Stacey and the Fashion Victim Page 4

  “So you really think it was poison?” asked Mal, wide-eyed.

  “Mrs. Skye seemed pretty sure of it,” I said. “At least, she did at first.”

  “But that’s awful!” said Mary Anne. “I mean, it could have been anyone. It could have been you!” She looked terrified.

  “I know,” I said. “I thought of the same thing. But it’s okay. Harmony’s going to be fine.” I had to reassure Mary Anne, or she’d probably worry about me all week. I turned to Claudia. “So who is your suspect?” I asked.

  “It’s obvious,” she said. “It has to be Roger Bellair.”

  “Roger Bellair?” I asked. “Why would he want to hurt Harmony?”

  “Think about it. If he’s still in love with Sydney,” Claudia explained, “he’d want her to have all the best assignments. So he’d have to get Harmony out of the way.”

  “But we’re not even sure if he’s in love with Sydney,” I said.

  “Maybe he’s not,” said Claudia. “In that case, maybe he meant the poison for her. Maybe he’s bitter over being rejected by her. Either way, I bet he’s the culprit.”

  “I don’t know,” I said slowly. “I can think of a few other people with motives.”

  “Who?” asked Mal. “Other models, you mean?”

  I nodded. “Like Cynthia Rowlands,” I said. “Maybe she’s jealous of all the attention Harmony’s been getting.”

  “Or what about that one you mentioned — Blaine Gilbert?” asked Mary Anne, joining in. “Didn’t you say she was pretty ambitious?”

  I nodded. I’d passed on all of Cokie’s gossip. “That’s true,” I said. I thought for a moment. “Know what, you guys?” I asked. “We really have our work cut out for us if we want to solve this mystery. From what I’ve seen so far, almost anyone involved in Fashion Week could be a suspect.”

  Suddenly, the week ahead seemed a whole lot more exciting — and quite a bit scarier.

  While I was busy with that first crazy day of Fashion Week, Abby and Jessi were busy, too. Busy stopping a disaster before it happened. Disaster? I’ll explain. It happened while they were sitting for Stoneybrook’s version of the Brady Bunch: the Barrett-DeWitt kids.

  The Barrett kids have been BSC clients for quite awhile. Buddy’s eight, Suzi is five, and Marnie’s only two. Together, they used to be quite a handful. In fact, our nickname for them was “The Impossible Three.” When we first met them, their parents had just finalized their divorce, and the Barrett household was majorly disorganized.

  Things improved when Mrs. Barrett met Franklin DeWitt, a father raising four kids on his own. The DeWitt kids all look something like their dad, who’s tall and thin with auburn hair. Lindsey, who’s eight, is the oldest. Then comes Taylor. He’s six. Madeleine is four, and Ryan, the youngest, is two.

  Now that Mrs. Barrett and Mr. DeWitt are married, the kids are part of one big family. And after a period of adjustment, they’ve even learned to live pretty happily together. But, as you can imagine, the seven kids together are too much for one sitter to handle alone. In fact, we have a BSC rule about that: four or more kids means more than one sitter. We always send two sitters to the Barrett-DeWitt house.

  Even two sitters sometimes feel overwhelmed. That was the state Jessi and Abby were in on Sunday afternoon. It was a bright, sunny day — one of the first really good days of spring — and the kids were, to put it nicely, in high spirits. (Abby didn’t put it quite so nicely when she told me about her day. I think she said something about the kids “bouncing off the walls.”)

  The first fifteen minutes of the sitting job were devoted strictly to damage control.

  “Suzi, put the gerbil back in its cage,” Abby said.

  “Buddy, please stop throwing that ball in the house,” said Jessi.

  “Lindsey, are you sure your dad doesn’t mind you playing with his golf clubs?” Abby asked.

  “Madeleine, I don’t think that lipstick belongs to you, does it?”

  “Taylor, no more Popsicles for you today. And please find a sponge and wipe up that spill.”

  “MARNIE! NO!”

  “Ryan, both hands out of the goldfish bowl!”

  Jessi and Abby looked at each other in despair. “Okay, time out, everybody,” Abby said, whistling through her teeth and putting her hands in a T formation. “Let’s take a little break while we figure out something fun to do together today.”

