Model Under Cover--Dressed to Kill

by Carina Axelsson

  I grabbed the list and ran my eyes over the names again. Had the poison been intended for Elisabetta? “Did any of the guests have an enemy in the group at last night’s party?” I asked Ugo.

  For a fraction of a second I thought I saw Ugo hesitate before answering. But it happened so fast I couldn’t be sure. “As far as I know,” he said, “we are all good friends. I cannot imagine why anyone on that list could possibly want to hurt one of the others – least of all Elisabetta – everyone liked her! She was lively, witty and loyal.” He was silent for a moment. “Anyway, why anyone would take it into their head to do it here, on my terrace and in the middle of a party is beyond me. It doesn’t make sense!”

  I cleared my throat. “Well, assuming for the moment that Elisabetta was indeed the intended victim, and that she really was poisoned here last night, then we must presume that someone on that list wanted her dead. But what motive could they possibly have?”

  Ugo turned his face away from mine and looked out at his terrace. “Good question,” he said. Then he turned back to me and said, “I wish I knew the answer.”

  But as his eyes held mine for a moment, I had the distinct feeling that Ugo was holding something back.

  “There is something, isn’t there, Ugo? Please tell me whatever you know. Any little thing – even if it seems unimportant – might help me…”

  “Well I heard from the others that Ginevra Mucci, the editor-in-chief at Amare, and Elisabetta had an argument on their way here last night. It happened just outside of my building. Some of the others overheard it. They said it sounded quite nasty.”

  “What was it about?”

  “Something to do with the award. Ginevra was bitter because Elisabetta had won. She accused Elisabetta of riding on her coat-tails – of copying her ideas for editorial stories and even the way she styles things.”

  “Do you think there’s any truth in that?”

  Ugo shook his head. “No. None at all – although it’s easy to imagine there was. Elisabetta’s career has followed a very similar direction to Ginevra’s, but that’s not her fault. Milan is a small city in many ways and it just so happens that both women started in fashion by working as freelance stylists, then they both worked for Falco Ventini and later they both happened to move to Amare magazine. As editor-in-chief, Ginevra was well above Elisabetta in the Amare hierarchy. Of course, I’ve heard the rumours that Elisabetta was going after Ginevra’s job, but I don’t believe them for one second. Elisabetta wasn’t like that. Besides, as far as I’m concerned, they both have distinct styles. I know Elisabetta best, of course, but I love to work with both of them. And, yes, perhaps on occasion I’ve seen Ginevra’s jealousy flare up – this is fashion after all, it’s hardly a new emotion in our workplace. But, still, I can’t imagine Ginevra was jealous to the point of murder – I mean, that’s crazy!”

  “So you think it’s unlikely Ginevra would have poisoned Elisabetta?”

  “Yes, I do.” He didn’t hesitate for a moment.

  I sucked the end of my pen. “And what did the canapés you served last night consist of?”

  “Little snacks – home-made things. Because it was Monday night and we all had to be in the office early this morning, I wanted to keep things light, even though we hadn’t eaten dinner – the awards had started so early.” He stopped and sighed. “Anyway, once I’d decided to invite the friends here I called Maria, and she quickly put some nibbles together for us. Little meatballs, some Parma ham and melon, and tiny slices of bruschetta. There were fresh figs and a bowl of cherries, too.”

  A pained look suddenly crossed Ugo’s face. “Maria is furious, of course. She screamed at the police when they were here. She took their enquiries very personally – as if they were accusing her of poisoning Elisabetta. She’s never been so insulted in her life. Anyway, the police followed her into the kitchen and she showed them exactly what she’d made – what leftovers we had have been taken to the laboratory for testing. But the initial feeling is that the bruschetta is to blame. The police think someone could have ripped the monkshood leaves into tiny pieces and sprinkled them over the top – it would have blended in with the basil perfectly.”

