Stolen with Style (18 page)

“The second show is for Jorge Cruz, a young designer who has a great buzz about him. He's doing the most incredible things with cutting-edge synthetic fabrics. His show will be at an enormous Midtown loft and it should be fun. I'm going to see it—so look sharp, as Pat would say! I'll email you the times and addresses. Where are you right now?”

“Outside the Police Building.”

“Good. You're only a short cab ride from Diane von Furstenberg. Do you have money for a taxi?”

“
Oui, madame
.”

“Then get going! I'll be home late, so
à demain, ma petite Axelle
!”

I hung up with Miriam and sighed as I stood on the pavement. New York was definitely a city with a buzz—and apparently the buzz never died down!

The next thing to come through as I hailed a cab was a text from Ellie:

I've finished with my show. Where are you?

I answered her back:

On my way to DVF for a casting. I'll be there in ten.

Ellie wrote:

Perfect! You'll be right around the corner from Juice—which is where I am. Dinner at my fave vegan place again?

I answered her back:

Great!

When I arrived at the casting, I realized that I'd met a few of the other models there either in Paris or at the Jared Moor show today. Plus, Thierry, the makeup artist I'd worked with a few times last week, was there—direct from the Paris shows.

He came at me with open arms and a look of concern on his face. “Axelle, I am thrilled to see that you are all right,” he said, his French accent even thicker than I remembered. “How ghastly for you to have been dragged into Belle La Lune's disappearance!
Mon
Dieu
—what a nightmare! Anyway, you are safe now. The New York fashion world is too fast-paced for mysteries of any kind—trust me.”

If
only
you
knew
, I thought.

Then he hugged me and we chatted for a few minutes about the shows.

Fortunately, the casting didn't take long. I was given a colorful, silk jersey wrap dress to wear (so light and easy to move in that I could have chased someone in it), then walked back and forth for the DVF team, after which I said good-bye and left.

Ellie and I met two blocks away from DVF Studio Headquarters. Fifteen minutes later, we were sitting at a rickety table in her favorite dive, waiting for our order. This time we had a seat right in front of the large window overlooking Abingdon Square. Ellie somehow always managed to look as if she'd just stepped off the plane from shooting in some exotic locale.

Tonight she was wearing a loose-fitting white blouse that looked like something the Three Musketeers would have worn. Over the blouse was a super-cool khaki-colored safari-style coat with large brass buttons. This was finished off with black leather trousers, ankle boots, and a very large Michael Kors bag in soft caramel leather. She looked sun-kissed and amazing—despite the long day of work she'd put in.

“Why aren't you with Sebastian?” she asked as soon as we'd ordered.

“I think he's having dinner with Cleo.”

Ellie looked up at me from behind her long ruffled fringe. “And?”

“And nothing.” I shrugged my shoulders.

She sighed loudly. “Like I said at Jared's, I can't wait 'til the two of you work it out. I have enough drama with Fashion Week going on.”

“Thanks.”

Ellie laughed.

By common consent we dropped the subject of Sebastian, and after going over our schedules for tomorrow, we moved on to the information and gossip she'd managed to gather for me.

“So…” She was about to start when our order number was called. We sprang up to get our food, then sat back down.

“I'm all ears,” I said as I bit into my tofu burger.

“Well,” she began again, leaning in and lowering her voice, “I found something out backstage at my last show.” Here she stopped and pursed her lips for a moment as she looked at me. “About Cazzie, I think…”

“Cazzie?”

She nodded. “If what I heard is true, then she may have major money problems. But nobody here—in New York, I mean—knows.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, she's from London, right?”

I nodded, wondering where this was leading.

“So backstage at my last show, I overheard the two models sitting to my left while we were getting our hair done. They were talking about a casting that one of them had done in London. Now this model, the one who'd done the casting, happened to have some inside information about the London designer she'd gone to see. I think she said the information came from a friend who somehow works with the designer.

“Anyway, this designer is just starting out—and you know how big an investment it is for a young designer to start in fashion… Well, like many others in that position, he's having trouble with cash flow and manufacturing. And apparently, if this young designer doesn't get a large dose of cash soon, his whole business will probably go under.”

“So?”

“So”—Ellie leaned in closer still as she continued—“the young designer is Cazzie Kinlan's brother.” She paused for a moment. “The models didn't know that Cazzie and the designer they were talking about were related. Both of them were total newbies to the business and the designer is actually Cazzie's stepbrother, so they don't share the same surname.”

“So how do you know that Cazzie has been investing money in her stepbrother's business?”

“Well, even though it's supposed to be a secret, some people in London know—which is how I know. I mean, people are careful—they don't want to gossip about Cazzie in case they incur her wrath—but eventually everyone will know that she and this designer are related.”

“Hmm… If she wants to help him, why doesn't she just give him a ton of free publicity?” I asked. “Shoot his clothes for
Chic
, for instance?”

Ellie laughed. “If only fashion were that simple! Didn't you know that the more a designer advertises in a magazine—you know, pays for those glossy ads up front—the more likely his or her clothes are to be photographed for the magazine?”

“No, I didn't.” But that was like bribery, I thought.

“Well, it's like that. The magazines don't just photograph any old frock. And it's much the same for beauty product placement in the magazines. To have your clothes or products photographed for the magazines, either you have to pay a fortune in advertising—something designers who are just starting out can't afford—or you have to be such a fashion-design genius that you're able to become a darling of a powerful editor-in-chief. The major editors have the power to fast-track a young designer to success—but the designer has to be good.”

“Then why doesn't she make him her darling? Or isn't he good enough?”

