Stolen with Style (9 page)

Without making much of an effort, I managed to get Rafaela onto the subject of the fire alarm, and she readily answered my questions. When the alarm's wail had pierced the air, Rafaela had apparently been sitting in the studio while Trish applied makeup to her eyelids.

“At first I thought,
Cool, something interesting is finally happening around here
. But it was just an old lady who'd had a heart attack and some fire that wasn't even burning anymore.”

Ignoring that, I asked, “But weren't you scared when the alarm first went off? I would have jumped.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “All I saw was darkness,” she said mysteriously.

“
Darkness?
”

Rafaela slapped her black leather trousers as she laughed. “Ha! Got you, Ms. Detective! Of course I saw darkness. Didn't I just say that Trish was retouching my eyelids? That means my eyes were closed!”

Very funny.

“Right. One–zero to Cuba,” I said.

“Hey, you're funny too.” She laughed.

Luckily Cazzie came in at that moment to start dressing Rafaela. Which meant that I could turn my attention to Chandra. She was wearing what must have been a pair of her boyfriend's jeans, cinched at the waist with a military belt and worn with a tiny, white T-shirt under a red-and-black-plaid flannel shirt and black Dr. Martens. She was dressed halfway between Miley Cyrus and a lumberjack.

She also wore a ring on her right thumb and a few fine gold chains. The boyish clothing, however, did nothing to disguise her natural femininity. In fact, the clothes emphasized it. I noticed that on the inside of her forearm she had a small dolphin tattoo.

“Hi,” she said with a yawn as I sat next to her. She reached her long arms up and stretched, her thick hair brushing her shoulders.

I was trying to figure out how best to ask her about Friday, but she wasn't giving me any openings. Apart from saying hi, she kept her nose buried in her iPad. I watched as she scrolled through photos that contained a lot of blue—blue ocean, blue sky—and was reminded that she'd taken half a year off from modeling to sail.

Was she willfully ignoring me or just tired? I couldn't decide. There didn't seem to be any way to easily broach the subject of last Friday, and I was about to give up when something Cazzie had said earlier sprang to mind.

“Chandra,” I said, “Cazzie mentioned that you helped her pack up last Friday after the shoot. She thought that was really nice of you…and, well, I hope you don't mind me asking, but I'm just starting out, as you know, so… Is that something you do often? Help pack up, I mean. Like, is that something I should do too?”

After a moment Chandra looked up from her iPad, mild irritation registering in her gray eyes. “No, it's not something I normally do. I offered to help Cazzie because she was working alone. It's not something we're expected to do—ever. That's for the stylists and editors to do.”

Silently she scrolled through some more photos, then looked back up at me and said, “Axelle, I'm happy to talk about sailing or surfing, but I get bored—
really
bored—talking about modeling, okay?” Then she abruptly got up and went over to Cazzie.

I'd known, of course, that models never usually help pack up the clothes used on a shoot. That would be like a dentist offering to drive you home after an appointment. It doesn't work that way. I'd just wanted to know how she'd answer.

And her answer was interesting…

***

While Misty, Rafaela, and Chandra were on set, Cazzie helped me into my outfit, and then Trish and Tom retouched my hair and makeup. Ironically, I was wearing a high-street copy of one of the ensembles I'd worn for the Chanel show in Paris last week. After the other girls filed off set, I went on. Peter shot quickly, and he wanted me to be still—which suited my purposes because it allowed me to reflect on what I'd learned so far.

As I stood on set posing, I thought about how the studio atmosphere had gradually become mysteriously charged over the last few hours. It gave the situation an added edge that seemed to focus me. As I rewound the interviews in my mind, I was particularly aware of the little clues in the way everyone had responded, like a change of vocal tone or what they'd been looking at when they answered.

I felt convinced that with so small a space and so few suspects, this case would boil down to some minute detail. And sure enough, certain patterns began to emerge. It was like panning for gold in a stream. At last, after all the dirt and bits of stone had been rinsed through the sieve, a few tiny gold nuggets were left.

