Stolen with Style (5 page)

I turned and found a museum assistant just behind me. Her thick black hair brushed the shoulders of her uniform, and a pair of enormous round glasses was perched on the end of her nose. “You know, black diamonds are notoriously difficult to cut. That's why the big ones are so rare—they break easily due to their internal crystalline structure. By comparison, cutting a white diamond is like slicing through butter.”

“That's interesting,” I said—and I meant it. I straightened up, thinking. So large, black diamonds were difficult to cut, while white diamonds were easy to cut. Hmm…I was reminded of something I'd heard on the news about how thieves often stole large diamonds and then had them recut into smaller stones so they could sell them without being traced. But according to what the museum assistant had just said, that tactic wouldn't work well with black diamonds.

She was about to turn away when I posed the question, just to be sure. “So you couldn't have a black diamond cut into new, smaller diamonds, then?”

She turned back around to me, shaking her head. “No. Not a black one. Not easily anyway—they are
tough
.” She smiled at the black diamond in the case as if it were an old friend.

“And what about trying to sell a famous black diamond? A stolen one?”

She shrugged her round shoulders. “I would say that trying to illegally sell a stone like any of the ones here”—she nodded to the case—“would be impossible. A famous diamond would be recognized by collectors and specialists at once.”

She was about to walk away again but something in me had started to hum. Not wanting to lose the thread of my thoughts, I quickly asked her, “So stealing a famous large, black diamond to resell it wouldn't make sense because it would be immediately recognized on the market?”

She nodded. “You sure have a lot of questions.”

Ignoring her comment, I kept thinking. I was trying to grasp at something. I didn't yet know what, but I nearly had it.
Black
diamonds
were
difficult
to
recut, and famous ones difficult to resell…

She started walking away again.

I followed behind her as I finished my thought:
So
why
risk
stealing
a
black
diamond
to
make
money
?

My mind was racing. Everything she'd said was ringing in my ears, waiting to be made sense of. And that would only happen if I could sit for a moment.

I thanked the lady for the information she'd shared and turned to leave.

“You're not planning on stealing one, are you, honey?” she asked, smiling at me, hands on her broad hips.

If only she knew—I was trying to
find
one. I shook my head. “I just find it interesting.”

“Yeah, me too—even after working here for over twenty years. Well,” she said, “if you have any more questions about the stones, you just come by and ask for Vera.” She pointed at her museum badge.

I thanked her again and left.

Hurriedly I walked out of the Hall of Gems, through the Hall of Human Origins, and back under the hanging canoe. I didn't stop until I came to the Hall of North American Mammals. There I found an empty bench next to a grizzly bear family and sat down.

Before coming to the museum, I'd assumed that the diamond had been stolen for money. Someone who needed cash had stolen the diamond to sell it—and maybe that was still the case.

I had no idea how the text messages Cazzie had received fit in—if they were indeed from the thief. Perhaps they would lead to a demand for money, or…?

With my new knowledge, more sinister possibilities now came to mind. Because
if
the Black Amelia had been stolen by someone who knew about diamonds and how difficult it would be to break up or sell a famous black one, then maybe that person hadn't stolen the Black Amelia for money, but as
blackmail
…or even as
revenge
.

This theory raised the question of whether Cazzie, or even Noah, had done something to hurt or offend someone. Perhaps someone from last Friday's shoot? Or had someone else walked into the studio unnoticed? Someone from their past?

A shiver ran through me as I realized that I'd probably taken on more than I could handle here. This case had seemed so straightforward: a bold theft within a confined space, with a limited time frame and a short list of suspects. And yet, with no apparent clues and a new sinister twist, the case now seemed to be anything
but
straightforward.

I left the museum in a daze, the new possibilities whirling through my mind. I caught the subway at the Eighty-First Street station just outside the museum and headed downtown.

The subway system was much like the Tube at home in London—even the underground mugginess was similar. There was rush-hour traffic on the train, so an empty seat was a luxury I wouldn't find at this hour. As I stood holding an overhead handle tightly, I reached my free hand into my shoulder bag and pulled out the paper Cazzie had given me with the brief biographies of the people present at the shoot.

