Model Under Cover--Dressed to Kill Read online

  Elisabetta finally asked me to try on a dress and gloves – “No hats today,” she said to herself through pursed lips, looking ruefully at the colourful headgear laid out on the styling table, and handed me the gloves. “Craig does not like to shoot hats…”

  I zipped myself up into a Dolce & Gabbana embroidered brocade dress and put on the gloves. I stood while Elisabetta eyed me, her long thin hands gently resting on her slim hips. Then she abruptly turned to the styling table and picked up a pair of large crystal chandelier earrings. She held these up to my ears, her head on one side as she assessed the look.

  We were alone now in the dressing room; the curtain that separated us from the rest of the space was shut, dulling the noise of the studio.

  As my eyes followed Elisabetta I couldn’t help but notice that she was moving more and more slowly, until she became noticeably clumsy. And she was drinking a lot of water. I watched as she reached yet again for a large bottle on a tray with glasses at one end of the styling table.

  “My throat is so dry,” she said by way of explanation, “I shouldn’t have stayed up so late last night, even if it was to celebrate. I’m paying the price now. Ugh. The pain and the nausea…” She took a deep breath and emptied her water glass. I heard her mumble out loud as she turned and reached for her basket. “I should probably take something for my stomach – it still feels odd. I have to start feeling better by tonight. What I have to do is so important…”

  I watched as she set her basket-bag down on the edge of the accessories table and attempted to look through its contents. I wanted to suggest that it might help if she removed her sunglasses, but the basket promptly fell off the table and half its contents spilled out. “Grazie, Axelle,” Elisabetta said as I rushed to help her pick up the various things. Then I poured her another glass of water and watched as she swallowed some pills for her stomach pain.

  “I feel terrible,” she said. “I’m so sorry about this – and it’s your first Amare shoot, too. I hope you are not superstitious?”

  “No,” I smiled.

  “Good, me neither.” She tried to smile back. “Anyway, don’t worry – you and I will definitely work together again – hopefully at some wonderful location to make up for today.”

  Why fashionistas partied so much was beyond me. What was the point? Unless I had suspects to chase down, I found fashion parties so dull. Of course, Elisabetta had won a major award last night, so I suppose some celebrating was in order…but still…she really must have partied hard, judging by the way her skin had just gone from ghostly white to puke green right before my eyes.

  By the time she asked me to try on a second outfit, she was slumped in a chrome and leather armchair near the far wall, between a small sofa and the edge of the long accessories table. Her basket lay at her feet. As per her instructions (she’d lifted her arm a bit and twirled her hand in the air) I moved a few steps back from her and turned in a circle so she could have a good look at my outfit.

  I stood watching her, waiting for her to say something, but she didn’t. From behind her huge sunglasses she was inscrutable. I could imagine her sitting in the front row at the fashion shows with the exact same expression on her face. How often had I walked down the runway as various editors sat watching, sunglasses on, mouths glued shut, showing no visible signs of life?

  I continued to wait for Elisabetta to make her final pronouncement. Did she like the ensemble she’d put together or did it need tweaking before I wore it on set later? The large-faced clock on the wall behind us ticked loudly in the silence.

  Great, I thought, the day has only just begun and already it’s ticking by slowly. I won’t be able to buzz out of here for hours yet… At least I had my sightseeing with Sebastian to look forward to later. He was going to pick me up (on his rented Vespa scooter) at the studio this afternoon before we zoomed off to see Leonardo Da Vinci’s famous fresco, The Last Supper.

  I was just about to ask Elisabetta what she thought about the outfit when I heard her cough. Okay, maybe “cough” wasn’t an accurate enough description. It was more like a gurgle that started from deep within her, then rose to the back of her throat. By the time it reached her lips it sounded less like a symptom of late-night excess and more like the noise you make stepping on a large bug with soft-soled shoes: painful and squelchy.

  “Elisabetta?” I asked.

