“I know,” Nancy agreed. “Come on, let’s go to lunch,” she suggested.
“Okay,” Bess said with a resigned sigh. “My stomach was growling all morning. It growled during my photo session. Fortunately, Bogorofsky thought it was his stomach. He said, ‘Excuse, I have pizza yesterday.’ ”
Most of the other models were already eating lunch. “Don’t let me order anything fattening,” Bess said to Nancy as they stepped in.
“I won’t,” Nancy said. “I’d like to sit with Heather, if that’s okay with you. I want to get to know her better.”
“Being with Heather will ruin my appetite for sure. Hmmm . . .” Bess smiled ironically. “The Heather Richards diet. I think I’m onto something.”
“Are these seats free?” Nancy asked Heather when they came up beside her.
“I guess so,” Heather said with a shrug.
Nancy and Bess sat down, and Heather continued eating her lobster salad.
“That looks good,” Bess said, trying to be polite. “I think I’ll order one.”
“The waiter told me it was the last one,” Heather said with a look of false regret. “Sorry.”
“Oh, well,” Bess said with a sigh, looking over the menu the waiter had just brought to the table.
“Achoo!” came a volcanic eruption behind her.
“Hi, Maggie!” Bess said brightly. “Want to join us?”
“Achoo!” Maggie let out another gigantic sneeze and nodded her head affirmatively. “Thanks,” she murmured. “Sorry about the—achoo!—sneezing.”
Heather rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “I hope whatever you have isn’t catching,” she said icily. “Have you seen a doctor?”
“No, it’s just a little cold,” Maggie said, embarrassed.
“Well, being in the contest may make it worse,” Heather went on, her voice dripping with phony sympathy. “You know, if I were you, I’d think about dropping out so I could get some rest.”
“Thanks for the suggestion, Heather. It’s nice that you care,” Maggie said, smiling through gritted teeth.
“Did you hear?” Bess began, in what Nancy guessed was an effort to change the subject. “My photo negatives were stolen!”
“Oh, no!” Maggie moaned. “That’s awful, Bess! What’s going to happen?”
“They’re going to try to get me another session with Bogorofsky,” Bess explained.
“But the first session with any photographer is always the best,” Heather said. “You can redo them, but they’re never as good as the first ones.”
“Really?” Bess asked.
“Everyone knows that,” Heather said. “See you at Grant Park.” She pushed her plate away and stood up.
After the icy blonde left the table, Maggie, Bess, and Nancy sat in silence.
“Achoo.” That was all they needed. Suddenly all three of them were giggling their heads off. “Nothing like a good sneeze to get rid of tension,” Maggie managed to say.
• • •
The weather had turned warmer that afternoon when the girls arrived at Buckingham Fountain in Grant Park. Nancy had leads to investigate, but she was afraid the saboteur might try something that afternoon. She wanted to be on hand in case she could help.
Jackie told them that the three-tiered marble fountain was a larger replica of one in the gardens at Versailles in France. The pool around the fountain had been drained. The water was shut off until the girls were ready to take their positions on the pedestals that were part of the design. After a few shots, they’d be given umbrellas and the fountain would be turned on.
After Jackie directed the models to the trailer, Nancy walked over to where the crew was setting up. Bogorofsky was wandering around, snapping candids, until the lights were ready.
Nancy noticed Thom Fortner at the far side of the fountain. He was wearing a navy coat with a fur collar and carrying his ever-present briefcase. Thom saw Nancy and gave a stiff wave. Then he turned, and Nancy lost sight of him.
Not far from the trailer was Bettina. She was talking to the news reporter Nancy had first seen on the pier. Nancy wondered if Bettina was dishing more dirt about the contest. As if to confirm Nancy’s suspicions, Bettina moved away from the reporter when she saw Nancy. Seconds later she was clapping her hands for attention. “Let’s get started, please!” she announced. “Would someone please see if the girls are ready?”
“I will,” Nancy offered with a smile.
Nancy walked over and poked her head in the door of the trailer. “Are you ready?” she asked.
