Stacey and the Fashion Victim Page 7

  “I still say it’s too short,” insisted Harmony’s mom.

  Harmony rolled her eyes and stomped off.

  “Where are you going?” her mother asked. “Young lady —” But she was too late. Harmony had disappeared. I couldn’t blame her for wanting to escape, if her mom was going to act like that.

  Meanwhile, Sydney was the definition of calm. I realized, as I surreptitiously watched her, that I’d never seen her seem particularly excited or nervous or bent out of shape about anything that went on around her. Even those slashed pajamas had hardly phased her. She always maintained this very aloof, cool attitude. Sydney was a pro.

  She was sitting two chairs down from me, chatting softly on a cellular phone while a makeup person painted her nails. I wondered who she was talking to. Was it Roger Bellair’s replacement? There was no way I’d know, since Sydney wasn’t the type to share secrets.

  In the chair next to me sat Cynthia Rowlands. She was paging through a shiny pamphlet, and when I looked over at her she smiled and held it up to show me what it was. The Hackett School, it said on the front, over a picture of happy students sitting in a circle under a tree.

  Cynthia definitely seemed to be leaning toward giving up modeling for school. I wondered if Fashion Week would be her last professional job for a while.

  Blaine Gilbert was dressed and made up already. She stood off to one side, talking intently with Dylan Trueheart. I studied Blaine, trying to figure her out. She and I had a couple of things in common. We both called Stoneybrook home, and we had both fallen into modeling without meaning to. But the similarities ended there. I knew that Blaine was far more ambitious than I’d ever be. She seemed to know that modeling was what she really wanted to do, and she seemed to be going after her goal full speed ahead. She was good at it, too. She was a real natural in front of the camera. I wasn’t so sure that Dylan Trueheart was the best person to help her, but what did I know?

  As I watched them, I saw Cokie waltz over to them and insert herself into the conversation. She, too, was already set for the shoot, and I could just tell that she thought she was the cutest thing around.

  I noticed that Dylan Trueheart didn’t seem too thrilled to see her, which gave me the feeling that Blaine Gilbert had replaced Cokie as his number-one client.

  As I watched the three of them, Mrs. Maslin trotted into view, trailed by Emily. “Come on, Mom, please? Pretty please? I’ll be good for … for the rest of my life!” Emily was pleading with her mom, and I would have bet my earnings from Fashion Week that I knew what she was begging for. A spot in the big show on Saturday.

  Everybody was starting to focus on that show. It was the final event of Fashion Week and the last chance for each model to be a star. Mrs. Maslin had been working all week putting together the show, and I knew she must be very close to making final choices about assignments, including the one for Princess Bellair.

  Everybody knew that. Which was why all the models had been super-polite to Mrs. Maslin, and super-friendly to Emily. At least, they acted nice and friendly — until the moment Mrs. Maslin and her daughter left the room. It was all just a game.

  Me? I didn’t care too much about what assignments I received. Modeling was fun, but I had known by the end of the first day of Fashion Week that I didn’t want to make a career out of it. So there was no reason for me to join in the cutthroat competition. Besides, I had better things to do with my time.

  I had a mystery to solve.

  And, as I gazed around the room, I realized that I was no closer to finding any answers. I mean, I’d just looked over the entire cast of characters, and I had no idea which one of them might be responsible for poisoning Harmony, or locking Blaine into the freight elevator, or pulling any of those other nasty pranks. My fellow models all had their competitive side, sure. But none of them seemed bloodthirsty enough to want to hurt another model physically in order to boost her own career.

  Maybe Claudia was right, I thought. Maybe Roger Bellair was responsible after all. Or maybe Mary Anne was right, and Dylan Trueheart was willing to do anything to help his clients.

  “Okay, people, time to head on up and out!” Mrs. Maslin had to shout to be heard over the usual din.

  “Up and out?” I asked Blaine. “What does she mean?”

  “Didn’t you hear?” Blaine answered. “Today’s shoot is on the roof of the store. It should be a gas.”

