Those who know me well know that I am a bit of a celebrity junkie. I never miss a night watching the Emmys, Oscars, or SAG awards, and I'd have to say that my favorite all time awards show moment was when Roberto Benigni won the Oscar for his film Life Is Beautiful. In true expressive Italian fashion he jumped up and down, kissing everyone in sight, running down the aisles like a little kid at Christmas. You couldn't help but laugh, cry, and feel your heart beat a little faster right along with him.
Milan was a city full of Benignis. As soon as our plane landed, Dana and I trudged our way through the airport amidst boisterous Italians hugging, laughing, and gesturing with their arms in an aerobic fashion. And kissing. Kissing seemed to be the national sport of Italy. Everywhere we went, men kissing each other on both cheeks, women kissing everyone on both cheeks, and children being kissed in all directions by everyone. In Italy, everyone kissed.
By the time we hailed a cab and were on our way to the address Mom and Mrs. R had Googled for the Girardi Agency, I was seriously contemplating a disinfectant wipe for my cheeks, though I couldn't help the grin that had spread across my face. The Benigni-eque atmosphere was infecting.
"I like it here," Dana said, waving to a friendly group of soccer players waiting at the curb. I was pretty sure at least one of them had slipped her his number.
"Do you know where this address is?" I asked our driver, handing him the print out.
"Si, si," he said, nodding his head. "I take you pretty signoras there." He gave Dana a wink in the rearview mirror. Dana giggled.
"Heard from Ricky lately?" I asked, nudging her in the ribs.
Immediately the smile left her face. "Oh yeah. The cheating bastard."
"Uh oh. Trouble in Croatia?"
"I guess you haven't seen the latest edition of the Informer?"
I shook my head. Considering there was a ninety percent chance of seeing my own picture splayed across their pages, I was trying to stay clear. "What did they say this time?"
"There was a picture, Maddie. Of Ricky and Natalie Portman on a beach. She was in a bikini and he was rubbing sunscreen all over her back. Her bare back."
"So he's concerned about skin cancer?"
"So he's definitely doing her."
"You don't know that. For all you know, they pasted Ricky and Natalie's faces on Brad and Angelina's bodies. They do that, you know."
Dana made a disbelieving "hmph" sound.
"Have you asked him about it?"
She nodded. "He's still denying it. He told me they're 'just friends,'" she said, doing air quotes with her fingers.
"So, maybe they are."
"Yeah, right."
"Look, maybe he has a perfectly good explanation for it all. Maybe he didn't mean to rub sunscreen on her, maybe he was tricked, coerced. Maybe it was just moment of weakness. Maybe he's really, really sorry and really, really wishes you'd just call and forgive him."
Dana gave me a look. "Um, we're not still talking about Ricky are we?" she asked.
I bit my lip. "No."
She patted my arm. "Don't worry. He'll call."
While I appreciated the sentiment, I was beginning to believe that less and less.
The ride from the airport to the Girardi Agency was, thankfully, a short one. Even with the packed city streets, we pulled up in front of the tall, modern glass building in less than twenty minutes. It was in a densely urban part of the city, which, unless you looked closely, could have resembled any part of L.A. Tall office buildings, parking garages, small coffee shops tucked on every corner, and men and women wearing everything from business attire to Bohemian peasant skirts and backpacks rushing to and fro on the sidewalks.
Dana and I paid the driver, then got out and entered the lobby of the cool air-conditioned building. After consulting the directory, we hopped in the elevator and rode it to the twenty-first floor where the agency's offices were housed.
The frosted glass doors simply read "Girardi" in black letters. The reception area beyond was a cool, sophisticated example of modern Italian design. Bright bold area rugs covered the floors, low chairs and tables in sleek chrome and colorful upholstery lined the waiting area. On the tables, a range of fashion magazines, most, I would assume, featuring the agency clientele. The walls were a soft cream color, punctuated with abstract art in a variety of bold geometric shapes, and the kidney shaped desk in the center featured a range of sleek, streamlined computers and other offices machines I'd be afraid to touch for fear of pushing the wrong button.
Behind the desk sat an Asian woman, a headset glued to one ear, her fingers clacking noisily over a keyboard.
"Excuse me, we here to see-" I started, but she didn't let me finish, giving the universal one finger "wait" signal as we approached.
"Si," she said into the headset, her Italian tinged with a Brooklyn accent as she rattled off a string of phrases. Finally one came through that I understood. "No, dispiaci, no commento." Then she clicked off.
