Model Under Cover--Dressed to Kill Read online

  “Hey, Axelle, Ms Detective! What’s up? I’m in Miami – woohoo, Miii-ami! Just landed. What about you?” Rafaela Cruz, the caramel-eyed, long-limbed New York City native and tattooed supermodel gave a hoot of laughter at the other end of the phone. I could practically feel her clap my back in that way she had. I’d forgotten how she’d taken to calling me Ms Detective. When we’d worked together this spring in the Big Apple she’d been convinced that I’d been helping to find a missing diamond. In fact, she’d been right, and her instincts about my reasons for questioning her had been spot on. Not that I confirmed it then – and I certainly wasn’t going to now either.

  “Hi, Rafaela, I’m in Milan, working…but something has happened and I’m hoping you can help me…” I briefly explained about Elisabetta.

  “Wow. That’s horrible. No, I hadn’t heard about it,” she said. “I’ve only just stepped off the plane.” For a moment she actually sounded at a loss for words. “I can’t believe it – I was with her last night. I went by Ugo Anbessa’s after-party before leaving to catch my night flight here…” She went quiet for a moment. “Oh, wow, I’ve just spotted some emails from my Milan agency – they’re asking me to contact the Milan police as soon as possible.”

  “They’ll want to ask you about Ugo’s after-party…”

  We chatted for a while and Rafaela confirmed that she’d heard the fight between Elisabetta and Ginevra. “Then again,” Rafaela added, “so what? It was just a fight, we all do it sometimes, you know what I mean?”

  She hadn’t, however, heard the disagreement between Ugo and Elisabetta. She’d left early, with her boyfriend 5Zentz and hadn’t even seen the food arrive. And she definitely hadn’t seen Elisabetta touching Ugo’s monkshood plant.

  “What about 5Zentz? Did he see Elisabetta touch the plant?” I quickly asked, hoping she wouldn’t get suspicious of my questions.

  “I don’t know – but here, why don’t you ask him? My suitcase has just come out on the carousel. I’ve gotta go!” I was abruptly handed to 5Zentz.

  I briefly introduced myself, and asked him if he’d seen Elisabetta go near the monkshood plant. “Nah! But then again, I was checking out Ugo’s place. That is one super-cool crib! He’s killin’ it!”

  Not a great choice of words, I thought, considering that Ugo was a prime suspect. I asked if he’d heard the fight between Elisabetta and Ginevra. He had, but only because he’d been checking out a painting on the wall near them. “They were fierce – woowee, Italian women can be feisty! And speaking of feisty, here comes—” 5Zentz didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence – Rafaela’s voice suddenly boomed down the line.

  “Axelle? You still there?”

  I thanked her for her time and tried to get off the phone before she turned the questions on me, but I wasn’t quick enough. Before I managed to end our conversation she said, “I can smell something, Axelle, I’m telling you. You were acting like Nancy Drew in New York and now you’re doing it again. Hmm…one of these days I’m gonna have to get the whole story out of you. You’re hiding something and I can feel it…” She laughed, but I admitted nothing. This wasn’t the time to feed her fire.

  “I was there when it happened this morning,” I explained, “that’s all.”

  “Uh huh. Sure. And I’ve never walked down a runway.” She laughed at her own joke. “Well, I look forward to hearing what happened from you. I have a feeling it won’t be long before you know more about it than anyone else – including the cops.” Then she laughed again, told me to call her when I was next in New York, and we hung up.

  Next I called Ugo.

  “Progress, already?” he said.

  “Actually, Ugo, I have a couple of questions for you… First of all, why didn’t you tell me that Elisabetta and Alessandro Matteo were going out together?”

  I could practically feel him roll his eyes over the phone line. “Probably denial on my part. I can’t stand the guy, to be honest. And, anyway, Elisabetta, grazie a Dio, was on the verge of breaking up with him. He was the stereotypical jealous Italian guy, you know? He always wanted to know where she was going and what she was doing. It really started to bother Elisabetta – that’s why she wanted to break up.”

