Model Under Cover--Dressed to Kill Read online

  “Want to come back for a reading later?” teased Sebastian.

  I was about to answer when I caught the eye of the brightly dressed woman (with equally brightly coloured hair) sitting at the table. She was obviously the reader. And while, for all I knew, she may have been the best reader in the world, her black eyes, set like dark stones in her wrinkled face, scared me. I felt as if she could read my mind, and didn’t like what she saw.

  “Actually, Sebastian,” I said, “I think I’ll pass.”

  At the Palazzo Reale we found the posters for the exhibition. Sebastian laughed as he watched me take yet another selfie in front of the palace entrance. “What are you doing, Holmes? I’ve never seen you take so many selfies! Are you finally falling in love with modelling?”

  “Ha, ha, very funny, Watson. Clearly, if your powers of deduction were up to scratch, you’d have guessed that the pics are for my mum. If I show her all these photos she’ll relax and assume I’m taking in the culture for once… I don’t want her to get suspicious.”

  “Good thinking,” he laughed as he took my phone and took a couple of pictures for me.

  We made our way inside the former palace and entered the exhibition space. It was composed of a series of linked rooms, with walls painted in dark, dramatic jewel-like tones, while the lighting stayed dim to protect the artwork. Each room was dedicated to a particular form of art: paintings, tapestries, jewellery and more – but still no tarot cards. I was starting to worry that the librarian had made a mistake when we walked into one of the last rooms. There, in a glass display case that took up almost an entire wall, were the tarot cards.

  The metallic paint of the images twinkled like tiny jewels – even in the dimmed lighting. Angels, cherubs, castles, queens, knights, jokers, ivory towers, white horses, magicians, devils, huntsman and hermits – the cards seemed to cast a spell through the thick glass, their visual power still potent despite the passing of nearly six hundred years.

  A tingle of excitement crept up my spine as I realized that the cards I’d found looked identical in style and size to the ones on display – at least as far as my untrained eye could tell. The article I’d read had said that a few of the cards from this deck were still in private hands. Maybe some of the missing cards were in my hands?

  “They really look like the ones you found,” Sebastian said as he stared at the display case.

  I nodded. “They do. No wonder someone wanted to claim them… But if they are very valuable, why were they left at the studio yesterday? We’ve got to find an expert who knows about antique tarocchi.”

  I was frustrated that we hadn’t found any useful information in the exhibition, but as we left and walked through the gift shop, a table selling modern-day packs of tarot cards caught my eye. Some of the packs were quite cheap and the size of normal playing cards, but others were expensive, deluxe versions printed on very thick paper – copies of the antique tarocchi we had just seen. I looked more closely at the stickers on the boxes and realized they were all supplied by the same store in Milan – a store that specialized in tarot cards. I went to find a salesperson.

  “Yes, the store is just near here,” she said in perfect English. “It is the most famous tarocchi shop in Milan.” That was all I needed to hear. Thirty seconds later Sebastian and I were outside and running.

  Tarot decks of all kinds were arranged around the store and books about tarot and the occult lined one entire wall. The shop even advertised lessons in how to read tarot and the names of professionals who would give a private reading.

  The owner introduced himself in heavily accented, but very correct and careful English. He reminded me of Rumpelstiltskin from the fairy tale. Bent at the back, with a long white beard and whiskers coming out of his ears, his vivid blue eyes nonetheless twinkled with interest at my question. And this time I spoke straight away of tarocchi – and not tarot.

  “An expert in tarocchi?” he said slowly as he pulled at his beard. “If it was straightforward modern tarot I could help you, but you mean the old cards, I think – the antique ones?”

  I nodded.

  “Then there’s only one person in the city who really knows about them.” He opened up an old, dog-eared address book and wrote down a name and address on a slip of paper. “Here,” he said. “If he can’t help you, no one can. He’s in the Brera, in a small office at street level. It’s only open in the mornings – he closes at 12.30. He’s actually a world authority on Italian Renaissance art. Tarocchi is only a side interest for him, but he’ll be happy to help you if he can. He knows his stuff. Some of my clients are serious collectors; I send them all to Thaddeus.”