"I'm sorry," she said, addressing us. "The press has been calling non-stop lately. I'm about to pull the phone out of the wall."
Been there. Done that.
"Anyway, how can I help you?" she asked, breaking into a pleasant smile.
"We're here to see Miss Girardi," I informed her.
A little frown settled between her brows. "Oh. Do you have an appointment?"
"Uh, not exactly," I hedged.
"I'm sorry, Miss Girardi isn't in. She went home early today, she said she had some personal business to take care of. Maybe I can help? I'm her assistant, Debbie. What is this regarding?"
I bit my lip. Regarding the fact that your employer might be part of a ring of jewel thieves didn't seem like a kosher message to leave with the friendly assistant. I was still trying to come up with an alternative when Dana piped up beside me.
"I'm seeking representation," she said, flipping her hair over one shoulder.
"Oh?" Debbie asked. "Are you a model?"
Dana nodded. "Yes, I'll be walking in the Le Croix show later this week in Paris."
"Yes, we have a couple of models doing that show." Again her features creased into a frown. "Or, we did anyway."
"I heard about Gisella," I said, leaping in. "I'm so sorry."
"Thanks." She did a tight smile. "But I honestly didn't really know her. I just started working here a couple of weeks ago. The last girl apparently left quite suddenly."
"Oh?" I asked raising eyebrow. "Any idea why?"
She shrugged. "I'm not really sure. One of the interns told me that Donata caught her last assistant in her private office one day and fired her on the spot. Tough break for her, but really lucky for me. I'd just moved from New York, where I was studying fashion design, so the timing was perfect. I've made tons of great contacts already."
The phone rang and she let out an exasperated sigh. "Except for the press. If you'll excuse me a minute?"
I nodded as she hit a button on her computer and began talking into the headset again.
Honestly, my mind was still rolling over the "fired assistant" thing. Had the former receptionist stumbled onto something she wasn't supposed to? Was there evidence of a crime in Donata's office? Maybe that was where she'd hidden the jewels? I looked beyond the kidney shaped desk, toward the long expanse of hallway on either side, itching to take a look. Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt had said only three of the missing pieces from Fashion Week had been recovered. Maybe that was the "business" Donata had come to Milan to take care of. Maybe she was whisking the fourth away to Milan before Moreau and his crew could get their hands on it.
"No, we're not inclined to comment at this time. I'm sorry," Debbie said into the headset. She rolled her eyes as she hung up. "Sorry, where were we?"
"I was wondering when Miss Girardi would be in?" Dana reminded her.
"Right. Well, I'm not sure she's expected back today," Debbie said, checking her watch, "but if you have a contact sheet with you, I'd be happy to hand it to her."
Dana bit her lip. "Oh, well, this was kind of impromptu. We were just in the neighborhood, see? I don't really have anything with me."
"Well, here," Debbie said, pushing a piece of paper at Dana. "Why don't you leave your contact info and I'll let Miss Girardi know that you stopped by. If you're doing the Le Croix show, I'm sure she'd be interested to meet you."
As Dana took the paper, I looked down the hallway again toward Donata's private office. I bit my lip, feeling my chance to do some snoop – I mean investigating – quickly slipping away. I glanced at Debbie, now fielding another call from a Felix clone. I leaned in close to Dana.
"Cover me, Farrah," I whispered.
Dana immediately got that Angels shine in her eyes and nodded.
"Excuse me," I said as Debbie repeated her no-comment spiel into the phone. "But is there a restroom, back there?" I asked, indicating the hallway.
"Oh sure, first door on your left."
I shot her a big smile. "Thanks."
Dana gave me a sly wink as I hobbled down the hallway. I mentally crossed my fingers that Farrah didn't get too carried away.
Instead of turning left, I did a quick glance over my shoulder before swiftly turning to the right and hobbling as stealthily as I could past the restroom and to a door marked "Donata Girardi". I paused outside, listening for any sign of life beyond, before turning the knob and quickly stepping inside.
I shut the door behind me with a little click, my heart hammering as I calculated that I had, at most, a five minute window before Debbie would start getting suspicious. My eyes whipped around the room for a place to start.
Like the reception area, Donata's office held a tasteful mix of contemporary furnishings – a long desk in light woods with chrome accents, flat paneled file cabinets, a sleek sofa in a bold print next to a low glass coffee table, a big white clock on the far wall, and two tall, slim bookshelves filled with binders and photographs.
