Stolen with Style (7 page)

“Hmmm…maybe it isn't against you personally,” I said aloud as another possible theory formed in my mind.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if the thief isn't after you personally, they may be trying to blackmail
Chic
by using you. After all, if you have to go public with this,
Chic
's name will be dragged through the mud.”

Cazzie looked at me, eyes wide.

I sighed. “Anyway, it's just an idea.”

“I'm not sure that makes me feel any better,” Cazzie said. She was becoming visibly more drained with each passing moment.

“I'm sorry, but don't worry. I'm sure we'll corner them—whoever they are,” I quickly added. “And at the studio today I'll have a chance to ask questions about Friday. I should get something to go on from the answers.”

“I hope so,” she said with another sigh. Then, after a quick look at her watch, she got up to leave.

As I watched Cazzie walk to her waiting car, I hoped my confidence about cornering the culprit would turn out to be well founded. Bravado alone wasn't going to solve this case—and with both my and Cazzie's careers on the line, I had to hope there was more to me than empty promises.

Cazzie had offered to take me with her in her car to Juice Studios, but I said it would be better if I walked. I didn't want to give anything away by the two of us showing up together.

After pushing open the glass door of the studios, I went to the reception desk and gave my name and the details of the shoot where I was expected, then signed the logbook. From there I was directed toward the elevators and caught one going up. I stepped out into the lit corridor that led to Studio 7.

The studio had the entire seventh floor to itself. I passed the bathrooms and, at the end of the corridor, opened the door into the studio itself. I blinked as I stepped into the light-flooded space. From the inside, it looked as it had from last night's vantage point on the High Line—all large industrial windows and well-worn wooden floors—only now it was coming to life.

Giant lights were being moved into position, their skeletal frames reminding me of the dinosaur fossils I'd seen yesterday at the museum, and a caterer was just leaving after setting up the buffet table with a yummy-looking selection of breakfast muffins, fruit, and croissants. Just to the right as I walked in, at the top end of the studio, a gray paper background was being clamped into place.

The morning sun shone brightly, and a buzzing, busy atmosphere permeated the studio as it was made ready for the shoot. It was hard to believe that such a dramatic theft had taken place in this room just a few days earlier.

Thanks to my early-morning study session with my computer and Cazzie's notes, I recognized everyone from the group on sight—not that I let on. And Cazzie came forward to say hi as if we hadn't just been talking together a quarter of an hour earlier.

She introduced me to Peter Van Oorst, who set his camera down to shake my hand. He was dressed in black jeans, gray T-shirt, black leather jacket, and sneakers. A pair of large glasses with thick black frames (a bit like mine) completed his look. His light, sandy-brown hair was long and pushed back from his forehead. It was also greasy in that über-cool fashionista kind of way. Did it look like that because he hadn't washed it in two weeks, or was it because he just had a lot of product in it? Or both? I couldn't tell.

“Ah, last week Paris, this week New York,” he said with a big smile. “Your modeling career is definitely getting off to a good start, isn't it?” Then he leaned closer to me and said, “And hopefully, here in New York, you won't be sidetracked by another mystery—although what incredible luck that you found Belle! But that's what happens when you're in the right place at the right time, isn't it?” He pulled back and winked.

Instantly the morning chatter focused on my mystery-solving exploits last week in Paris, although fortunately for me, everyone seemed convinced that luck alone had led me to Belle. Of course, I'd be lying if I didn't say I was annoyed that everyone (my mom included!) so readily believed that finding Belle had been nothing more than a fluke…but then again, that's what I'd told the press after it happened. And continuing with that pretense made sense. After all, the longer everyone continued to believe that Paris had been a one-time case of exceptional luck, the longer I could continue to work as an undercover model.

I kept this in mind when Trish and Tom arrived a minute later and tried asking me more questions. Again I answered as discreetly as I could and, lying through my teeth, clarified that I was in New York City purely to model.