Now I just had to make sense of them.

“That's beautiful, Axelle, beautiful,” Peter yelled. “I love your range of expressions! Great! You've gone from pensive to optimistic—and even surprised—with such truth! Beautiful!”

If
only
he
knew,
I thought.

Five minutes later, I was finished with my shot. Freshly changed into new outfits, Misty, Chandra, and Rafaela went back on set for their next shot. Trish had made the girls' skin the standout feature this time. They glistened with dewiness and wore little eye makeup and lipstick. The quiet sophistication of the makeup, together with the hair Tom had styled for them—wild, textured, undone—made them look ethereal and otherworldly.

It was especially amusing to see Rafaela and Chandra like this. With their tattoos hidden under rich fabrics and their innate elegance drawn out, they were hard to recognize as the wisecracking and reluctant models of earlier. Their fairy-tale dresses and commanding beauty were set off perfectly by Peter's beautifully lit, dark gray background.

After watching for a few minutes, I walked to the other end of the studio, sank down onto the sofa, and thought about all I'd heard so far. I was feeling optimistic. I glanced at Cazzie's sleep-deprived face and even ventured to think that I'd have good news for her soon. But at that moment we were called to lunch, and while we ate, two things happened that completely erased my feelings of optimism.

A colorful and varied assortment of salads was laid out on the lunch table. We all sat down (I was between Brandon and Peter), and within seconds, everyone seemed to be chatting, fashion being the main talking point, of course. In between the comments and laughter, however, everyone—including myself—checked their emails, messages, and texts, or got up to make calls. At any given moment, half the table seemed immersed in some kind of gadget—which was not unusual. It was only later that I was forced to give that some thought.

Lunch progressed smoothly, apart from Misty giving me some pouty looks (why?) and Chandra seemingly trying
not
to make eye contact with me (why?). Before sitting down, I'd quickly pulled Cazzie aside and whispered that any help she could give in directing the conversation to Friday afternoon would be useful. True to her word, she repeatedly, yet subtly brought the conversation around to when the fire alarm had gone off. Under Cazzie's guidance, everyone—even finally Misty and Chandra—contributed to my knowledge of Friday's events.

Of course, not everybody's time was perfectly accounted for during those five minutes or so when Cazzie's bag was left unattended in the dressing area. A few of the suspects even had relatively vague recollections of that time. Apart from remembering that they'd dashed to the east-facing windows of the studio area to see what was happening below, not all could recall what they'd been doing immediately before the alarm rang, or whether they'd been one of the first or last to reach the windows, or even who'd been standing next to them at the windows. Speaking of which, one small but not uninteresting point came up. Chandra was the only person who did not mention seeing the little old lady being wheeled into the ambulance. Had she simply forgotten?

All through lunch I kept my phone on my lap so that I could quickly turn the recording function on. By the time we reached dessert, I felt I had a good idea of everyone's whereabouts during those crucial five minutes when Cazzie had left her handbag unattended in the dressing area.

When the conversation didn't focus on Friday's events, Brandon, Peter, and Cazzie shared funny anecdotes about their time working with each other. Brandon was a good mimic, and his impressions had everyone in stitches. Finally, with Cazzie and Peter deep in discussion about the next shots and everyone else otherwise engaged, Brandon turned to me as I sat watching the others.

“I'm not sure I believe your denials from this morning. Are you sure you're not here to solve a case? You've been watching everyone all through lunch, observing us as if we're characters in a crime drama.”

“No, I haven't!” I laughed, trying to make light of what he'd said.
Not
good, Axelle
, I thought to myself. Had I really been so obvious?

“Do you always contradict people?” he asked, amused.

“No, I don't.”

“But you just did it again,” he said as he leaned into me, dark eyes smiling.

He was right, and I couldn't help smiling back—this time genuinely. “Maybe what you take for a contradiction is simply the truth.”