  “But you said the leaves taste bitter…”

  “So they say. But Maria puts a lot of garlic on her bruschetta. And from what I gathered while the police were here, it doesn’t take much fresh monkshood to kill someone – the leaves are highly toxic. Just one can be fatal.”

  “May I see the plant?” I asked.

  “Absolutely,” Ugo said as he stood up and motioned for me to follow him.

  We walked out onto his sunny terrace. It was large and perfectly designed for a summer party or outdoor dinner. Trimmed boxwood topiary shrubs in the form of obelisks grew in a raised brick bed that ran along the whole length of the terrace. An assortment of large flowering shrubs, like roses and jasmine were growing in the same raised bed. It was all a bit wild and reminded me of Ugo’s clothes – the heavy embroidery, frayed edges and rough tears that overlaid his tailoring.

  As I took everything in, Ugo led me to the middle of the terrace and stopped in front of an arbour covered with a profusion of lilac clematis blooms and pink climbing roses. He pointed to the partly shaded alcove under the arbour. A striking plant with bright green leaves and blue flowering spikes was growing there in a raised bed. Its height, and the intense blue of its lance-like blooms, caught the eye. This was the monkshood.

  “It’s a common garden plant, actually,” Ugo said, as if defending himself. “And fatalities are rare. Slugs hate them, but bees and butterflies really love them – which is partly why I have them.”

  “Are they toxic to the touch?”

  “Well, the gardener who looks after my terrace wears gloves if he has to work with the plant – dividing the roots or whatever else – but, day to day, if he’s just watering it for instance, he just has to be careful not to touch it.”

  “Was anyone wearing gloves last night?” I asked.

  “If they did no one noticed, and no gloves have been found.”

  “Maybe they used a tissue or just pulled their sleeves over their fingers to rip and tear the leaves?”

  Ugo shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe…”

  I took a photo of the monkshood plant and as I put my phone away I noticed the time. If I wanted to meet with Kristine Abrams today then I had to call Tomasso now; she’d probably be working late because of the men’s shows, but I didn’t want to miss her. I told Ugo I had to get going.

  “So will you take this case on?” he asked. “Per favore, Axelle, you have to help me – or us, actually. I didn’t kill her! And I know that Elisabetta did not eat the poison on purpose. Her reputation must be saved along with mine! She was one of my absolute best friends. Ever. So I owe it to her to get to the bottom of this and find out exactly what has happened.”

  Ironically, the circumstantial evidence pointed to Ugo… The party had been held at his house, a highly poisonous plant grew on his terrace, and, perhaps most incriminating of all, Ugo had known before all of the others that the party was going to be here. No wonder the police thought he might have had a hand in the crime. But did he have a motive?

  “Ugo,” I said, “did you come to your house alone from the awards last night? And did you arrive before the others?”

  He looked away from me and nodded slowly. “The answer is yes to both of your questions, and I know what you’re thinking. It doesn’t do me any favours. But of course I rushed over here to help get everything ready for my guests.”

  Hmm… So, he’d had time to prepare the poison. He had arrived before the guests and could have easily pulled a couple of leaves off the plant while Maria was busy in the kitchen. That definitely didn’t look good. “And who served the snacks?”

  “Maria laid them out on the dining�-room table, but I brought them onto the t
errace and passed them around. I did that for the entire time the guests were here. Of course, I could only carry one or two platters at a time, so the others stayed on the dining room table, so anyone could have tampered with them and passed them around.”

  Ugo could have slipped the leaves into a pocket then taken them out at an opportune moment, ripped the leaves and sprinkled them over the bruschetta in question before making sure he offered that particular one to Elisabetta. And he would have known to wash his hands afterwards. On the other hand, someone else could just as easily have done the same.

  “One last thing I need to verify,” I said as I pointed to the monkshood. “Earlier you said that you often tell your guests about the plant – you did last night, in fact.”

  Ugo nodded.

  I handed him the list he’d given me earlier. “Can you tell me who, exactly, from the names on this list, knew for certain about the plant being poisonous?”

