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  “What’s her number?”

  “Thank you, Regan. Thank you. I love you so much.”

  “Love you, too.”

  Jack turned and looked quizzically at Regan. She shrugged as Alfred gave her Brianne’s number. “What time do we have to be there?”

  “Eight o’clock.”

  “I’m not going to get much sleep tonight,” Regan commented.

  “Charisse and I aren’t going to get any sleep for the next three weeks!”

  When Regan hung up, she looked at Jack, then at Kit. “I’m going on TV tomorrow morning.”

  “Huh?” they both answered at once.

  Regan explained as she dialed Brianne’s cell phone number.

  “Hello,” Brianne answered in the same gruff tone Regan had experienced that morning.

  “Brianne, this is Regan Reilly. How are you doing?”

  “I’ve had better days. But I’m at my apartment with my girlfriends. It’s one of my last nights here. We’re revving up to go out tonight.”

  “That’s good. I know it’s been rough for you,” Regan said, trying to sound sympathetic, then asked her about the Patrick and Jeannie show.

  “What?!” Brianne exclaimed. “Are you kidding me?” She called out to her friends. “Listen to this, guys! They want me on that new Patrick and Jeannie show tomorrow morning!”

  Regan could hear a chorus of cheers and shouts of encouragement. “Brianne! You’re going to be a star!”

  “The only bad thing,” Brianne continued, “is that I have to be there at 8 A.M.”

  A chorus of boos erupted. “We’ll just have to stay out all night!” one of Brianne’s girlfriends cried. It was followed by another chorus of cheers.

  They’re having no problem getting psyched up for their night out, Regan thought. “So you’ll do it?” Regan said loudly into her phone, hoping Brianne would hear her.

  “Yes! Can I bring my fiancé?”

  “Of course. The studios always have a greenroom that’s stocked with coffee and donuts. He can wait there while we’re on the air.”

  “What about the other brides whose dresses are gone?”

  “They all have their reasons for not wanting to do publicity.”

  “Must mean they’re guilty of something.”

  “No,” Regan protested. “It might be hard to believe these days, but some people aren’t interested in being on television or having their name in the paper.”

  “It’s very hard to believe. Regan, this is my bachelorette party tonight. I might not look my best in the morning.”

  “I’m going to have a long night, too. But don’t worry. They have makeup artists on these shows who can perform miracles.”

  Brianne laughed as she warmed up to Regan. “We’re going downtown tonight to a new place called Club Zee. It’s in the Meatpacking District on Fourteenth Street. Drop by if you’d like.”

  “Thanks, Brianne. I kind of doubt we’ll make it. But I’ll call you if there are any new developments before tomorrow morning.”

  “Okay.”

  “Remember, Brianne, next week at this time we’ll both be dancing at our weddings. We will!…Okay, bye.” Regan snapped her phone shut.

  “Is she going to be your new best friend?” Kit asked from the back seat.

  “Highly unlikely, Kit. But let me tell you something. Her group sounds as if they’re going to have a grand old time tonight. She invited us to stop by the club where they’ll be later on.”

  “Maybe we should take her up on it,” Kit suggested.

  Regan raised her eyebrows. “It might be a good idea to check in on Brianne. If she doesn’t make it to the show tomorrow morning, Alfred will fall apart.”

  Jack shook his head as he steered the car onto the Jersey Turnpike. He turned to Regan and smiled. “Are all our Saturday nights going to be this exciting?” he asked.

  “Till death do you part,” Kit answered from the backseat.

  Somehow her words didn’t have the humor she intended.

  24

  After their side trip to the cemetery, Francis and Marco had searched in vain for a post office that was still open. Rain, hail, sleet, and snow might never prevent the United States Postal Service from making their appointed rounds, but closing time on Saturday would halt them in their tracks.

  The only thing Francis and Marco did accomplish was getting their taillight fixed. And it was by accident. At one of the many gas stations where they stopped to see if anyone knew of an open FedEx or post office, the attendant admonished them about their broken taillight.