“Not bad.” He pushed his thick, nearly black hair off his face with one swift movement and smiled. “I'll accept that.”

Misty suddenly called to Brandon from across the table, asking him about his photography. (During lunch he'd told me that he took photos too.) He tried to ignore her, but she only called his name out again—louder. I felt him tense up. He told her that he'd be with her in a minute, and then he turned back to me.

“I was wondering if you'd…” He stopped to fiddle with his jacket cuff. Then he turned his coffee-colored eyes back to me and simply gazed at me for a moment, that smile still tugging at the corners of his lips.

I swallowed hard. The way he was looking at me was raising a lot of questions. Was he on the verge of asking me out on a date? Or was it simply something work-related? He'd been about to ask me something this morning too, so whatever it was, it had to be that, right? Or…?

But once again, he didn't get any further, because at that moment two slim hands, their short nails painted glossy black, placed themselves on his shoulders. It was Misty. And while she seemed quite breezy and light in her manner, I could feel the tension between her and Brandon. Her beauty was dazzling, I thought as I watched her chat with him. Her full lips and slim neck, her heart-shaped face crowned by a mass of golden hair.

But the longer she stayed, the angrier Brandon seemed to become. After a minute, his fists were clenched tightly by his sides. Why? She was only asking him about his photography… Or was something else creating the tension?

Whatever Brandon had been about to ask me was quickly forgotten.

A few moments later, I was called back to Trish and Tom's area. They wanted to quickly refresh my hair and makeup before they started getting Misty, Rafaela, and Chandra ready for their cover try. Before leaving the lunch table, however, I quickly checked my emails and found the following:

You're getting in the way. I know you know what I mean—even though you're trying to hide it.

Pull back now.

From someone who's watching you.

I felt a creepy shiver run through me as I read it. The likelihood that someone there had sent me this email during our lunch was unnerving, to say the least. I was clearly being warned off the case, and presumably by the person who had the diamond. I didn't recognize the address it had been sent from. In fact, it wasn't even a proper name—just a short sequence of numbers and letters. I quickly replied, but whoever had sent the message had already closed the account. My email was unable to be delivered.

Funny how whoever it was had sent me an email, but they'd sent Cazzie text messages. Then again, maybe they didn't want us thinking they were one and the same person… But how did they even know she'd asked me to find the diamond? Or had my lunchtime observations been as obvious to everyone as they'd been to Brandon? If the thief was indeed present, maybe the news of my sleuthing in Paris, coupled with my sudden presence here, had been enough for them to guess the truth. In that case, the thief could be fairly certain that I was working for Cazzie. Again, a shiver ran through me.

I briefly wondered how they'd found my email address. But if they were able to open an unrecognizable email account and shut it down that quickly, getting hold of my email address wouldn't be much of a challenge.

Thoughts were still whizzing through my mind as Tom and Trish tweaked my hair and makeup, and then suddenly Cazzie was in front of me. “Axelle,” she said, “I have to dress you for your next shot. Peter is getting ready.”

Composing myself—the last thing I wanted was for whoever had sent the email to see me looking scared—I got up and walked with her back to the empty dressing area. As soon as we were safely behind the curtain, she whispered, “Axelle, look. I've received another text…and it seems it's the first riddle.”

You are always making demands—unreasonable ones—so now it's my turn. You clearly don't realize how odious you are, holding people's lives in your hands and crushing them with a swift step of your stiletto. But soon you will.

Time to begin your treasure hunt! Riddle number 1: There are two lions outside, but also one inside—and she has a certain allure. Find it and photograph it. I'll contact you by 6:30 p.m. If you haven't solved the riddle by then, your next one will be delayed by a day, which means that finding your treasure will be delayed too. You won't have much time but that, of course, is the point. Have fun!

While the texts could be read as a prelude to some kind of blackmail demand, revenge also seemed increasingly likely to be a major part of the plan. And, apparently, watching New York's top fashion editor sweat was a good place to start.