Model Under Cover--Dressed to Kill

by Carina Axelsson

  Looking at Francesca I couldn’t help but think that just as some of us are born with frizzy hair or the need for glasses, Italian women are born stylish. Honestly, the city was packed with chic women. “Oh, you’re here, too,” she said when she saw me. She was looking at me as if I could give her some kind of disease just by standing near her.

  “Yes, I’m here, too.” I forced myself to smile. “I hope you’ve had a good day?” I looked around me hoping Ellie was free to introduce me to Coco. The last thing I wanted was to stand there listening to Francesca – she really brought out the worst in me. But if Sebastian found her that interesting then he was welcome to stay where he was. I sighed with frustration as I thought that she was actually the perfect person to ask about Falco’s last year. I told myself that before leaving the party I’d have to ignore her attitude and question her. First things first though.

  “If you don’t mind I’m just going to find Ellie,” I told Sebastian. I watched as Francesca took a nibble from a passing tray and greeted another guest.

  “Go ahead,” Sebastian said. Then he leaned into my ear and whispered, “And don’t worry, I’m on the case.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Just make sure you ask her about Falco’s last year.”

  “Promise. And I won’t get all moony-eyed.”

  “It looks like it’s too late for that.” As soon as I said it I kicked myself for sounding so annoyed. Luckily at that moment I spotted Ellie waving at me from the other side of the room. I mumbled a quick “See you soon, Watson,” then turned and left. As I made my way towards Ellie, though, I was stopped by Benoit, the hairstylist from Tuesday’s shoot.

  “Wow wow wow, Axelle,” he crooned as he reached out and touched my hair. “J’adore! What have you done to your hair? It looks a-maz-ing!” He was standing in front of me, reaching out with both his hands to twirl strands of my hair around his fingers. “How did you get this fabulous texture?”

  “Um…” I didn’t know what to say. In truth it was down to a mixture of spiderwebs, dirt, aqueduct water, possibly bat poo and definitely tunnel slime. “Well, you know, it’s a little bit of this and a little bit of that. Something I mixed myself.”

  Benoit narrowed his eyes. “I don’t believe you, non, non, non!” He wagged his finger at me. “I will get your secret recipe out of you next time,” he laughed.

  “By the way, Benoit, can I just ask you something? You told me you were an old friend of Elisabetta’s, right? That the two of you go way back…”

  Benoit stopped smiling and nodded. “We were very good friends, yes – even if I didn’t see her as much as I used to. She lived here, I live in Paris, but still, during the fashion shows we’d catch up and since she started working at Amare she booked me whenever possible. She was sweet that way, very loyal. I still can’t believe what happened yesterday.”

  “I know. It’s terrible.”

  “Yes, and everyone is talking about it, which makes it even worse. They seem to think she was poisoned…”

  “It’s hard to believe. But listen, do you know by any chance if Elisabetta liked tarot?”

  “Tarot? You mean the cards that tell the future?”

  I nodded.

  “No. She never went in for any of that kind of stuff. Never. She used to laugh when she saw me reading my horoscope. Why?”

  “Just wondering.” I moved on before he got more curious. “And I’m also wondering whether she liked to work out?”

  Benoit laughed. “No way. She liked to eat healthily and look after her skin and weight, but otherwise it was like she was allergic to the gym, running or anything that made her sweat.”

  “You never saw her in trainers then, I guess?”

  Benoit shook his head. “No way! I don’t think she even owned a pair.”

  “But there was a pair in her basket yesterday.”

  “Okay…that’s funny.” Benoit shook his head and looked at me quizzically. “Unless they belonged to someone else? Or she decided to turn over a new leaf and was keeping it a secret?”

  “Maybe,” I answered. “I don’t suppose Elisabetta mentioned anything to you about something important she had to do last night?”

