Designs in Crime by Carolyn Keene Read Free Book Online Page B

plastic—like a credit card—between the two parts of the lock. The door would open in seconds.
    Nancy was about to close the door when the elevator opened and Eleni, one of Beau’s employees, emerged carrying two plastic sacks.
    â€œGuess who scored today’s errands—and trash detail?” Eleni said wryly.
    Nancy held the door open, then peeked outside to watch the girl walk to a metal Dumpster in front of the building and toss both bags in.
    Another security risk, Nancy thought. Anyonewalking by could pick through the trash to find discarded sketches of Beau’s designs.
    Maybe the lock on the studio door is stronger and more efficient, she thought. But when she reached the fourth floor, she found that the door to the studio was unlocked. A sophisticated lock and alarm panel was built into the wall beside the studio door, but it wasn’t activated.
    The staff probably turned on the alarm only when they locked up at night. During the day anyone could sneak items out.
    Inside the studio, Nancy went into the workroom and found Bess wearing an ice pink satin gown. Kneeling at her feet, a young woman was pinning up the hem.
    â€œIsn’t this gorgeous?” Bess asked, smoothing the material over her waist and touching the tiny satin-covered buttons that ran up the front. “They’re going to take up the hem and shorten the bodice for women with my proportions.”
    â€œIt’s lovely,” Nancy agreed, dodging an assistant who was carrying a bolt of fabric over his shoulder. The room buzzed with activity. Supervised by Angel, Mrs. Chong, and Beau himself, workers moved through their tasks, their fingers deftly stitching, pinning, or cutting.
    Sunlight streamed in through the tall, arched windows along the outer wall. An adjacent wall contained floor-to-ceiling shelves full of binders and black portfolios. Against a third wall, bolts of material were stacked haphazardly. The centerof the room was dominated by two large work-tables.
    Mrs. Chong tugged a bolt of lace from the stack, tucked it under her arm, then turned to Nancy. “You better find that gown— soon, ” she barked at Nancy. “I’m sewing like crazy, and still I know Miss Rockwell won’t be happy.” She snorted, then charged off to her sewing room, little more than a cubicle in the corner, attached to the workroom by a narrow door.
    â€œDon’t let her bother you,” Angel said, smiling up from his sketch. “Mrs. Chong is abrupt, but she means well.” He was drawing a gown that was on a dress form, a padded replica of a woman’s torso that stood on a metal stand, like a statue without arms, legs, or a head.
    Nancy peeked over Angel’s shoulder and watched as his hand moved the pencil across the page in sure, even strokes. His drawing was a copy of the gown executed in sweeping, romantic lines.
    â€œI don’t understand,” Nancy said. “Isn’t sketching a design the first step? Then don’t you make a sample from the sketch?”
    â€œSome designers work that way,” Angel explained. “But Beau likes to work with the fabric, playing with the texture and weight of the cloth. He drapes the fabric on a dress form or model until the right shape emerges. Then, after the design is complete, I sketch it.”
    â€œWhat are the sketches for?” Nancy asked.
    â€œPromotion pieces, catalogs, and records.” Angel pointed to the binders that lined the shelves on one wall. “Those books are filled with sketches of gowns in the Beau Bridal collection.”
    â€œThere are sandwiches for everyone in the lounge,” Beau announced. “We won’t have time to break for lunch today.”
    Angel added a few touches to the sketch, then stood up. “Hungry?” he asked Nancy.
    â€œI could use a sandwich,” Nancy said, smiling at the soft-spoken young man. As she followed him down the hall, Nancy pointed to closed doors,