Model Under Cover--Dressed to Kill Read online

  “I’m fine, Craig, thanks. I just think the police are letting me go too easily.”

  Craig pursed his lips. “You know, Axelle, maybe you should talk to your agency. I’m sure—”

  But I didn’t want to hear any more of Craig’s advice, so I turned to the police while he was mid-sentence and held out my hand with the gum wrapper and dirty envelope. I tried telling them in English, slowly and carefully so they understood, that I’d found these two items under the sofa. “I thought they might be of importance to your investigation.” They didn’t say anything. “You know – importante,” I said again as I tried handing them the envelope. At that moment some of the dust that still clung to the envelope flew up one of the policeman’s nostrils, triggering an extremely loud bout of sneezing.

  The officer’s partner wasted no time in telling me that, for the moment, they didn’t have anything else to ask me and that the best thing I could do to help their investigation would be to leave the dressing area. He put his hand on my shoulder and actually tried to turn me towards the curtain.

  “They could be important,” I insisted, although even I had to admit that under the bright lights of the studio, the folded gum wrapper and scruffy, unmarked envelope looked anything but.

  As I walked out of the dressing area the curtain divider was pulled quickly shut behind me.

  I wasn’t about to leave the studio, though. They weren’t going to get rid of me that easily… I planned on hanging around at least until that niggling feeling at the back of my mind – the one telling me that there might be more to Elisabetta’s death than met the eye – had calmed down.

  I walked to a quiet corner of the studio and called my booker, Tomasso. He was shocked to hear about Elisabetta, and concerned that I’d want to fly straight home: “Of course, I understand if you want to…it means I’ll have to cancel your bookings, but maybe I can reschedule them… Oh, Axelle! What a start to your Milanese week! I’ll start calling off your appointments now – and to think I was so excited about you being here! And I was going to tell you, the casting director, Kristine Abrams, asked to see you today about walking in one of the men’s shows this week.”

  I gritted my teeth. The men’s fashion shows were on in Milan this week and, yes, it could be great publicity to be the only girl, or one of a small handful, to walk down the runway at a men’s show, but my mind was on other things now.

  One of the police officers had just stuck his head out from behind the curtain to the dressing area and yelled out a sentence in Italian that included a word sounding suspiciously like “toxicology”…

  Tomasso was still droning on as I held the phone away from my ear, concentrating on trying to hear what the police were saying – not that I understood much.

  “Tomasso,” I said suddenly, cutting him off mid-stream, “what does tossicologia mean?”

  “Huh?”

  I repeated the word.

  “Er…it’s a kind of science that, er…studies the effects made by things like…” He was struggling to answer, completely thrown by my question.

  “Like what?”

  “Like veleno.” I waited while he searched for the English word. He was silent for a moment – it felt like an hour. And then finally he blurted out, “You know, like poison. But why do you ask?”

  I didn’t answer. My mind was whirring fast, a thousand scenarios playing themselves out and Elisabetta was at the centre of them all.

  “Axelle?”

  “Yes, Tomasso, I’m here – and, by the way, I’m staying. Don’t bother changing a thing on my schedule.”

  “But what about Kristine Abrams? At what time can you see her? Surely the police need to question—”

  I didn’t hear the rest. I told him I’d call him back and then hung up.

  Needless to say, now more than ever I was determined to stay at the studio. I was curious as to why the police wanted to run toxicology tests. It seemed even more possible that something unusual had happened to Elisabetta – and I didn’t want to miss out on any developments.

  I took a short breath of air and finally admitted what had been dancing around my mind since I’d lifted her sunglasses. I mean, hypothetically speaking, what if Elisabetta had been murdered? And what if someone in the studio knew more than they were letting on? I couldn’t just leave now; I had to stay as long as possible and listen in on as much as I could.

