Model Under Cover--Dressed to Kill Read online

  A fashion-shoot murder in Milan? I’m so going to crack this case!

  After jetting to Italy’s fashion capital, the last thing hot new model Axelle expects to find is a top stylist dead on set. But as a high-heeled, runway-ready secret sleuth, she’s just the girl to solve this murder mystery.

  With gorgeous Sebastian by her side, Axelle plunges into a world of dirty rumours, sparkling jewels and high-speed chases, tracking a killer who’ll do anything to stop them uncovering the truth. Could this be Axelle’s most dangerous investigation yet?

  Carina Axelsson is a former fashion model, whose jet-setting career saw her starring in advertising campaigns and fashion magazines across the globe, including shoots for Vogue and Elle.

  After growing up in California, Carina moved to New York, and then later to Paris, where she studied art and rounded off her days in fashion with a short stint working as a PA to international fashion designer John Galliano. Her experiences – along with a love of Scooby-Doo and Agatha Christie – inspired her to write the Model Under Cover series.

  Carina now lives in Western Germany with her partner and four dogs. She writes and illustrates full-time.

  www.carinaaxelsson.com

  instagram.com/carinaaxelssonwriter

  uk.pinterest.com/carinaaxelsson

  To Kelly and Priscilla

  About this book

  Carina’s Fashion Credentials

  Title page

  Dedication

  TUESDAY MORNING:

  An Editor’s Exit

  TUESDAY AFTERNOON:

  Summer Days, Deadly Ways

  TUESDAY EVENING:

  Castings and Questions

  WEDNESDAY MORNING:

  Flirting with Danger

  WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON:

  Dressed for Death

  WEDNESDAY EVENING:

  Couture and Cards

  THURSDAY MORNING:

  Looks Can Be Deceiving

  THURSDAY EVENING:

  Symbols and Secrets

  FRIDAY MORNING:

  Catwalk Clues

  FRIDAY AFTERNOON:

  Killer Instincts

  SATURDAY:

  Sunset Sparkle

  Crack every case with fashion’s most stylish detective!

  How to Speak Supermodel

  The Milan List

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  Surprisingly, since landing in Milan, Italy, I’ve had nothing but fun.

  If you’re wondering why I say surprisingly…well, that’s because I’m here working as a fashion model…and modelling is something I definitely do not consider fun. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, the words fun and fashion are about as mismatched as Kate Moss and the Queen’s wardrobe.

  And yet here I am in this sophisticated, bustling fashion capital, with a day of Italian Vogue behind me, and a week of castings, go-sees and bookings ahead of me and, remarkably, that relentless, gnawing frustration I normally feel when I wish I had a case to solve (which is basically always) isn’t eating away at me…at least not too much.

  “I told you that at some point you’d start loving fashion and forget all about being the next Sherlock Holmes,” my modelling BFF, Ellie B, teased as we prepared to step out of our model flat. Our modelling agency, Calypso Model Management, had organized it for us for the duration of our stay in Milan.

  “Yeah, right,” I said as I rolled my eyes and quickly looked through my black quilted leather Mulberry rucksack, making sure I had the supplies I’d need for a day of modelling in the studio:

  My modelling book (or portfolio). A model never leaves home without it

  Zed cards – or comp cards – in the pocket of the book.

  Seamless skin-tone coloured underwear, just in case the white stuff I was wearing showed through the clothes I’d be modelling later.

  A small cosmetics bag filled with make-up remover, cotton discs, moisturizer and a hairbrush – so I could leave the studio without looking as made up as an ancient Egyptian queen

  My phone. For research…after all, a case could come up at any moment…

  Speaking of which…

  “Frankly, Ellie,” I said after I closed my rucksack and quickly bent to tie the laces on my Converse, “I think my having fun here has less to do with a sudden passion for fashion than it does with the fact that I’ve just finished solving a case… I haven’t even had chance to think about a new mystery yet…

  “Anyway,” I continued, as we shut our flat door behind us and clattered down the cool, stone stairwell of the building, “maybe even detectives need holidays…” I thought of all the sights Sebastian and I planned on seeing within the next few days – and after failing to show him any in London last week, I was really looking forward to catching up now.