“From what I've seen, his designs are actually pretty good—and I don't think Cazzie would invest in him if he wasn't talented. But Cazzie would be wary of showing that he's a favorite of hers in case that looks too much like family favors. That's not really looked upon well in fashion. Whatever else you can say about the fashion business, it really is a meritocracy.”

“Did the models say anything else?”

“No. Just that the business was going under. Like I said, they had no idea that the designer was related to Cazzie. But when I heard his name, I thought you might like to know.”

Hmm…
While Ellie's gossip was intriguing, after visiting the Museum of Natural History I'd established that it was nearly impossible to sell a famous diamond on the open market without it being recognized, and cutting a large black diamond into smaller unrecognizable bits was also difficult because the stones were prone to breaking. Stealing the Black Amelia for money didn't really make sense.

Plus, so far I had no reason to doubt what Cazzie had told me about her actions last Friday—not to mention that they were in large part corroborated by the others. But I took a deep breath and made a mental note to have Sebastian look into Cazzie's situation with her stepbrother anyway. At this point in the case, it seemed important to make sure no stone was left unturned.

“You know, Ellie,” I said, changing tack, “I wish I had a film of the day—Friday, I mean. I'd love to be able to see the sequence of events leading up to the theft, even if only from one angle. Time is running out fast now and I'm just not sure which way to go.”

I continued eating distractedly as I mused. The tofu burger and sweet-potato fries were actually really yummy. And my meal reminded me of my grandma—not that she ever served tofu or anything else remotely like what was on my plate. But my burger had fresh chervil on it, and that was something she liked. She grew it in her garden and often put it on the soups she made, which she and I would have as a TV supper (together with a plate of toasted cheese sandwiches) when my parents were out for the evening. We'd sit in her cozy sitting room and watch the mystery programs she loved, the same ones I became obsessed with…

“Axelle? You've gone quiet.”

I was thinking about the various detective programs we watched. Some I loved, but others were so-so. What always interested me, though, were the different methods the detectives used to solve the mysteries. And as I was thinking about this, I was reminded of a technique that could be just the one I needed to help me with this case.

In my excitement, I nearly overturned my glass of water. Ellie laughed as she put her hand out to save it.

“I know exactly what I have to do!” I said. “Do you have any time tomorrow? After the DKNY show?”

“Yes, I think so.” She pulled out her phone and looked at her schedule. “I could squeeze in an hour or so just after it. Why?”

“Could you do some acting for me?”

“Sure. But who do I have to pretend to be?”

“I don't know exactly—but someone from last Friday's group.”

Ellie looked at me in total confusion.

“I have an idea for a little experiment. What would help me most right now is if I could see—literally
see
—everyone's movements on Friday afternoon. The only way to have that happen—”

“Is to have it acted out.” Ellie smiled at me. “Good idea.”

I nodded. I would start, I told myself, with the moments just before the fire alarm rang and go until the moment Chandra left the studio. It might just give me the answer I needed.

I was buzzing. I treated myself to a taxi back to Miriam's, ideas running through my mind as my cab flew up Tenth Avenue, skimming potholes and flying through the intersections.

Once we were near the park, the cabdriver caught my eye in his rearview mirror. “I think you're a very lucky person,” he said in lilting French-accented English. He sounded as if he was from the Caribbean. “It is very rare to have so many green lights. We didn't hit a red one once!”

“Thank you.” I smiled. “I'll know by Friday morning if I really am lucky.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing.” I said, laughing. “An inside joke. Thank you and have a great evening!”

I paid him and walked into Miriam's building.

Miriam was still out. Nicolette had put a few lights on, and I could hear the muted sounds of her television emanating from the corridor that led to her rooms.

I went to my bedroom and threw myself on my bed for a good stretch before checking my messages. Miriam had sent me my schedule details, and I had messages from Jenny and my mom—both simply wanted to know how I was doing. And there was another frustrated-sounding email from Cazzie: still nothing from the thief.

Why were they taking so long in sending the next riddle?

For a moment I was tempted to write back and ask if Cazzie could help me get the same studio at Juice for my little experiment, but that would be too big a production. I needed somewhere quick and easy.

Suddenly an idea came to mind: maybe I could do it at Chandra's apartment. It was smaller than the studio, but not that much. And it had those huge windows that wrapped all the way around—and even faced the same directions as the ones in the studio at Juice. If I hung some fabric across the opening to her kitchen, I would even have a pretty good simulation of the dressing area at the studio.

It was late…but not that late, especially considering it was Fashion Week and Chandra would be working pretty much nonstop and well into the night.

I quickly sent her a text and had an answer within minutes:

Hi, Axelle. No problem—I'd be happy to help. Do you need me to be there?

I answered back:

That's great, thanks! You don't have to be there, but it would help. Do you think you could squeeze it in? I would need your help for about an hour to do a reenactment of Friday afternoon. And would you mind if I have two friends along to help? I trust them completely.

To which Chandra answered:

If I move my hair and makeup time for Calvin Klein back a bit, I could squeeze an hour in. I'll have my booker do it tomorrow. How about straight after DKNY? I think you're doing that too, right? We could go down together in my car after the show. So let's say I'm yours from 12:30 to about 2 p.m. at the latest. Does this work? And friends are okay. If you trust them, I do too.

Awesome
, I thought—and told her so.

Sebastian had said he'd be free to help all day, and Ellie had said she could give me an hour of her time, which was great. Right now, though, I needed to get some sleep.

I always felt better when I had a plan, so as I ran through what I needed to do tomorrow, I began to relax. After taking a deep breath, I stretched one last time before getting ready for bed.

As I slipped between the sheets, my last thoughts were of Sebastian. Where was he? How had his dinner gone? And was he still out having fun…without me?