paris. And now I want to expand on that here.”

“But I wasn't in Paris just modeling, you know—” I said pointedly. I was about to continue but she cut me off.

“Oh, I know about finding Belle La Lune and all,” she said with a breezy wave of her hand. “I saw it in the papers. But now you're here to model. And listen, Axelle”—I waited as Pat leaned forward on her elbows, her eyes boring into me—“you can't let these golden modeling opportunities just fly past you. You'll regret it later—trust me. Of course, what you do with your time off is your thing. Miriam told me all about you needing a little time to yourself; I know you have a school report. But
my
thing is to see that you're working, girl,
working
.”

A
little
time
to
myself
so
that
I
can
work
on
my
school
report?
Thanks, Miriam!

In exasperation I stabbed my last few fries into the ketchup on my plate. I mean, as an excuse, a school report hardly afforded me any coverage—and Pat's next comment confirmed this.

“Anyway, even if I keep you too busy, you'll still have plenty of time to write your report on your flight back to London. I used to do my school reports the night before they were due, and school was much tougher back in my day. You kids all have it very cushy nowadays.”

Grrr!
If I hadn't known better, I'd have thought she was working for my mom!

During lunch, Pat passed me a set of keys for Miriam's flat. Miriam and my parents had decided that I should stay with her while she was in NYC for the Fashion Week shows. (My mom had absolutely, flatly, and loudly refused to let me stay with Ellie at Ellie's friend's apartment. “Not until I know her better,” she'd said. What I actually think she meant was, “Not until you're five hundred years old.”)

While initially I'd chafed at the idea of staying with Miriam—she could be as much a stickler for style as my Aunt Venetia—I was now pleased. Any place that provided a safe haven from Pat and her plans was fine with me. Plus it offered discretion—staying in a hotel, or even a model's flat, could have led to questions if I had to go out at odd hours or wasn't dressed like a model.

Miriam was due to fly in from Paris tomorrow afternoon, just in time for the shows—and not too soon to help pull Pat off me.

***

Pat and I walked back to the agency, where I was given my details for the following day's castings—and also for the newly confirmed
Chic
shoot.

“You see, Axelle, this is what I was talking about at lunch. I mean, how many new models do we get in here every year? And how many of those models—
on
their
first
day
here
—are booked by
Chic
magazine? How many?” Without skipping a beat, Pat answered her own question. “None. N-O-N-E. That's how many.”

If
only
she
knew
, I thought, my nose deep in my printed job details.

As Cazzie had promised, the group for tomorrow's shoot was indeed the same as Friday's. Same hair, makeup, models, digi-tech guy, and photographer—and Cazzie too, of course. It was a testament to
Chic
's power and prestige that even during the super-busy lead-up to Fashion Week, everyone had made the effort to confirm. Of course, working on a
Chic
shoot was the ultimate proof that you were at the top of the fashion game—and no one wanted to miss that.

Before I left, Pat double-checked that I had all the agency telephone numbers, email addresses, private mobile numbers, Miriam's home address, and so on. And just like in Paris, I was told to call the agency twice a day, every day, no matter what—and to check my emails throughout the day. “Hervé told me you'd sometimes forget to call him, but I'll be watching you, Axelle. You'll be sharp in no time!”

I left before Pat could come up with any more plans for my career advancement.

***

Ira was parked outside the agency, waiting to take me to Miriam's. As per Cazzie's instructions, he was to drive me until I'd safely arrived “home,” which in this case was Miriam's apartment. We crossed the West Village and Chelsea before turning onto Tenth Avenue. Traffic was moving well, and in no time we were zooming past the back of Lincoln Center—home to many New York City fashion shows.

“You see those white tents?” Ira asked. “Those are the show tents. You're gonna be walking in 'em soon.”

The tents were enormous, and as we flew past, I saw security guards, workers in construction helmets, deliverymen, and people with walkie-talkies going in and out of them. Signs saying “BACKSTAGE CHECK-IN” and “COLLECTIONS & EQUIPMENT” were posted at different entrances.

“We're only a minute away from Miriam's. She's got a fancy address,” Ira told me. “Lots of famous people on her part of the avenue. You'll like it. And you'll be just across the street from Central Park. It's lovely at this time of year. The trees are just turning green, and the flowers will start coming up fast now.”

