Stolen with Style (19 page)

My phone was ringing again.
Argh! Pat!
I thought. But I sat up with a start when I saw it was Cazzie. Despite having slept long and well, I was engulfed by a sense of anxiety and frustration when I saw her name.

“Axelle,” she said in a brittle voice when I answered. Her fear was palpable through my phone—even at this early hour. “I need you to go online.”

“Okay,” I said as I jumped out of bed and went to my laptop.

“Go to the fashion blog called ‘The Unfashionable Truth,' then look under today's news. You'll see what I mean.”

I did just that and found the blog post Cazzie was referring to. It was only a couple of sentences long, but I understood why she sounded scared.

What's going on with Cazzie Kinlan? The Unfashionable Truth hears that she's lost more than just the plot… Is she stumbling in her stilettos? Is a certain young model helping her find her way out of trouble? Does
Chic
know?

It was, of course, suitably vague and named no sources—which I guessed was the point. But the grains of truth buried in what was written made me feel more than uncomfortable. It was almost as if it was written in code targeted at Cazzie and me: Cazzie had lost something, I was helping her find it, and might her career suffer?
Argh!

“Axelle,” Cazzie said, “if this catches fire, I'll face serious consequences from Sid Clifton and
Chic—
and by the end of this week…”

And
that's probably exactly what the thief wants
, I thought. And then, although I'd already asked her once on Monday, I repeated, “Think, Cazzie. Please, it's vital that you're honest with me. Is there someone in your past who you've upset? Someone who could have a motive for hurting your career?”

“No,” she answered emphatically and without hesitation. “I honestly can't think of anyone I've angered enough that they'd want to hurt me like this. No one. Of course, during my career—and especially since becoming editor-in-chief of
Chic: New York
, I'm sure I've stepped on some toes—who hasn't? And occasionally I do have to throw my power around. But I've never intentionally hurt or angered anyone enough to inspire this kind of revenge. No. No way. At least, not that I'm aware of.”

I sighed. I'd have to carefully comb through everyone's backgrounds yet again. Maybe I'd missed something, a small detail that might tie one of them to Cazzie. On the other hand, time was closing in on me. Noah was expecting to fetch his diamond tomorrow evening—giving me about thirty-six hours to find it.

Hmm…
What had my gut told me early on? That this case would boil down to some minute detail. And while I still believed that to be true, with time closing in and a lack of a strong motive or lead suspect, it was definitely time to change tack. Maybe I'd missed some detail elsewhere. Maybe the reenactment I'd organized for the afternoon would throw up some new possibilities. I quickly sent a prayer to the detective gods, hoping that was exactly what would happen.

“The thief is clearly trying to make you crack, Cazzie. So stay as calm as you can. The riddles are slowly leading me to whoever has the Black Amelia. And if we can solve the riddles by tomorrow, then hopefully we'll find the treasure at the end of our hunt.”

“Maybe they're tricking us, though! Maybe they won't give it back. Maybe by this time tomorrow, I'll have to call the police—and tell Noah and Vanessa that I've lost their gem, that their trust in me was completely misplaced,” she said, sobbing. “And what will I tell Sid Clifton? He'll never trust me with anything again either.”

“I will find the Black Amelia, and I'll find whoever is behind all of this,” I promised Cazzie. “Please stay as calm as you can. Keep showing up on time for the shows, keep paying attention to how you dress, and keep smiling. Don't let them win. Okay?”

I hung up with Cazzie and sat on the edge of my bed for a few moments, thinking about the online blog. Its writer had sounded relatively convinced that I was helping Cazzie. Was that pure conjecture? If not, how did they know? Had someone been observing me? Was it Misty again? Who had guessed? Rafaela had, but would she do something like this? I didn't think so…but then nothing made sense.

A glance at my watch told me I had to get going. My
Teen
Vogue
appointment was in under an hour, and from there I had to go straight to DKNY. My morning schedule left me little time to work on the case. Like a swimmer lost at sea, I clung to the hope that the reenactment I'd planned for this afternoon would yield a lead of some kind.