“Almost,” Bess called out. A wardrobe mistress was busy pinning Bess’s dress in the back. “It’s the wrong size,” Bess explained. “All the dresses were—except one!”
“Don’t worry,” the wardrobe mistress muttered, taking a pin from her mouth. “They’ll look fine.”
“What do you think?” Heather Richards asked sweetly, twirling around in a tomato-red sundress that fit perfectly and showed off her slender shoulders and narrow waist.
“Honey, you sure you’re not a pro?” the wardrobe mistress joked.
Heather seemed momentarily taken aback. “No! Of course not! Professionals aren’t eligible for this contest!”
“I just meant that you look great, that’s all,” the wardrobe lady explained. “Let’s go, everyone!”
One by one the girls stepped past Nancy and walked out of the trailer. From the front they looked fine, but in the back their dresses were clipped with safety pins.
Trudy Woo watched Heather in bright red step down and let out a growl. “How does she do it?” Trudy asked.
“Heather’s the one behind everything. Trust me,” Bess whispered to Nancy.
“You’ve got to be able to prove these things, Bess,” Nancy reminded her.
Nancy watched the trail of girls cross the drained pool to take their positions standing on the pedestals of the fountain.
“The red dress is offensive and out of place!” Bogorofsky complained to Bettina.
“That’s the way Smash wants it,” Bettina said with a shrug. “They’re paying for the shoot today.”
“Ridiculous,” the photographer said. “But what do I know? I’m only an artist. All right, young lady in red, move to the pedestal down front, in the center.”
After Bogorofsky had taken a series of shots, he waved to the crew, who were waiting at the edge of the pool with umbrellas. “I’m ready for you,” the photographer said.
The crew handed each of the models an umbrella. The umbrellas were all made of shiny vinyl in bright, bold colors. At least in this round of photos Heather wouldn’t stand out as much, Nancy thought.
“All right! Let’s do it,” Bogorofsky shouted. “Where’s the water?” he yelled, looking up again.
“Coming! We just found the mechanism to turn it on.”
“Let’s have it, then!” Bogorofsky shouted. Instantly the fountain began spraying far up into the air.
Something was terribly wrong. The water coming out of the fountain was a deep, ugly purple! It showered all over the girls, who began shrieking hysterically.
Thom Fortner’s jaw dropped open. “B-but—but,” he sputtered, “that’s not water—it’s paint!”
Chapter
Twelve
SCREAMS FILLED THE AIR as the shower of purple liquid rained down on the models who stood on the upper pedestals. Since the wind blew the fountain’s jets away from the girls down in front—including Heather—they avoided getting splattered.
In seconds the crew had the fountain shut off, but the damage to Smash’s sundresses, and to the shoot, was already done. Nancy let out a little gasp as she caught sight of Bess’s paint-streaked face.
“What happened?” Thom Fortner cried out.
“What kind of prank is this?” a furious Bettina shouted at the bewildered crew.
“I just hit the switch marked Fountain,” Pat tried to explain.
“Oh, shut up,” snapped Bettina. “What’s the good of explanations now? This shoot
is ruined!”
One by one the paint-spattered models got off their pedestals and walked to the trailer.
“I quit!” Bogorofsky fumed after making sure none of the purple spray had gotten on his lenses.
So much for Bess’s portfolio, Nancy thought sadly.
“These pictures will be even better than the ones I took when the girl was dumped in the lake!” The same reporter had popped up once again and was taking as many humiliating shots of the models as he could before they disappeared into their trailer.
While Bess and the others washed up and changed, Nancy checked out the back of the fountain to see what had happened.
A small metal box was sticking out from under a pedestal. Nancy guessed it was the fountain mechanism that Pat had been talking about. The top of the box was hinged. Inside, the levers that turned the fountain on and off were unbroken.
Bending down, Nancy peered around the box. Hidden between it and the edge of the fountain was a transparent tube about a yard long. The tube was filled with purple paint. Reaching in, Nancy pulled on the tube. Something scraped along the ground toward her from under the fountain. A drum of paint! So somebody must have gotten there early and set up the mechanism. And whoever it was had to have done the dirty work after the fountain was shut off. In other words, not too long ago.