  “How long had they been going out? And where did they meet?”

  “They met at Falco’s. Falco loved Alessandro, you know, he booked him for all of his shows and campaigns. They got together when they were working on Falco’s last collection. And they were inseparable while Falco was in hospital. In fact, they often went there together.”

  “So in the beginning, anyway, she was happy with Alessandro?”

  “I think so. We didn’t talk about it that much at first – I think for Elisabetta he was just a fun affair. But then he always wanted to be with her, to know about everything she was doing.”

  Thinking about love as a powerful motive for murder, I asked, “Did he know that she wanted to break up with him? Had she told him?”

  “Yes, I think she’d tried to, but he’d gone bananas so she was waiting for the right time before making the final break.”

  I wanted to ask Ugo about his argument with Elisabetta, but I thought maybe that was best handled in person so that I could judge his answers more carefully. So I thanked him and we agreed to meet the following day.

  I took my tablet and notebook and slipped into bed. I checked my emails – Tomasso had managed to squeeze another go-see with a photographer into my schedule for the next day. I quickly noted the details and then started background searches on the suspects on my shortlist. I didn’t get far though. I was asleep faster than you can say lip gloss.

  I woke up early, the vision of Elisabetta’s glassy stare jolting me from my sleep. I’d been so tired last night that I’d slept dreamlessly. But as I slowly surfaced, yesterday’s events began to rewind in my head.

  To push away the rising sense of panic I told myself that everything was fine, that I was in Milan, in a flat I was sharing with Ellie – who I hadn’t even heard come in last night. I took a deep slow breath and stretched. My bedside clock said 6 a.m. I got out of bed and padded out of my room and across the corridor to Ellie’s door. I opened it quietly and saw, with relief, her long, slim limbs sprawled across the bed. Her thick, nearly waist-length blonde hair spilled across her pillow and I smiled as I looked at her face, without a trace of make-up. Ellie always said, “Rule number one for good skin is to remove all make-up before going to bed – always.”

  Feeling better, I shut Ellie’s door and went back to my room. Despite the blackout blinds on my bedroom window, the early morning sun leaked in around its edges. I pulled up the blind and smiled as the Milanese sun flooded my bedroom. Nothing could dispel uneasy thoughts more rapidly than sunlight, I thought, as I opened the window to let in the morning air.

  I slipped on my blue kimono dressing gown (a present from my dad last Christmas) and grabbed my tablet. After settling down on my bed with my pillows stacked behind me I clicked online and, sure enough, quickly found the first reports of Elisabetta’s death – and an email from my mum asking me about it. She was trying to seem casual, but I could read between the lines: she hoped I wasn’t getting involved. I quickly wrote back, praying to the detective gods that Mum would buy my claim that Italian culture was eating up all my free time. Which it sort of was – if you included poison and murder as culture. As I emailed Mum I made a note to myself to take some selfies with monuments or paintings in the background that I could send her as proof. Then I turned back to the reports of Elisabetta’s death.

  There wasn’t a lot of detail – it seemed the police hadn’t released anything other than the most basic information about the case. The various reports I read mentioned that she’d died while working on an Amare photo shoot, that it had been sudden and that cause of death was still to be determined. No other details of the shoot were given – although there were pl
enty of pictures: Elisabetta at the fashion shows, editorials she’d styled for top magazines, and Elisabetta together with various fashion industry hotshots – including Ugo and Falco Ventini.

  After I’d read a number of reports, I resumed the background checks that I’d started last night – not that I found anything helpful. Even after carefully sifting through masses of information not one single rumour came up suggesting bad blood or any weird tensions between the suspects on the list and Elisabetta. I found a piece about the feud between Ginevra and Elisabetta – but from the way it was presented, it didn’t sound serious. And although there were a few pictures of Elisabetta and Alessandro together, there was no suggestion of his jealousy or their impending break-up. And yet surely one of them must have had a motive? One of them had wanted her dead.

  Time flew past and when I stopped to look at the clock on my tablet it was already 7.30. I had to meet Sebastian at the Pinacoteca in an hour. I quickly scanned my to-do list.