  Thaddeus Greene, PhD, D.A.

  Professor of Renaissance Art

  That, I thought, explained why I hadn’t found him. As an expert in Renaissance art of course he wouldn’t have come up under listings about tarot cards.

  “Greene isn’t a very Italian name,” I pointed out.

  “That’s because he’s American – it’s his wife who’s Italian.”

  So at least he speaks good English, I thought. I thanked the shopkeeper and we left. I had exactly fifteen minutes to get to my Cutie-Pie casting. Luckily we were only two minutes away from the subway I needed.

  “So when should we meet?” Sebastian asked.

  “How about 12.15 at Professor Greene’s office? I should have just enough time to get there after my Amare appointment at 11.30.”

  “Why don’t I pick you up at Amare? I can be outside the building by quarter to twelve.”

  “Perfect,” I said.

  We reached the subway. “And is there anything else I can look into while you’re at the meeting?”

  “Yes please,” I said. “I need background checks. We’ve got to dig deeper. Somewhere there must be a motive that explains why Elisabetta was poisoned at a party full of her friends.”

  I slipped my rucksack over my shoulder and waved to Sebastian as I ran down the stairs and into the subway.

  Tomasso called me as I reached my platform. “Axelle, what a beautiful day for doing castings! Sunny and not too hot.” (Clearly he wasn’t English – I found it very hot!) “If you have any problems with anything just call me – oh, and don’t forget to check your email for updates! And I’ll text you if something important comes up, okay?” With his heavy Italian accent, Tomasso’s “okay” had three syllables – o-kay-ay. “Good luck with your Cutie-Pie fitting. Ciao bella!”

  I was already confirmed for the Cutie-Pie shoot and it was scheduled for the next day, but the client had called me in to make sure that the clothes fitted me well. This way, if anything needed adjusting, they could do it in time for the morning. As it turned out they’d been right to call me in – the clothes were enormous.

  “Hmmm…” said the stylist as she stood back, looking at me, her hand grasping a handful of fabric at the back of the jacket I’d been asked to try on. “You are so small, Axelle.”

  I am so small? How about the clothes are cut way too big?

  A model has to deal with this kind of comment all the time – and, of course, it’s never, ever the client’s fault. It’s always, You’re too big for our clothes or You’re too small for our clothes. Your feet aren’t big enough, or Your feet are too large. Even worse is, Hmm…your skin’s too dark for this job or too light. I’d even heard, I’m not sure about the shape of your mouth.

  It’s enough to make me scream, SHUT UP! I’M PERFECT AS I AM!

  The worst is that the comments are often made right in front of you as if you don’t exist. Like now.

  “You really are small,” the stylist continued as I rolled my eyes and held my tongue. I wanted to say that she and the powers-that-be at Cutie-Pie had already seen my zed card, with my measurements clearly printed on it, before they booked me, so they all knew exactly what size I am!

  She fin
ally stopped her belly-aching, called an in-house seamstress and started pinning a little bit here and there until all the clothes I’d be wearing on tomorrow’s shoot had been sent away with the seamstress. Finally, after three-quarters of an hour I was free to go. “See you tomorrow, Axelle,” the stylist said with a wave as I turned and left. “It should be a great campaign.”

  Whatever.

  I was now running late for my appointment with Antonio Moretti, the photographer, but Tomasso called to warn him that I was still fifteen minutes away, so it wasn’t a problem. Antonio’s office was located in the lively Navigli district of Milan just outside the old city centre, an area criss-crossed with old canals.

  We had a bit of a chat, and Antonio carefully went through every photo in my book. He took a couple of pictures of me to show a client he had for an upcoming job and that was it.

  I only had one more appointment before lunch, and that was at Amare to see Ginevra Mucci and hopefully, Marzia, too.

