Stacey and the Fashion Victim, Page 3

  Meanwhile, the other girls were racing around, too. Three were at the hairdressing station, and several others were struggling into their clothes by the big mirror. I saw a couple of girls arguing over shoes. Harmony Skye’s mother was pestering Mrs. Maslin about how Harmony couldn’t possibly appear in “that hideous excuse for a bathing suit.” Cynthia Rowlands was asking everyone if they’d seen her lucky lipstick brush. Cokie was touching up her makeup for the fourth time. Blaine Gilbert couldn’t make the zipper on her sundress close. And Sydney?

  Sydney was completely dressed and made up. Her hair was finished. She sat calmly in a chair near the spot where we’d eventually line up to go onstage, ignoring the confusion and taking sips out of a bottle of that French water. She appeared to be above it all.

  Sydney was definitely a pro.

  She seemed to have a way of holding herself away from everyone else. And, while I didn’t exactly like her, I did admire her. Why? Well, mostly because of the things she didn’t do.

  She didn’t gossip about the other girls.

  She didn’t behave as if any food other than diet soda was the enemy.

  She didn’t smoke cigarettes and leave nasty butts all over the place.

  And she didn’t act competitive every time a good assignment was up for grabs.

  These things may not seem like anything out of the ordinary, but believe me, in that group they were. I couldn’t believe the way most of the models behaved. I was surprised — and a little disgusted. Make that a lot disgusted, when it came to the smoking. I was amazed at how many of the girls smoked. Every time there was a five-minute break, they’d rush out of the room, light up, and puff away like crazy. It was gross.

  As for the gossip, that was pretty gross, too. As I’ve already said, I’m not crazy about dissing people behind their backs. Among this crowd, gossip was practically a world-class sport. These girls could have entered the Olympics of gossip. As soon as one girl had walked away, the others would start to dish the dirt about her. I wondered what they were saying about me, and I tried not to care.

  As far as healthy eating? Well, let’s put it this way. I think Sydney and I were the only girls in the group who ever ate anything healthy. The others seemed to think they could live on cigarettes and diet soda. When I pulled out an apple that morning, I saw a few girls looking at it as if it were radioactive.

  And the competitive thing? I could have done without that, too. It was as if each of the girls felt that she had to elbow the others aside in order to make herself look good. It made for what Dawn would have called “a bad vibe.” I saw girls smiling charmingly at Mrs. Maslin one second, hoping to get on her good side, then making faces at her behind her back when she gave a good assignment to somebody else.

  For example, that morning everyone was whispering about how Mrs. Maslin had given Harmony all the best clothes to model. I couldn’t see what was so much better about the clothes she was wearing, but the other, more experienced models seemed to know right away which outfits carried the most prestige.

  “What did she do to deserve special treatment?” I heard Cynthia Rowlands hiss.

  “It’s that mother of hers,” whispered another girl. “Mrs. My-Daughter’s-Better-Than-Everyone-Else.” She made a face.

  “No, it’s the way Miss Harmony sucks up to old Maslin,” said Cokie. “Look at her, pretending she actually likes that bratty daughter of hers.” She pointed toward a corner of the dressing room, where Harmony was sitting with a little girl.

  The girl was Emily Maslin, Mrs. Maslin’s ten-year-old daughter, the one I’d seen trailing her on Take Our Daughters to Work Day. Mrs. Maslin had introduced us when I first arrived, but I’d barely had a chance to talk to her. From the little I’d seen, she seemed like a smart kid. She also seemed to be enthralled by the models and by the fashion scene. But I had a distinct feeling her mother wanted to discourage those feelings.

  Emily had been walking around all morning, watching closely as we dressed, had our hair done, and were made up. Most of the girls treated her like a pest, but I’d noticed that Harmony was always willing to answer her questions or let her try on a blouse or a hair accessory. I could tell that Harmony actually liked Emily, but I could also see how the other girls might think she was just trying to impress Mrs. Maslin.

  “Emily!” called Mrs. Maslin just then. “Leave Harmony alone. We’re almost ready to start our rehearsal, and she needs to finish dressing.”

  “I want to be in the show, too,” Emily said, pouting a little as she joined her mother. “Why can’t I?”