I dismissed the bookshelves right away, instead heading for the file cabinets. I tried the top one. Locked. Well, what did I expect? If I were hiding stolen diamonds in my office, I'd keep them locked too.
I quickly turned to the desk, opening drawers and scanning the contents for anything that looked like a key. I came across three – one marked with the word "prowiste", the other two smaller and slimmer. I took the small ones to the files cabinet and tried the first one. No luck. It fit in the keyhole but didn't turn. I glance at the clock. Three minutes had gone by. Starting to get that antsy feeling the pit of my stomach, I slipped the second key in. Again it fit, but didn't turn. Damn. Where was Felix's lock picking kit when I needed it? Just for good measure I tried the prowiste key, but it wouldn't even go in the hole.
I frantically searched around the room for another place to hide a key. If it was in Donata's purse, I was sunk.
My eyes roved the shelves. Framed head shots, books, binders, bits of camera equipment. Finally my eyes landed on a camera case next to a headshot of Gisella in a skimpy bathing suit on a no doubt exotic beach location. Out of sheer desperation, I opened it up. Inside was an old Nikon camera, a roll of thirty-five millimeter film. And a key. I stared at the little sliver thing, wondering if maybe my karma was turning around.
I didn't waste time. With one quick glance at the clock (one minute left) I fit the key into the lock and turned it with a little click. My hands were shaking as I opened the top drawer.
If I'd been expecting to find a cache of jewels in a box marked "Stolen" I was sorely disappointed. The only things in the drawer were files. I felt my heart sink. Though, I figured since I was here I might as well be thorough.
There were several files marked with the names of models, all of which contained pictures, but nothing that seemed out of the ordinary. A few of the files held handwritten notes in Italian that could have said anything from details of their last go-see to Donata's grocery list for all I could tell. I made a mental note that if I was going to do any more foreign snoop – investigating – I was going to have to bring a translator with me.
I glanced up. I'd been there seven minutes. I didn't know how much longer Dana could keep Debbie occupied.
I was just about to give up when I saw one file that appeared to be unmarked. With one more backward glance at the office door, still shut (for now), I pulled the file out and thumbed though.
It contained only pictures. They were all 8X10 shots of the same young, male model. From the styles he was wearing, I'd say they were taken sometime in the seventies. One picture showed the man strutting down a runway, another was of him emerging from the surf in designer swimwear. I paused on one that looked like a candid, a full face shot that appeared to be minus any airbrush touches. Something about him seemed familiar. I cocked my head to the side, taking in his wide hazel eyes, thick dark hair, thick dark eyebrows.
And then I saw it. I squinted down at the photograph and there, tiny as could be, was a heart shaped birthmark just at his hairline that even the best plastic surgery couldn't completely get rid of.
I was looking at Donata.
I felt my breath catch in my throat, time standing still for a full two seconds, as I flipped the picture over. Scrawled in neat handwriting on the back was a name. "Donatello Gardini." It was too close to be a coincidence.
Checking the clock, I quickly shoved the picture back in the file, re-locked it in the file drawer, and shoved the key back in the camera case, my hands shaking. I paused only briefly at the door to make sure no one was lurking on the other side before slipping back out of the office and down the hallway, my mind reeling.
Everyone had speculated Donata was a former model, but no one seemed to know the details of her past career. Could that be because Donata was a male model? I thought about the amount of obvious plastic surgery she'd gone through. At the time I'd assumed it was because the years have been unkind to her. Now I realize it was a different kind of surgery altogether.
I was sure my breath was still coming out in quick, tell-tale pants as I entered the lobby, but Debbie didn't seem to notice, deep in conversation with Dana about the merits of New York sushi bars versus L.A. ones.
"Ready?" I asked, hoping my voice didn't betray the erratic thumping of my heart against my rib cage.
Dana nodded. "Yep. Thanks again, Debbie."
"No problem," she called after us. "I hope to see you again." She flashed us a big smile before her headset rang, and she fielded another hopeful call from the paparazzi.
I waited until we'd cleared reception and were in the elevator before blurting out my finding to Dana.
"No freakin way!" she shrieked.
"Way!" I assured her.
"But if she was trying to hide her past, why keep the photos around all these years?" Dana asked.
I thought about the unmarked file. The photos hadn't looked aged at all. In fact, they looked like they'd been freshly printed. "Maybe she didn't. Maybe someone else sent them to her."
"Who would do that?"