  As I waited for her to answer I caught sight of my phone – it was lying on the table next to me, lit up with a message from Sebastian:

  What time shall I pick you up? Can’t wait! Sxxx

  I still hadn’t had a chance to ask what time we’d be finished today – and this clearly wasn’t the moment to ask Elisabetta anything. Sebastian would have to wait.

  Elisabetta had gone very quiet and still, but she sat as front-row ready as ever: long legs tucked under her chair, arms crossed in front of her and with her pretty basket on the floor by her side. From behind her Jackie O shades she gave nothing away. Was she asleep? I wondered.

  “Elisabetta?” I asked.

  No answer.

  “Elisabetta?” I walked up to her and gently tapped her shoulder with a finger, but got no reaction. She didn’t move at all. Hmm…she must be asleep. Well, like it or not, I thought, I had to wake her – an entire team was waiting for her to get the ball rolling. Slowly I leaned forward, intending to tap her arm and talk directly into her ear. But as I moved towards her and my hand settled on her shoulder, I got a bad feeling. Even if she was sleeping, there was something odd about the way she was sitting. I pulled back suddenly as an icy creepiness stole over me.

  It couldn’t be anything more than a deep sleep, could it? Besides, she hadn’t been feeling well; she’d just taken some pills, so wasn’t it likely that she’d fall into a deeper sleep than usual?

  Well, there was only one way to put my mind at ease, I told myself with a feigned cheerfulness before lowering myself to her eye level. Gently I shook her shoulder.

  No response.

  I shook her again, more forcefully this time, but still nothing.

  Carefully, I lifted the sunglasses from the fine-boned bridge of Elisabetta’s tiny nose and peered at her eyes… That’s when a cold, clammy fear grasped at my throat and I recoiled in horror.

  The glassy stare of her open eyes burned into my mind as I staggered backwards, struggling to find my voice. The glasses slid back down her nose and above their rim her blank gaze followed me. Her eyes were flat and glazed; they looked as lifeless as two wet marbles.

  Now I understood why she sat so still.

  Elisabetta wasn’t asleep.

  She was dead.

  Thoughts swirled full-speed through my mind senselessly. The overriding emotion, though, was shock; after all, I’d never seen a dead body – let alone had someone die right in front of me.

  I had to get help.

  My voice was blocked by fear; I didn’t trust myself to call out. I staggered over to the heavy linen curtain and pulled it open. For a moment I stood looking out at the others milling around the set on the far side of the studio – everything seemed so normal. The music played loudly and the sound of laughter floated across the vast space beyond me. Everyone else was busy, happily consumed by their work.

  I desperately wanted someone – anyone – to come and see Elisabetta and explain to me what had happened.

  My legs still shaking, I finally managed to call out, but no one responded. Even to my own ears my voice had sounded barely more than a whisper. I called again and waved my arm and from across the studio one of the photographer’s assistants saw me. He must have thought I was motioning for Marzia because she turned to me, holding up two fingers to signal that she’d be with me in a couple of minutes. For me, right now, that was enough; someone was coming, help was on its way.

  Then a thought occurred to me: what if she wasn’t really dea
d? I forced myself to take as deep a breath as possible. I straightened my back and moved towards Elisabetta. It had all happened so quickly, I had to check. I kneeled by Elisabetta’s side and steeled myself before taking her wrist. I felt for her pulse but there was none. I tried her other wrist but it was the same. Then I stood up and leaned in close to her face, straining my ears to listen, but I couldn’t hear a thing. There wasn’t the faintest movement or sound of breath.

  She must have had some kind of heart attack, I thought as I pulled back, still in shock. I’d heard of things like that striking even when people were in the prime of their lives. I could hardly bear to look at her frail form, dressed in such lively clothes. She was sitting there so elegantly, her pretty basket at her feet and not a hair out of place. Except for the sickly hue of her skin, she looked as startlingly pretty in death as she had in life.

