Model Under Cover--Dressed to Kill Read online

  I didn’t say anything as my eyes swept the room, but Sebastian coughed uncomfortably and answered, “Thank you, but I’m here to assist, so…I think I’ll just hang out and…you know…assist…”

  “Suit yourself,” said Francesca with a shrug of her shoulders. “But if you need anything let me know…oh!” Her eyes zeroed in on the helmets Sebastian still carried in his left hand. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t notice you were still carrying those. I must have been distracted.” She gave Sebastian a look that could have made even a nose-picking troll swoon.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, smiling at her. “I don’t mind hanging on to them.”

  Francesca shook her pretty head and batted her lashes some more. “No, no, I’ll show you where to put them. Follow me.” Then with another smile and a languid wave of her tanned wrist, she motioned to Sebastian – and he followed her.

  “I’m sorry to leave you, Holmes,” he whispered as he passed me, “but as your assistant, I might pick up some useful information for us this way.”

  I was just about to answer him when Ugo bounced into the room. “Axelle!” he said as he zoomed over to me, clasped my hand with both of his and gave me a double air-kiss. He was dressed in a black T-shirt with a V-neck collar, black jeans and black suede boots – he looked more like a hip-hop star than a fashion designer. A beautifully cut double-breasted black jacket with satin lapels completed his look – well, that and the large gold watch and colourful assortment of bracelets on his wrist. His hair was dark, very short and tightly curled; his skin smooth and brown.

  “I’m so happy you’re here – and grazie a Dio that the police have left, their questions were so distressing! Especially when Elisabetta’s death is still so fresh – too fresh!” He was silent for a moment and I thought he might start to cry, but he pulled himself together and said, “Anyway, thank you so much for coming. Please have a seat,” he said, motioning towards the sofa.

  I watched as he walked to the double doors that led into his living room and shut them. “What I have to say is for our ears alone,” Ugo said as he crossed the room to an antique chest standing against the wall opposite me. On top of it stood a carafe filled with some kind of drink, and glasses.

  “Iced tea?” he asked. I accepted and after he’d set a tray with two glasses down on the coffee table in front of us, we started talking in earnest. He asked about the morning at Megastudio; he wanted to hear every detail of Elisabetta’s last moments. I told him, and as I spoke I watched him carefully.

  Ugo was an edgy mix of street style and high fashion; that combination was, in fact, a part of his rags-to-riches story. I knew a lot about him from the fashion gossip I’d heard, and had refreshed my memory with a quick check online while I was at the photo studio earlier.

  Ugo grew up in a deprived area on the outskirts of Milan with his single mother, who was originally from Eritrea. When he showed a talent for style and drawing at an early age, his mother did all she could to encourage him. Ugo went on to win a place at the famous design school Istituto Marangoni, and was quickly deemed “one to watch”. He graduated top of his class and one of the most trendsetting Milan boutiques bought his entire first collection.

  After graduation, he became accessories designer at the prestigious Italian fashion label, Falco Ventini. Company founder Falco Ventini himself hoped that Ugo’s appointment would help him to draw a younger clientele, but according to fashion rumours, by that time, the Ventini fashion house was practically bankrupt – Ugo had been brought in too late to save it.

  Now in his mid-fifties, Falco couldn’t adapt to styles outside of his old-fashioned couture bubble. And although he could recognize that Ugo’s handbag and shoe designs were exciting and trend-worthy, he personally found them too brash. So, despite plummeting profits, Ugo and Falco agreed to part company. Then, just as Ugo was about to jump ship, Falco died unexpectedly and the Ventini brand was snapped up by a large French fashion conglomerate.

  The new shareholders asked Ugo to stay on as overall fashion director of the Ventini brand – an offer he couldn’t refuse. With Falco gone, Ugo and the House of Ventini were a perfect match. Ugo’s rocker chic jackets, tight leather trousers and gladiator stilettos became global hits and the biggest names in music and film flocked to his shows. Furthermore, his savvy use of social media ensured that the Ventini brand was discovered by a whole new generation of fashion lovers.

