A Model Crime Page 4

  Bettina raised her shoulders and shrugged. “Who knows? New York? Madrid? Paris? I only know I’m getting as far away from Chicago as I can. Will I see you at the hotel later?”

  “I’ll be there,” Nancy replied as Bettina ushered her out of the office.

  “See you later, then.” Bettina gave her a brazen smile. “Don’t think too badly of me, dear. If you knew the woman like I do, you’d want to take aim, too.”

  When Nancy got back to the reception area, she saw Kelly Conroy step off the elevator. Over her shoulder was a maroon handbag, and in her hand was a large manila envelope.

  “Nancy, hi!” Kelly called out. She walked over to the receptionist’s desk. “I’d like to leave this for Ms. Durand. Please tell her I need it back, with her comments, by tomorrow morning, okay?”

  “Sure, Ms. Conroy,” the receptionist answered. “By the way,” she added, addressing Nancy, “Roger Harlan called while you were in the ladies’ room. He’s doing a shaving cream commercial, and he’ll be tied up all day.”

  “What are you doing now, Nancy?” Kelly asked, taking her in with a cool gaze.

  Nancy smiled. “Got any exciting suggestions?”

  “Well, I’m famished,” Kelly said. “Want to go to lunch? I know a great little hole in the wall called Dominic’s.”

  “Fantastic,” Nancy agreed. She and Kelly rode down the elevator and walked a few blocks up a side street that branched off the avenue.

  “Dominic’s is kind of a journalists’ hangout,” Kelly told her as they walked. “It’s dark and kind of seedy, but they have great potato skins. And here we are!” She pointed to a heavy wooden door.

  “There’s no sign,” Nancy said. “How do people find this place?”

  “Most people never do. That’s what’s neat about it.” Kelly pushed through the door, and Nancy followed. The restaurant was furnished in dark colors. Kelly waved and smiled at the hostess, who gave them menus and led them to a bloodred leather booth in the back.

  Kelly gazed at Nancy for a moment after they sat. Then she narrowed her green eyes and leaned forward. “Okay, let’s level,” she said. “What are you really doing at the Face of the Year contest?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” Nancy said, suddenly feeling uncomfortable.

  Kelly raised her eyebrows. Then she reached for her big maroon handbag and began rummaging inside it. She pulled out a newspaper clipping and handed it across the table to Nancy. “I came across this when I was looking up Bess’s hometown paper. That’s you, isn’t it?”

  Nancy looked down at a picture of herself shaking hands with Chief McGinnis of the River Heights Police Department.

  “You’re Nancy Drew, the detective,” Kelly said simply.

  Nancy handed the newspaper clipping back to Kelly with a smile. “Yes, I’m Nancy Drew.”

  Kelly leaned in closer to Nancy. “I don’t believe you’re here just to have a good time with your friend. I think you’re investigating something.”

  As Nancy scanned the menu, she wondered how frank she should be with Kelly.

  “You can tell me the truth, Nancy,” Kelly said after the waitress had taken their order.

  “Only if you promise not to tell anyone what I say,” Nancy said, bargaining.

  “That’s tough,” Kelly said. “After all, I am a journalist—but okay.”

  Nancy told her everything that had happened so far. She finished by telling Kelly about the disquieting photo of Monique that Bettina had in her closet at work.

  “Whew,” said Kelly when Nancy was done. “Very interesting. You know, there’s a lot of bad feeling in this contest.”

  “Oh?” Nancy’s eyes widened. Kelly was confirming what Nancy had felt all along. “What kind of bad feeling?”

  “Well, you’ve heard about Thom and Bettina, haven’t you?” Nancy shook her head. “They were engaged. Until Thom got to know Monique, that is. Thom and Monique are dating now, from what I hear.” Kelly paused long enough for the waitress to set their food down.

  “No wonder Bettina hates Monique,” Nancy murmured. “What about Roger Harlan? What do you know about him?”

  Kelly shook her head helplessly. “Roger’s a mysterious guy. I know he takes acting lessons and is pretty serious about his career. But it’s kind of hard to get a handle on him. He told one of our photographers that he was unhappy at Elan. But the only way he can get out of his contract is if Elan fails to do a good job representing him.”

  “Well, if this contest gets botched, it won’t look very good for Elan,” Nancy said, reaching for her iced tea.

