Page 83 of When Fashion Turns Deadly

The stylist reached for anenormous can of hair spray. Marit closed her eyes, holding her breath as the strong-smelling cloud enveloped her head. The stylist tweaked one piece of hair and then stepped back from the chair.

“Okay,” she said. “You’re good to go.”

“Thanks.” Marit rose to make room for the next model. It was Isabelle. “You look amazing,” Marit whispered as they traded places.

The makeup artist had worked a new kind of magic this time; Isabelle’s stunning green eyes were impossible to ignore. Marit smiled as she headed to the clothing racks. She almost felt sorry for Cole. No matter his tough-guy exterior, one look at Isabelle today and he’d be sunk.

Brookelyn, her assistant for this show, was standing near the clothing racks, waiting for her with a bright-purple garment draped across her arm. “I’m glad Felicia took a little longer than usual on your hair,” she said. “Someone added more clothes to the rack, and the jumpsuit wasn’t where it was supposed to be. It took me a minute to find it.”

Marit glanced at the rack. It did look fuller than it had during rehearsals. “Did they lose a rack and have to consolidate?”

“I don’t think so,” Brookelyn said. “Hannah saw me trying to find the jumpsuit and came over to help. She said at least a dozen more pieces have been added to Mr. Adams’s show since rehearsals.”

Over a dozen new outfits. That wasn’t supposed to happen. The whole reason for a dress rehearsal was to give everyone backstage the chance to make sure they knew exactly when each model and outfit hit the runway. Adding only one would mess up the order of events. Adding a dozen could be disastrous.

“Have they changed the runway order?” Marit asked.

“Yes.” Anxiety shone in Brookelyn’s eyes. “You have a little more time between the first and second change, but a little less between the second and third.”

“Who’s modeling the new stuff?”

Brookelyn shrugged. “I think they called in some extra girls.” She glanced over her shoulder. “There are a few here who I didn’t see at rehearsals.”

Marit had been one of the first models to arrive and had been taken into hair and makeup immediately. Now she took a moment to look around. The number of people backstage had increased considerably, and she instantly spotted four models who hadn’t been at the rehearsal. In fact, as far as she knew, they hadn’t even been at the castings.

“If they only just got here, how did they do the fittings?” Marit asked, hurrying to the curtained-off area so she could change into the jumpsuit.

“I don’t know.” Brookelyn slipped in with her, holding the outfit so that Marit could step into it as soon as she’d taken off her jeans. “Maybe they did it before they arrived. They’re all Americans.”

Marit froze, one leg in the jumpsuit, the other in her jeans. “What did you say?”

“The new models. They’re... they’re all American.” Brookelyn gave her a worried look. “Is there something wrong with that?”

“No.” Marit tossed her jeans aside, her thoughts whirling. Cole and Lars had taken Adams off the suspect list when they’d learned that he had no local facility to produce clothing. But what if he’d sent the muslin patterns to the States, produced the clothing, and then had them fitted to American models there?

Brookelyn stepped around Marit to pull up her zipper. The moment the garment was on, Marit stepped out of the changing area, but instead of taking her place in the lineup, she veered back to the clothing rack.

“Show me where the new clothes are, Brookelyn,” she said.

Brookelyn’s look of concern had yet to disappear. “I didn’t mean to complain. I can manage.”

“I’m sure you can. And you’ll do much more than manage.” Marit worked to keep her impatience in check. “I’m just curious to see what’s been added.”

Brookelyn led her to the far end of the rack. “Some of them are mixed in with the others,” she said, “but most of them are at the end.” She pulled out a blue gown.

Marit’s mouth went dry. The dress was identical to the blue gown she’d worn during Ralph’s dress rehearsal. Stepping closer, she reached for the gown beside it. The shimmery gold fabric sparkled under the overhead lights—just as it had when Nadia had worn it. But Nadia wasn’t working Kyle Adams’s show. One of the American models must be scheduled to wear this garment as part of his grand finale.

Indignation and a new sense of urgency coursed through her. “How much time do I have before I’m up?”

Brookelyn glanced at the curtain that led to the runway. The stage coordinator, with her clipboard in hand, was consulting with the model standing at the front of the line. Above her head, a large clock was counting down seconds. “Sixteen to seventeen minutes,” she said. “There’s another fifteen and a half minutes before the show starts, and you’re third in line.” She eyed the jumpsuit Marit was wearing, obviously looking for something out of place. “Do you need something?”

“Yes,” Marit said grimly. “Answers.” She glanced over her shoulder. Isabelle was still in the stylist’s chair. It would be impossible to have a private conversation with her until she was out of it. On the original schedule, Isabelle was the tenth model to walk. It was probable that one or more of the Americans had been inserted ahead of her, and if that were the case, Marit would have to act quickly if she was to prevent one of Ralph’s designs from appearing on the runway in Adams’s show. There was no time to check the schedule. The time remaining to her had dropped below fifteen minutes already.

“I have to make a phone call,” she said.

“But you’re due—”

Marit didn’t wait to hear the rest. She ran for the cubbies, where Isabelle had left her purse. Grateful that she’d placed her phone in Isabelle’s bag for safekeeping before her own purse had been stolen, she grabbed the bag Ralph had loaned Isabelle and started rooting through it. Keys, tissues, pens, lip gloss. Finally, her fingers found a phone. She pulled it out, dismayed to discover that it was Isabelle’s. Lars’s and Cole’s number were definitely on this phone, but Marit didn’t know Isabelle’s passcode. Setting the phone aside, she dug out a notebook and a brush before finally locating her own phone at the very bottom of the bag.

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