  Wednesday:

  8.30 a.m. Meet Sebastian at the Pinacoteca di Brera for tarot card research

  10 a.m. Cutie-Pie fitting

  10.45 a.m. Meet photographer Antonio Moretti

  11.30 a.m. Amare go-see with Ginevra Mucci (and try to see Marzia)

  12.15 p.m. Meet Sebastian. See the Duomo? Have lunch. Parco Sempione (alone). More sightseeing?

  4 p.m. Miu Miu casting (for campaign)

  4.45 p.m. Italian Elle general go-see

  5.30 p.m. Gucci casting (for campaign) – plus possibility of tracking down Alessandro for further questioning?

  My day would be busy but there was some time in between the various appointments to follow up on whatever new leads I might find over the course of the day – and to squeeze some sightseeing in with Sebastian. Before and after his appointment with Francesca, at least.

  I stopped any thoughts about her from bubbling to the surface and rushed to get ready. I hopped into the bath, grabbed a quick breakfast and, before leaving, I stopped and made plans to meet up with Ellie later.

  “Well, I’ll be on location all day, but don’t forget that we’re going to Rocco Rosa’s book launch tonight. It starts at 7 p.m.,” Ellie said as she towel-dried her hair.

  I’d already completely forgotten!

  Now that Ellie had said it I sort of remembered Tomasso mentioning the launch on Monday. It was one of the parties of Milan Men’s Fashion Week, and I hadn’t planned on going, which probably explained the memory lapse. Ellie watched me purse my lips.

  “Show me your list of names again,” she said. I pulled it out of my rucksack. “Well, Ginevra Mucci will definitely be there and so will Coco – and her mother Lavinia. Oh yeah! I saw Coco at the Dolce & Gabbana party last night. She’s so talkative – it shouldn’t be a problem to grill her for information on Ugo’s after-party.”

  “Great! Then I guess I will go tonight after all.”

  Ellie laughed. “I swear you’re the only person I’ve ever met who has to be dragged along to anything that seems even the least bit glamorous. My little sisters and their friends would give anything to go tonight.”

  “Well, so would I – as long as there’s a suspect there,” I laughed.

  Ellie threw the towel she’d been drying her hair with over my head. “See you tonight. We can go together from here.”

  I hadn’t washed my hair, but it was all right. The humidity in Milan kept it bouncy so I wasn’t going to encourage the frizz by washing it until I really had to – that was something I’d learned. As a model you’re supposed to arrive at your location with clean hair in the morning, but, often, if I’m working with the same crew for a couple of days, the hairstylist will ask me not to wash my hair for the second day because, actually, hair with a bit of grime in it is easier to work with and has more texture. With that thought in mind I ran my hands through my hair as I hurried down the stairs, hoping it would look good enough when I got to my castings later.

  As I flew out of the building and into the courtyard I caught sight of myself in the large mirror at the bottom of the stairs. I was wearing light, loose-fitting khaki trousers that Ellie had found for me at a New York Army and Navy store, a fitted T-shirt in pale, washed-out peach, Converse (white, and with some DIY doodles I’d drawn on them) and I carried my black leather quilted rucksack on my back. Of course, I was wearing my glasses. And I still had the dark purple nail polish I’d used for the shoot on Monday. My mum would have made me change into something more dressy, but one good thing about modelling is that the clients actually like it when models show up with their own sense of style intact. It said something about your personality.

  I was running late so I hopped into a super-clean underground station. Everything in Milan is a lot smaller than at home in London so it takes a lot less time to find your way around. Within fifteen minutes I was climbing the stairs out of the Montenapoleone station, right in the heart of Milan’s chicest shopping district, and in another five minutes I was standing outside the formidable-looking tall brick exterior of the Pinacoteca museum.

  Sebastian was waiting for me. And although we were both clearly keen to start hunting down clues, yesterday’s awkwardness still hung in the air between us. We kissed quickly and hurried inside. “I’m super excited about seeing the tarot cards,” I said. “I really hope they can shed some light on the case.”