  If I’d heard, it hadn’t registered. I hadn’t been paying much attention to anything but my own thoughts about the mystery. But Blaine was probably right. A shoot on the roof would be something different, and fun.

  Different, yes. Fun? Not exactly. Not unless you call a near-fatal accident fun.

  We all trooped up to the roof, making a big parade of it. Mrs. Maslin led the procession, followed by Julio and Jamie, who were followed by their assistants and their assistants’ assistants. (Roger Bellair and Claudia were among that crowd.) The lighting guys were next, then came the stylists, toting any supplies they might need to touch up a lip here, an eyebrow there. Finally, we models brought up the rear, led by Harmony with her mother, and Blaine with Dylan Trueheart (and Cokie close behind).

  We emerged onto the roof, which was covered with tar paper and had a waist-high metal railing all the way around it. The sky was blue, the air was clear, and the view was — well, the view wasn’t exactly stunning, since it was only of downtown Stoneybrook, but it was okay.

  Being on the roof of Bellair’s was not like being on top of the World Trade Center or the Empire State Building. When you’re up that high, the cars on the streets look almost like ants, and all of Manhattan looks like a giant ant farm. But those buildings are very tall. Bellair’s is only five stories high, so the cars on the street looked pretty much like cars, only smaller. Still, I felt a little dizzy when I went near the railing and looked over. I mean, five stories is a long way down.

  Jamie and his crew had set up the cameras earlier, so the shoot began as soon as we were all on hand. Julio started barking out orders about which models he wanted where, the makeup people dashed around with powder puffs, and Mrs. Maslin hovered nearby, checking things off on her clipboard. There was a certain festive feeling in the air, probably due to the fact that we were in a new location.

  In the first shot, Harmony and I were supposed to relax on some lounge chairs Julio’s crew had brought up. “It’s a tar beach kind of a feeling,” said Julio. “You know, that’s what city people call the roof. Tar beach. It’s cheap, it’s convenient, it’s groovy.”

  Groovy? Whatever.

  “But we’re not wearing bathing suits,” Harmony pointed out. “I wouldn’t lie out on a lounge chair in an outfit like this.”

  “Good point,” said Mrs. Maslin.

  Julio looked a little put out. “Well, what do you suggest instead?” he asked.

  “We could stand near the railing,” said Harmony, “as though we were looking out at the view.”

  I was a little surprised to hear Harmony speak up so much. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that her mother had left to do some errands.

  “I like it,” said Mrs. Maslin.

  Julio shrugged. “You’re the boss,” he said.

  Harmony and I walked to the railing. We turned around to ask Jamie what to do next.

  But we never had the chance.

  I guess I must have leaned on the railing a little too hard — or else Harmony did — because the next thing I knew, it wasn’t there anymore.

  It wasn’t there, and Harmony and I were falling.

  We didn’t die, of course. We didn’t even plunge four stories, only to be miraculously saved by the awning over the front entrance.

  All we did was fall onto another section of the roof, about a foot lower than the part we’d been standing on.

  Not that it didn’t hurt. I was shaken up pretty badly, and my wrist ached. I must have stuck out my hand to try to break my fall. Harmony and I sat where we’d landed, staring at each other. Her face was sheet whit
e; she must have been in shock. Other than that, she seemed okay, except for a few small scrapes and scratches.

  “Sorry,” she whispered.

  “Why?” I said. “It’s not your fault the railing broke.”

  “Stace! Are you okay?” I looked up to see Claudia staring down at me. Claudia — and everyone else. The whole catalog crew and all the other models had rushed to the edge of the roof to see if Harmony and I had survived.

  “We’re both fine,” I said. “Can somebody help us up?”

  Jamie jumped right down and gave me a hand. Then he helped Harmony stand. By then, a couple of other people had climbed down onto our part of the roof. Mrs. Maslin was first, clucking like a hen as she brushed off Harmony’s back. “Terrible, terrible,” she said. “I should have known the roof was a bad idea.”

  Claudia, who was now standing beside me, gave me a hug. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?” she asked. “Should I go find your mom?”

  “No, really, I’m fine,” I said.