  Ginevra Mucci was the exact physical opposite of her now dead arch-rival Elisabetta Rinconi – and their personal styles couldn’t have been more different either. Tall and lanky with broad shoulders and thick, dark, shoulder-length hair, hers was a tough, no-nonsense style – in contrast to Elisabetta’s, which could be described as light, charming, even whimsical. She was dressed in black jeans, a black silk blouse and black stiletto-heeled ankle boots. A very cool skinny belt shimmering with metal studs circled her waist. This, too, contrasted Elisabetta’s more Bohemian approach, I thought, remembering the outfit Elisabetta had worn at the studio the day before.

  Ginevra wanted to see me for an upcoming Amare editorial she was casting. It was a story about coats – but inspired by the style of famous female rock singers from the 1960s and 70s like Joan Jett, Janis Joplin and Stevie Nicks (yeah, I’d had to google them, too). Apparently, Ginevra seemed to think that I’d be a natural fit for channelling Joan Jett in particular. “There’s something about your attitude,” she said as she went through my book.

  Ah! I thought. Just the lead I need. Remembering what I’d heard about Ginevra accusing Elisabetta of copying her I said, “Ginevra, I love your magazine editorials, you know. I don’t really understand how people can confuse your way of styling with Elisabetta Rinconi’s. There’s been a lot of talk about it online since she…” I quickly looked up to the ceiling and asked the detective gods to forgive me for talking about Elisabetta like this, but I had to get information out of Ginevra. “Anyway, I know some people think that you might have copied Elisabetta’s ideas but it’s often looked to me as if she copied you.”

  The rivalry Ugo and Kristine had told me about was obviously still alive and kicking because Ginevra immediately responded.

  “Yeah, well, people will say things. But I started styling before Elisabetta so, naturally, I’m sure she was more than a little influenced by me – not that she ever admitted it. In fact, a lot of her well-known campaigns were directly inspired by editorials I’d already done. Like the all-red campaign she styled for Cutie-Pie – that was completely lifted from an all-red story I did years ago for Dazed magazine. Completely.” Ginevra said all of this calmly; her tone of voice didn’t change as she slowly and methodically turned the pages of my portfolio. And yet when she looked up and handed me my book, her hatred for Elisabetta still lingered in her expression, like a simmering cauldron of, well, poison. I grabbed my book and pulled my hand back from her as quickly as I could. She suddenly made me think of Halloween. I swallowed and pushed forward with my questions.

  “You were at Ugo’s, weren’t you, on Monday night, the night she was poisoned? How horrible to have witnessed it all!”

  “Actually, there was nothing to see,” Ginevra said as she grabbed her desk phone and called her secretary. She barked a few orders down the line and continued our conversation as soon as she put the phone down. “We went to Ugo’s, we had fun and then we left. End of story.”

  “They say that someone must have tampered with the food. Put something into the bruschetta, for example, and given it to Elisabetta.”

  “Please! It’s all so preposterous. The food wasn’t served until quite late and then it was on the table in front of us all, so I don’t know how they think someone could have just slipped some poison onto the food unnoticed. Even then, how could they make sure Elisabetta took the poisoned food and no one else did, because no one else was affected?

  “No, if you ask me, I think Elisabetta went on another one of her famous benders. She must have gone home and done some drugs or something. Anyway, I’m sure it will all come out in the tests they’re running.”

  “But I heard she hadn’t partied hard in years.”

  “Right. And Valentino claims he invented the colour red.”

  Clearly, I thought, the idea that Elisabetta had cleaned her habits up in the last few years hadn’t made much of an impression on Ginevra.

  She stood up from her desk and motioned for me to follow her to the door. “I have to go now. But it was good to see you – I’ll call Tomasso about the booking.”

  As soon as Ginevra left, I headed back to the reception desk and asked to see Marzia. A minute or two later the receptionist led me down a corridor through a door to a large room with clothes everywhere, in boxes, hanging on racks, or waiting to be steamed. This was obviously the space where clothes were packed and unpacked after a shoot or when they arrived from a fashion house.

  “Axelle!” Marzia said as soon as she saw me.