  And now not only was he having to come to terms with the death of his good friend and fellow fashionista, Elisabetta Rinconi, he was number one suspect in her murder. No wonder he looked so stressed. The last thing Ugo needed was for the story to hit the papers – the Ventini shareholders would not be pleased. I’d have to move quickly to make sure it didn’t happen…

  “We came here straight after the Moda Italia Awards last night,” Ugo was saying, “to celebrate our wins. We were so excited! Anyway, it seemed natural for all of us to come here for an after-party.”

  “Who was ‘all of us’?” I asked as I pulled my notebook out of my rucksack. Before I started writing, though, I also quickly switched on the recorder on my phone – there was no way I could afford to miss a word of this.

  “Friends. Close ones. We all came back here together, straight from the awards, for a bite to eat.”

  “Can I have their names?”

  “Of course. For starters there was me and Francesca – you met her when you came in.”

  I sure did, I thought to myself as I nodded. “She told us she is your assistant.”

  “Esatto. But she is also more than that, in a sense.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She is Falco Ventini’s niece. She was working for Falco as a junior design assistant when I took over as creative director. She’s only twenty and had already been there a year – when I stepped in to take charge I decided to keep her on, but as my personal assistant instead.”

  “But if Francesca was involved with the business – designing for it even – why wasn’t she asked to have a more prominent role after her uncle died?”

  Ugo’s dark eyes quickly darted to the closed doors of the room before he answered. Leaning forward he whispered, “Francesca is a great girl, don’t get me wrong. If she wasn’t I wouldn’t have asked her to stay on, but, honestly, she couldn’t design her way out of a plastic bag.” He lowered his voice even further before continuing. “And even as my PA she tends to think that, as a Ventini, she should have some say – quite a bit, in fact – in the business. If I’d kept her in the design department I’d be arguing with her constantly. Of course, she wasn’t too pleased about becoming my assistant, but it was better than leaving the company altogether. She forgets that today the Ventini brand belongs to a different company and likes to drop in her connection to Falco whenever she can. But, honestly, as far as the business is concerned, the only meaningful link to Falco that still exists – besides the name – is the one I make.”

  I wasn’t sure what Ugo meant by this last comment. I looked at him questioningly.

  “What I mean is that for me Falco’s spirit is still very much alive in the archive we have at the company headquarters. I’m very inspired by Ventini’s past and all that Falco created. I’d like to think that I bring his spirit alive, but for a new generation.”

  The Ventini history was interesting, but I needed to stick to the basic facts for now. “So who else was here last night?” I asked.

  “Well…actually,” Ugo said, as he suddenly sprang up from the sofa and walked across to a high desk by the wall behind me, “I think this might be helpful.” He pulled a sheet of paper from a drawer and handed it to me. It was a list of the people who’d been at the party the previous night, with a brief description of each of them.

  “I asked Francesca to help me write it when the police were here. I was so upset by Elisabetta’s death that when they suddenly appea
red at my door I found I couldn’t remember a thing. Anyway, this is a photocopy of the list I gave them – but you can have it. It might help.”

  “Thank you,” I said, taking the sheet and running my eyes up and down the eleven names written on it.

  Ugo Anbessa – creative director at Falco Ventini.

  Francesca Ventini – Ugo Anbessa’s personal assistant and Falco Ventini’s niece.

  Elisabetta Rinconi – fashion editor at Amare magazine.

  Kristine Abrams – New York City-based casting director.

  Alessandro Matteo – male model. Walked for Ventini under Falco and walks for Ugo now, too.

  Ginevra Mucci – editor-in-chief of Amare magazine.

  *Countessa Lavinia Sommerino D’Alda – worked for many years as Ventini’s in-house head of PR and handled Falco’s haute couture clients.

  *Coco Sommerino D’Alda – Lavinia’s sixteen-year-old daughter. Coco is a new Ventini brand ambassador.