Fortunately, between the
Chic
booking and the various castings I had coming up—which I made sure to mention—this was entirely believable. And Cazzie, taking her cue from me, helped to steer the conversation away from any detective talk. Soon everyone's focus was back on fashion—and the shoot of the day.

Cazzie thanked everyone for coming to the studio to shoot a last-minute
Chic
editorial. “I'm sorry, but as you know, some of the Paris dresses we'd planned on shooting last Friday didn't make it to the studio in time, and we'd love to have them in the magazine. So as soon as I saw that they'd finally arrived, I booked us back in here. I really appreciate you all juggling your schedules for this. Hopefully we'll get a great editorial story—and maybe even another cover for the next edition—out of our work today.”

The part about the dresses coming in late from Paris was true—Cazzie had told me as much. But did
Chic
really need to photograph the dresses with the same group of people? No—Cazzie could have booked any photographer and model she wanted. It was just a serendipitous excuse to gather Friday's group together again for my sleuthing benefit.

Within minutes, Tom started working on Rafaela, while Trish began putting makeup on Chandra (who'd just arrived on an early-morning flight from Miami). Cazzie led Misty and me to the curtained-off dressing area—but not before I loaded a plate at the buffet table with croissants, fresh fruit, and an enormous banana muffin.

I followed Cazzie as she pushed past the linen curtain that acted as a room divider. As the plans showed, the dressing area formed the shorter section of the large L-shaped studio. To the right as you walked in, a lightweight but opaque fabric blind was stretched across the large east-facing windows, providing cover for the models who were changing clothes. Under the windows was a long trestle table for the stylists' equipment and accessories.

Opposite the windows—immediately on my left as I walked past the dividing curtain—a full-length mirror was mounted directly onto the wall. And next to the mirror was another, smaller trestle table. Cazzie indicated that I could use this one too. I set my shoulder bag down on the table next to hers. On the far corner of the same table, conveniently within reach of the clothes racks that stood against the far wall, sat the steam iron for taking the wrinkles out of the garments.

Cazzie wanted us to try on a few outfits and walked to the clothes racks to choose them.
Good
, I thought,
this
is
my
moment
to
get
started
by
asking
Misty
some
questions
. Although starting a conversation wouldn't necessarily be easy. So far she couldn't seem to draw her eyes away from her own image in the mirror.

Misty's skin reminded me of the alabaster urns we had in our living room at home: smooth, white, and cool. Her movements were measured and poised, and even without makeup and with her long, wavy, blond hair falling naturally, she was mesmerizing to watch—just how you'd imagine a screen star from an earlier era to look. I could understand why she was being predicted as a natural for film. In fact, I knew from my online research that she was about to start acting in her first movie role.

I moved closer to her and finally asked, “How was the shoot last Friday? Cazzie told me a little about it. She said the photos look great.”

Misty turned her blue eyes to me and shrugged her shoulders. “If they really looked good, we wouldn't be here reshooting,” she answered.

“That's not true, Misty,” Cazzie interjected as she brushed some lint off a jacket. “This isn't a reshoot. Friday's shots really
do
look good—but as I explained earlier, we felt strongly about also doing an editorial with the Paris fashion show dresses that arrived late. If they'd arrived sooner, we would have shot them on Friday. But shooting them today works out well anyway—it allows us to do totally different hair and makeup.”

Cazzie's excuse for gathering all of us together sounded so convincing that I was beginning to believe it myself.

“We're going to do six shots today—and another cover try,” Cazzie continued as she looked right at me.

Cover try? Why was she looking at me as she said that? I wasn't supposed to be in the cover try, was I?

Cazzie saw my panic and laughed. “Don't worry, Axelle. You won't be in the cover shot. Surely Pat said you'd be doing our ‘Style for Less' section.”

I nodded. She had—but I'd forgotten.

“You'll be doing three shots, and although these pages go near the front of the magazine, we keep the text to a minimum and each shot gets a full page—so you'll definitely get something for your book out of it. The pages usually end up looking like they could have come from the back of the magazine.”

