Stolen with Style (11 page)

I suppose you trusted us all. But successful people like you always think you have everything under control, don't you?

Your next riddle:

Donna Karan

Marc Jacobs

Céline

Rhymes with power. Find the…and photograph it. I'll text you again at 9:30 p.m.

What kind of riddle was that? I thought, as I stared at the tiny lit screen of my phone. At the rate I was moving forward, I'd never find the diamond by Friday! I pushed my phone to the bottom of my shoulder bag in frustration, then started walking to the subway station a few blocks away. I set off at a rapid pace and would have been at the subway in five minutes—if I hadn't felt I was being followed.

I stopped and quickly looked behind me, but I saw nothing. And yet the hair on the back of my neck was up on end. Was the email I'd received earlier making me paranoid?

I was ready to believe so until I caught my reflection in the glass frontage of a skyscraper. I was nearly at Times Square now, one of hundreds jostling for space on the pavement…and yet, amid the tumult, I caught sight of a flitting shape a little way behind me. Was it the thief? I stopped and turned, but they must have seen me notice them in the window. As I turned, they followed suit.

All I saw was a blur diving off to the side. I ran back and followed the shape into a button and ribbon shop—no surprise, really, as this was the Garment District. But the space ran all the way through to the other side of the block, where a second entrance gave access. The shop was crowded. I stood looking around, but I was too late.

“Are you looking for any particular kind of button, miss?” an elderly lady with purple hair asked me.

She'd caught me by surprise. I looked at her, my mouth momentarily unable to form words.

“Or ribbon, perhaps?”

“Oh, sorry, no…no, thank you,” I finally sputtered. “Nothing for the moment, but thank you.” I turned and left.

By the time I finally made it to the subway station, I was starting to feel like the whole case was slipping away from me.

***

Miriam was waiting for me when I walked into her apartment. “
Ah! Ma petite Axelle!
” she said in that breathy, French way she had. “I am so happy you are here! I hope everything is going well,” she continued as she hugged me, “and that you are able to put all that happened in Paris behind you.” She stood back and, with her hands on my shoulders, held me at arm's length. “You look
très bien
. And Pat has told me that you are taking New York by a storm—although, of course, she doesn't know that your
Chic
shoot today was arranged for reasons other than pure modeling.” She smiled as she said this last bit.

“But still, I'm sure Cazzie will use the photos. I've spoken with her and she is very pleased with them. Plus Jared Moor and DKNY have just confirmed—Pat called me a minute ago—and of course you're testing tomorrow with Tony Moreno, which is great. Plus it's looking good with Jorge Cruz and Diane von Furstenberg, and even The Isle is interested, so you'll certainly be busy.”

Busy? So far my modeling schedule, which was not even the real reason I was here, was as jam-packed with fashion as a
Vogue
September issue.

We were in Miriam's kitchen now. She was pouring me a glass of juice. Nicolette passed by quickly with what was probably my dress for the evening.
Chic
was emblazoned on the gray and pink plastic sleeve protecting the garment.

Behind her followed Nick Farah, the hair and makeup artist Miriam had hired for the night. “For a gala event like tonight's, Axelle,
il
n'est pas
possible that you'll leave my apartment without looking your best—so Nick will do your hair and makeup right after he's finished with me.” Miriam arched one of her eyebrows at me when she saw me squirm, and her meaning was clear: fashion was the name of the game for this evening—no exceptions.

“And how is the case going?” she whispered. “It would be great if you could solve it.”

“Well…it's more complicated than I thought it would be…”

“Ah! But most things in life are, you know,” she said with a French shrug of her petite shoulders.

“Anyway, I'm digging around.”
And
trying
to
stay
calm
, I thought, as I looked out the window,
even
though
I've had an email from someone who says they're watching me, and I'm being followed
…

I suddenly remembered the last riddle Cazzie had forwarded, and thinking that Miriam could help me with it, I pulled my phone out of my bag and showed it to her. “Cazzie received the first during lunch at our shoot today and this last one just as I stepped out of Jared Moor. I solved the first riddle, but the second one looks a bit trickier. Do you have any idea why Donna Karan, Marc Jacobs, and Céline are grouped together?”