  *Rafaela Cruz – New York City-based supermodel.

  *5Zentz – famous rapper and Rafaela’s boyfriend.

  Maria Fiscella – Ugo Anbessa’s housekeeper.

  With the exception of Alessandro Matteo, Maria Fiscella, Lavinia Sommerino D’Alda and her daughter Coco, I was familiar with all the names on the list, and I even knew some of Ugo’s friends personally. The one I knew best was Rafaela Cruz, the supermodel. I’d met her in New York City. We’d modelled together and she’d been involved in the case I’d been asked to investigate there.

  I also knew Kristine Abrams, of course, from New York City. As casting director, she’d booked me for a couple of the shows I’d done there. She was very quiet and gentle (surprising, considering she held so much sway with the major fashion players). It was difficult to imagine her raising her voice let alone poisoning anyone… But I had to remind myself of my favourite phrase: Given the right circumstances anyone is capable of anything.

  So, nice or not, Kristine was not off the hook – yet.

  Coco Sommerino D’Alda I’d never met properly – although I’d seen her backstage at the Chanel and Lanvin fashion shows in Paris; she’d been followed by a small pack of paparazzi everywhere she went. I’d never met her mother at all, though.

  As for Ginevra Mucci, I wouldn’t be surprised if the agency already had a go-see arranged for me to meet her – but, if not, I’d have to see if I could finagle one.

  I remembered my phone conversation with Tomasso. He’d also said something about seeing Kristine Abrams. I’d brushed him off earlier, but obviously it was time to tell him I was ready to meet her. Maybe I could see her after I’d finished questioning Ugo. If she was casting for the fashion shows then she’d probably be casting until late into the evening…and what better place to “bump” into Alessandro than at a casting for the men’s shows? He was bound to be going to all of them…

  Rafaela I’d call tonight, and hopefully Sebastian was already asking Francesca about Ugo’s after-party. I’d need to meet the others, too, but how? I took a deep breath and told myself I’d find a way. I’d start by calling Tomasso for an appointment with Kristine. As for the others, maybe Ellie could help me.

  “And what do the asterisks mean?” I asked Ugo.

  “They are the friends who left early, which is important because timing is a strong factor in any kind of poisoning, apparently.” He stopped and let out a long breath. “Of course, we have to wait for the test results, but the police seemed fairly convinced by the idea that Elisabetta had been poisoned by my monkshood plant.”

  “How do they think she ingested the poison?”

  “The police talked about three scenarios, the first one being that the poison must have been in the food I served.” A look of disbelief crossed Ugo’s face as he spoke – and who could blame him. “Which is why they’ve asked me not to leave town. Naturalmente, this request to stay put makes me look guilty without even trying.”

  “Not necessarily,” I said as lightly as possible before moving him forward. “And what’s the second scenario?”

  “That she ate it accidentally – don’t ask me how.” Ugo shook his head and looked down at his lap.

  “What do you think about that?”

  “I say no way! She knew that the plant was poisonous. In fact, nearly everyone on the list knew about the plant. I always mention it to my guests because I think it’s interesting how something so beautiful can be so deadly – and I didn’t want any accidents happening, either…” He shook his head in disbelief. “Anyway, monkshood tastes very bitter apparently. It’s not the kind of plant that you could eat much of, even if you wanted to. So accidental deaths are nearly unheard of where monkshood is concerned…”

  “So what’s the third scenario?”

  “That she ate it on purpose.”

  “To kill herself?” I felt my eyes widen.

  Ugo nodded. “I don’t believe it for a second – and nor would anyone who knew her. Look, Elisabetta had a bit of a chaotic life, yes. She didn’t come from a happy childhood and she had some money trouble lately, too, but I mean, who doesn’t? She was never depressed. She loved her life and was especially thrilled about being a fashion editor at Amare…and she’d just won an award!”

  The idea that she’d killed herself also surely went against what she’d mumbled in the studio earlier that morning, while she was swallowing her tablets. She’d said she had something important she had to do tonight. I’d have to ask Ugo about that later.