  Benoit started to shake his head but then stopped abruptly. “You know, it’s interesting you should say that because we actually had dinner plans for last night. We’d spoken on Monday about it and I’d suggested that we grab a bite to eat straight after the shoot. But she told me she’d have to meet with me a bit later because there was something else she needed to do first. Maybe that was the important thing? I have no idea what it could have been, though.”

  “Me neither…but that’s what she said just before she died. It seems so sad, she never got to do what she’d wanted to do…” I hoped he’d buy this as an excuse for bringing up the subject.

  I watched as Francesca and Sebastian swept past us, her hand on his arm, but I wasn’t going to let that distract me. I ignored them and turned back to Benoit. “You know, I’m writing a fashion article for my school magazine. I thought I might do it on the Ventini brand and some of the interesting people who’ve worked there – like Elisabetta. She was there for some time, wasn’t she?”

  He nodded. “I think she met Falco through a summer school experience programme. They really hit it off. Falco loved her – but then, who didn’t? I saw her a lot when she was a freelance stylist, in Paris and New York. But then she decided to move back to Milan. She went straight to work for Ventini and stayed there until just after he died. She was part of the team that put together his last collection – she was Falco’s most trusted in-house stylist. He ran every stylistic decision past her – much to Ginevra’s annoyance! Ugo didn’t mind, though – he valued her opinion too. Anyway, Elisabetta got me in to do the hair for Falco’s last show. What an amazing night that was!” As I listened to Benoit, images of those incredible jewelled dresses came to mind.

  “Falco was so happy when she moved back from NYC – she was like family to him. He depended on her a lot, I think. He could ask her for anything and she’d help him. One person was really put out when Elisabetta returned though. You know, of course, that Francesca is Falco’s niece? Well, she was very jealous of the relationship between Falco and Elisabetta. I could tell from the way Francesca looked at Elisabetta…she saw her as an interloper.

  “Anyway, after Falco died Elisabetta was lost for a while, but then she got the chance to move to Amare, and becoming a fashion editor, well it was like a dream come true for her. ”

  “Wasn’t she worried about working under Ginevra Mucci?”

  Benoit shrugged his shoulders. “She always said she could handle Ginevra. And you know, the thing is, Milanese fashion is a small world – she could never have avoided Ginevra – unless she moved away again.”

  Ellie suddenly appeared. “Axelle, here you are. I wanted to introduce you to Coco Sommerino D’Alda.”

  I said hello to Coco and the four of us chatted for a few minutes before Benoit excused himself. Like me, Coco was just sixteen. Tall, gangly and friendly, she had a funny way of laughing: she’d thrust her neck out and show a lot of teeth. And while that may not sound too attractive, somehow it fitted her coltish looks. Her skin was flawless, her hair long, dark and glossy and she had enormous expressive eyes. She was beautifully dressed, too, in a short candy-pink Ventini dress.

  Ellie stood listening while I explained to Coco that I’d seen Elisabetta die, and had even been questioned by the police. As I’d hoped, this led her to tell me about the after-party at Ugo’s.

  “I’ve known Elisabetta all my life,” Coco explained. “She was a good friend of Mum’s. I can’t believe I’ll never see her again.”

  “You must have known Falco too?” I asked.

  “Since I was a baby,” she agreed. “He was like an uncle to me.”

  But I quickly established that Coco
knew little of Falco’s day-to-day work life.

  She was still at school, after all. The excitement I’d felt about making progress with the case was flattening out now. I didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. But then Coco’s mother suddenly swept down upon us.

  “Hello, darling,” she said to Ellie before turning to me. “I’m Lavinia, Coco’s mother.” She was very grand and very polite. She too had long thick brown hair and Coco had clearly inherited her mother’s large eyes. I knew that Lavinia had modelled when she was younger, and, besides working in PR for Falco Ventini, she’d married the scion of an old Milanese banking family. According to Ellie, she was half Venetian and half Brazilian and very well connected. “She knows everyone who’s anyone in Milan,” Ellie whispered in my ear.

  “Are you having fun, girls?” Lavinia breezily waved a ring-laden hand.