She pursed her lips for about two seconds before answering. “Well, they belong to the same group… That's the main thing they have in common. Is that the sort of answer you're looking for?”

“The same group?”

“What I mean is, those three labels are owned by the same business group: LVMH. They are headquartered in Paris.”

“And can you think of any other reason why those three labels would be grouped together? Like maybe something their designers have in common or something to do with a collection or something? And what about ‘rhymes with power'? Any ideas about that?”

Miriam shrugged her shoulders. “I'm sure they have other things in common, if we looked…but the fact that they belong to the same business group is, in my opinion, the strongest link between them. Stylistically anyway, they are vastly different—I can't think of anything on that level. I'm sorry,
ma
chérie
, but that is the best I can do for the moment.

“If I think of something else, I'll let you know. As for the ‘rhymes with power' part of the riddle, I really have no idea what it could be about. Now, however, we have to get ready. The party starts soon, and besides, everyone from the shoot will be there.” She raised her eyebrows before adding, “Who knows? The fashion gods might smile on you and help you find the thief.”

I hoped she was right—I needed all the help I could get. I finished my glass of juice, then went to my room to get ready. The cloister-like quietness of Miriam's elegant apartment helped soothe me after a day of being pulled in so many directions. Then my phone beeped with the arrival of a new text message and I fished it back out of my bag. It was Ellie. She'd sent a couple of photos of herself so that I'd know what she looked like in her party outfit.
Or you'll never find me!
she'd written.

A quick look at the photos told me otherwise. Even wearing an über-glamorous floor-length, blue-sequined gown (
Tom Ford!
she'd written), she looked exactly like the Ellie I knew. The dress shimmered in the light and set off her long, honey-blond hair to perfection. As for a mask, her elaborate eye makeup was doubling as one. It looked amazing, and I wrote back to say so.

Ten minutes later, I stood in the glassed-off shower area of Miriam's guest bathroom and aimed the water nozzle squarely onto my back between my shoulder blades. Then, after applying some yummy-smelling Kiehl's shampoo and conditioner to my hair (for shine and no frizz!), I relaxed as the hot water ran down my back. But after a minute my thoughts got the better of me and I began to write with my finger on the steamy glass:

Donna Karan

Marc Jacobs

Céline

Same French business group

Argh!

What was it Miriam had said?

HQ in Paris

Luxury group LVMH

Then I added:

Rhymes with power, find the…

Flower

Shower

Cower

Tower

And suddenly there it was among my steamy scribbles: the answer to the second riddle.
Find
the
tower
and
photograph
it.
Surely that could only mean one thing: LVMH's NYC HQ.

The LVMH New York headquarters had to be a tower. After all, nearly every building in Manhattan was a skyscraper. So I just had to get a photograph of this one. Before nine thirty tonight. Tricky, maybe—what with the party going on—but not impossible.

As I turned the shower off and grabbed my bathrobe, the adrenaline from my little breakthrough quickly fizzled away. Someone definitely wanted to make Cazzie sweat, but knowing that didn't bring me any closer to knowing which of the group was behind the theft. And worse, whoever stole the diamond was so certain they wouldn't be found out that they were playing games with us! Not that their braggadocio was unfounded, I thought ruefully. From the little I'd managed to figure out so far, their confidence was well placed. They'd stolen the diamond with style.

As I padded along the corridor in my bathrobe and socks to Miriam's bathroom, where Nick was waiting for me, I let these thoughts wind through my mind, hoping to find the glimmer of a motive. Who was reckless enough to steal a famous diamond? And ambitious or angry enough to threaten one of the most powerful fashion editors in New York?

I would have to do more in-depth background checks. With a bit of luck, something might come up.

And
if
it
doesn't, Axelle? After all, nothing has so far, has it? And time is running out…

I banished that last thought from my mind. I'd figure this case out, I told myself. One way or another, I'd solve it.