"How about this," I said as the elevator doors slid open and we crossed the air-conditioned lobby again. "What if someone found out about her past and sent her those pictures?"
"Like, blackmail?"
I nodded. "Maybe that was how Gisella was getting all the right jobs. Maybe someone was blackmailing Donata."
Dana nodded. "I like it."
I grinned. So did I.
"But, there's only one problem," she said.
"What?"
"Proving it to Moreau."
I frowned. "I think it's time we had a little chat with Donata."
As Dana hailed us a cab, I pulled out my cell, dialing Ann's number. I had a feeling everyone who was anyone had their addresses stored in her BlackBerry. I hoped that Donata's was among them.
"Yes?" Ann answered in a clipped tone.
"Hi, Ann. It's Maddie."
"Yes?" she repeated. Obviously she had no time for pleasantries. I could hear Jean Luc in the background shouting something and could almost picture the pinched look on poor Ann's face.
"I was wondering if you have Donata Girardi's home address?"
There was a pause. "Why?"
Good question. I bit my lip, willing my overtaxed brain to think fast. "I feel terrible about what happened to Gisella. I wanted to send her agent a sympathy card." I cringed. That excuse sounded thinner than Kate Moss even to my own ears.
Luckily, Ann had about fifteen million other things on her mind and didn't question me. "Hold on," she said instead, and I could hear her shuffling her phone around. "Okay, here it is." She quickly read off the street to me as I motioned to Dana for a pen. She produced one from her purse and I wrote the address on my palm.
"Thanks, Ann!"
"Sure. Oh, and don't forget, Jean Luc wants you here tomorrow for the final fitting."
The final fitting. My stomach clenched as I realized the show was less than 48 hours away. If I couldn't convince Moreau of my innocence by then, I could kiss my chances of a big Fashion Week debut good-bye.
I tried not to dwell on that, instead pushing it to the back of my mind as I assured Ann I'd be there and hung up.
Considering it was closing in on rush hour in Milan, it took us a few minutes to catch the attention of a cab (Which was finally achieved only through the very kind assistance of a man in a pinstriped business suit who gave Dana no less than three kisses on each cheek before seeing us off). Once in, I repeated the address that Ann had given me to the driver, who nodded and said he knew that area of town well.
We slowly inched along the busy streets as I watched the sun sinking lower over the gorgeous old buildings. By the time we finally pulled up to Donata's apartment, the sky was a dusty pink and orange, prefect for a picture postcard of Milan. I paused on the sidewalk a moment taking it in, realizing I'd been to three European countries in as many days and had failed to take one photograph. Granted, I wasn't exactly on a typical tourist vacation, but I made a mental note to buy a disposable camera next time I was in an airport. As sordid as our reason for being here was, the beauty of the city was inescapable.
And Donata's building was no exception. Unlike her office, it was the picture of classic Italian architecture. A tall, narrow structure, rimmed in detailed moldings from centuries past, set back from the street by ornate iron fence work. As our cab pulled away from the curb, we climbed the stone steps to an intricately carved wood door and knocked.
Only no one answered. Instead, the door swung open all on its own.
Dana and I looked at each other. We'd both watched enough horror movies to know that when a door swung open on its own, it was never a good idea for the blonde to go inside unarmed.
"Hello?' I called instead, my eyes scanning the foyer for any sign of life. Marble floor, antique sideboard, a tall, curving staircase to one side. No sign of Donata.
"Maybe she's upstairs," Dana whispered.
"Maybe she's not here."
"Maybe we should come back another time."
And had Ann not just reminded me of the ticking clock on my career's life span, I might have agreed with her. As it was, I ignored all the warnings signs and stepped into the foyer, the sound of my crutches echoing on the marble foyer. "Miss Girardi?" I called. "Donata?"
"Maddie," Dana said, grabbing my arm. She pointed toward a doorway to our right. A glass of red wine sat on an end table, just near the entrance as if someone had set it down in a hurry.
"Miss Girardi?" I called again, peeking into the room, Dana one step behind me.
We did a simultaneous gasp as we took in the scene. And for once I was infinitely glad to have my crutches to lean on. Because had they not been there, I'm pretty sure I would have crumpled to the ground like a sack of potatoes as I stared at the scene before me.
Laying in the middle of an impeccably decorated room, filled with clearly priceless antiques, was Donata Girardi. Face up on a Persian rug, eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling.
A slim, black, stiletto heel protruding from her neck.