Chapter 27
The stylist reached for an enormous 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.
Her heart racing, she touched the screen. She was down to thirteen minutes before the show began. With all the noise outside, Lars may not hear the phone, and she didn’t have time to make a second call. Pulling up Cole’s number, she pushed Call and put the phone to her ear. She glanced around the room. Where could she go that wasn’t so far away that she’d never make it to the curtain in time but that gave her a modicum of privacy in this chaotic space?
The corner. One wall was a curtain, but she could turn her back to the crowd.
After the second ring, Cole’s voice came on. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.” She lowered her voice. “It’s Kyle Adams. Ralph’s designs are hanging on the racks, and Adams brought in American models. He plans to pass the clothes off as his tonight.”
“I’m on my way over there.”
“Hurry. I don’t know when the first one hits the runway.”
“You know I will. And, Marit, I need you and Isabelle to act like you don’t know anything. It’s the only way to keep you safe until the authorities get there.”
“I have to go. Will you call them?”
“Already on it.” He disconnected the call.
“I don’t allow my models to use their phones during a show, Miss Jansen.”
Marit spun around. Adams stood in front of her, his dark eyes flashing.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know that,” she managed. “It was an emergency.”
He eyed her grimly. “So I gather.”
Marit’s stomach clenched. How much had he heard? Pretend you don’t know anything. Cole’s words echoed in her head.
“I’ll put my phone away right now.” When he made no move, she gestured toward the curtain. “I’m up in ten minutes, so I’d better get in line.”
“Who were you talking to?”
“A friend.”
His jaw clenched. “You were discussing my designs with someone else before they’ve debuted. I think that gives me the right to know his or her name.”
The knot in Marit’s stomach tightened. He’d heard everything.
“Marit Jansen.” The woman at the head of the line called her name.
“If you’ll excuse me, I’m needed at the front.” With her heart pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it, Marit attempted to pass on Adams’s left.
He reached out, grabbing her arm in a vicelike grip. “Give me your phone.”
“I can leave it up front.”
“The time for playing games is over, Miss Jansen.” He moved to stand behind her, and she felt the barrel of a gun press between her shoulder blades. “Give me your phone.”
All the self-defense lessons Isabelle and Cole had given her flashed before her eyes. If Adams had been standing in front of her, she might have had a chance of disarming him. But she had no idea how to overcome a gun at her back.
Her mind raced. If Adams was behind James’s death, she couldn’t risk calling out. He was already a murderer. There was no telling how many more he would injure or kill in this confined space full of people. Cole was on his way. He’d called the police. She just had to stay calm. Surely, someone would arrive in time to help her.
Slowly, she raised her phone. Keeping the gun firmly against her, he snatched it from her hand.
“Now we’re going to go around the curtain,” he said. “It might interest you to know that while it blocks you from view, it allows you to hear everything.”
It was a not-so-subtle jab. Marit had been foolish. She’d also had very few options and even less time.
“Marit Jansen.” It was the woman at the front of the line again.
“Someone will come looking for me,” Marit said.
“Not when I tell them that you became suddenly and violently ill.”
“What about the jumpsuit?” She was grasping at straws, but that was about all she had right now. “I’m still wearing it.”
“I have more clothing items than I need for tonight’s show,” he said. “It won’t be missed any more than you will be.” They rounded the curtain. On the other side, there was a break in the temporary partitions. “That way.” He pushed her toward the gap.
Marit walked through. The hall beyond was empty. No doubt, this part of the venue had been cordoned off. If there were any security guards in the vicinity, they were well hidden. Dragging her roughly across the hall, Adams pushed her face against a door.
“Take off the sash,” he demanded.
With trembling fingers, Marit untied the bow around her waist and pulled the fabric free of the jumpsuit.
“Now open the door.”
Grasping the knob, Marit turned it and pulled. The door swung open, releasing the overpowering smell of pine and lemon. It was a janitor’s cupboard.
“Inside,” he barked.
A door opened, releasing the rumble of distant voices. Adams gave her a push. Marit stumbled over a vacuum, but before she could fully regain her balance, he shoved her into the corner. Her impact against the wall was lessened by the presence of a mop head.
The potent aroma of pine-scented detergent burned her nose and made her eyes sting. She blinked several times before realizing that the gun was no longer at her back. She shifted.
“Don’t move another inch.” Adams was right behind her, and in one swift movement, he grabbed an extension cord from a hook on the wall. “Put your arms behind you.”
Unwilling to comply, Marit swung her elbows back, attempting to connect with Adams’s ribs. He must have sensed the movement because he grabbed her wrists, and almost before she knew what he was doing, he’d wrapped the extension cord around them.
She pivoted, swinging her leg upward. Her heel caught his knee. He swore, and his hand came down, hitting her across the face. Marit reeled back, pain exploding along her jaw as he wrapped the sash around her face. He pulled it firmly over her mouth. Panic enveloped her. Tossing her head, she staggered sideways, trying to prevent him from cinching the sash. It only made him pull the fabric tighter.
“No!” she cried, but the word was nothing more than a muffled moan.
Breathing heavily through her nose, she tried to kick out again only to be shoved hard against the wall in the corner.
“Enough,” he growled.
Adams yanked her to the floor. She closed her eyes, desperately trying to draw sufficient air in through her nose to breathe through the throbbing in her cheek. And then she felt the tug at her ankles and the bite of a cord cutting into her skin. She opened her eyes in time to see Adams step out of the closet and shut the door behind him. The lock clicked, and she was left in complete darkness.