  “We’ve been over this,” said Mrs. Maslin. “You’re too young. Now, remember, I said you could come watch today as long as you promised not to bug me. Right?”

  “I guess,” said Emily, looking down at her shoes. “But —”

  “No buts,” said Mrs. Maslin. “Now, where did Sydney go? It’s just about time to start.” She bustled away, checking off items on the list clipped to her clipboard.

  I saw Emily watch her leave, then turn and head back toward the racks of clothing. After that, I lost sight of her, since I was too busy fixing one of my pigtails.

  That’s when the voice started yelling “Places!” And the music started, and the curtain opened, and the lights came on. The rehearsal was about to start.

  I felt my heart thumping, just a little, as I found my place in line. I knew the small auditorium wasn’t yet full of people, but it was still nerve-racking to be waiting for my turn onstage.

  Mrs. Maslin appeared in front of us, just off-stage, and began to give directions. “Go, Harmony,” she said, giving her a hand signal. “And you’re next, Cynthia. Heads up. Smile! Don’t forget to turn twice at the end of the runway. And show off the lining of that jacket. Good! Okay, next! Let’s go. Heads up!”

  She sounded like a drill sergeant.

  When my turn came, I put my chin in the air, plastered what I hoped was a gorgeous smile across my face, took three big steps — and tripped over a cable taped to the floor. Fortunately, I was still offstage when that happened.

  That wasn’t the only glitch in the morning’s rehearsal. There were a lot of them. The music cues weren’t perfect, the lighting was uneven, and a few of the girls forgot the direction in which to turn. Still, there were no major disasters, and by the end of the rehearsal I felt a lot more confident about having to “walk the walk” in front of an audience.

  “That was great, Stace!” said Claudia, giving me a hug after the rehearsal.

  “You saw it?” I asked. I hadn’t noticed anyone watching.

  “Sure, we were all out there,” she answered. “The whole catalog crew. And guess who couldn’t keep his eyes off a certain model?” She nodded toward the back of the room, and I saw Roger Bellair talking eagerly to Sydney. He seemed thrilled to be near her, but she wore her usual “I’m-so-incredibly-bored” expression.

  “Doesn’t exactly look like the romance of the century,” I commented.

  “Girls! Girls!” Mrs. Maslin materialized in the middle of the room, clapping her hands for attention. “I want to go over a few notes with you before the show. Can everyone please gather around?”

  Claudia grinned at me and waved. “I’m out of here,” she said. I could tell she was glad not to be part of that chaotic scene.

  I waved good-bye and settled down to hear Mrs. Maslin’s notes. She’d noticed a lot of details I’d missed — little things that had gone wrong during the rehearsal. She had something to say to nearly every girl there. (She told me I’d walked too fast and that I needed to smile more.) Every girl but Harmony, who had apparently done a perfect job. I saw a couple of the girls shoot her nasty looks.

  After that, it was time to prepare for the actual show, and there wasn’t a minute to waste. Once again, the dressing room buzzed as we ran around frantically. Once again, somebody started yelling “Places.” And once again, I found myself in line, waiting nervously for my first real trip down the runway.

  Thanks to our rehearsal, ev
erything went perfectly smoothly. And, despite my butterflies, I found out that it was actually fun.

  There was only one hitch during the show, and I had to admit it was kind of a funny one. At a moment when her mom was distracted, Emily managed to run out onstage to “model” an outfit she’d put together all on her own.

  Mrs. Maslin wasn’t amused, but the audience loved Emily.

  Afterward, as we relaxed in the dressing room, I was sitting by the makeup mirror talking with Cokie about how well everything had gone.

  Suddenly, I heard a wild shriek.

  “Poison! My baby’s been poisoned!”

  It was Mrs. Skye who was shrieking as she ran toward Harmony.

  Harmony, who had been sitting at her dressing table sipping a cup of tea, was slumped over, moaning as she clutched her stomach.

  Cokie and I looked at each other in shock. Then we ran to see if Harmony was okay.

  “Sweetie, speak to me! Are you all right?” Mrs. Skye was bent over her daughter. “Somebody call security,” she yelled. “Call an ambulance!”