  “Yes, we are, thank you,” Ellie said. “Lavinia, my friend Axelle is a huge fan of Ugo Anbessa’s work for Ventini—”

  “So are we,” Lavinia interrupted as she waved her other ring-laden hand to indicate herself and Coco.

  “But Axelle is also curious to know what Falco’s work was like. She didn’t start modelling until this spring, so she never saw him.”

  “I especially like his last few collections,” I added, hoping to steer the conversation in a helpful direction.

  “Ah,” said Lavinia. “Falco was an artist, you know. Very old school – he was the last in a generation that included Oscar de la Renta, Yves Saint Laurent and Hubert de Givenchy. They had great reverence for craftwork and design. Falco did all of his own drawings too, you know. Half of the so-called young designers today – especially the ‘lifestyle’ designers in America – don’t even know how to hold a pencil. They have ‘design teams’ to discuss ideas with. I’m not saying that’s bad – it’s just different. Falco could also sew – he was very good at embroidery. I was stunned the first time I saw him personally take a needle and thread to make a last-minute correction to a dress before it headed out onto the runway. Very few designers are capable of doing that, you know.”

  “I heard he had some money trouble towards the end of his life?” I said.

  “It’s true,” agreed Lavinia. “Falco was a lousy businessman. Thank goodness Ugo has taken over. He’s doing a marvellous job.”

  Fortunately Lavinia liked to talk and didn’t question my interest so I continued asking her about the general atmosphere of the design studio during Falco’s last days, pushing her for as much information as I could get.

  “It was interesting,” Lavinia explained. “I mean, it was so busy – and so sad. You know, Falco’s last haute couture collection was his best – ever. The fashion world was raving about it, and those dresses – they were stupendo! You know, the last one, it was a spectacular red-jewelled evening gown?” I could picture the dress as she spoke. “He did most of the sewing on it himself – sent the exhausted seamstresses home early while he stayed on in the atelier and continued to work on it on his own. He loved that dress! Then again, who didn’t? It was covered in precious and semi-precious stones and cost a fortune. And if you’re wondering how I know, it’s because I handled all of Falco’s haute couture sales personally. That dress was on the cover of I don’t know how many magazines the month after it went down the runway. Anyway, it’s sad, but despite all of the beauty he was creating, and the rave reviews, the rest of his life was a mess. His business was close to collapsing – and then he fell ill. And, well, it all ended very quickly.”

  “When did he find out he was ill?”

  Lavinia shut her eyes and shook her head. “He’d probably tell you that it was in the cards. But the thing is, for a long time he’d had stomach pain that just wouldn’t go away. When he finally went to the hospital to get it checked it was too late. The cancer had spread; it was inoperable. He died three months later.”

  Although I listened to everything Lavinia said, one comment was still ringing in my ears. He’d probably tell you it was in the cards. What did that mean? Did she mean it literally? Had Falco used cards to read his future? In which case could it be that he did it with tarot cards?

  “Lavinia, what did you mean about Falco saying his illness was ‘in the cards’?”

  “Oh, nothing. Just that Falco loved tarocchi. You call them tarot in French.”

  “And in English,” I said.

  “Well, he loved it. And he absolutely believed in the power of the cards. He had a reader he saw regularly – but not one of these street readers. No. Falco’s was someone he’d found in the south of Italy, in Bari. I always called her his personal witch. He would fly her up from Bari and she would stay just long enough to do his reading and then she’d fly back down. She was quite chic, actually. Not at all what you’d expect. She was very softly spoken, too. But there was a look in her eye…”

  I smiled. “What do you mean?”

  Lavinia drew closer. “It was as if she could see right through you…”

  Just hearing that Falco consulted a tarot reader suddenly had me buzzing again. He believed in tarot and I’d found tarot cards!

  “Did Falco have any tarot cards of his own?”

  “Oh, yes. He collected them. His niece Francesca inherited them, I believe. Although for his readings, Signora Ferrera always used her own cards.”