  I watched as one of the policemen opened the studio door and admitted an assistant carrying a tray laden with Thermos flasks of fresh coffee and tea. As I walked back towards the others, I reached into my bag and searched for the gum wrapper. The police had made it clear that they weren’t interested in my finds, so I figured they belonged to me now. Without further hesitation I pulled out the gum wrapper and unfolded it, hopeful I’d find something written on it (wrappers are great places to write secret notes; nobody coming across one in your handbag or wallet would think to look twice). In the end however, I was disappointed; there was nothing there.

  I walked to the nearest wastepaper bin and chucked the wrapper away, then I reached back into my bag and pulled out the envelope. I was just about to open it when I saw Benoit returning – he’d just been questioned. I made straight for him in the hope that I could glean some information. Along the way I heard the word tossicologia yet again. I asked Benoit about it.

  “Yes, they will be running tests…although I think it’s pretty standard procedure for any sudden, unexplained deaths.”

  “If it’s not unusual then I wonder what they think they’ll find?” I asked.

  “Well, she was celebrating,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders, as if that explained everything.

  “What do you mean?” I pressed.

  Benoit stopped cleaning his large black Mason Pearson hairbrush and looked at me. “Please take what I’m going to tell you as more of a warning than gossip…but in her younger days Elisabetta was known as a real party animal. She’d be up all night, hitting the dance clubs – and I mean real dance clubs, from the underground dance scene, not these chichi nightclubs filled with rich bankers and trust fund kids. She was dancing, but also doing drugs…nothing heavy, but, well, sometimes…”

  “And you think that’s why she may have died? Because she’d taken something last night?” I took my phone back out of my rucksack and carried on talking while I did a little online research. I was curious about Elisabetta’s symptoms.

  “It’s definitely possible…but…” Benoit answered slowly.

  “But you’re not convinced.”

  “The thing is,” he said, “we both stopped partying at the same time – and for the same reason – some years ago.”

  “What was the reason?” I asked, quickly looking down at the small screen of my phone. As far as I could see, her symptoms might be indicative of any number of things, including, it seemed, misuse of different forms of drugs. It made for scary reading…

  “Our jobs – and the success that came with them. We were both working so much, and travelling all the time, that we just sort of grew out of it. It became impossible to go out every night and show up for early starts the next day with clients who were paying us a small fortune. We went cold turkey at the same time and haven’t looked back since. These days we compare detox and juicing tips – or we did, anyway.” A pained expression played across Benoit’s face as he paused before continuing. “To tell you the truth, I’d be extremely surprised if Elisabetta had done more than drink a glass of champagne last night…but you never know. She did sometimes have a few drinks – but nothing like before.”

  “Maybe she had an allergic reaction to something?” I asked. “That might explain the need for tests.”

  Benoit sounded unconvinced as he put his hairdryer away. “I’ve never heard her mention any allergies.”

  “By the way,” I said after a moment, “I know she
was at the Moda Italia Awards last night, she won Editor of the Year. And I think I heard her say something about celebrating at an after-party somewhere. I wonder where she went…?”

  “She went to Ugo Anbessa’s party,” Benoit said. “I was invited, too, but it was very late, very last-minute and, besides, I’d only just flown in. I opted for room service at the Four Seasons instead. I could kick myself now for not staying with her last night.”

  Hmm…Ugo Anbessa. Since I’d started working undercover as a model I’d learned enough to know that Ugo Anbessa was Italy’s hottest young designer. Brash, savvy and talented, he was in his mid-twenties and designed for the famous Italian fashion house, Falco Ventini. And if his Instagram feed was anything to go by, he only dressed the biggest names in music, fashion and acting. He referred to them as his #Ventiniarmy.

  Ugo had taken over as creative director of the Falco Ventini brand after Falco had died. He’d been an assistant designer on Falco’s team and although the management had taken a risk in promoting him to the top job so young, their gamble had paid off. Ugo’s sexy designs and social media savvy had driven sales to highs the company had never experienced before – even while Falco himself had been alive. Ugo was creating a new template to revive a historic fashion house and the corporate fashionistas were taking note. He was Italy’s designer of the moment – and he looked like he’d stay at the top for a while.