  “I don’t need an ambulance,” Harmony mumbled. “Just need — just need a little nap.” She rested her head on the dressing table. Her face was white and pasty.

  I glanced at the cup she’d been drinking from. It was nearly empty, but what was left in it looked like ordinary tea. “Are you sure she’s not just sick? What makes you think she was poisoned?” I asked her mother. I didn’t mean to sound nosy, but I couldn’t help wondering. She seemed so sure.

  “Because Harmony never eats a thing on the day of a show,” she snapped. “That tea is the first thing that’s passed her lips since dinnertime last night.” She tugged at her daughter’s arm. “Darling! Sweetie! Please tell me you’re all right.”

  “I’m okay, Mom,” Harmony said. I could tell it was an effort for her to talk. “Stomach just hurts. Bad.” She was still clutching her stomach.

  A security guard had arrived by then, and so had Mrs. Maslin. “What seems to be the trouble?” asked Mrs. Maslin.

  “Somebody poisoned my daughter,” said Mrs. Skye. “I think she’s going to be all right. But obviously the security staff here is not doing a proper job.”

  The man looked offended.

  Mrs. Maslin jumped in. “I’m sure they’re doing everything they can,” she said soothingly. “I’ve made it clear that the safety of these girls is our highest priority.” She nodded at the guard. “Thanks, Jim,” she said. “You can stop in at my office later and we’ll file a report.”

  He left, looking angry.

  Mrs. Maslin turned to Mrs. Skye. “Are you absolutely sure you want to report this?” she asked quietly. “News of a poisoning might find its way into the papers.”

  “You’re just worried about Bellair’s reputation,” said Mrs. Skye angrily. “What about Harmony?”

  “It’s Harmony I’m concerned about,” said Mrs. Maslin. “Harmony’s career could be affected — negatively — by something like this. Even if it wasn’t her fault. And Bellair’s could be affected, too. In fact, maybe it would be best for both Harmony and Bellair’s if Harmony were to withdraw from Fashion Week.”

  “No!” Mrs. Skye cried. “I mean,” Mrs. Skye narrowed her eyes, considering (I could practically see the wheels turning inside her head), “I think you may be right,” she said finally. “Perhaps a formal report and investigation aren’t necessary.” She gave Mrs. Maslin a tight-lipped smile. “Maybe it’s just a little stomach bug, after all.”

  “Harmony, do you want to lie down?” Mrs. Maslin asked.

  Harmony shook her head. “I’m okay, really,” she insisted.

  “What happened?” asked Blaine Gilbert, who had pushed her way into the circle of people surrounding Harmony. By that time, nearly all the girls in the room had gathered near Harmony’s dressing table.

  “Let’s all move back a little and give Harmony some room to breathe in,” said Mrs. Maslin. “She’s going to be just fine. She’s just having a little stomach trouble.”

  “Just a little stomach trouble,” repeated Mrs. Skye obediently.

  “I thought I heard something about poison,” said Blaine.

  “Now, now,” said Mrs. Maslin. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. Why would anyone want to hurt Harmony?” She smiled. “We’re all friends here, right?”

  Nobody said anything.

  Mrs. Maslin pretended not to notice. “In any case, Harmony is clearly not seriously ill. Right, dear?” she asked, touching Harmony’s shoulder.

  Harmony looked miserable. “Right,” she answered.

  “But if you’re not feeling up to it, perhaps I should change the assignments around so you have less work this week.”

  I was nearly positive that I noticed a tiny smile on Cynthia Rowlands’ lips when Mrs. Maslin said that. But I could be wrong.

  Harmony hesitated. She was looking a little better already, although her face was still very white. “Well, maybe I —” She glanced at her mother. “I mean, I’d hate to miss anything, but —”

  “I won’t hear of it!” said Mrs. Skye. “My Harmony lives for modeling, and now you want to take it away from her. How could you!”

  “Mom, nobody’s taking anything away —” Harmony began. She looked awfully embarrassed by the way her mother was carrying on. I noticed some of the other models snickering a little, which couldn’t have helped. Harmony’s face wasn’t so white anymore. In fact, it was turning a deep pink as she listened to her mother’s protests.