  I met Sebastian, my case-cracking partner (and, yes, the guy I’ve been “seeing” over the last few months) in Paris, where he lives. To begin with we mostly only saw each other on Skype, but last week he finally came to visit me in London.

  Unfortunately, I ended up being totally sidetracked by a tricky case involving a mysterious memory stick full of fashion images. I spent the week in a race with the past, digging for clues in order to solve the case before someone got hurt. In the end I cracked it, but not before I’d also ruined all the plans Sebastian had so carefully made. A pang of guilt shot through me as I thought about it. This week, I told myself, things will be different…

  “If only your parents could hear you,” Ellie laughed as she skipped down the stairs beside me. “Detectives need holidays too…not thinking about a new case…no mystery to solve… I’m not sure I believe you, but it sounds good!”

  “Ha ha.” I gently yanked her braid.

  But Ellie had a point – I wasn’t sure I believed myself – and I was sure my mum wouldn’t if she heard. In fact, on our way to the airport on Sunday, Mum’s conversation (I use the term loosely) had basically been one long, stern warning against getting involved in any more dangerous mysteries.

  “Life isn’t a game of Cluedo, you know, Axelle,” she’d said. “It’ll be better for all of us if you concentrate on your modelling this summer.”

  Grrr!

  I pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose and brought my mind back to Ellie. “Yeah, well,” I said as we reached the bottom of the stairs, “my parents won’t have anything to worry about this time. The agency here has filled every time slot in my schedule, plus Sebastian and I have so much sightseeing to do that I’m not sure how I’ll be able to fit it all in between the modelling assignments. Besides,” I whispered, “with you-know-who standing guard over us…” I nodded towards the courtyard, where a short, round figure stood watering the plants in the morning sun, “I’ll be lucky if I’m allowed to breathe – let alone chase after suspects.”

  “You have a point,” Ellie said as she stopped to apply some lip balm to her full, pouty lips and glanced at Signora Buonanotte.

  Ellie and I were staying on our own in the model flat – something my mum had never allowed before. At first I thought she’d relented because Ellie is a couple of years older than I am and, as a newly minted supermodel, knows the ins and outs of working abroad. Besides, even a mum can go with the flow sometimes, right?

  Wrong.

  Upon landing in Milan on Sunday evening, Ellie and I had been picked up at Linate Airport by the car service the agency had arranged. From there we’d been driven straight to the model flat near Porta Romana, and within five minutes of stepping out of the car I’d understood the reason why my mum had been so cool with the idea…


  Signora Buonanotte was the building’s caretaker but apparently she’d been assigned to look after me too – or, more specifically, to make sure that I didn’t stay out late. If I wasn’t back at the flat by 10 p.m. sharp every night, she’d call my agency.

  “But why is she only looking out for me? What about you?” I’d asked Ellie on Sunday night as Mrs B glared at us.

  Ellie whispered. “I’m eighteen. You’re only sixteen. Agencies can get into trouble if they’re not seen to be looking after underage models.”

  This much was true: Calypso had had a file of papers about working hours ready for me to sign, and I’d had to have a doctor’s appointment to check my health – all because I was sixteen.

  As we left the courtyard Ellie turned to me. “Well, sightseeing plans and modelling aside,” she said, “just remember that fashion never sleeps. You might be dragged into a case before you know it.”