  Jessi and Abby herded the kids into the den and sat them down.

  “It’s a beautiful day,” Jessi said. “I think we should spend the afternoon outdoors.”

  “Doing what?” asked Taylor, looking bored.

  “There’s nothing to do in our stupid yard,” added Suzi.

  “Hate outside!” Ryan said, folding his arms.

  “Don’t be silly,” said Abby. “There’s always plenty to do outdoors. We could take a nature walk, for example. Or help weed the flower beds. Or —”

  “BO-ring,” interrupted Lindsey.

  “Well, what would you suggest?” asked Abby, trying not to be offended.

  “I suggest we forget the whole thing and watch wrestling on TV instead,” said Buddy with a devilish grin.

  “I mean, what would you suggest we do outdoors?” Abby said.

  “Take the TV outside and watch it there?” asked Buddy.

  Abby snorted. “Obviously, you want your baby-sitters to come up with a fun activity. All right, then, here it is.” She leaned over and whispered into Jessi’s ear. Jessi smiled and nodded and whispered back.

  “Today will be the First Annual Barrett-DeWitt Family Field Day,” Abby announced. “Get ready to run your fastest, jump your highest, and throw your farthest.”

  “Do I have to —” Suzi began, but Jessi interrupted her.

  “Yup,” she said. “Everybody has to participate. Otherwise, how will we know who’s really the best in each event? And you don’t want to miss the prizes, do you?”

  Suzi’s eyes lit up. “Prizes?” she asked.

  “Of course,” said Abby, taking a quick mental inventory of her Kid-Kit. She hoped she had enough stickers and markers to hand out to the winners.

  The kids started to sound a bit more enthusiastic, so Jessi and Abby began to round up sweaters and sneakers for everyone. After a quick snack, they headed outside, into the backyard. It’s not a big yard, but Abby and Jessi were creative. Buddy helped Abby find a softball, a basketball, and some ropes for marking off distances for races. Lindsey and Jessi, meanwhile, prepared a long-jump area next to the garage, then looked around for other sports equipment the kids could use.

  It didn’t take long to set up the events, and soon the First Annual Barrett-DeWitt Family Field Day was under way. With Abby as organizer and referee and Jessi as head coach and cheerleader, the kids couldn’t help having fun, no matter how reluctant they’d been earlier.

  The first event, Abby announced, would be a relay race between two teams made up of the older kids. Lindsey and Suzi were on one side, and Taylor and Buddy were on the other. When Abby gave the word, the first kids on each team raced around the yard until they came to the swingset. There, they handed off their “batons” — over-filled water balloons — to their teammates. The water balloons were Abby’s idea, and they added a lot of laughter and screaming to the race. Taylor was soaked by the time he crossed the finish line because he’d gripped his too tightly. Suzi’s balloon, on the other hand, made it through the race without bursting. To celebrate, she threw it in the air — and it landed with a splash. On Jessi. The kids thought that was just hilarious.

  Next, Abby announced an event for the little kids. “Time for the Mini-Marathon!” she said as she helped Madeleine, Ryan, and Marnie line up for their race. “Run as fast as you can to the apple tree and back. No, wait, Ryan! Not until I say go. Okay, are you all ready? Do you have to go to the potty, Marnie? Okay, everybody hold on while I take Marnie to the bathroom.”

  Finally, after a few more false starts, the race was on. Jessi and Abby giggled and c
heered as they watched the little kids make their way across the yard and back. Madeleine was a lot faster, but she fell behind when she was distracted by a pink tulip in the garden, and Marnie and Ryan kept on going.

  Marnie was declared the winner, and Jessi gave her a kitten sticker. She also gave Madeleine and Ryan puppy stickers, just to head off any temper tantrums. After all, second and third places are very important, too.

  “Everybody ready for the next event?” asked Abby, looking around. “Hey, where are Lindsey and Buddy?”

  Jessi looked around, too. “They were here a minute ago.”

  “I saw them go that way,” said Taylor, pointing toward the toolshed.

  “I’ll go find them,” Abby said. “Why don’t the rest of you start practicing your long jumps?” She headed toward the toolshed, figuring that Buddy and Lindsey must be inside looking for more sports equipment.