  Mrs. Maslin held up her hands in an “I surrender” gesture. “Fine, fine,” she said. “I never said I wanted Harmony to drop out of Fashion Week. In fact, I was counting on her professionalism. Harmony is a wonderful, talented model, and I’m thrilled to have her aboard.”

  Now Harmony was really blushing.

  Behind Mrs. Maslin’s back, some of the girls were making nasty faces, and one of them was silently imitating her. Neither Harmony nor her mother noticed, though. They were too busy packing up her things and preparing to leave.

  “We’ll be here tomorrow,” said Mrs. Skye as she helped Harmony put on her backpack. “Count on it.”

  She made it sound like a threat.

  “Good, good,” said Mrs. Maslin. “We’re all done for today, anyway. Now, Harmony, you take care of yourself tonight. And if you still feel bad tomorrow —”

  “She’ll be fine,” interrupted Mrs. Skye. She put her arm around Harmony’s shoulder and pushed through the crowd of girls. “No thanks to whoever is trying to put her out of the picture,” she added under her breath, giving a narrow-eyed glare at the circle of models. “This business is so competitive,” she murmured as she and her daughter moved off.

  “Yeah, and you’re one of the worst,” said the girl standing next to me, whispering. “That woman is like a shark,” she added, heading for her own dressing table.

  “I can’t believe she thought her precious was poisoned,” said another girl.

  “Maybe she was, though,” I heard someone else say. “Or maybe the poison was meant for somebody else. I mean, that tea just came from the refreshment table, right? Anybody could have taken it.”

  I gulped when I heard that. It was true. How could a poisoner have known that Harmony would take that particular cup? It could easily have been grabbed by another girl. Or — I could have taken it. I could have been poisoned.

  “Creepy, huh?”

  I jumped. It was as if someone were reading my thoughts. I turned to see Claudia, who was shaking her head.

  “I just heard what happened,” she said. “I can’t believe it.”

  Just then, Mallory and Mary Anne poked their heads around the corner of the mirrored wall of my dressing table. “Pizza, anyone?” asked Mary Anne cheerfully.

  “We’ve been chasing kids around all day, and we’re starving,” added Mal.

  Obviously, they hadn’t heard the news yet. Claudia and I exchanged glances. “Pizza sounds great,” I said. “Anyway, we have to talk to you guys. We just might
have a mystery on our hands.”

  Mal’s eyes lit up. She adores mysteries.

  Mary Anne looked worried. “What happened?” she asked.

  “We’ll fill you in at Pizza Express,” I said. There was enough talk going on in the dressing room. I didn’t want to add to it.

  The four of us headed out of Bellair’s and went straight to Pizza Express. We ordered a large pie, half of which was topped with pepperoni and the other half with mushrooms. When the waitress brought our sodas, we settled in to talk.

  “So, what’s up?” asked Mal. “Spill it, before I die of curiosity.”

  “Well,” I said, lowering my voice. “It looks as if one of the girls was poisoned today.”

  “Poisoned?” Mal cried.

  “Shhh!” I said. “The whole world doesn’t have to know about it.”

  “Is she all right?” asked Mary Anne anxiously.

  I nodded. “She’s going to be fine,” I said. “But the thing is, nobody knows who did it — or why.”

  “I have a few guesses,” Claudia said meaningfully.

  “You do?” I asked. “Who?”

  “Wait a minute,” said Mal. “Back up first and tell us all the details.” She frowned. “I should probably be taking notes for the mystery notebook,” she added.

  The mystery notebook is another of Kristy’s great ideas. The BSC has been involved in solving lots of mysteries. In the past, we’d write down notes about suspects and clues on whatever piece of paper was at hand. But that usually turned out to be a grocery list, or someone’s English homework, which meant our notes were frequently lost. Kristy came up with the idea of keeping a notebook just for mysteries, and ever since then we’ve been the most organized detectives around.

  “We can write it all down later,” Claudia told her. “Go on, Stace.”

  Just then our pizza arrived, so we paused for a moment as we each took a slice. I suddenly realized that I was very, very hungry.

  After I’d taken a few bites, I began to tell Mal and Mary Anne what had happened.