  A while later we were walking towards the wide open piazza in front of Milan’s towering cathedral, the Duomo. The cathedral dwarfed the square. I tilted my head back and gawked at the great structure, open-mouthed. I’d arrived on Sunday night, and worked all day Monday (yesterday), and then had to do food shopping with Ellie after my booking had ended, so I hadn’t had time to see anything of Milan yet, which was why Ellie had promised to quickly show me the Duomo this morning before work. And while I instantly recognized the famous cathedral from Instagram (every model who goes to the Milan fashion shows takes a selfie at the Duomo) just looking at it left me speechless. Its steep, pitched roof is crowded with Gothic spires of varying heights, each one topped with a statue reaching for the sky.

  Ellie pointed and said, “Can you see the Golden Madonna?” I followed her fingertip and, at the top of the tallest spire in the middle of the cathedral’s roof, I spotted a tiny golden statue (well, she looked tiny from this far below) serenely glinting in the early morning sun. “They say that no building in Milan should be higher than she is,” Ellie told me.

  The square in front of the Duomo was already crowded and busy. Ellie and I slowly moved through the brightly clad tourists and chicly dressed locals. The early morning heat gave an unrushed, holiday feel to everything, along with the sounds of laughter, cooing pigeons, and the animated snippets of Italian that punctuated the warm summer air. All was friendly and relaxed; it was hard to imagine anyone ever being in a bad mood here, let alone committing a crime.

  I turned to Ellie. “You might be right about fashion never sleeping,” I said, “but, seriously, I bet nothing sinister ever happens in a place as sunny as this…” I cut myself short, however, as another thought suddenly occurred to me.

  Ellie had stopped to check her reflection in one of the windows of the covered arcade but now caught my eye in the glass, her eyebrows raised in curiosity. “Or?”

  “Or maybe this is just the calm before the storm,” I laughed.

  Ellie and I parted ways at the Duomo. From there I took the subway to Megastudio, the large complex of modern studios where I’d be shooting a day of editorial for the Italian magazine, Amare. Once there, I signed in at reception and was directed to Studio Three on the first floor.

  The studio looked much like every studio I’d worked in so far: clean and airy, with white-painted walls, high ceilings, polished cement floors and ample space for a large set, hair and make-up area, as well as a separate dressing room. Sunlight streamed through the glass roof that covered the entire space, infusing the studio with good spirits. Taylor Swift was playing, while the air conditioning whirred in the background.

  The photographer and his two studio assistants were busy getting the set ready for the first shot, while a digi-tech guy was at the computer. Hair and make-up, meanwhile, were laying their equipment out on the clean tables that stood against one of the windowless walls. Each table was placed directly underneath one very large and long mirror that had tubes of especially bright lights running all around its edges – not that we’d need the extra light this morning, the sun was so strong. In fact, the make-up artist, with the help of a studio assistant, was busy adjusting the roof blinds directly over the make-up area; if the light was too bright it would be hard to see how the make-up would look later on, under the softer light on set.

  I said good morning to the whole team before loading up a plate with a couple of Italian-style croissants, a muffin and some fresh fruit salad from the breakfast buffet laid out at a small table near the entrance of the studio. With the plate in one hand and a cup of peppermint tea in the other, I walked to the hair and make-up area and sat down.

  The photographer, Craig McLeod, was someone I’d met on a go-see when I’d been in New York City a few months earlier, and although I’d never worked with Giulia, the make-up artist, I knew of her by name. The fashion editor still hadn’t arrived, but through the open curtain that divided the dressing area from the rest of the studio, I could see her assistant steaming the wrinkles out of the colourful dresses I’d be wearing later. They hung on a clothing rack, a pretty jumble of sorbet-coloured shades, embroidered flowers, pastel tulle and even a canary-yellow fur jacket (fake, I hoped).

  As for the hairstylist, Benoit, I’d met him a few months earlier in Paris; I’d been there for my first ever Fashion Week – and my first ever fashion case!

  Benoit was happy to see me and while he started working on my hair, and I munched on my breakfast, we chatted about what we’d been doing since Paris – although I didn’t go into everything. After all, discretion is paramount if you want to be a good detective, and the last thing I needed was for the fashionistas to know that my real interest lay in solving fashion mysteries – or I’d be frozen out faster than you can say Dolce & Gabbana.