At thirty-two, Cazzie was one of the oldest on the list. Only Tom Urbino, the hairdresser, and Trish Fine, the makeup artist, were older, and not by more than a few years. All were successful and at the top of what Pat called the “fashion pyramid.” Even Brandon Hart was considered extraordinarily lucky to be the person responsible for carrying out all of Peter's retouching.

I couldn't imagine why someone from this highly successful group would have stolen the diamond. Then again, my first big case in Paris last week had taught me that some people harbor dark secrets that fuel powerful, hidden motives. Was the diamond being used for blackmail? And if it was, why hadn't a demand been sent yet? Or were the brief, unexplained messages Cazzie had been sent leading to that? Or was this all about revenge? But by whom? And why? Again, the thought that maybe someone else had snuck into the studio came to me. But how would they have known that the diamond was there—or even been able to get close enough to it without anyone noticing? And again,
why
?

I nearly missed my stop because of thinking so much. Just as the doors slid shut, I bounded out of the train and came up for air at the West Twenty-Third Street station in Chelsea. Ellie was staying at a friend's apartment nearby, and I hurriedly started walking the short distance to the restaurant where I'd arranged to meet her.

My phone suddenly rang. I looked at its lit screen—it was Pat.

“Axelle, where are you? Why haven't you called? I'm about to leave for the day. I hope you've been resting. You've got to be fresh for
Chic
tomorrow.”

“Yes, thank you, I did rest,” I replied—which was sort of true, if you can call doing research in a museum resting. “And now I'm on my way to meet Ellie B for dinner. We want to discuss the upcoming show castings. And,” I quickly added, “I thought I would ask her for some tips for tomorrow's shoot.”

“That's great! I'm really starting to feel your passion for fashion! Keep it up, Axelle. Keep it up.”

Pat quickly gave me the address details for the next day's now-confirmed Jared Moor show casting, although she still didn't have an exact time. She said she'd have to call me later with that. Then she told me about a few more castings for later in the week that still needed to be confirmed.

“Like I said this afternoon, we just have to be careful that we respect all of these new laws for underage modeling. The old days are over. No more eighteen-hour days during the shows, even if you want to—as I'm sure you do,” she said loudly. “I could strangle our mayor!”

And
I
could
thank
him
, I thought as I put the phone away. I'd need every spare moment I could get for this case.

***

Ellie was already at the restaurant, standing in line waiting to order. She'd come directly from a shoot and still had traces of heavy makeup around her big blue eyes. She was also trying to finger-comb her teased, honey-blond hair into a normal shape.

“
W
magazine,” she answered when I looked at her, eyebrows raised, after hugging her. “A sort of goth-meets-haute-couture story. Everything here is yummy,” she went on, pointing to the large chalkboard with the day's specials written on it. “And it's all vegan and gluten-free.”

Typical
Ellie
, I thought, smiling to myself despite the thought of vegan cuisine. At least I'd had that delicious hamburger for lunch. And anyway, I was happy just to see her.

It was hard to believe that I'd only met Ellie a week ago in Paris, when I'd gone with my aunt to Miriam's agency to hear the latest news about Belle La Lune's dramatic disappearance. London-based Ellie had made the bookers coo with pleasure just by walking into the agency. That was the kind of effect she had on people. No surprise that she was a rising superstar within the fashion firmament. But what had struck me first was how nice and friendly she was—sharp too, I'd noticed as she bantered back and forth with the bookers.

I'd hoped that she'd be willing to help me go behind the scenes of the fashion world so that I could find Belle La Lune. What I hadn't counted on was her suggestion that I model—although, in retrospect, it had been a brilliant idea. I couldn't have come up with a better ruse for sleuthing among the fashionistas if I'd tried, although she'd had to push hard to persuade Miriam's agency to take me on.