I dressed in what had quickly become my New York City outfit: skinny jeans, T-shirt, and pullover sweater. Although today I chose to throw the fashion rule book to the wind and reached to the back of the drawer for my oldest, stained, moth-eaten lucky sweater. I'd brought it with me even though my mom had begged me to throw it out—and this case demanded all the good luck and good vibes I could get.

A fluffy rock-star scarf to wrap around my neck, my new trench coat, and another pair of my DIY-decorated Converses finished off my look. Taking my phone, I went into the kitchen for breakfast. Today Nicolette had a fresh cinnamon-raisin bagel, toasted and buttered, waiting for me—along with some fruit salad. With my phone in one hand and my yummy bagel in the other, I started organizing my day.

I called Pat and made sure to tell her that I needed an hour or so left free after the DKNY show. Lying through my teeth, I told her that Chandra Rhodes had offered to help me with my walk.

“That's great, Axelle! Any off-time you can spend perfecting your work will only help. And Chandra has one fierce walk.”

Just as I hung up, Miriam made an early appearance in the kitchen. “The shows,” she said, stopping my curiosity in its tracks with a flourish of her hand. “Only for the shows.” Then she paused as she looked at my torso, eyes wide.

Oh
no
, I thought,
my
sweater
. Like a true fashionista, Miriam had homed in on the one thing that wasn't fashionably perfect about my outfit—even first thing in the morning.

But I had no time to waste—the last thing I wanted at this moment was to get into a fashion discussion—so before she could ask anything I said, “Tie-dye. It's not a stain. It's tie-dye. From a London specialist. He sells his sweaters at Glastonbury,” I added for good measure, knowing the famous music festival's aura of cool would impress Miriam, even if I'd just made it up.

“Ah
oui
,” she answered. “From where I'm standing, it really looks like a stain of some sort. It must be the light in here.” She stepped back, narrowed eyes on my sweater.

“Probably,” I said. “Indoor lighting can be funny.” I took another bite of my bagel and turned away.

Then, as Nicolette busied herself elsewhere, Miriam came up to me and whispered, “Are you close to solving the case? Cazzie looks as if she's about to crack, and the fashionistas are starting to comment on it.”

That's not all they're commenting on
, I thought as I remembered the blog. Whispering back, I said, “I'm getting closer, Miriam. I am…”

I wished I felt as confident as I sounded. Before she could ask me anything else, I took a last bite of my bagel, slipped my phone into my shoulder bag, bade Miriam good-bye, and left.

***

The
Teen
Vogue
offices were downtown, which was an easy trip on the subway. As I left Miriam's apartment building, I received a text from Sebastian asking what time and where we should meet, and what, in the meantime, he could help with. I sent him back a text briefly explaining Cazzie's morning call and my plans for later at Chandra's. Then I asked him to comb through the pasts of the suspects again in case we'd missed a revenge motive. Plus, I asked him if he thought he could get me everyone's contact details and, importantly, find out where they all would be working today and tomorrow.

I had just under thirty-six hours before Noah Tindle flew back into the city to collect the Black Amelia. The chase was on, and my instinct told me that knowing everyone's whereabouts for the next day and a half might prove crucial later. I also asked Sebastian to look into the rumor Ellie had told me last night about Cazzie's financial loss.

He quickly wrote back:

You're right. Better to be safe than sorry. I'll get on it right away ;-)

Then we made plans to meet outside the back entrance of Lincoln Center at about twelve thirty, just as soon as I'd finished the DKNY show.

***

The
Teen
Vogue
appointment went well, and the offices were fun and colorful. I met one of the junior editors and tried an Anna Sui dress on. Then I was back on the Upper West Side and at the Lincoln Center fashion tents by my appointed hair and makeup time of 10:00 a.m.

Tom Urbino—he was doing the hair for the show—was one of the first people I met backstage. Cowboy hat firmly in place, today with a bright orange strip of sheer fabric wrapped around its crown, Tom was not easily missed.