“What’s that?” A voice behind Nancy startled her. She spun around to face Thom Fortner. How long had he been watching her?
“It’s a drum of paint,” Nancy told him. “See for yourself.”
“You know, I thought all those rumors of sabotage were just so much nonsense,” Thom murmured. “But I’m beginning to believe there’s something to them after all.”
Nancy didn’t say anything—she wanted to see how Thom was going to respond to the situation.
“I hate to say it,” Thom continued as he stood up, “but I think our only option at this point may be to cancel the contest.”
Thom seemed to be giving up awfully easily.
“Come on, Nancy,” Bess said, approaching Nancy. “Let’s get back to the hotel so I can shower this disgusting stuff off. If it comes off.”
Thom wandered over to Bettina as Nancy boarded the van with Bess and the other contestants.
Usually, when the group traveled somewhere, the trip was filled with the sounds of giggling, laughing, and high-spirited conversation. But that day the van made the short trip back to the hotel in dismal silence. Only Heather Richards, sitting alone in the front, seemed to be carefree.
The minute Nancy opened the door to their suite, she noticed the red message light on the phone flashing.
“I wonder who called,” Bess said, her expression brightening a bit. “I love messages.”
Nancy called down to the concierge. “Oh, yes, there were three calls for your suite,” the woman told her. “Two for Bess Marvin, one from Thom Fortner and one from Leo Halsey.” She gave Nancy the phone numbers and paused while Nancy wrote them down. “The other one is for Nancy Drew, from Kelly Conroy. She asks that Ms. Drew please call her immediately at Teen Scene.”
“Thanks,” Nancy said, and hung up. She handed Bess her messages.
“Leo Halsey? Who’s he?” Bess’s brow wrinkled in puzzlement.
“You can find out in a minute. I want to catch Kelly right away,” Nancy said, dialing the switchboard at Teen Scene.
“Hi!” Kelly’s voice bubbled.
“Hi,” Nancy responded. “What’s up?”
“Well,” Kelly drawled dramatically, “sit down, ’cause you’re going to love this. When I got back to the office this afternoon, my assistant had some news for me about Heather.”
“Shoot,” Nancy said, sitting down on the bed while Bess paced in front of her.
“First of all, her name isn’t Heather Richards—it’s Gloria Smithson.”
“Keep going,” Nancy said.
“And she’s not from New York. She’s from Cleveland, Ohio. And it seems she may have done some professional modeling, although there’s no proof yet.”
“Wow! That would disqualify her from the contest, wouldn’t it?”
“You bet. If we can prove it. But that’s not the best part.”
“I’m listening,” Nancy said.
“Here’s the capper. Gloria was in a juvenile detention center a few months ago—for vandalism!”
“Good work, Kelly. Any news on Roger Harlan?”
“Just that he was an Eagle scout back in his hometown,” Kelly said flatly. “Oh, and Monique mentioned that he’s shooting a commercial at Marshall Field’s tomorrow.”
“Hmmm,” Nancy said. “I think I’ll go shopping. Let’s get together afterward. I’ll call you.”
After Nancy hung up and relayed what she’d just learned to Bess, Bess exclaimed, “I knew it! Heather’s responsible for the sabotage, Nancy!”
Nancy wasn’t so sure. “Then tell me this, Bess,” she said. “Why? Why is she out to sabotage a contest that could just possibly give her the one chance she needs to change her life?”
Bess bit her lip and shrugged her shoulders. “Beats me,” she murmured.
“Your turn.” Nancy handed her the phone.
“Hello, is Mr. Fortner there?” Bess said after she pressed in the number of Smash’s executive offices.
Bess hung up a few minutes later. “He called to give me the name of my new photographer. That’s who Leo Halsey is. I never heard of him. Thom says he does book covers.”
“You sound disappointed,” Nancy said gently.