  They weren’t inside. But Abby heard voices and, following the sound, found the kids behind the shed. “Hey, guys,” she said. “What’s up?”

  “Abby!” said Buddy, looking very white. He stuck his right hand behind his back.

  Lindsey looked pale, too. She put her left hand behind her back. “Um, hi, Abby,” she said.

  Abby had the feeling that she’d caught them at something. “Want to tell me what you guys were doing?” she asked.

  “N-nothing,” said Buddy.

  “Just … nothing,” Lindsey added.

  “Then what are you hiding behind your backs?” asked Abby. “Come on, let’s see.”

  Slowly, slowly, Buddy brought his hand around and opened it up. Lying in his palm was a cigarette.

  Lindsey reluctantly showed Abby the pack of matches she was holding.

  At first, Abby was speechless. She told me later how shocked she was. (“I nearly blew a gasket,” she said. “But I didn’t want to yell at them. So I asked questions instead.”) “But where — why —?” she began, finally.

  “I took it from Franklin’s briefcase,” Buddy admitted. Abby remembered hearing that Mr. DeWitt was a longtime smoker, and that although Mrs. Barrett was always after him to quit, he hadn’t been able to yet.

  “We just wanted to try it,” added Lindsey.

  “The ads make it look so cool,” Buddy said. “And it looks neat when people do it in the movies.”

  “So you haven’t smoked yet?” asked Abby, momentarily relieved.

  They shook their heads. “This was going to be our first one,” said Buddy, holding up the cigarette and looking at it a little wistfully.

  “Does that mean we’re not in trouble?” Lindsey asked.

  “Not in trouble?” asked Abby. “You must be joking. You are in major trouble. Your parents are going to hear about this.”

  “Do you have to tell them?” asked Lindsey, looking alarmed.

  “Absolutely,” said Abby. “In fact, everybody’s going to hear about this.” She held out her hand for the cigarette and matches, then told Buddy and Lindsey to follow her. She marched them back to the spot where Jessi was standing with the other kids and announced what she’d discovered.

  The kids and Jessi looked shocked.

  Buddy and Lindsey looked ashamed.

  “Let’s all sit down and talk about smoking,” Abby said. “I think we need a little education around here.” She told the kids how smoking affects your lungs, your entire body, your health, and the health of people around you. “I could have a really bad asthma attack if I had to breathe someone’s secondhand smoke,” she noted. She talked about peer pressure and about how many smokers begin when they’re young. She went on and on, until Buddy interrupted with a question.

  “But isn’t it okay if you only smoke a few a day?” he asked. “That’s what I’ve heard some grown-ups say.”

  “None a day is the only okay way,” Jessi replied. “Do you think I could be a ballet dancer if I smoked cigarettes?” She told the kids how athletes need to have clean lungs and strong hearts.

  The kids were listening with their full attention. Jessi and Abby took turns telling them everything they knew about smoking and why it was definitely not a good idea for kids or adults. By the end of the afternoon, they were sure they’d convinced not only Buddy and Lindsey but the whole Barrett-DeWitt clan that smoking was uncool. One disaster prevented before it happened — courtesy of the BSC.

  “You look fine,” said Claudia impatiently as I checked myself in the mirror one last time. “Come on, we’re going to be late.”

  It was Monday afternoon, and the last bell had just rung at school. Claudia and I were planning to head to Bellair’s together. It was time for the first day of the catalog shoot.

  I was nervous about it. I’ve done a little posing in front of cameras before, but never for a national catalog. I wanted to be sure I looked my absolute best.

  The night before, I’d spent hours figuring out the best outfit to wear. I knew I wouldn’t wear my own clothes in the photos, but I wanted to make a good impression on the art director, the photographer, and Mrs. Maslin. I’d narrowed my choices down to a pink wool jumper, a plaid skirt and white shirt, and a navy blue suit with tailored pants. Then I’d modeled each outfit for my mom, and together we’d decided on the pink jumper, with the white shirt from the other outfit.

  I’d also put a lot of thought and time into my hair and makeup. Now I touched up the lip gloss and checked once more to make sure my mascara wasn’t smeared. “All right,” I said. “This’ll have to do.”

