Page 78 of When Fashion Turns Deadly

Gritting his teeth, he stepped onto the empty chair beside him, straddled the back, and lowered himself into the next row. The rim of the floppy hat rippled as the woman turned her head to give him a look of consternation. Lars ignored her. Darting back into the aisle, he wove past the next three people, all the while scouring the area for anyone in a security-guard uniform.

Someone shouted. Lars looked left. A man in a black suit was signaling to a woman wearing a bright-red creation. Lars couldn’t tell exactly what it was. It was one-third dress, one-third trousers, one-third tent. But it made an impression. People parted as she moved, and in the gap she left in her wake, he spotted a blond-haired security guard.

A quick look up the congested aisle told him he’d never reach the door before the security guard was out of the room. Making a snap decision, he moved into the nearest row, worked his way down until he reached a cluster of empty chairs, and then started climbing over them.

“Hey! What d’you think you’re doing?” It was a man’s voice, but Lars didn’t bother turning around to identify him.

“Security!”

This time, the shout came from a woman. Lars didn’t mind at all. A little help from security right now would be welcome. Unless it came from the guy he was trying to catch.

Lars clamored over two more rows before dropping to the floor and hurrying back to the aisle. Those who were seated nearby gave him disapproving looks, but it appeared that the security guards were having as much difficulty reaching him as he was having in trying to get out. There wasn’t a guard anywhere near him.

“Sorry,” he panted. “It’s an emergency.”

Some of the disapproving looks turned disbelieving. Lars kept moving. He darted around two women dressed like flower gardens and caught another glimpse of the security guard one second before the man disappeared through the open door.

Pushing past the group of people standing at the entrance, Lars burst into the outer foyer. It was as crowded as the area behind him. And the only people wearing a security-guard uniform in sight were the tall, dark-haired man and short, balding man checking for tickets at the door.

“Any sign of him?” At the sound of Cole’s breathless voice, Lars swung around.

“I thought I spotted him, but I couldn’t get out here fast enough.”

Cole’s frustrated expression matched Lars’s feelings perfectly. “Whoever it was had help.” He pulled out his phone.

“Who are you calling?” Lars asked.

“I was going to text the girls to tell them.”

“Don’t bother,” Lars said. “They won’t be able to access their phones until the show’s over.”

***

Isabelle had survived another show. Two down, four to go. She hoped her feet would survive that long. Leaning down, she eased her foot out of the three-inch heel, wincing when the back rubbed against a particularly raw blister.

A sigh of relief escaped her the moment both shoes were back on the rack. She changed out of the oversized black dress and into her own clothes. When she opened the curtain of her dressing stall, Marit waited outside.

“You did really well today.” Marit gave her a hug.

“Thanks. I feel like we need to celebrate every time we finish a show.”

“Most people feel that way. That’s why there are so many parties during Fashion Week.”

“Personally, I prefer the quiet celebrations with our boyfriends over the ones with cameras flashing everywhere.”

Marit leaned close and whispered. “You and me both.” She looked at Isabelle’s bare feet. “Are you about ready?”

“Yes.” Rather than put her shoes on, she hooked them on the fingers of her right hand—no way was she putting them on before absolutely necessary—and headed for the cubbies, where she had left her borrowed bag.

Cole and Lars waited beside them, their faces grim.

A crease formed on Marit’s brow. “This doesn’t look good.”

“No, it doesn’t.” She and Marit reached the men. “I feel like I’m asking this question a lot, but is everything okay?”

Cole shook his head. “We lost Marit’s bag.”

Marit’s shoulders slumped, and disappointment colored her expression. “What about the tracking device?”

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