  His eyes scanned the list. “With the exception of 5Zentz, everyone on this list has been here regularly. They definitely would have been aware that I had the monkshood growing on my terrace. Like I said, I often pointed it out; I thought people would be interested to know it was from a family of poisonous plants – as are potatoes and aubergines. Did you know that?”

  I smiled and took back the list from Ugo. Opening my notebook, I wrote another list:

  Ugo Anbessa

  Francesca Ventini

  Kristine Abrams

  Alessandro Matteo

  Ginevra Mucci

  Maria Fiscella

  I felt that these were the guests I should look at first. These were the people who’d stayed for the food. They all knew that Ugo had a poisonous plant growing on his terrace, but did they have a motive? I didn’t know – but I’d do my best to find out.

  Before heading back inside I asked Ugo again if he was aware of any long-standing grudge between Elisabetta and one of his guests from last night.

  “No, only Ginevra and her professional jealousy, anyway. But I really don’t believe it could be Ginevra.” As he spoke his eyes drifted towards the sun and again I had the feeling he was holding something back. If he wanted me to solve this case then why didn’t he just tell me?

  “One last question, Ugo,” I said. “Elisabetta mentioned to me this morning that there was something ‘important’ she had to do tonight. Do you have any idea what it was?”

  He turned to look at me and answered sharply, “No I don’t. Not at all.”

  Then he asked me again if I would take the case on.

  I was slightly taken aback by his tone; I had very little circumstantial evidence to work with, and no motive…but still I was intrigued. Elisabetta had, after all, died right before my eyes. What would drive a person to carry out a murder in plain sight of half a dozen people…?

  “I can’t make any promises, Ugo,” I said at last. “But yes…I’ll take on your case.”

  Before leaving Ugo’s apartment I asked him if I could speak with Maria.

  “Maria?” Ugo said. “Of course. She’s probably making dinner.”

  Fleetingly I thought of Sebastian and wondered what he’d been doing all this time…I hadn’t seen him since he’d gone off with Francesca. But any more thoughts of Sebastian were pushed to the back of my mind as I followed Ugo back out into the marbled entry hall and down a long, well-lit corridor lined with storage cupboards. Finally we entered the kitchen. It was large, sunny – with lots of windows – and surprisingly homely considering the sophistication of the rest of Ugo’s apartment.

  At the far wall, in front of the stove, a scowling Maria stood guard over her dinner-time creation. I could tell from the look she shot me across the kitchen, that if I hadn’t come in with Ugo she would have had sharp words for me.

  “She doesn’t really like visitors in the kitchen,” Ugo whispered. “But she is an amazing cook. Her gnocchi is to die for.” Ugo suddenly grimaced at his choice of words. “You know what I mean,” he added sheepishly.

  Ugo pointed to a table beyond the cooking area, where last night Maria had laid out the dishes before Ugo had taken them out to the dining room. The kitchen was clearly Maria’s domain and it was indeed hard to imagine any of the guests getting a chance to tamper with the food while she was around.

  Something my gran once told me came to mind. She often said it as we watched Miss Marple reruns on TV: “Remember, Axelle, circumstantial evidence is all fine and good, but it can’t always give you the whole picture. Learn to rely on your people instincts, too. Don’t forget that when you become a detective.” (My gran was always convinced I would!)

  With Ugo acting as my translator I asked Maria a few questions. She answered each one with a decisive and clear no. No one had tampered with the food while she’d been in the kitchen; no one had come into the kitchen, yes, well, Ugo had, but he’d stood on the threshold of the door and he hadn’t actually stepped inside the kitchen. And, no, she had not left the kitchen until she’d finished preparing the food. I asked her how well she knew Elisabetta (only as a guest of Ugo’s and she’d never said more than buongiorno or buona sera to her), then I thanked her and told Ugo that I was finished.

  With my gran’s words ringing in my ears, I considered my first impression of Maria, listening to what my gut told me. She was like some kind of general in the kitchen – and I definitely felt that if she had told Ugo and the police that no one had tampered with the food before she’d taken it out, then she was telling the truth.