Miriam and I left her apartment building promptly at quarter to eight. Miriam smelled like Paris, and her vintage cape was so voluminous that it was as if three, rather than two of us, were walking to her car. (Miriam had hired one to take us to and from the party.)

“Good evening, ladies,” our driver said. Once Miriam and I (and her cape) were in the car, he continued. “According to the reports coming in from my colleagues, you ladies are going to one big party.
Chic
is pulling out all the stops. They also say it looks amazing on the inside. You're gonna have fun tonight.”

It took us five minutes to cross Central Park. The party was being held on Manhattan's Upper East Side at the Metropolitan Museum of Art—otherwise known as the Met. And what our driver had said was confirmed as we pulled up to the monumental entrance of the museum. This was going to be one
big
party.

Under a covered walkway (in case of rain) constructed just for this evening, a wide red carpet lined the broad stone steps leading into the museum (the same steps made famous by Blair Waldorf and Serena van der Woodsen—at least I knew that much, thanks to Jenny). Dozens of paparazzi stood behind security ropes, their popping flashbulbs illuminating the darkness like fireworks. Unlike those celebrities who were so famous that even a mask couldn't disguise their star appeal, Miriam and I passed by unnoticed. I was thankful for the anonymity my mask afforded me. After all, my agenda for the evening was to do some unobtrusive observation—the suspects from the
Chic
shoot would all be there—and then, I hoped, leave early to answer the second riddle in good time.

But my plans ended up taking a very different turn.

***

I saw Ellie immediately; she was at the top of the steps having her photo taken. Having walked past the cameras undetected thus far, Miriam and I were recognized as we greeted Ellie. The three of us obliged the hollering photographers and stood together for a minute as the cameras popped all around us. But then Miriam was called away by a beauty editor from
Allure
, and Ellie and I went on without her.

As we entered the museum, my mouth fell open. The large entrance hall had been transformed into a Parisian boulevard! Old-fashioned streetlights towered over us, their large glass globes softly glowing with golden light, and large potted trees, their branches decorated with twinkling fairy lights, reminded me of the Champs Élysées at night (which I guess was the point).

Enormous urns of flowers—tulips, roses, and even sweet peas—stood on pedestals around the room, their fragrance wafting over the excited, buzzing guests, while “magazine vendors” wearing black berets, mustaches, and red handkerchiefs distributed the latest issue of
Chic
magazine among the colorful, noisy throng. Clearly, all of this was in reference to the magazine's Parisian roots.

“It looks magical, doesn't it? We could be back in Paris.” Ellie smiled. Then, turning to me, she said, “And you look am-
a
-zing! I love the dress—whose is it?”

“
Chic
's.”

She rolled her eyes. “Duh. You know I mean which designer!”

I laughed. Fashionistas love to ask “Whose is it?” when they see you wearing something they like. The answer, of course, should be “mine”—because, hey, if I'm wearing it, the chances are I own it. Only fashionistas don't mean who
owns
it, but who
designed
it.

“It's Jared Moor,” I told her with a smile. “But apparently it's a one-off for a
Chic
evening-wear editorial. Miriam said he doesn't usually use lace,” I added as I looked down at it.

The dress was stunning. Dusty light pink—it was nearly nude—with long, sheer lace sleeves and lace panels at the back and front, it was like a romantic poem written in fabric.

“And I love, love, love your mask!” Ellie exclaimed.

“Mask” was actually a big word for the slip of lace that covered my eyes. Made of the same lace as the dress, it was delicate and surprisingly easy to see through. Simply tied at the back of my head, Zorro-style, it actually did look pretty cool.

And despite the fact that I'd felt resistance to Miriam's idea of having my hair and makeup done, as I glanced around the hall I was glad I'd listened. Everyone seemed to have made a huge effort to look their best. Happily for me, apart from pulling and twisting strands with his fingers while blasting them with his hair dryer, Nick had left my hair quite natural. And my makeup was lightly applied.