  “So she was friendly with Ugo Anbessa?”

  “Yes,” Benoit continued. “And Ugo won Womenswear Designer of the Year last night, you know…so after that it was inevitable that he’d invite a handful of good friends around – and yes, he and Elisabetta are – were – very close.”

  “I wonder how long she stayed? Or if she went anywhere else after she left Ugo’s,” I said.

  “I have no idea, but I suppose the police will question Ugo.”

  Benoit stopped to look at his watch. “I have to go. Now this shoot’s cancelled I promised my assistant I’d help her prep for tomorrow’s men’s show. Lovely seeing you again, though, Axelle.”

  Before he turned to leave, however, I pulled out the scruffy envelope from my rucksack and quickly asked him if it was his. He shook his head. I also asked Giulia and then the two studio assistants about it, but they too said the envelope wasn’t theirs. It didn’t belong to Craig either. So whose was it?

  After a little while I noticed that a policewoman had sat down with Giulia at the make-up table. She appeared to be questioning her. Perfect! I didn’t want to miss any developments. I quickly made my way towards them and sat behind the officer, as close as I dared. I tried to listen in but the policewoman must have sensed something because she cleared her throat loudly, then spun round on her chair.

  “Haven’t we questioned you already?” she asked me in heavily accented English as she tapped her notebook with her pen.

  “I’m just sitting here quietly – I promise,” I said. “I’m still in shock, not ready to move at the moment. You’ll forget I’m here.”

  But the policewoman wasn’t having any of it. I watched as she stood up with a heavy sigh.

  “I’ll only stay for a while…” I made my last attempt, holding out the scruffy envelope I’d found. “Here,” I said, as I thrust it under her nose. “I found this in the dressing room under the sofa. Wouldn’t you like to have it? I can hold it for you until you’ve finished questioning Giulia.”

  “Signorina,” she said, with a tight-lipped glare as she waved the envelope away with a karate-like movement of her hand. “We have already questioned you. So, per favore, go home. Now. Subito.” She leaned in to me as she said this last word, before adding, “I’ve never met anyone who actually wants to stay under these kinds of circumstance. You are the first – and I’m not sure it’s a compliment. Now go home and let us finish our work—”

  “But—” I interrupted.

  “Without you here,” she finished, cutting me off as she placed her hand on my shoulder and pushed me in the direction of the studio exit. Then, before I could say anything, she turned round and signalled to one of her colleagues to show me to the door.

  So much for my not missing out on any developments.

  I stood still as the studio door shut behind me. Was that it? The end of my involvement with Elisabetta? Would I have to find out what happened to her from the newspapers? Or by extracting from Tomasso inaccurate (and probably nasty) bits of information he heard through the fashion grapevine? As I sighed with frustration, I noticed a trolley with our breakfast leftovers parked just next to me. Without thinking I reached for a clean knife. I needed a distraction – and I had the perfect one.

  Nobody from the team had claimed the envelope – and the police had flatly refused to even consider it – so now I felt I could look at it with a clean conscience. Without further thought I slipped the knife blade under the sealed flap of the envelope. I mean, whether it had belonged to Elisabetta or not, I was curious about its contents.

  I’d expected some kind of folded note or possibly a bit of money…but what I pulled out caught me completely by surprise. The overhead light of the corridor reflected off the metallic surfaces of three very old, very worn, but still exquisitely beautiful and intricately painted cards. A delicate sheet of protective paper lay between them – clearly they were fragile and maybe valuable, too.

  I gasped as I stared at them; their extravagant and totally unexpected beauty was beguiling. Each card appeared to be painted by hand and all three were rendered in vivid, metallic paint that had worn away in places. The cards shimmered gently in the light as I tilted them in my hands.