  “No post offices open now. But what you should do is let me fix that taillight for you. You’re going to get yourself a ticket,” he said with an expression that seemed to warn he’d call the cops himself if Marco didn’t let him make the buck fixing it.

  “I know it’s broken,” Marco grumbled.

  “It’s Saturday night. Cops around here are always on the lookout for trouble. I wouldn’t drive around for too long with that thing.”

  “Fix it then,” Marco snapped.

  After the light was replaced, the attendant stuffed the money in his pocket. Impatiently, Marco pulled out of the gas station.

  “I’m hungry and my leg is bothering me,” Francis whined.

  “How do you think my wrist feels? It’s sore as hell. I’m lucky I didn’t hit an artery. I need to see a doctor.”

  “Why don’t we stop at that diner ahead and grab a couple of burgers?” Francis suggested. “We’ll both feel better.”

  Marco nodded. He steered the car into the parking lot of Madge’s 24 Hour diner. Wordlessly they went inside, grabbed a booth, and then placed their orders with a waitress who clearly was not experiencing career satisfaction.

  But when the food arrived it was hot and the beer was cold. The cheeseburgers and french fries hit the spot, wherever that spot is.

  Marco wiped his mouth with a flimsy paper napkin. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was. We haven’t eaten much today.”

  “We didn’t sleep much last night, either,” Francis complained. “I’m tired. I wish we were home.”

  Marco looked around the empty, dreary diner and then whispered, “Cheer up! We have twenty thousand dollars cash and we’re on our way to Atlantic City! Once you walk into the casino and hear all those bells and whistles and the clatter of coins spilling out of the slot machines, you’ll perk up. Believe me! Let’s turn our twenty thousand into forty!”

  Francis could have kicked himself as he heard himself asking, “You think we could double our money tonight?”

  “Yes! I’m going into the men’s room to rinse off my wrist. It might be getting germs. I’ll be right back.”

  As Francis sat alone, the depressing surroundings got to him. The diner where Ma works is much nicer than this, he thought. Then he remembered what she had said on the phone earlier today—that at work they were all talking about the stolen wedding dresses. A wave of guilt and dread washed over him. After downing the cheeseburger and beer, he’d felt good, but that sense of well-being quickly vanished. They had to get rid of those dresses. And it looked like it would be Monday before they could get them out of their possession.

  When Marco emerged from the rest room, he grabbed the check off their table. They paid the bill, grabbed toothpicks and stale mints from the bowl by the cash register, and headed out to the car. One of the lights from the parking light shone right into the backseat, illuminating Joyce’s dishwasher like a coveted prize on a game show.

  Before too long they were on the Atlantic City Causeway heading east. It was already nine o’clock. Marco flipped on the radio.

  “If you see anything,” the reporter was saying, “please call Crime Stoppers. Those wedding dresses have to be somewhere. Police are on the lookout.”

  Marco flipped off the radio.

  Neither of them said a word. But the air was thick with tension.

  The neon lights atop the towering casinos in Atlantic City finally came into view, beckoning th
em with the promise of Lady Luck. “Gambler’s Palace. Our lucky charm,” Marco said in an effort to change the mood in the car. But when they headed for the entrance to the Gambler’s Palace multilevel parking lot, Marco slammed on the brakes. Before cars could gain entry, drivers were being asked to open their trunks. “What the…?” Marco muttered.

  “Oh, my God!” Francis cried. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  Marco did a quick U-turn. “When you said they might be inspecting the trunks, I thought you were being paranoid.”

  “I never thought it would really happen. Maybe we should just go home. With this dishwasher in the backseat we look like idiots. I’m really tired—”

  “No!” Marco insisted. “We have to get these dresses to Las Vegas. The only way is to drive them there.”

  “You go,” Francis said. “I’ll take a bus home.”

  “You’re coming with me.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “What do I tell Joyce?”

  “Figure something out. We’ll be back in a couple of days. I might even let you fly back. I’ll go on to California.”