“I am!” Bess agreed. “What a comedown! From Alex Bogorofsky to some unknown book-cover photographer. What an intense drag!”
“I thought you hated Bogorofsky.”
“I did.” Bess made a face. “But book covers? Honestly!”
• • •
Bess’s mood hadn’t improved much by morning. Dragging herself out of bed, she recited a litany of complaints as she got dressed. Everything was wrong—her hair, her face, her clothes.
“I don’t have a chance of winning this contest,” she began. “I mean, Leo Halsey? He’s a complete unknown!”
“He must be good, Bess, if Smash and Elan are using him,” Nancy suggested. “Why don’t you give him a chance?”
Bess snorted derisively as she got ready for her appointment. “At least his studio is near the hotel,” she said.
“There it is. Halsey, Studio Six,” Bess muttered as they entered the tiny elevator that slowly delivered them to the sixth floor. “I hope he’s not another prima donna. I don’t think I could take it.”
But when the door of the studio swung open, Nancy could tell that Bess’s session was going to be fine. Leo Halsey was adorable. He was about twenty-four, with dark curly hair and light blue eyes.
“You’re Bess,” he said, grinning. “I’m Leo, and I’m going to take the pictures that are going to win you the Face of the Year Contest. Come on in. Let’s relax and get to know each other before we start to work.”
Bess beamed. Obviously she liked Halsey’s approach—not to mention his good looks.
“I’m taking off,” Nancy told Bess, who didn’t seem to care much at that point.
“See you later, Nan,” Bess said, vaguely waving goodbye as the door to the studio swung shut.
Nancy felt in her pocket for the gold tie tack she’d put there that morning. She was going to confront Roger Harlan. Taking the stairs instead of the elevator, Nancy let herself out of Leo’s building and hurried over to Marshall Field’s, which was just a few blocks away.
After she inquired about Roger’s commercial, she was sent up to the fifth-floor housewares department. As she rode the escalator up, she noticed someone familiar riding down beside her. It was Thom Fortner.
He acknowledged her with a quick wave, and Nancy waved back. With Thom was a willowy blonde with straight-cut bangs and deep green eyes. The woman was strangely familiar.
Nancy watched them as they rode down and stepped off the escalator out of view. Nancy was left wit
h the nagging thought that she’d seen that woman before.
But where?
Stepping off the escalator in the housewares department, Nancy made her way through towels and sheets. In an area roped off from the general public stood Roger Harlan, conferring with a man standing next to a huge camera on a dolly.
“I’m from Elan,” Nancy fibbed as she approached the barriers separating the shoot from the rest of the store. A young woman holding a clipboard moved the chain away to let Nancy through.
“I need to talk to Roger Harlan when he’s available,” Nancy told her in a quiet tone.
“They should be breaking after a couple more takes,” the woman whispered back.
“Okay, everyone!” the man Roger had been talking to called out loudly. “Let’s take it again!”
“Marshall Field’s, take forty-two,” a young man with a chalkboard announced.
“You know, when I moved into my new apartment”—sounding nervous, Roger began walking slowly toward the camera—“I needed a few new things, so—”
“Cut!” the man behind the camera shouted. “Roger, you’ve got to stay on your mark. Otherwise you won’t be centered in the shot.”
“No problem, Dan,” Roger said as the makeup man redabbed his face.
“Let’s try it again,” the man said.
“Marshall Field’s, take forty-three!” the man with the chalkboard said.
“You know,” Roger began again, “when I moved into my new apartment, I—”
“Cut!” Dan shouted. “Make it more intimate, Roger. You’re not talking to an acquaintance here. I want you to sound like you’re talking to your best friend. Let your voice drop a little after that first ‘you know.’ I think that’ll help.”
“Marshall Field’s, take forty-four!”
“You know,” Roger began, stepping slowly toward the camera, “when I moved into my new apartment, I needed a few—”
“Cut!” the director shouted again.
By the time take fifty-seven was shot the director gave up and called a break. “But be back in ten,” he announced. “Remember, this is only the first section.”
A Model Crime Page 7