  Before we left the kitchen, however, Maria turned to Ugo and, hands on her hips, loudly rattled off some questions of her own – and considering the way her large eyes kept staring at me there was no doubting who she was talking about.

  “What was that all about?” I asked Ugo once we’d left the kitchen.

  He smiled. “She didn’t understand who you were and why you were asking the same questions as the police. So I explained that you are a model I know and that, although you look very young, you are very perceptive about human psychology. And that I’d asked you to help me figure out what might have happened to Elisabetta.” Ugo chuckled as he said it. “You see, she knows me well enough to be able to tell when I’m lying, and after hearing your questions I couldn’t just tell her that we were working together. So I gave her just enough of the truth to keep her satisfied.”

  Actually, the psychology part wasn’t that far off base. Solving mysteries has a lot to do with psychology. “What else did she say?” I asked Ugo. “I saw her looking me up and down.”

  Ugo nodded. “She thinks that you must be better at human psychology than you are at modelling. She thought that despite your long legs you were quite small. But she promised that if you can figure out what happened to Elisabetta, she’ll make a dinner just for you. To help you grow, as she put it.” Ugo laughed. “I think she likes you, actually.”

  In which case, I thought, at least being short (for a model) sometimes has its advantages.

  Before I left Ugo, there was one more thing I had to do. I asked if he had a quiet corner somewhere – I needed to make a couple of phone calls.

  “Of course, no problem,” he said as he led me back to his salon. Then he left, shutting the doors behind him. I called Tomasso and told him I now had time to see Kristine Abrams.

  “That’s fantastic, Axelle! Kristine is still casting and will be for another hour or two. She’s casting for Fiore, and,” Tomasso added, “Ellie will be there soon, too – she has a fitting for their ad campaign.”

  Perfect, I thought. I could meet Ellie there, explain the new case and ask her about any relevant fashion gossip.

  “Also, Tomasso, what about Amare? Are they going to reshoot today’s booking? Will I get to do it? Do you think I should stop by and see Ginevra Mucci?” The fact that I’d already been booked by Amare meant that they “knew” me, so they wouldn’t
usually have to see me again unless they wanted me for a different story and needed to see the clothes on me, but I was hoping that Tomasso would swallow my line and put my query down to sudden enthusiasm. I had to see Ginevra Mucci, and having my agency make the appointment would raise no suspicion at all. Fortunately Tomasso fell for it.

  “Wow, wow, wow, Axelle! Now we’re talking. I like this new burst of energy you have!” I rolled my eyes as I waited while Tomasso hammered on his computer keyboard, checking my schedule. “In fact I have an appointment scheduled for you with Ginevra Mucci for tomorrow morning at the Amare offices,” he said. “But it’s not about a reshoot. After this morning they’ve dropped that whole story, but they have another that Ginevra thinks you’d be perfect for. I’ll email you the details of tomorrow’s appointments. You have a few other castings and go-sees scheduled as well.”

  “That would be great, Tomasso, thanks.” Good, I thought, as I took a deep breath. I was relieved about the meeting with Ginevra. Now I just had to hope that I could get her onto the subject of Elisabetta and Ugo’s after-party without her wondering why I was asking.

  “And just so you know,” Tomasso continued, “it looks as if you might be able to squeeze in some sightseeing tomorrow between appointments.”

  More like chase down clues, I thought. “Great!”

  “Yes, I thought you might like that, because the rest of your week is very busy. On Thursday I have you confirmed for the Cutie-Pie campaign.” He went quiet for a moment and I heard him tapping on his computer keyboard before he said, “Friday looks good for another day of advertising, although Kristine Abrams already has you on option for the Lei-Lei men’s show. If she books you to walk exclusively for them, then we’d rather you did that. For your career it’s better you appear in a super show that everyone will see, than do a campaign for an Italian company that won’t advertise outside of Italy. Capisci?”