So between giving me advice for my first photo shoot and helping me search the La Lune mansion for clues—not to mention teaching me how to walk down the runway!—Ellie and I had become fast friends. I was thrilled (and more than a little relieved) that she'd be in New York all week for the shows.

As we lined up to order, Ellie promised to show me the ropes for Fashion Week, just like she had in Paris. But she said doing New York Fashion Week was basically the same as doing Paris Fashion Week—only the vibe was different.

“How so?” I asked.

“Well, it's New York. You know: loud and fast. That whole elegant, delicate Parisian thing is, well…Parisian. Fashion here is sportier, more free—I love it. And by the end of the week, once the shows are in full swing, the city will be crawling with the biggest players in the music industry—rappers, pop stars, you name them—and most of Hollywood follows too. You'll be fine,” she added quickly when she saw the panic on my face.

“So how's it going?” she asked after we'd placed our order and found an empty table near the front window. She asked in what sounded like a breezy, nonchalant way, but I knew her better than that. I knew where this was leading, but I was going to try to divert it—for Cazzie and
Chic
's sake, and for Ellie's too. The last thing I wanted was for her to become inadvertently entangled in this case.

“Umm…well, like you said, the city sure is fast paced…”

Ellie rolled her eyes and sighed before fixing her gaze on me, eyes smiling. “You know what I'm talking about.”

“I do?”

Ellie leaned in close. “Hello? Axelle? It's me, Ellie. Did you really think I'd believe that you'd fly all the way to New York just to model—like,
real
modeling? You must be here on a case.”

I said nothing.

“I mean, your mom could barely get you to go to the fashion shows in Paris before last week—and you only live a two-and-a-half-hour train ride away. So, New York? Honestly?”

I knew how determined Ellie could be. She'd continue to needle me until I'd told her everything—or something, at any rate. On the other hand, I knew that she could keep a secret…and if anyone could give me good insider information on the suspects I was dealing with, that would be Ellie. But still, I didn't want to put her—or her career—at any potential risk.

So I decided on a compromise. I admitted to her that I was working on a case, but I didn't go into any details about the Black Amelia or what exactly had happened. I only mentioned the group of suspects (at least the ones I knew about so far), where the crime had happened, and that something of value had been taken.

Ellie let out a long, soft whistle as she leaned back in her chair and looked at me. “Wow. The people you've just mentioned all work in the upper echelons of fashion. I mean, the
very
top. You can't climb higher up the fashion ladder. Rafaela, Chandra, Misty, Cazzie, and Peter—even Trish and Tom—are all big names who go to the
Vanity
Fair
Oscar party, win awards at the CFDA gala, and have hundreds of thousands, if not millions of followers on Instagram.

“They're all big-time. I'm only halfway to being where they are. And, by the way, don't let Brandon's status as a digi-tech guy fool you. Both his parents are famous fashionistas. His work for Peter has always been something of a hobby for him—a way to meet models, the rumors say.”

She stopped for a moment as if remembering something. “The only one on that list who might still remember what it's like to do something as mundane as grocery shopping is Chandra Rhodes. She's known for being quite detached from the fashion world—despite being at its epicenter whenever she decides to agree to a shoot. Something, by the way, she supposedly only does so that she can maintain her sailboat and the enormous loft she has here in the city.”

Ellie took a bite of her salad before continuing. “I know Misty wants to get into film, and Rafaela counts some of the biggest pop stars as friends. We work together during the shows, but otherwise they're on a whole other level from me. They regularly appear on covers and have major contracts.

“As for Peter, I have started to work with him. He's lots of fun and makes you look amazing. And Cazzie I know too. She's been booking me more and more, which is great. I think she has a soft spot for fellow Londoners.” She paused for a few seconds before asking, “Do you have any leads?”

“No—far from it, at this point. And if there was any tangible evidence at the scene, it's since been cleaned away, so all I'll be able to go by are background research and a reconstruction of the minutes leading up to the crime. I thought this case was going to be so straightforward… Anyway, I can't wait for the shoot tomorrow so that I can finally meet the group and hopefully sink my teeth into something solid. Right now it all feels a bit shadowy.”