  “You will?” Francis said hopefully.

  “Don’t sound so happy.”

  “I’m not happy. Believe me, I’m not happy.”

  “I know I’ve worn out my welcome with Joyce. It might even be understandable. We’ll drive to Vegas, I’ll get my arm stitched up, we’ll have Marty sell the dresses, then we’ll divide up the proceeds. Don’t forget we also have our twenty thousand dollars cash to play with. Minus what it cost us for lunch.”

  Francis sank back in his seat. Marco was right. Driving across the country seemed like the right thing to do. As Marco put in a call to his friend in Las Vegas, Francis tried to cheer himself with the thought that he’d be free of Marco very soon, with at least ten thousand dollars in his pocket. He promised himself that he wouldn’t gamble the money away. He’d hurry home from Vegas and take Joyce out for a nice dinner. He’d even be willing to try new allergy pills so she could buy the dog she wanted.

  The furthest thing from Marco’s and Francis’s minds was the possibility that a passenger in the car that had been right behind them in line for the parking lot had taken notice of their hasty departure.

  It was Jack Reilly’s car.

  25

  Jeffrey Woodall felt a sense of relief and excitement that he had never known in all his born days. He’d gotten rid of Tracy, and the best part was he’d been handed the opportunity on a silver platter. He didn’t have to sit her down and say, “We need to talk.” When she told him her dress was stolen, he blurted out his true feelings, feelings that had been building up for weeks.

  Now he was opening a bottle of champagne at his apartment on Central Park West in Manhattan and he was positively giddy. He’d spent the afternoon making the necessary phone calls, letting his half of the guest list know that they could make other plans for Saturday, April 9th, assuring those who already sent presents that they would be returned.

  Jeffrey’s mother was mortified. Jeffrey’s father didn’t say much. He never did. It was from his father that Jeffrey had inherited his limited ability to communicate.

  “What am I going to tell my friends?” his mother asked.

  “Tell them that it just didn’t work out.”

  “Our tickets are nonrefundable. Maybe we’ll come to New York and take in a show.”

  “May as well,” Jeffrey said, although he wished they wouldn’t. He had other ways he wanted to spend his time. Blond, wealthy, attractive, and thirty-two years old, Jeffrey was a catch. That is, if you didn’t mind someone who was uptight, obsessed with order and cleanliness, and crippled by insecurity.

  He came from a respected family in Chicago and had moved to New York after business school. He’d been working at the same insurance company for seven years, set on an unwavering rigid course, always afraid to step outside the box. But now that was all about to change. His head had been turned by someone new, someone who would soften his edges. Someone who would dare him to be himself, liberate him, set him free. He and Tracy weren’t a good match, he convinced himself, because they were too much alike. Too worried about what other people think. Too worried about living in the right place, belonging to the right clubs, getting their future children into the best schools. His new love was the yin to his yang. She was the opposite of what he had always thought he wanted.

  Jeffrey felt like he might finally have found the key to life’s happiness. He was ready to change—it was worth the risk. And the funny thing was this woman who left him intoxicated didn’t go to a top school or have an incredible job. He marveled at that. He never thought he’d be able to love someone who wasn’t of a certain ilk.

  He couldn’t wait to get to know her better. It had all happened so fast, but the day he met her he knew his life would never be the same.

  His buzzer sounded. Jeffrey answered and listened to the doorman announce his visitor. “Send her up,” he said with a smile. He hurriedly poured two glasses of champagne from one of the bottles left over from one of the many engagement parties he and Tracy had thrown. He had a spreadsheet calculating all the costs leading up to the marriage. What a waste. Luckily he had taken out travel insurance for their honeymoon trip to the Caribbean. He’d get some of that money back.

  Unless of course he dared take that trip with someone else…

  The doorbell rang.

  Jeffrey glanced at his reflection in the mirror by the door, smoothed back his hair, and opened the door. He smiled at the sight of her. She was so incredibly beautiful.

  “Darling,” she said as she rushed into his arms.