  We walked silently through the large entrance of the former convent and looked around. An enormous bronze statue of Napoleon Bonaparte standing on a plinth (he was all ripped muscles and naked apart from a strategically placed fig leaf) was positioned in the middle of a dazzling white quadrangle. Open galleries ran along the four sides of the inner courtyard. And because the Pinacoteca is also a university, it was buzzing with people.

  We crossed the quadrangle (I took a selfie on the way) and entered a large doorway opposite the main street entrance. There I found a woman at a desk and told her we were looking for the Arcimboldo-Crivelli deck of tarot cards; she’d heard of the cards, but had no idea where they were. She suggested I go to the library and waved her hand at the corridor just behind us.

  “Time is ticking and I want to see those cards,” I said as I pushed my way through the throng of people.

  “Well, let’s hope they’re in here,” Sebastian said as we passed a sign that read Biblioteca Nazionale Braidense. We climbed an imposing staircase and then turned into a small wood-panelled antechamber. There a clerk directed us to the most astonishing library I’ve ever seen. It was like a ballroom – lined with books. It felt as if I was stepping onto a set for Beauty and the Beast. Wooden bookcases lined every wall from floor to ceiling and they were full to bursting with old leather-bound tomes. A spiral staircase led to a gallery that ran along all four sides of the room. High above us hung two enormous crystal chandeliers, their electric candles blazing with light. I had to take another quick selfie.

  In the middle of the library were old-fashioned wooden display cases. Sebastian and I split up and took a look at everything in them – but still no cards. I glanced at my watch. It was just past nine – I had to speed this up, I had a fitting at ten. I searched for help and finally found it in an equally impressive reading room just off the library. The librarian in charge, however, wouldn’t let me in. I’d need a day pass to read and study in the room.

  “Actually,” I said, “I’m here to see the tarot cards in the collection.”

  She didn’t understand me. I tried mentioning Arcimboldo-Crivelli and the librarian said, “Ah! Tarocchi! You want to see the tarocchi cards?”

  Normally, she explained, only experts had access to the cards and even then special permission was needed. I didn’t know what to say. I had to see the cards!

  “Ma siete fortunati,” she continued with a smile, when she saw my crestfallen expression.

  I had no idea what she meant but I suddenly heard Sebastian’s vo
ice behind me. “Fortunati? Come?”

  “Si,” she said excitedly, continuing to speak Italian at top speed. I watched as Sebastian spoke with her – good thing he was there to translate.

  “She says you’re lucky because the cards from the collection are on display at the moment in the Palazzo Reale. They’re part of an exhibition about the great Renaissance patrons of Milan and the artwork they commissioned.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears! We thanked her for the information and three minutes later Sebastian and I were briskly walking out of the Pinacoteca.

  “By the way, Watson,” I asked as Sebastian opened our guidebook at the map of the city centre, “since when did you speak Italian?”

  “I don’t. But I studied Spanish in school and they are quite similar.” He smiled and pointed in the direction we had to go. “Let’s walk there. It’s very close and at least we won’t have to worry about parking the scooter.”

  The Palazzo Reale, or Royal Palace, was next to the Duomo. As we hurried along the tiny pedestrian streets just outside of the Pinacoteca I asked Sebastian if he’d found out anything about Elisabetta’s mugging, flat burglary and financial trouble.

  “Yes to the first two,” he answered. “She did report the mugging and break-in but there were no details apart from the dates – and yes, both happened this spring. Neither were really pursued. I got the feeling she only filled in the paperwork for the sake of her insurance and to renew her ID.”

  I nodded. “And her finances?”

  “I’m still working on that. There’s nothing online about it and, of course, I can’t get hold of her bank records. But I’ll keep digging.”

  “And I’ll keep asking.”

  We were walking briskly through another pretty pedestrian street when I caught sight of a small card table set up on the pavement. A sign on the tattered red tablecloth covering the rickety table read: “Tarocchi/tarot”.