  “Okay, Nancy. Where do we go from here?” Kelly propped her elbows on the table.

  “How can we find out about Heather Richards?” Nancy asked. “Something is going on with her.”

  “I’ll put some feelers out,” Kelly promised. “We have pretty good connections at Teen Scene.”

  “Great,” said Nancy, giving Kelly a smile. She had a good feeling about the reporter, and it was fun to work with someone else. “Meanwhile, let’s hope the contest goes smoothly from now on.”

  “Yikes!” said Kelly, glancing at her watch. “It’s almost one-thirty. The girls are going to be at the park in an hour. I want to get their reactions to their makeovers and interview Bess!”

  Nancy and Kelly ate quickly, hurried out of the restaurant, and hailed a cab. Soon they were at the Inter-Continental.

  “I hope I haven’t missed them!” Kelly cried.

  But as she and Kelly stepped off the elevator, they saw Bess standing with Carey Harper outside Alison Williams’s door.

  “How do you like my hair, Nan?” Bess said, shaking it out a little.

  Nancy was amazed at what a difference the hairstylist had made by not curling Bess’s hair but leaving it tousled and straight. “I like it,” she said slowly. “It’s like a lion’s mane—but sophisticated and sexy. Anyway, I do love it, and the eye makeup, too.” A fine aqua line edged the bottom of Bess’s eyes, making them seem larger and rounder. Her thick lashes were covered in a fine layer of teal blue.

  “Didn’t they do a good job on Carey, too?” Bess said. “Doesn’t she look super?”

  “Bess, stop!” Carey Harper said with a modest blush. But Nancy thought Bess was right. Carey’s dark hair had been cut to shoulder length, and she’d been given bangs, which made her eyes stand out.

  “Mr. La Fortune did great work on you two,” Kelly said, referring to the stylist who was responsible for the girls’ makeovers. “You must be really happy.”

  Carey grimaced. “We are, but not everyone is. Alison won’t even show her face,” she said, turning and knocking on the door. “Allie. Open up!”

  “Come on,” Bess added. “You can’t stay in there forever!”

  “Oh, yes, I can!” came a tearful lament from the other side of the door.

  “What happened?” Nancy asked.

  “We’re not sure,” Bess answered. “She came back from her makeover wearing a turban. Then she ran into her room and double-locked the door.”

  “I’m going home,” Alison shrieked from the other side of the door.

  Diana Amsterdam appeared from up the hall, tapping lightly on Alison’s door. “Please, Allie,” she begged. “You can’t drop out now.”

  “I don’t want to—I have to!” Alison moaned on the other side of the door.

  “Sometimes we think a new haircut makes us look terrible even when it doesn’t,” Kelly threw in. “Besides, you can’t just hide in there all day.”

  “Right,” Carey added. “What about the banquet? Don’t you want to go?”

  “Sure, I want to go,” Alison said bitterly. “But I’ll never be able to. Not after this!”

  “Oh, come on, Alison, stop being silly,” said Bess, trying a new tack. “Whatever you think of your makeover, it can’t be that bad!”

  “Oh, it can’t, huh?” Alison shouted, undoing the chain lock and flinging the door open. She stood in front of them wearing a bright orange turban tha
t complemented her dark skin.

  “Still think I’m being silly?” she chided, reaching for the turban and pulling it off.

  All the girls gasped at what they saw. Giant sections of Alison’s hair were missing altogether—and what was left was burned into charred clumps of frizz!

  Chapter

  Seven

  EVERYONE STOOD IN SILENCE, staring at Alison’s head in horror.

  “Do you still think I’m being silly?” Her lip trembling, Alison confronted the cluster of girls who stood outside her door, gaping at her. “Well, do you?”

  “No!” Bess gasped.

  “What’s the problem here?” Monique Durand’s distinctive voice came up behind them.

  “Alison’s makeover,” Bess managed to murmur. “Her hair—”

  “Argh!” Monique let out a little scream when she saw Alison, who had tears spilling down her cheeks now. “You poor, poor girl!” Monique cried, lifting a clump of what remained on Alison’s head. “Come inside the room. We must talk.”

  Gently shooing the others away, Monique put an arm around Alison’s shoulder and guided her back into her room. “When I was a young model in Paris I had a similar experience,” Nancy heard her telling Alison before she shut the door.