  I felt panic begin to overtake me again. Where was Marzia, what was taking so long? I called her name from where I stood, my voice louder this time, more frantic. Then I turned away from Elisabetta, closed my eyes and tried to slow my breathing. When I opened my eyes again, time seemed to stand still for a moment as I stared across the room.

  My gaze fell on Elisabetta’s basket. Without really thinking, I bent over it and reached in, searching for the medication she’d swallowed earlier. I’d have to make the emergency services aware of what she’d taken. It felt strange rifling through her belongings – I could see the corner of her wallet poking out from under a spray can of facial mist, a notebook of some kind, a newspaper, a make-up bag, and a clear plastic bag with a pair of white Nike trainers inside. All completely normal – and yet weird. They’d never be used again; their owner was dead.

  At last I found the tablets and took them out of the basket, then turned back to the curtain. What was keeping Marzia? Looking out, I saw she was halfway across the studio, heading towards me.

  Thank goodness. I’d been alone with Elisabetta for long enough. The shock and panic I’d been unable to shake was starting to subside into the nausea of horror.

  Marzia walked in, smiling, until she met my eyes. “Axelle, what’s wrong?” She hastened towards me.

  Without a word I turned and pointed to Elisabetta. Marzia advanced upon her boss but stopped suddenly, frozen with shock. I watched as she looked at Elisabetta. She moved her hands to cover her mouth but a second later she dropped her arms again and let out a shrill, high-pitched scream that reverberated around the studio.

  The shoot was immediately cancelled. After Marzia had gone screaming out of the dressing room it had taken a few minutes for the team to understand exactly what had happened.

  Craig, the photographer, was the first one to come running to the dressing area, while the others followed behind him to see what the fuss was about. One look at Elisabetta, though, was enough to make it clear that something was very wrong. “What’s happened?” Craig asked, taking charge as he rushed to her side and grabbed her wrist.

  “She’s dead,” I blurted, my voice sounding wobbly. The whole situation seemed so unreal, yet here I was saying it out loud. “There’s no pulse, she was just sitting on that chair feeling unwell one moment, and then coughed and died the next – all while I was trying on my outfit.”

  Giulia ran out, hands over her mouth, while Benoit and the studio assistants stood frozen and silent, their eyes wide with shock.

  “Call for an ambulance,” Craig told one of the studio assistants. His voice was sharp and matter-of-fact. “And then call the studio management – they need to be alerted, too.”

  The assistant ran for help and I explained what had happened in more detail while Craig checked Elisabetta’s other wrist for a pulse and put his ear to her mouth to listen for breath.

  After a minute or two, the studio assistant returned. “An ambulance is on its way and the studio has called the police. A team will be here in a few minutes. They’ve asked us all to stay…they’ll need to speak to us…”

  Craig nodded as he carefully pushed Elisabetta’s sunglasses back up the bridge of her nose. “We don’t need to keep seeing her eyes,” he said. Then he took a deep breath before turning away from her. “I don’t think there’s anything else we can do besides wait for the police. I just need to make a few phone calls…”

  “Me too,” Benoit said as he filed out behind Craig, the two studio assistants beside him. I decided to do the same – I had to call my agency – and Sebastian!

  As I walked towards the set, however, I remembered that I was still wearing the dress, jewellery and gloves Elisabetta had asked me to try on! I stopped with a jolt – I was suddenly desperate to get back into my own clothes. I turned around and pulled the curtain shut behind me before changing as quickly as possible, trying to forget Elisabetta’s glassy eyes staring at me from behind her large designer sunglasses.

  Automatically, I reached for my phone in the back pocket of my jeans; it wasn’t there. I walked out to the hair and make-up table but my phone wasn’t there either. Next I had a quick look in my bag – which was still next to Benoit where I’d left it – but I didn’t find it.

  Then I remembered that I’d had it with me in the dressing area when I’d been with Elisabetta – Sebastian had texted me, I’d seen it light up. I was just heading back behind the curtain when the police arrived. I stopped and watched as they strode into the studio, their determined strides and easy chatter making it clear that, for them, unexpected death was a normal part of their lives. Another siren wailed outside; I stood aside as Craig led some of the officers into the dressing area. “You should come with us, too, Axelle,” he said, “to explain what happened.”