“You're sixteen—not sixty,” Nick had said with a smile when I voiced my surprise. “And this is a gala event, not a photo shoot. At your age, you'd look ridiculous if I did anything more to you.”

After hearing that, I'd leaned back in Miriam's armchair and relaxed while Nick finished up.

“And let's see your shoes,” Ellie said.

I lifted the hem of my dress to reveal a pair of purple Converse sneakers—this pair covered in glitter-pen doodles I'd done myself. Needless to say, I'd been careful not to draw Miriam's attention to them.

Ellie laughed. “I've yet to see you wear heels off the runway!”

I shrugged my shoulders and smiled. “I never know if I may have to make a quick getaway.”

“I'm not sure you could from here anyway. Too crowded,” Ellie answered as she turned and pulled me away from the incoming fray—and right into Chandra and Rafaela.

I hardly recognized Chandra. She was supremely elegant in a black, strapless, clingy dress, the whole surfer-dudette look toned way down. Black tulle covered her face, and her hair was loose and sexy. And she didn't seem to recognize me. In total contrast to her reticence at the studio this morning, she enthusiastically greeted me as if she'd never met me—until I opened my mouth to respond. As soon as she heard my voice, she flushed before quickly turning all of her attention on Ellie. Either she didn't like me, I thought, or she had something to hide.

But I didn't have time to think any more about her reaction, because at that moment one of the “magazine vendors” bumped into me, knocking my little evening clutch out of my hand. His arm brushed mine as we both bent down to retrieve it, and then our eyes met and I realized…I knew him.

It was Sebastian!

To say I was surprised would be an understatement.

“You!” I hissed, furious and incredulous in equal measure.

“Shhh!”

“Don't tell me to shush! You're lucky I'm even saying that much to you.”

“We have to talk,” he said, as he pushed my clutch away from us and toward Chandra's feet. “I need to explain—”

“Would you stop pushing my bag away? And I thought I said I didn't want to talk to you anymore!”

“Yeah, but you didn't say anything about not
seeing
me.” He was smiling in that amazing way he had. I felt my breath momentarily knocked out of me, but ignored it.
He
thinks
modeling
is
more
important
than
your
detective
work—and he's become your mother's spy, Axelle. Remember?

“Touché. Now would you give me back my bag?”

“Will you let me explain? I have a good—”

Rafaela cut him off as she swooped down with one of her toned arms and, laughing, plucked up my clutch. She handed it to me as I stood back up.

“You have to work on your selling technique, Mr. Magazine Vendor,” she told Sebastian.

I watched him straighten up. He was wearing a beret, a false mustache, and a red handkerchief, and even had a baguette sticking out of his magazine bag. He laughingly told Rafaela she was right. Then, as he turned to leave, he brushed past me again and said, “I'll find you later.”

“What makes you think I want you to?” I whispered.

“Have you solved the case yet?”

I glared at him briefly before pursing my lips. He never missed a beat.

“Well,” he said with a smile, his light blue eyes teasing, “then you'll need all the help you can get.”

Before I could say a word, he turned and left.

Grrr!

Ellie and the others were still chatting nearby. Rafaela was all gold and bold. With its cut-out panels, her dress seemed to be winning the “barely there” stakes for the evening. She turned to me again, a teasing look on her face.

“It's Sherlock Holmes! Better watch out, Chandra. You and I are under surveillance tonight!” She laughed. “I bet something's happened that you're not telling us about, Axelle. I wonder what it could be…”

Chandra rolled her eyes but nevertheless looked uncomfortable. Honestly, I was kind of freaked out by Rafaela talking as if she knew I was here for reasons other than modeling.

“Just kidding—but hey, seriously, you never know. The lights could go out, and suddenly a fashionista could be found dead! Was the outfit too tight? Or was there one calorie too many in the canapés? Or did a designer poison an editor for not featuring their clothes often enough?” She really seemed to find the scenario funny.

“You're being gruesome, Rafaela,” Ellie said.

“Who's being gruesome?” A tall, dark-haired figure suddenly leaned into our group, making me turn.

“Is that you, Brandon?” Chandra asked.