  There was a sudden buzz of excitement at the studio’s entrance; Elisabetta Rinconi, the Amare fashion editor, rising international fashion star, and the woman in charge for the day, had just walked in. She was tipped to become the editor-in-chief of Amare one day. Today, however, was an accessories story and she’d be styling the shoot herself – as she always did.

  Through the reflection of the mirror, I watched as she waved and said “Ciao!” to everyone before going straight to Craig. They exchanged a few ideas and discussed details of the day’s shoot, most of which I could hear from where I was sitting: colour and black-and-white shots, candy-coloured jewels, pretty frocks, some gloves, and a couple of handbags. As for the day’s hair, make-up and styling, the inspirational starting point was the 1960 Italian movie, La Dolce Vita – so, glam, but updated for Amare’s edgy younger readers, with messy hair, little make-up and dewy skin.

  A minute later Elisabetta came up behind Benoit and me. “Buongiorno, Axelle and Benoit. Sorry I’m late, but I haven’t been feeling well since very early this morning.” She brought her hand up to her forehead as if checking for a fever. “Headache, nausea, and a dry throat – so no kisses today, darlings,” she added. I guessed that also explained the enormous sunglasses perched on her delicate nose.

  “I think I celebrated a little too much last night, but I’ll be fine,” she said. She caught my eye in the mirror. “I’ve pulled some really fabulous dresses for us today, Axelle. Benoit, would you mind letting Axelle try some things on for me right now?” He nodded and she beckoned me to follow her into the dressing room as soon as I could.

  Benoit pinned my hair, so that the work he’d started wouldn’t be messed up as I tried the clothes, and I watched Elisabetta carefully as she teetered on her heels towards the dressing area.

  For someone who wasn’t feeling well she still managed to pull off an impressively stylish look. Tall and lean (I’d heard she’d modelled a bit before becoming a stylist), she appeared to be in her mid-thirties, but with a fragile air that made her seem more like an über-cool older sister than an ambitious know-it-all fashion editor.

  She wore black-and-white palazzo pants (they looked vintage), with a loud pattern
that clashed (on purpose, no doubt) with her long-sleeved, black-and-white silk blouse. She’d tied the neck bow on the blouse loosely, and its long ends fluttered as she walked off in her red strappy sandals. A wicker basket with bright green fabric lining stood in as a handbag, adding a whimsical touch to her otherwise sophisticated ensemble. Generously cut diamond studs twinkled in her ears and a huge blue butterfly ring decorated her right hand. A thin diamond ring in the shape of a vine with thorns adorned her left hand. Her hair was nearly as long as her legs and hung, straight and clean, but slightly roughed up.

  She looked amazing. I watched her out of the corner of my eye until she disappeared behind the curtain of the dressing area.

  When I joined Elisabetta a few minutes later, I could see that beneath the glamour she was wilting quickly. Nevertheless, she put on a good show. While her assistant, Marzia, continued steaming dresses on the other side of the dressing area, Elisabetta turned to me. “It’s so nice to work with you, Axelle,” she said in her breathy, heavily accented English. “I’ve been following you since you started and I’m glad things are going so well for you.”

  I thanked her and told her that modelling had turned out to be a lot more interesting than I’d thought it would be.

  “Yes, too many people think fashion’s pure fluff.”

  “I agree,” I answered lightly – the fashion crimes that came my way were anything but “fluff”.

  Apart from this initial chit-chat, though, Elisabetta didn’t say much else and I wasn’t sure if that was just her way – aloof, fashionista-style – or whether she wasn’t feeling well enough to talk. After a minute Marzia turned to Elisabetta and spoke in rapid-fire Italian. From what I could make out Elisabetta declined Marzia’s offer of tea, but told Marzia to get something for herself and for me.