  They were rectangular in shape and, judging from the discernible weave of their surface, the thick paper they were made from looked to be hand pressed and hand cut – no surprise, I thought, considering they looked very old. I had no idea whether they were meant to be small paintings, or maybe even playing cards of some sort, but their colour palette reminded me of the medieval religious paintings we’d studied in world history at school last year.

  The first card showed a bearded man who was colourfully dressed. He was sitting on a bench wearing a large hat with a wide, floppy brim and a long plume tucked into it. His hands lay on a trestle table in front of him. I peered closely at the cards. They looked like the tricks I’d seen at a Museum of Magic my parents had taken me to once. Three walnut shells were laid out in front of the magician; I guessed he would keep moving them about while the viewer had to guess which shell was hiding some little token or other. Maybe the man on this card was a magician.

  I turned the card over but there was no image and no words on the back; it was painted in metallic silver and stamped with a repetitive graphic design. The backs of the other cards were all identical.

  On the face of the second card was the image of a beautiful and radiant lady, her hair tucked under a large cap of shining gold. Dressed in a long and elaborately decorated dress, she rode a white horse that had a saddle and bridle as fine as her robe. I had no idea who she was and nothing on the card gave me a clue.

  As for the third card, although edged with gold, the background was black, and a hollow-eyed, sickle-carrying skeleton stood in the centre. His ghoulish smile seemed to mock me as he danced in the middle of the black-and-gold card, his jawbone hanging open in a permanent cackle.

  The sight of this last card reminded me of a shop my gran had once taken me to. It had been tucked away on a tiny, lively street behind Covent Garden in London. The shop specialized in the occult – and they’d had some cards there very similar to the ones I now held in my hands. The cards in the shop had been newer, with sharp edges and a flat, glossy surface, but the images had been much the same – and there’d been one just like this. I felt a surge of excitement as I finally realized what I was looking at.

  Tarot cards.

  What an odd thing to find! Why here? And why three of them? Where w
as the rest of the pack? And who did they belong to?

  I stopped in my tracks and allowed these thoughts to spin through my mind. Tarot cards…hmm. They were interesting…but kind of freaky, too – the images were so spooky. But at this point I didn’t see how they could possibly connect to Elisabetta…although…

  A shiver ran through me again as a new thought suddenly came to me. I looked at the cards once more. Images on tarot cards are always symbolic. Nothing appears on them by chance or simply because it looks pretty. As I examined the magician on the first card I felt certain that card must refer to magic or luck. I wasn’t sure about the one with the lady; mentally I put it down on my TBLI (To Be Looked Into) list.

  Slowly I put the second card behind the third and studied the image of the mocking skeleton. I felt another shiver run down my spine because this image had a very clear meaning…and that was death.

  I swallowed loudly as a new thought sprang to mind: Maybe these cards do have some connection to Elisabetta after all?

  My mum’s voice found its way into my thoughts, like a foghorn cutting through a stormy night: “Your imagination is running away with you, Axelle. It’s just a coincidence. Do you hear me: a coincidence!”

  Really?

  The trouble was I didn’t believe in coincidences. My grandfather had been a detective – at Scotland Yard, no less – and now some of his sleuthing wisdom came to mind: An incident that appears to be coincidence is often some kind of plan masquerading as chance. He’d reasoned that most people simply preferred to believe in chance than imagine there might be something suspicious going on.

  Hmm…

  Just then I heard a door open into the corridor behind me. Quickly I put the cards back into the envelope, stashed them in my rucksack and walked briskly forward. The cards might be valuable – and they certainly looked old. Perhaps they had an interesting history? Maybe they belonged to a collection somewhere? At the very least I should track down a tarot card collector or dealer, someone who could tell me about the cards and perhaps even help me trace their owner… And who knew, maybe my grandfather’s words would be prophetic? Maybe finding the card of death in the dressing area of the studio where Elisabetta had died wasn’t just a coincidence…