plasticâlike a credit cardâbetween 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 Beauâs employees, emerged carrying two plastic sacks.
âGuess who scored todayâs errandsâand trash detail?â 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 Beauâs 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 wasnât 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.
âIsnât this gorgeous?â Bess asked, smoothing the material over her waist and touching the tiny satin-covered buttons that ran up the front. âTheyâre going to take up the hem and shorten the bodice for women with my proportions.â
âItâs lovely,â 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. âYou better find that gownâ soon, â she barked at Nancy. âIâm sewing like crazy, and still I know Miss Rockwell wonât be happy.â 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.
âDonât let her bother you,â Angel said, smiling up from his sketch. âMrs. Chong is abrupt, but she means well.â He was drawing a gown that was on a dress form, a padded replica of a womanâs torso that stood on a metal stand, like a statue without arms, legs, or a head.
Nancy peeked over Angelâs 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.
âI donât understand,â Nancy said. âIsnât sketching a design the first step? Then donât you make a sample from the sketch?â
âSome designers work that way,â Angel explained. âBut 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
âWhat are the sketches for?â Nancy asked.
âPromotion pieces, catalogs, and records.â Angel pointed to the binders that lined the shelves on one wall. âThose books are filled with sketches of gowns in the Beau Bridal collection.â
âThere are sandwiches for everyone in the lounge,â Beau announced. âWe wonât have time to break for lunch today.â
Angel added a few touches to the sketch, then stood up. âHungry?â he asked Nancy.
âI could use a sandwich,â Nancy said, smiling at the soft-spoken young man. As she followed him down the hall, Nancy pointed to closed doors,