  Now I was really buzzing. I still didn’t know why I’d found those three tarot cards at Megastudio on Tuesday but maybe they were somehow connected to Falco? But how? And what kind of collection did Francesca inherit? Did it include any very old cards? It was even more important now that I talked to her. Questions were pinging around in my head. Meanwhile Lavinia was getting ready to move on. She waved at a group nearby and then after quickly double air-kissing Ellie and me, and telling Coco to let her know if she ended up leaving with friends, she was gone.

  I had to find Francesca. I had to ask about her uncle’s tarot card collection. I said I had to use the loo and I left. Ellie winked at me as I went.

  It didn’t take long to spy Francesca through the crowds. Surprisingly, she was on her own – and she was talking on her phone. I walked up to her and cleared my throat loudly. She turned around and pursed her lips when she saw me. I jumped in as soon as she ended her conversation.

  “Francesca, would you mind answering a few questions for me? I’m writing an article for my school magazine—”

  “How cute – your ‘school magazine’,” she said as she reached for a meatball from a passing tray.

  I ignored the jibe. “Yes. And I’ve decided to write about Falco Ventini – the man and the brand. I know he was your uncle…”

  She rolled her eyes. “Please, everybody knows. It’s a burden being related to someone so famous. I’m never seen as being my own person, you know. It’s lucky I have the personality to handle it.”

  I said nothing although I knew from what Ugo had said that she never let anyone forget she was a Ventini. I cleared my throat again. “I wanted to find out some unusual facts about your uncle…I know he liked tarocchi – Lavinia was just telling me he left you his collection.”

  Francesca turned to me, her eyes slightly narrowed. “Yes, he did. He taught me all about tarot – the cards and the game. He was practically an expert. Do you know anything about tarocchi?”

  I decided to play my card. “Yes, actually, I do. I’ve got a few antique ones. Maybe you’ve got some similar ones in your collection? Mine are Milanese and date from about 1450…”

  “Really?” She was playing with the straw in her drink. “Well, unfortunately, I don’t have any in my collection that are quite that old.”

  “Oh…that’s surprising. I’d heard your uncle had some antique cards, too.” I hadn’t really, but just wanted to see her reaction.

  “Yes, but nothing as old as that. At least not in what I inherited.” I watched as she looked over my shoulder
and into the crowd, her eyes darting around the room. Clearly she’d had enough of my questions. I grabbed a last chance to press her for more information. “You must have been very close to Elisabetta?”

  “Well, she worked for my family…”

  “Someone was saying earlier that she was like family to your uncle…”

  Francesca pursed her lips for a moment. “Yes, they were close…had been for a long time. She visited him every day when he was in hospital – but so did I. And my uncle had many other friends, too. But a blood connection means so much more, you know. Anyway, Axelle, nice talking to you but I have to go now.” She turned to leave then but stopped and looked back over her shoulder at me. “By the way, if you ever decide to sell your cards, let me know – maybe I’ll add them to my collection.” Then she laughed and quickly disappeared into the crowd.

  I wasn’t at all sure what to make of our exchange. But I didn’t have time to think about it – at that moment I felt a hand reach out for me and grasp me around the waist. “Hi there, beautiful.”

  I turned; it was Lucas.

  “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “I didn’t think you had an invitation.”

  “Coco let me in.”

  “You know her?”

  “Milan is small – don’t forget. And over the years my dad has helped Coco’s parents with their collection of Renaissance art.”

  “But no tarot cards?” I hugged my rucksack closer to me at the thought of the valuable tarocchi hidden inside.

  “No, no tarot cards. There are very few collectors of the antique tarocchi – which makes you all the more rare.”

  I felt myself blush and quickly looked into my rucksack for my lip gloss. Anything to avoid his eyes. Then I apologized again for my earlier no-show. I gave Lucas the same excuse I’d given my agency – a sudden illness.

  “Well you look amazing now,” Lucas said. “Clearly an upset stomach suits you.”