  The studio was suddenly humming with activity. While the paramedics and a pathologist examined Elisabetta, a uniformed police officer took out his notebook and spoke to Craig. Two more officers looked around the studio and another two began photographing the dressing area and Elisabetta. While Craig spoke with the police, I started quietly searching for my phone. But after a quick sweep of the area I still couldn’t find it. I must have knocked it onto the floor…

  Craig and the police were still deep in discussion so I bent down and scanned the the area carefully. But nothing caught my eye. Well, almost nothing.

  Under the small sofa just in front of me, next to a ball of dust and hair, there was a suspiciously neatly folded gum wrapper. A bit further under the sofa, I thought I spotted a piece of thin grey cardboard. It was easy to miss because in the shadows under the sofa it was the exact same colour as the floor. Without further thought I rapidly swept up both items with my right hand.

  I’d have a look at them as soon as I had a moment to myself. I did quickly note, though, that what I’d thought was a piece of cardboard was in fact an envelope – and there seemed to be something in it. Could it have fallen out of Elisabetta’s basket earlier? Possibly. We’d looked around carefully at the time but maybe this had slipped under the sofa unseen? Elisabetta’s name wasn’t on the front though…

  I suddenly stopped myself: I was acting as if I was working on a case and looking for circumstantial evidence when, actually, it was more than likely that Elisabetta had had a heart attack…

  Or was it?

  The tiniest inkling of suspicion suddenly broke through the lingering shock I still felt. After all, Elisabetta was young and in seemingly good health. It couldn’t have been natural for her to just die like that. I know it happens…but, still, that kind of thing is rare. I stood, quietly reflecting on the events of the morning. And somehow I couldn’t help feeling that I’d just witnessed more than a straightforward natural death.

  I struggled as thoughts of my mum suddenly floated through my head. “Don’t start meddling in things which are none of your business, Axelle,” she’d say.

  But now that I was slowly getting back to normal and the police were here, I couldn’t ignore the idea that maybe there was something fishy about
Elisabetta’s sudden death.

  Think, Axelle, think.

  If it turned out later that something shady had indeed happened to Elisabetta, wouldn’t I kick myself for not having looked for any clues? And for not taking the gum wrapper and envelope with me when I’d had the chance? Of course, they were more than likely forgotten rubbish…but, still, why risk leaving them behind to be swept away by the studio clean-up crew? In fact, I suppose I had a duty to hand them over to the police…

  It was then that Craig called me over.

  As I walked towards him and the two police officers, I finally spotted my phone on the table lying amongst the accessories for the shoot, so I slipped it back into the pocket of my jeans. Then, after a quick introduction, I began to explain to the police exactly what had happened – making sure to show them the medication Elisabetta had taken. But if I’d been expecting an exciting television crime show kind of interview session, I was sadly disappointed. It was nothing of the sort at all.

  The police listened to everything I had to say about what I’d witnessed (it took some time – they didn’t speak great English and I certainly didn’t speak any Italian), asked me a few questions about my arrival in Milan, took down my contact details, agency details and passport number and we were finished. That was it. No interesting questions, no why do you think it happened – none of that.

  Out of earshot of the police I talked to Craig about it.

  “Obviously she just had a heart attack or something. So what’s there to ask?” Craig shrugged his shoulders.

  “But how can they be so sure?” I hissed. “For all they know I might’ve had a long-standing grudge against Elisabetta and wanted to do her in.” It popped out before I could stop myself.

  Craig looked at me oddly. “Um…Axelle, are you trying to tell me that you’d rather Elisabetta had been murdered? And that you want to be a suspect? Because that’s seriously weird. Why don’t you just go back to your flat and take a break – seeing Elisabetta die right in front of you can’t have been easy.”