  Just then, as if she’d been summoned by the word “mom,” Harmony’s mother turned up. “Sweetie!” she cried, smothering Harmony in a huge hug. “What happened? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Harmony told her mother. “It was scary, but I’m fine.”

  “I’m going to look into suing the store,” vowed her mother. “If they paid the proper attention to maintenance, this never would have happened.” She waved a hand at the broken railing.

  “It’s not the store’s fault,” Harmony mumbled. “Somebody’s after me. First the poison, then those notes — and now this.”

  Harmony’s mom looked doubtful. So did Mrs. Maslin. I don’t think either of them wanted to believe that the broken railing had been foul play. “Harmony has a very active imagination,” said her mom to Mrs. Maslin, a little apologetically.

  Harmony looked frustrated. “Mom, I’m trying to tell you —”

  “What are we going to do here?” Julio interrupted, approaching Mrs. Maslin. “We’re wasting money, paying all these people to stand around.”

  “You’re right,” said Mrs. Maslin. “We do need to finish the shoot. But not on the roof. Can your people move everything back down to the studio?”

  Julio heaved a sigh. “If that’s what you want,” he said, “that’s what we’ll have to do.”

  “Good,” said Mrs. Maslin. “And while you set up, we’ll have a short meeting in the dressing rooms.” She turned to face the models, who were still standing there staring at us. “I want everybody to join us downstairs,” she said. “I’m ready to announce the assignments for tomorrow’s show.”

  A murmur went through the crowd. (I saw that phrase in a book once, and it describes what happened up there on the roof perfectly.) And the murmuring kept up as we all marched back down the stairs. I knew everybody was dying to find out who would be receiving the top assignments, including, and most especially, the one for the Princess Bellair role. I wasn’t too concerned, though. I was a lot more interested in finding out who had loosened the screws on that railing.

  Loose screws? That’s right. As I’d followed the others back to the main roof, I couldn’t help taking a closer look at the spot where the railing had given way. Sure enough, two large screws were lying nearby, two screws that had either popped out or had been taken out, leaving the bracket that held that part of the railing completely loose and ready to fall apart at a touch.

  I thought about those screws as I followed the others downstairs. It seemed pretty obvious to me that someone had deliberately tampered with them. Someone who wanted to give a couple of models a really big scare. But who? And what would that person do next?

  We gathered in the dressing room, a group of shaken-up models and concerned adults. Mrs. Maslin started to talk, and as usual she was able to smooth things over and help people calm down.

  Once everybody felt a little more relaxed, Mrs. Maslin began to read the list of assignments for the big show. There weren’t too many surprises. By then, everybody had begun to see which models seemed best for what clothes. And, despite all that heavy competition, the truth was that there were plenty of great assignments to go around. I was very happy with the ones Mrs. Maslin had given me: two evening gowns, one casual outfit, and a tennis outfit.

  Finally, when she’d reached the end of her list, Mrs. Maslin paused. “And now,” she said, “I’d like everyone to greet this year’s Princess Bellair — Harmony Skye!”

  I think I was the only one looking at Harmony as Mrs. Maslin said her name. I was sitting right next to her. So I was probably the only one who saw her face fall when she heard the news. A millisecond later, she was smiling again, as everyone turned around to look at her while they applauded.

  Once I’d seen that expression cross her face I couldn’t forget it. Why on earth would Harmony be disappointed to hear she’d been named Princess Bellair?

  I thought about it as we finished the shoot. I thought about it some more as I changed into my own clothes at the end of the day. And I was still thinking about it as my mom drove my friends and me to Kristy’s for a late-evening BSC pizza party.

  We’d decided to get together that night, since Claudia and Mary Anne and Mal and I had not been able to attend BSC meetings all week. And when the four of us walked into the Thomas/Brewer kitchen, it felt like a family reunion. Of course, we’d seen each other in school, but we hadn’t had time to talk about everything that had been happening that week.

  We — the Fashion Week crew — had plenty to tell the others about the events at Bellair’s. And they had plenty to tell us about plans for the Smokeout. Plus, we had to pay a lot of attention to the pizzas Kristy had ordered.