Ellie had told me that magazines often booked new girls they liked for their “Style for Less” pages to try them out. If a magazine was happy with the results, that could lead to the model being booked for the prestigious editorial stories at the back of the magazine.

I turned back to Misty, ready to try again with my questioning, but just as I started to speak, she put her headphones into her ears and said, “I have to listen to my music now. We'll talk more later.” Then she sauntered out with a wiggle of her hips.

Cazzie shook her head. “Don't worry about Misty,” she said. “She's always been like that—self-obsessed. And I think it's become worse with her film career taking off. Although,” Cazzie continued as she peeked out through the gap between the wall and the hanging divider curtain, “it could be that she just wanted to talk to a certain someone.”

I looked out through the same sliver of space as Cazzie and watched as Misty sauntered toward Brandon. At least I presumed it must be him—he was the only one I hadn't met properly yet. Judging from his profile and tall build, he was as good-looking as Cazzie had said he was. He'd been busy setting up the lighting when I walked in.

“It seems she's still after him.”

“Have they been together?”

Cazzie nodded. “Briefly, a few months ago. Brandon put an end to it, but Misty still likes him—so they say. And by the looks of it, that may be true. Anyway, I'll call her back in a few minutes to try on some things. I'll start with you instead, Axelle.”

I turned and followed Cazzie back to the clothes racks. We were alone now, so as I started changing out of my clothes, I asked her to show me where she'd kept the diamond during Friday's shoot.

“Actually,” she said, “I kept the diamond in the Juice safe downstairs until we needed it. I felt secure knowing it was there. We're hardly the first magazine or client to have brought a valuable jewel onto the premises, and the safe is there for that purpose. Plus I had Ira outside in my car. I'd asked him to keep an eye open for any suspicious-looking characters going in or out of the studios, just in case. I didn't mention the diamond to him, though—and he didn't ask any questions. So I felt totally secure about keeping the diamond downstairs.

“Anyway, we didn't shoot the diamond until after lunch—it was the last shot of the day. Just before the girls went on set, I ran down and fetched it.” She nodded toward the studio door. “Nobody came with me, and nobody knew where I'd gone—except possibly Peter. He must have guessed. But like I said yesterday, apart from Peter, none of the others knew that we'd be shooting such a large and famous diamond.”

“Speaking of which,” I said, “didn't anyone ask any questions about the diamond once you brought it on set and they had a chance to see it?”

Cazzie nodded. “Absolutely. Especially Rafaela. She's very into jewelry. If you check out her Instagram account, you'll notice that at once. I remember that Misty wanted to try it on. But Chandra isn't so into that sort of thing. She thought it was nice but really didn't pay much attention to it. Peter and Brandon thought it looked amazing—which it does—and were eager to see it on set under the lighting they'd set up. Tom thought it could make a good hair ornament—he would. And Trish was only concerned with doing up Chandra's hand. You remember how the diamond is set in a hand chain?”

I nodded.

“Trish had to apply makeup to Chandra's hand to even out her skin tone—although we didn't cover her wrist tattoo. I liked the contrast between that and the diamond.”

“And did you say anything about how much it's worth? Or who it belongs to? Anything like that?”

Cazzie nodded. “Yes, stupidly I did. I'm kicking myself about it now, but at the time I really didn't give it any thought. Again, I was working with a group of people I know well—and like. I didn't spell things out for them in terms of the Black Amelia's value, but we did talk about how much it
might
be worth, and, yes, Noah and Vanessa Tindle's names were mentioned.” She paused for a moment.

“And I did mention that I'd been personally entrusted with the diamond.” She winced as she said it. “Interestingly, considering I've only ever seen him wear beads, Tom was the only one who knew anything about the diamond—or at least he was the only one who openly said that he remembered reading something about it in some magazine article. He told us a bit about its past.”