  “The bus is downstairs waiting to take you to Anderson Park,” one of Bettina’s young assistants, a girl named Jackie, called up and down the hall. “Let’s go, everybody!”

  “Coming with us, Nan?” Bess asked, lightly touching her friend on the arm.

  “I’ll meet you there, Bess,” Nancy said, walking to the elevator with her.

  Heather Richards poked her head out her door just then. “Wait for me!” she called to the girls. Heather’s lustrous ash-blond hair was fastened back on one side with a comb, giving her an ultrasophisticated look that really worked. Even though Heather hadn’t needed a makeover, the one she had gotten really suited her.

  “We’ll hold the door for you,” Carey Harper told Heather. Nancy could tell that Carey was used to being nice.

  “No problem with Heather’s makeover, I notice,” Kelly whispered to Nancy as the beautiful ash blonde sauntered past them into the elevator.

  “I think I should have a little talk with a hairdresser,” said Nancy as she stepped into the elevator.

  “Good idea,” Kelly said quietly.

  • • •

  Pierre La Fortune had a wild perm himself. His hair, though thinning on top, flowed out in small blond ringlets behind his ears.

  “I was sick, absolutely sick when I saw what happened to that sweet, sweet girl,” he was telling Nancy. It was half an hour later.

  She’d gotten his address from Elan and gone to the salon where the girls had had their makeovers. “But I tell you, it wasn’t my fault!”

  “I don’t know how many people are going to agree with you about that, Mr. La Fortune,” Nancy said as gently as she could.

  Flopping down in a pink vinyl revolving chair, the hairdresser let out a howl. “I know! My reputation will be ruined! I only pray that this doesn’t get into the papers. But if it does, I’ll show them the materials I used! I put the same chemicals on that girl’s hair that I’ve been using for years!”

  “Do you have the empty bottles?” Nancy asked.

  Pierre got up from his chair and pointed to the side of the room, where several pink enamel hairwashing tubs stood. “If they haven’t been thrown away, they should be right over there.”

  Shaking his head, Pierre walked with Nancy over to the wash tubs. “Did you see the other girls I did? They looked lovely! Heather, Carey, Natasha.” He shuddered at the memory of Alison Williams. “These are the empty containers. You see, they are all exactly alike! Like all the other containers we use here at Mr. Pierre’s.”

  Uncapping one of the pink plastic containers, Nancy took a whiff of finishing solution. The second container smelled the same. But the third was distinctly different.

  “Ugh,” she said, handing the container to Pierre. “Smell this!”

  “I thought something was wrong with the container, so I double-checked the date on it. See? It’s fresh.” Pierre pointed to the top of the container. According to the date, the product could be used safely for several months.

  Nancy sniffed the container again. Memories of her high school chem lab came to mind. “This isn’t a hair-finishing solution—it’s some sort of caustic chemical!”

  The hairdresser’s eyes bulged wide. “But who would put caustic chemicals in my supplies?”

  Nancy gazed steadily at the hairdresser. “That’s what I intend to find out. Who exactly was in the salon this morning?”

  “Only myself, my assistant, and the people from Face of the Year,” he told her. “They had exclusive use of my shop for the day.”

  “May I keep this container?” Nancy asked, holding up the bottle with the offending solution.

  “Please,” Mr. Pierre lamented. “Get it out of here! I never want to see it again!”

  • • •

  The shoot was in progress by the time Nancy arrived at the Anderson Park exercise trail. Nancy’s cab pulled up at the first exercise station just as Trudy Woo was making a turn over the parallel bars. Trudy must have had many gymnastics classes, Nancy thought, approaching the group. The girl was able to flash an easy smile in the direction of the camera even as her body twisted upside down.

  Off to the side the other contestants stood waiting their turns. Most of the other girls had slipped on coats over their leotards and leg warmers.

  Anderson Park had one of the best outdoor exercise facilities Nancy had ever seen. The aim of the shoot was to show each girl on a different piece of equipment.

  Since it had rained the night before, the ground beneath most of the equipment was muddy even though the track itself was dry.

  “Now let’s have Heather Richards on the rings,” the photographer said.