  So, for the first half hour or so, all we did was pig out and gab a mile a minute. Then, once the pizza had disappeared, we settled down and began to talk more seriously about the mystery at Bellair’s.

  The mystery notebook had been passed around, and everyone had read it. (Nobody in the BSC can resist a mystery.) Kristy, Abby, and Jessi each had their own theory about what was going on.

  “I’m still suspicious of Roger Bellair,” said Kristy, who was working her way through a bowl of Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia. “I think you scratched him off the suspect list way too soon.”

  “But I’ve been keeping an eye on him,” said Claud, “and I swear, he never does anything suspicious. I know for a fact that he was nowhere near that railing today, because I was with him the whole time we were setting up.”

  “That doesn’t mean he didn’t loosen the screws yesterday,” said Mal. “I think Kristy’s right. Everybody’s a suspect until we’re absolutely positive that he or she is innocent.”

  “I agree,” said Jessi, “which is why I agree with Mary Anne about Dylan Trueheart. I think he and Cokie may be working together.”

  “What?” everybody asked at once. Mal nearly dropped her bowl of sorbet.

  Jessi grinned. “I think they’re in it together,” she repeated. “It wouldn’t be the first time Cokie pulled dirty tricks.”

  We had to admit she was right. “But Cokie wouldn’t actually hurt anybody,” said Kristy.

  “That’s just it,” insisted Jessi. “Has anybody actually been hurt? No. I think somebody’s just trying to scare the models. Why, I don’t know. But my guess is that Cokie may be that somebody.”

  “Well, I have a different theory,” announced Abby. She put down her empty bowl and folded her arms. “I think it’s Julio.”

  “Julio!”

  “That’s the most ridiculous —”

  “Why Julio?”

  “Who is Julio, anyway?”

  Everybody was talking at once, and Abby grinned. “Julio’s the art director,” she reminded Jessi, who had asked. “And as far as why, well — why not? It could just as easily be him as anyone else. So I picked him, just for fun.”

  Everyone cracked up. Except for me. I was still thinking, thinking, thinking.

  Mary Anne, sensitive as always, noticed. “You’ve bee
n very quiet, Stacey,” she said. “Is something wrong?”

  I shook my head. “No, nothing’s wrong,” I said slowly. “But I think I know who’s responsible for everything that’s been happening. And if you’re willing to help me,” I said, looking around at my friends, “I think we can solve this mystery before it’s too late.”

  “What if nobody comes?” Mal whispered.

  “Then we’ll have to try Plan B,” I whispered back.

  “What’s Plan B?” asked Claudia, also in a whisper.

  “I’ll figure that out when the time comes,” I answered.

  “Shhh!!! Somebody’s coming!” Mary Anne hissed.

  We all fell silent.

  The door swung open, and I heard footsteps approaching. I crossed my fingers, hoping I was right. Hoping she wouldn’t notice how, out of five stalls in the women’s bathroom, four were locked. Hoping I’d know what to do and what to say.

  I peeked through the crack between the door and the frame, careful not to move or make any sound at all. It was hard to see, but there was definitely someone standing in front of the mirror. I was holding my breath, and I’m sure my friends were holding theirs, too.

  Then I heard this little sound, just a tiny snick, and I bit my lip. Was that the sound I was waiting for? I peeked through the crack again and saw motion.

  It was now or never. I could be wrong, but even if I was, what did I have to lose? I had to go with my hunch. I squinched my eyes shut tight for a second, then opened them. “Go for it,” I told myself. In one quick motion, I pushed open the door of the stall I’d been hiding in.

  I was right. That snick had been the sound of a lipstick tube being opened. And the motion I’d seen was the swoop of an arm, as that lipstick was used to write large red letters in the middle of the mirror. The message wasn’t complete yet. So far it just said TONIGHT’S THE NI —.

  Harmony met my eyes in the mirror, then turned to face me. “So, you caught me,” she said tonelessly. She didn’t even seem surprised.

  I didn’t feel as great as I’d thought I would. “Yeah, I guess I did,” I said.