He smiled and was about to answer when Misty came up behind him. “Yes, it's him. I offered to make him a mask, but he insisted on using one of the freebies. He should have listened to me. Now he looks like half the men here.” She stopped abruptly, the corners of her mouth turned down. Brandon, meanwhile, said nothing, but I saw him take a deep breath.

What Cazzie had said this morning—that Brandon and Misty had been together for a short time, and that Misty still liked him despite Brandon ending it—seemed more obvious than ever. Misty seemed to follow him everywhere, even when participating in the biggest event of Fashion Week! At what point did too much attention become stalking? I wondered.

“You're wrong, Misty,” Rafaela said. “He looks
better
than half the men here.”

Brandon made a little bow in Rafaela's direction.

Before Misty got another petulant word in, Peter showed up with his camera in hand. He was in black tie, but unlike Brandon's, his mask was custom-made and dark red.

“So everyone will notice him, no doubt,” Ellie whispered to me.

Peter photographed us from a few different angles before stopping to have a word.

“So, what's up? Have you seen how many stars are out tonight? Fashion, music, film, they're all here, and they look amazing—as do all of you,” he added with a beaming smile. While he was talking, he was also looking at the photos he'd just taken and playing around with different editing features on the back of his camera.

“Peter, you're so good at doing your own editing that I don't know why you need me,” Brandon teased.

“Ah! Because you're the master,” Peter answered with a smile. “But now I have to move on. I promised Cazzie I'd get as many shots tonight as possible. Trust
Chic
to invite me to a party to work!” Then he winked and was gone.

The entrance hall was crowded now, and just when it seemed they couldn't fit anyone else in, the beret-wearing “magazine vendors” started motioning for us to move to the dinner tables. And although I made a point of not looking at any of them, Sebastian caught my eye—and he was talking to a model! Leggy and lean, she had her arm around his shoulder and he had his arm around her waist.

Ellie and I pulled away from the others, and I quickly told her about Sebastian. “Do you know who that is with him?” I asked as I pointed him out.

She nodded. “That's Cleo Martel. She's from here—a native New Yorker, I mean. I think she's with IMG. She's really nice. I had no idea she knew Sebastian, though…”

“That makes two of us.”

Ellie smiled, her head tipped to one side. “I think you're a tiny bit jealous.”

“No, I'm not. But he seems very friendly with Cleo.”

“Axelle. You're jumping to conclusions again. Remember what you said about being a good detective?”

“Thanks again, Nancy Drew.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I'm just saying, you don't have all the evidence concerning Sebastian yet, do you?” I was thankful when she suddenly dropped the subject and said, “We have to find out where we're seated. Come on.”

We wove our way through the fashionably dressed guests toward the “Parisian flower stall” to find our seating cards. It took a while, because every two steps someone called “Sweetie” or “Gorgeous” had to say hi to Ellie—who was also “Sweetie” or “Gorgeous”—but finally we reached a long table covered with a silk tablecloth striped in light gray and white. On the table were row upon row of alphabetized seating cards. We gave our names to one of the assistants and were handed our respective cards and gift bags.

“I'm at Table 5,” Ellie said as she slipped her card into her tiny clutch bag.

I, meanwhile, peeked straight into my gift bag. It was full of luxury beauty goodies and fashionista essentials, like dry shampoo, moisturizers, and nail polish in the latest cool shades. Even a tiny, box-shaped evening clutch—or minaudìere as Ellie called it—was included and, of course, a special-edition issue of
Chic
magazine printed just for the party.

“And I'm at Table 21,” I finally said after I'd closed my goody bag.

We wouldn't be anywhere near each other, so Ellie and I made plans to meet right after dinner and then parted ways.

Just as Ellie left, I felt a hand on my arm. It was Cazzie.

“Hi, Axelle. You look fab,” she said. So did she. In her black Saint Laurent smoking dress, she looked like she was channeling a rock star—albeit an anxious one. The stress of her situation was clearly telling on her. Underneath her photo-ready makeup, her face looked pinched.