  “She’s in the trailer. She’s having trouble with a contact lens,” Bettina told the photographer. “Use someone else.”

  “Any volunteers?” the photographer asked.

  Bess was giggling as she raised her hand and waved it.

  “Okay.” He pointed at Bess. “You’re on.”

  Bess stepped forward and walked toward the rings, but stopped short of them. “It’s really muddy under there,” she said, staring at the ground.

  The lighting man was at her side in a flash. “I’ll hoist you up so you don’t get dirty.”

  He lifted her up with a grunt, and Bess grabbed the rings. “This is hard!” she announced.

  “But it looks good,” the photographer said, rushing around the other side of the bar to get a different angle. “Okay, let’s have a smile.”

  Bess managed a smile, though Nancy could tell she was struggling madly to stay on the rings. Bess wasn’t noted for her athletic abilities. Her idea of a hard workout was to give herself a manicure.

  “Now let’s see you pull yourself up! Bend your elbows, and let’s have another smile.”

  “I can’t,” Bess said, gritting her teeth. “I just can’t!”

  The photographer’s response was a smile. “That’s nice, very nice. I want some sweat shots, too.”

  “Ugh,” Bess said, still struggling. Her look of struggle quickly changed to one of panic when one of the rings suddenly snapped! Unable to hold herself up with one hand, Bess plunged into the mud—face first.

  “Oh, no!” Nancy cried, rushing to her friend. “Are you okay?”

  “Am I okay? Do I look okay?” Huge globs of thick brown mud streaked down Bess’s face, and her outfit was totally ruined.

  “I meant, did you break any bones,” Nancy said pointedly.

  “No,” Bess moaned. “But my hair! My face!”

  As Bess’s fellow contestants comforted her, Nancy searched the ground under the rings. Sticking up out of the mud was a bolt—or rather half a bolt. It had been cut almost all the way through. When Bess hung on it her weight snapped it in two.

  A
s soon as Bettina looked at Bess, she made a face. “Bad luck,” she said, without a lot of mercy. “Sorry, darling. You’re out of this shoot. You might as well get back to the hotel and shower.”

  “But, Bettina,” Bess protested, “I could wash up somewhere—”

  “Here, pig. Here, piggie, piggie,” Heather muttered. When the other girls stared at her, she only shrugged. “Lighten up, guys! I was only making a little joke.”

  Nancy noticed that Bess’s hands were clenched into tight fists. “Come on, Bess. You’ll look fine by tonight for the banquet.”

  “Arrgh! I could spit!” Bess said as soon as the others were out of earshot.

  “It could have been a lot worse, Bess,” Nancy said, leading her friend out of the park to a cab stand. “At least you didn’t break any bones.”

  “Oh, that’s great,” Bess said sarcastically.

  Nancy was quiet during the ride home. Until Bess simmered down, she decided the best thing she could do was to remain neutral.

  By the time they reached the hotel, Bess’s mood did seem to have brightened a little. “Oh, well,” she muttered, “they say mud is good for the skin.”

  Nancy smiled and put an arm on her friend’s shoulder. “That’s the spirit,” she said as they made their way to the elevator.

  “You know something, Nancy? I’d like to eat a pastry the size of the Wrigley Building. Maybe that would make me feel better,” Bess muttered as they got off the elevator and walked past Heather Richards’s room to their suite.

  “You know, Nan, why doesn’t Heather get dumped in the mud or anything?”

  “She’s just been lucky,” said Nancy.

  “Nothing terrible has happened to Carey Harper, Diana Amsterdam, Trudy Woo, or Natasha, either.

  “Know what I think?” Bess said bitterly, standing at the door of their room while Nancy unlocked it. “I think Heather Richards is jinxing this contest!”

  Nancy thought it was time to change the subject. “Isn’t it great to have somebody else pick up?” she said when they stepped into their room.

  “It sure is,” Bess agreed. “Well, I’m heading straight for the shower.”

  “Okay,” Nancy said, flopping down on the bed. Her mind was whirling from the events of the day. Staring up at the ceiling, she found herself wondering about Roger Harlan. If Roger was behind the cut railing, he must also be the culprit behind the other incidents—Alison’s hair disaster, Bess’s dive into mud—but how had he done it? As far as Nancy could tell, Roger had been nowhere near Pierre’s salon or Anderson Park.