Finally he came to a stop outside a large pink-colored stone building. As I craned my neck upward, I could see two muscular peachy-colored brick towers reaching for the sky. Windows, balconies, and turrets vied with one another for the best view over the park just opposite. Suddenly the car door opened and a man dressed in livery said, “Welcome to New York City, miss.”

The doorman led me inside and across a sleek art deco lobby with polished marble floors and dark wood paneling on the walls. We took an elevator to the twenty-second floor, and as soon as I stepped into the corridor, the door opposite opened.

“
Bonjour, mademoiselle
,” said a small, smiling woman in a tweed skirt, with glasses on a chain around her neck. “I am Nicolette, Madame Miriam's housekeeper. And
merci
, Sam, for bringing
mademoiselle
's luggage in.” She smiled at the doorman.

Miriam's apartment was sumptuous yet welcoming. From the large windows of her dining room and living room, Central Park was neatly delineated, a magical block of green surrounded by a high “fence” of stone and steel skyscrapers. There was a kitchen at the back—along with a couple of rooms for Nicolette, who lived in so that she could look after the place while Miriam was in Paris. Miriam had the large master suite and I had use of her guest bedroom.

Large Tamara de Lempicka prints hung on the walls. They made a colorful counterpoint to the elegant palette of soft beiges, rich greens, and luminous blues of the walls and fabrics. Mahogany art deco furniture gave the apartment a slick, urban sophistication.

My room was furnished with light-green silk curtains and thick carpet underfoot. My window looked over Seventy-Fifth Street. To the right, if I craned my neck, I could just see the leafy greenness of Central Park. An old-fashioned marble bathroom adjoined my bedroom.

After showing me around the kitchen and being assured that I was fine, Nicolette retreated (she had dry-cleaning to pick up for “Madame Miriam”), leaving me in peace. For some minutes I stretched out on my bed and closed my eyes as a deep drowsiness overtook me. (It was nighttime in London and my body knew it.) After a few minutes, I forced myself to look at the time: it was just past 4:00 p.m.

I'd made arrangements with Ellie, who'd flown into NYC yesterday, to meet downtown for a quick dinner at 6:30 p.m. That gave me a little more than two hours to spend on my own, and tired though I was, this wasn't the time for a nap. I had a case to solve.

So, where to start?

I knew I'd have to wait until the shoot the next day to look into the circumstances of the disappearance properly. But in the meantime, if I had to find the Black Amelia, it might help to know exactly what I was looking for. I'd seen the photo Cazzie had given me, but I'd never seen a black diamond in real life—so that seemed like the most logical place to start.

And according to my guidebook only one place in the city had a gem collection large enough to include such a stone: the American Museum of Natural History.

***

I slipped out of the apartment building and followed the directions Sam had given me—not that it was complicated. The museum was only a few blocks uptown from Miriam's.

Central Park, in all its early-spring green glory, was on my right. Straight ahead, looming into view, was the large, imposing building that housed the finest dinosaur fossil collection in the world, along with tribal art, taxidermy, insects—and gemstones.

I climbed the stairs to the columned entrance and purchased my ticket. After studying the museum map for a few moments, I turned into the Hall of Biodiversity—but not before stopping to admire the sheer size and awesome stances of the fighting dinosaur skeletons soaring over the visitor entrance. They were amazing!

The museum was vast, and after being directed to keep going straight until I'd walked under the hanging canoe and then to turn right at the giant mosquito, I finally found myself in the Morgan Memorial Hall of Gems.

It was like walking into a cave. The low-ceilinged space was dimly lit, the minimal lighting aimed squarely at the gems inside the glass cases. Thick carpeting muffled any footsteps. Up a few stairs, in a small room off the hall, I found what I was looking for. The Isabelle W. A. black diamond—all 82.06 carats of it—smoldered in the spotlight.

It didn't dazzle like a white diamond—in fact, it seemed to attract the light and pull it inside itself. Flashes of green, black, and white glimmered from deep within the large teardrop-shaped stone. It reminded me of a wild animal in a cage: it had come from a faraway world and seemed sad to have been pried from it.

I was bent over the case, quietly admiring the diamond, when I heard someone behind me say, “She's a beauty, isn't she?”