“Well, I'll definitely keep my eyes and ears open for you. Is there anything specific I should be on the lookout for?”

I nodded slowly. “Anything about any of their whereabouts last Thursday—the day before the shoot—and Friday evening. And the weekend too. Nothing in particular, just where they were, who they saw, or what they were up to. And any gossip you hear about their careers or finances, or even their personal lives, might be helpful.”

“Fine. Consider me your extra pair of eyes and ears. By the way, how great that you're getting a
Chic
booking out of this. You'll get some great tears for your book! Pat must be delighted,” Ellie said with a laugh.

I rolled my eyes. “I thought that being over three thousand miles away from my mom would give me a break from having an overzealous fashionista constantly on my back. Little did I know.”

“Well, Pat is an amazing booker. She wants us all to succeed.”

“I noticed.”

“You'll just have to be creative about dealing with her.”

“Thanks.” Annoyingly, Ellie always put a good spin on everything—even Pat.

I suddenly had an idea and, before popping the last bite of my vegan, gluten-free burrito into my mouth, I said, “Ellie, I saw on my map that Juice Studios isn't far from here. Do you have time to show it to me?”

She nodded as she speared another piece of her chickpea fritter with her fork. “And at the same time I can show you the best place in the city to watch the sun set.”

***

Ellie wasn't kidding—the sunset was spectacular from the High Line, an old, unused railway line that had been turned into New York's first elevated public park. The old tracks now support everything from large flowering shrubs to thigh-high wild grass, contemporary sculpture, tables, and benches. Not to mention people: some sat, others walked, and a few even played music.

After climbing the metal staircase that led from street level up to the old railway, we stood for a few moments to admire the large orb of brilliant orange that seemed to hang in the sky, replete and sated after a day's work. The honking, screeching brashness of the city was muffled by the unexpected sound of the wind rustling through the tall grass and leaves.

“So…?” Ellie and I were walking side by side, and while she didn't elaborate on the “so,” I knew what she was asking about: him.
Him
being Sebastian Witt
—
the super-cute, tousle-haired, leather-jacket-wearing son of the chief inspector who'd been investigating the case I'd just solved in Paris—and the guy I'd kissed only three days ago.

When I remained silent, she pushed. “How is he?”

“He's fine, I assume.” I tried to sound as nonchalant as possible—while thoughts of Sebastian's gorgeous smile and cool resourcefulness under pressure whizzed through my mind. I might have given his broad shoulders a passing thought too.

“You
assume
?”

She stopped in her tracks and turned to me, her head tipped to one side the way Halley, my West Highland white terrier, does when she's watching me and trying to guess my next move. However, unlike Halley, Ellie can speak.

“What do you mean? Haven't you spoken to him? Isn't he here?”

“I don't know.”

She observed me through narrowed eyes. “Last I heard, you and Sebastian had snogged for hours on a bridge in Paris. And now, three days later, you don't know where he is? Have I missed something?”

Good question…

On Saturday afternoon—my last day in Paris—Sebastian and I had kissed at sunset on a bridge in Paris. I know that sounds impossibly romantic, but the reality was that I'd needed an intense week of dodging serious danger and near death—with him by my side for much of it—to finally admit that he was not only a good friend, but totally kissable too.

So far, so good.

Now comes the tricky part…

Once I went home to London, Sebastian and I had continued to text. He was planning to meet me in New York. Like me, he still had another week of school vacation. Luckily, his father thought it would be good for Sebastian to see New York, plus he had an aunt he could stay with. We'd planned to meet as soon as we both arrived in the city. Sebastian didn't know for certain that there was a case to solve here, but I knew he had a sneaking suspicion. He'd been with me when I received the call from Miriam about
Chic: New York
and the Black Amelia. And while he'd been careful not to ask me anything, he knew (like Ellie) that I'd never get on a plane to model in NYC if there wasn't a mystery involved.