  He held her tight. “Can this really be happening?” he whispered. She smelled so good.

  “I can’t believe it myself.”

  “I’ve never felt this way before.”

  “Me, neither,” she sighed. “Are you really free to love me and me alone?”

  “Oh, yes. And you, did you get rid of him?”

  She sighed.

  He led her inside and shut the door. Cupping her face in his hands, he asked her softly, “Victoria, please tell me that you called off your wedding to Frederick.”

  She smiled up at him. “Don’t worry, darling. Frederick is of no concern to us whatsoever…”

  26

  “That car was certainly in a hurry to get out of here,” Regan observed from the front seat of Jack’s car as she tried to decipher its license plate number. They had just pulled into the line outside the parking lot of Gambler’s Palace. Regan grabbed her ever-present notepad out of her purse and jotted down the few numbers she was able to make out. “I don’t think they wanted anyone to inspect their trunk.”

  “Maybe they didn’t want to wait,” Kit suggested.

  “Maybe,” Regan agreed. “This could be useless information. Which over the years I’ve collected plenty of. But you never know. It was a gray sedan, right, Jack?”

  “Yes. Two people were in the car. A guy was driving. I couldn’t tell whether his passenger was a man or a woman.” Jack looked in his rearview mirror. “The red sports car behind us is also turning around. A young couple. Who knows? Maybe they had a couple drinks and are afraid of being stopped.”

  Kit turned around, craning her neck to get the license plate of the second departing car. She recited it to Regan, who dutifully jotted it down.

  “I could sit here all night and collect license plate numbers,” Regan joked. “But when something like that happens right in my face, I have to take notice.”

  When they got to the front of the line, the guard made a quick inspection of Jack’s trunk, then waved them through. They parked and took an elevator up to the casino level where they were immediately blitzed by the sights and sounds emanating from the numerous rows of slot machines. Flashing lights and jaunty musical notes filled the air and seemed to celebrate with lucky winners as they scooped up the clinking coins.

  “We’ll head right to Stan�
��s office,” Jack said as they made their way across the cavernous room.

  Stan had been expecting them. A solid, stocky guy in his late fifties, he greeted Jack with a hearty handshake. Even though they didn’t know each other well, there was the immediate camaraderie shared by those in law enforcement, the bond of wanting to get the bad guy. “Good to see you, Jack.”

  Jack introduced Regan and Kit. “It looks like you’re having a busy night. We had our trunk inspected on the way in.”

  “There’s a benefit in the Grand Ballroom tonight. Several politicians from the state are attending. On nights like these, we like to play it safe.”

  Jack nodded.

  “I have the tapes from the table where you say your friend was last Saturday night.”

  “That’s great,” Regan said. “Thanks so much.”

  “I think I’ll go play the one-armed bandits,” Kit said eagerly. “See if I can make enough money to buy you a wedding present.”

  “We’re rooting for you,” Jack replied with a smile.

  “Keep your cell phone out,” Regan advised. “I’ll call you when we’re finished. It looks like it’s easy to get lost around here.”

  Stan took Regan into an empty office where they could view the tapes. He inserted the first one into the DVD player. “I’ll be back later.”

  “Here goes nothing,” Regan murmured as the image of Alfred seated at a gambling table filled the screen.

  27

  Shauna, Tyler, Pamela, and Arnold had enjoyed a cocktail at the apartment and then they’d cabbed to Il Tinello on West 56th Street, just off Fifth Avenue. Il Tinello was an upscale, elegant Italian restaurant. The dining room was comfortable, the food delicious, and the white-jacketed waiters were quietly attentive. It had an old-world feeling and Mario, the owner, always took good care of the Neys. They’d been dining there almost weekly for over fifteen years.

  “I cannot believe this whole business about your dress,” Pamela said in her well-bred tone. She was dressed in a silk pantsuit and wearing some of her favorite pieces of exquisite jewelry—a sapphire necklace with matching earrings and a diamond bracelet. “Planning this wedding is quite an experience.”