“Getting ahead with your case?” he whispered as he sat me down to start my hair.

His question totally took me by surprise. Firmly I said, “Like I told everyone at the
Chic
shoot on Tuesday, I'm here to model—not for a case.”

He laughed. “That's not what I hear. The little fashion birds are twittering, and they're saying that you're here to solve a crime.”

He read the surprise on my face and laughed. “Here,” he said. “Take a look at this. It was just released. And I don't know if you know this blogger, but they're usually right.” He pulled out his phone and showed me a short entry on one of the popular fashion-gossip blogger sites—a different one from the Unfashionable Truth:

Word on the street says that Cazzie Kinlan has a huge problem… So will she find the root of her trouble? Maybe a certain young model presently in the Big Apple is helping her?

I swallowed hard. I had to stop these rumors—but how?

I looked Tom in the eye as I handed back his phone. Then I shrugged my shoulders, laughed lightly, and said, “Well, you know how people are… They love to make stuff up—even when it's miles away from the truth.” Then I changed the subject by asking him about his inspiration for the hair he was doing for the show. I had hoped to ask him a few questions about how and when the group had left the studio on Friday afternoon, but after his comment, I didn't dare push my luck. I wasn't about to feed the rumor mill.

We talked for a few minutes about the shows and then, once he was totally absorbed with showing his assistant what to do with my hair, I took my phone out.

Sebastian had already made some headway in finding out about everyone's schedules. So far the entire group—including me—was here at the DKNY show. Trish and Tom were doing hair and makeup, and Peter and Brandon were taking more candid backstage shots for Peter's upcoming coffee-table book. Cazzie was expected to see the show, and Misty, Chandra, and Rafaela would be on the runway.

He continued:

It also seems they'll all be uptown at the Ralph Lauren show this afternoon. I'm still looking into the middle of the afternoon—although I know Trish and Tom have another show then. And I think some of them will also be at the Jorge Cruz show later today. Should know more by 12:30.

I grabbed my phone to text Ellie about meeting at Chandra's, but as I started writing, she found me in person. It was time for her to have her hair done by Tom too. She sat down next to me and handed me a plate loaded with goodies from the backstage buffet table.

“I was sure you'd be glued to your phone and plans and whatnot and wouldn't have given your stomach a thought. So I brought you this. The sushi is especially good,” she said. “And are we still on for after the show?” she added in a whisper as Tom started brushing her hair.

“Thank you,” I said, as I bit into the sushi. It was good. “And yes for later.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Rafaela give me a wave from the other side of the tent. She was wearing about five gold chains around her neck—each one as thick as a belt.

Tom's assistant was busy working some texture into my hair when my phone rang.

“
Teen
Vogue
loved you—you're booked for tomorrow. You're looking sharp, girl. Now keep it up! I'll send you details later. In the meantime, though, I have more good news…”

Oh no. Pat's good news always translated into my bad news.
What
now?
I thought desperately.
I
need
every
free
minute
I
can
have
today.
But the fashion gods were smiling on me.

“The Isle has also just confirmed you for their show tomorrow at Juice.” I was so relieved when she said “tomorrow” that I physically slumped in my chair. Tom's assistant gently reminded me to sit back up. Whew! I'd really thought Pat was going to wipe out my free time this afternoon!

“This is great news, Axelle! The Isle is
the
hot NYC brand at the moment. H-O-T. Your passion for fashion is pushing you to the top! At this rate, you'll never need to go back to London!”

Just after I hung up with Pat, Cazzie called me. Again, her anxious voice hit me like a cold, clammy wave.

“I'm finding out who my real friends are. Since the online rumors have started to spread, I've already gone from fashion maven to fashion pariah. People who would have crossed burning polyester to talk to me last week are now suddenly busy on their phones when they see me. You'd think I was wearing white socks with Birkenstocks.” Her voice was jagged and had a hard edge to it. “Do you really think I'll have the diamond by tomorrow? Otherwise I'll have to go to the police—as much as I don't want to. But if I'm going to go down, I at least want to go down doing the right thing.”