  “I was here to see Ginevra and thought I’d just come by and say hello and see how you were feeling after yesterday.”

  She nodded and gave a weak smile. “Thank you, I should have stayed at home today really, but I can’t relax wherever I am. It was all so horrible, so shocking. But really I should be asking you how you are doing – you saw her die!” Marzia’s eyes began to fill with tears. “What a terrible day. I will never forget it, never.”

  Neither will I, I thought, as I felt my guts churn with the memory of Elisabetta’s glassy stare. I took a quiet breath and forced myself to concentrate on the task at hand; if I didn’t, I’d never get anywhere with Marzia. “I’m okay, Marzia, thanks,” I said slowly. “Although, like you, I’m still shocked… Listen, though…” I added as gently as I could. “I also came to see you because I was wondering if you’d noticed an envelope in the studio yesterday? A grey one? I thought it might have been Elisabetta’s. Do you know anything about it?”

  Marzia took her glasses off and rubbed her eyes. “But didn’t you show me an envelope yesterday at the studio?”

  “Yes, yes I did. I thought it might be hers and asked around but no one claimed it. I still have it so I thought I’d ask you again seeing as I’m here.”

  “Well, no, it’s not mine. And I didn’t see Elisabetta with any envelope. Certo.” Marzia seemed genuinely disinterested in the envelope so I dropped the subject. I followed her as she walked to the steam machine and started to work on a sleek, silk-satin halter dress in a deep petrol colour.

  A new thought suddenly entered my mind and, without thinking, I said to Marzia, “By the way, I was wondering if Elisabetta used tarot cards?”

  Marzia looked surprised. “Tarot cards? You mean like the ones for telling the future?”

  I nodded.

  “No. Elisabetta didn’t go in for that sort of thing. She could seem kind of ditzy and absent-minded but she was actually very, very sharp – and not at all gullible. I know for a fact that she didn’t like tarot or horoscopes or numerology. She always said that the best way to predict the future was to be precise with your actions today.”

  So maybe they weren’t Elisabetta’s cards after all. And yet who else could they belong to?

  “I never once heard her mention tarot – except to scoff at it,” Marzia continued. “We have a lot of tarot here in Milan, you know. There are even tarot readers on th
e streets.”

  Hmm…time to try another tack. “You know, I just saw Ginevra Mucci. She really didn’t like Elisabetta, did she…?”

  Marzia shook her head. “She was always accusing Elisabetta of copying her. And actually, she was furious about Elisabetta winning Editor of the Year at the Moda Awards.”

  “How do you know?”

  “She told me – and that was after I’d already heard her insult Elisabetta when we were on our way to Ugo’s. Everyone knows Ginevra’s feelings about Elisabetta. People were surprised that Ginevra even agreed to hire Elisabetta – but then one or two were quick to note that Ginevra could control, and even destroy, Elisabetta’s career if she was under her thumb. Anyway, there was a lot of malicious gossip about them…even I don’t know the truth.”

  Marzia was on her knees, carefully aiming the nozzle of the steamer at the hem of the long dress. As I thought about what she’d just said I couldn’t help but notice that she was wearing white Converse – my favourites. At the sight of them, however, something in my memory was jogged. It took a moment but finally I remembered what it was they reminded me of. I was surprised I hadn’t thought of this detail earlier because the existence of the sneakers I was thinking about went against all that I had heard so far. But maybe Marzia knew something about them that the others didn’t? It was worth a try. “You know, you, me and Elisabetta all have something in common,” I said brightly.

  “And what’s that?”

  “White sneakers,” I said. “Elisabetta had a pair with her yesterday. Did she wear sneakers a lot?”

  Marzia’s eyes widened and she looked up at me, laughing. “No, not at all, Axelle. Elisabetta never wore sneakers. She loved her heels too much!”

  “But I saw her with a pair yesterday. She had them in her basket.”

  Marzia shrugged her shoulders. “Elisabetta only wore heels. Even after a full day at the fashion shows she’d still be wearing heels in the evening. I don’t know how she did it.”