  “They’ll love you,” said Claudia. “Now let’s go. If I’m late, Roger Bellair will give me a hard time, and I don’t need that.” She slung her backpack over one shoulder and pulled me along.

  Claudia didn’t seem too concerned about her appearance, but as usual she looked awesome. She was wearing one of her “working artist” outfits: a pair of white jeans with drips and squiggles of colorful paint all over them, a smocklike denim shirt, her favorite red high-top sneakers, and a hairdo that said “creative” — a loose bun held in place by two red lacquered chopsticks.

  I knew she was also nervous about this first day of the photo shoot. But she couldn’t be as jittery as I was. After all, she’d be behind the cameras, not in front of them. I wondered whether any of the other models were anxious.

  We arrived at Bellair’s a little early. (Kristy has trained us baby-sitters to be ultrapunctual.) And right away I saw that none of the other models seemed nervous at all. Or if they were, they were awfully good at hiding it. The noise volume in the dressing room was as high as it had been the day before, as girls ran back and forth between makeup artists, hair stylists, and wardrobe people. Harmony, looking recovered from her poisoning, was among them. But I noticed that she held herself apart from everyone else, avoiding the gossip and turning down offers of diet soda or cigarettes.

  Claudia wished me luck, reminded me to keep my eyes peeled for suspicious activity, and took off to find Roger Bellair. Alone, I took a quick peek in the mirror. I looked just as sophisticated as some of the older models, I thought. I was sure I’d make a good impression on the catalog people.

  I would have, too.

  Except for the fact that they never saw my hair, my perfect makeup, or my pink wool jumper.

  Seconds after Claudia left, someone grabbed my shoulder and pulled me over to a dressing table. It was Monica, one of the makeup artists. “Okay,” she said, “off with your clothes and into this smock.”

  “But —” I began.

  “But nothing,” she said. “Do you want foundation all over that nice white shirt? Come on, let’s go! I have four girls to do after you.”

  I pulled off my jumper and shirt and put on a beige smock she held out for me. Then she sat me down and, using makeup-removal wipes, scrubbed off every bit of my carefully applied makeup. Then she slapped on about a ton of her own makeup, including foundation, powder, eyeshadow, lip liner, and gloss, and plenty of blush. This makeup job was a lot heavier than the one I’d had for the show. I could barely face myself in the m
irror when she was done. I thought I looked awful.

  “It’s all for the cameras, hon,” she said. “You need a lot, with the lights and all. It’ll look great in the pictures. You’ll see.”

  I barely had time to answer, because just then, one of the hair stylists, Jacqui, took Monica’s place. “Nice ’do,” she said, as she pulled my beautiful French twist to pieces. “But Julio is looking for a more natural look. ‘Windswept,’ he told me.”

  Julio was the art director. He and Jamie, the photographer, were the ones I’d wanted to impress with my personal sense of style. But Julio had his own ideas about how he wanted me to look. I realized something then that might seem obvious. Modeling is not about a personal sense of style. It’s about being able to change into whoever somebody else wants you to be.

  And I wasn’t crazy about the girl Julio and Jamie wanted me to be. By the time I was ready for my first pose of the day, I barely recognized myself. I was so made up that I could have passed for forty. My hair was teased and tossed until it looked as if I’d slept on it for a week. The clothes were all right — Bellair’s usually carries nice things — but they weren’t ones I would have picked out for myself. The jeans were too trendy, the top was too tight and short, and as for platform shoes? I’ll never understand why people like them. To me they just look clunky.

  But hey, I told myself, this is the wonderful world of fashion.

  The entire transformation had only taken about twenty minutes. Everybody in that dressing room seemed to be in a tremendous hurry. But then I found out another basic thing about modeling: It involves a lot of standing around. Ever heard the expression “hurry up and wait”? Well, that’s what I — and every other model — ended up doing that day.

  There we were, a gaggle of gorgeously groomed girls. Going nowhere. We stood around for a while. Then we gave up and sat around for a while. Most of the girls passed the time by taking frequent “ciggie breaks,” while the rest of us had nothing to do but examine our cuticles. Of course, I was also examining my fellow models for signs of guilt — but not one of them did anything even remotely suspicious.