  “So when do the police think the poisoning happened?” I asked.

  “Of course, they can only guess at this point, but if it’s the monkshood then it must have been late – midnight maybe. Certainly not much after that. They say if she’d been poisoned at, say, 4 p.m. she would have started suffering during the awards show. As it was, it seemed she slept through the night and the symptoms only really started to kick in before she left for work.”

  I nodded, remembering what she’d said at the studio that morning. “She told us she’d woken up early feeling unwell.”

  “That’s what the police said, too. Of course, her time of death also depends on how much poison she actually ingested but the tests results will confirm that.”

  “So what time did you eat last night?”

  “About midnight – precisely when they suspect she must have been poisoned. We were back here at about ten-thirty but we didn’t start on the canapés until later. The guests with the asterisks had already left by then.”

  “Meaning that they couldn’t have tampered with the food?”

  “Esatto.”

  “Unless they’d gone into the kitchen while the food was being prepared?”

  “That’s unlikely. Maria, my housekeeper – you’ll find her name at the bottom of the list I gave you – was the only one in the kitchen. And she didn’t leave any food unattended until she brought it all out of the kitchen and laid it on the dining room table. In theory the guests could have gone into the kitchen, distracted Maria, and tampered with the food, but in reality, they would have needed one of Harry Potter’s Invisibility Cloaks to get past Maria. Even I’m not allowed to taste anything before she brings it out.”

  “Anyway,” I said, “if those guests had left by the time the food was served, how could they have been sure that the poisoned food would reach their intended victim?”

  Ugo shrugged his shoulders. “Good point.”

  Hmm…I was quiet for a moment as I mulled over this new scenario. What if Elisabetta was not the intended victim? Was she poisoned by mistake? Did Elisabetta unwittingly choose a poisoned snack from the platter after the killer had left Ugo’s apartment? What a horrible thought! But until proven otherwise, it was a possibility I had to consider. Although it seemed like an unusually high risk for anyone to take. Unless it was a random killing just for the sake of murder? A chill ran up m
y spine at the thought.

  “And have any of your other guests felt sick today?”

  “No. Not a one. They’ve all called me – they’re all in shock – and I think the police have questioned most of them by now, too. Anyway, like me, they woke up feeling fine. Last night was cosy and nice – nothing wild, nothing over the top. Which makes what happened today all the more strange.” Ugo looked away again and I saw his eyes fill with tears.

  I had to stay focused. Going with the assumption that the police were correct, and that Elisabetta was indeed poisoned by the leaves from Ugo’s plant, I quickly wrote the following in my notebook:

  The people who stayed until the end had the best possibility of tampering with the food, and putting the poisoned snack directly into Elisabetta’s hands.

  The fact that everyone other than Elisabetta felt fine this morning seems to strongly indicate that the poison was meant for only one victim.

  Of course, the poison could have been intended for one of the other guests. Even the best plans can go wrong.

  Another thought occurred to me: when did the guests know they’d be invited back to Ugo’s for his after-party? In other words, how much time did the killer have to plan this? There was no way it could have been premeditated…was there?

  “How many of your friends knew that you’d be hosting a party here last night? Had you already invited everyone? Or was it a last-minute plan?” I asked.

  “Last-minute,” he answered. “I had no idea that I would win an award last night, and, if I hadn’t, I’d probably have gone to someone else’s after-party. It was completely spontaneous.”

  Which meant, I thought to myself with a heavy feeling of dread, that the murder was spontaneous, too. The killer couldn’t have known that the party was going to take place, but they’d certainly taken advantage of the situation. The thing about this theory was that to me it suggested a deep and simmering, possibly pathological hatred or jealousy. Surely only an emotion of great intensity could drive a person to seize a sudden opportunity to harm someone else – there were such high risks involved. So who hated Elisabetta so much that they were willing to kill her, spontaneously, under these risky conditions?