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  Me, too, Regan thought. There’s no way they can produce two of these dresses by next week.

  “Charisse and I are used to working day and night,” Alfred said in a martyred tone. “I called the police. They are on their way.”

  “I called Regan’s fiancé,” Nora offered. “He’s the head of the Major Case Squad. He was at his parents’ house in Westchester but he’ll get here as soon as he can.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” Regan said, then turned to Alfred. “This is a crime scene. We have to be careful not to do anything that might contaminate evidence.”

  “My studio is a crime scene,” Alfred repeated, shaking his head in disgust. “I feel violated.”

  Regan walked over to the front door. “There’s no sign of forced entry. Did you lock up last night?”

  “We ordered Chinese food because we were too tired to go out. Charisse answered the door and paid the delivery boy. Did you double lock the door, Charisse?”

  “I can’t be certain,” Charisse said quietly. “The bag was heavy and the wonton soup was starting to spill from the container. It was hot.”

  Oh, great, Regan thought. The door might not have been shut properly and someone could have just pushed it open. If it weren’t double locked, they might have been able to open it with a credit card.

  “We had dinner in bed and were so exhausted that we just fell asleep with the television on,” Alfred continued. “The next thing I knew two figures dressed in black with stocking masks over their faces were in our room tying us up. One of them smashed the safe. It all happened so fast.”

  “The television was still on?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know what time they broke in?”

  “It was three o’clock. The repeat of Larry King was coming back on. Those miserable jerks turned off the TV before they left. Just to be mean. We had to lie there in the horrible silence, scared to death until you arrived, Regan. There was nothing to distract us.”

  “Hello…” a male voice called.

  They all turned as several police officers came through the door at once. Regan introduced herself. The policemen all knew Jack, and from their comments she could tell they liked and respected him very much. The officers took statements from Alfred and Charisse. A fingerprint specialist dusted the salon and bedroom. Brianne’s wedding dress was placed in a special-evidence bag. A handful of reporters showed up, one with a cameraman. Brianne was happy to give them a piece of her mind, before they even had a chance to talk to Alfred, Charisse, or Regan.

  When the area was cleared, and several of the police officers had left, Charisse went into the kitchen to make coffee. She opened the refrigerator and screamed. A note was taped to one of the shelves. In black Magic Marker was scrawled a message—YOUR DESIGNS STINK. GET OUT OF THE BUSINESS OR ELSE!

  Alfred had been through hell for the last nine hours, but when he read the note, it was the worst blow of all. The words on the paper cut into his soul. He screamed and turned to Regan. “You’ve got to help me find who did this, Regan. I’ll never sleep at night again if these vicious, cruel people aren’t caught. This must have been a planned attack!”

  Regan could feel Nora’s body stiffen, even though she wasn’t in Regan’s sight line. “I’m getting married next week,” she said softly. “I’ve got so much to do and now I have to worry about a dress…”

  “I promise you, you’ll have a fabulous dress. I promise! Help me, Regan! Pleeease! I have another bride coming to pick up her dress today and I have to tell her it’s gone! I’m a little afraid of her. Don’t leave me!”

  “Okay, Alfred,” Regan acquiesced. “My fiancé could be here soon. We’ll both help you. Here he is now.”

  Jack was in the doorway, looking as handsome as ever. He was wearing blue jeans, a crisp white shirt, and a brown suede jacket. When he saw Regan he smiled broadly. She walked over, and as they gave each other a quick hug, Jack said under his breath, “I thought I was going to be the only one fighting crime the week before our wedding. Just promise me you’ll make it to the church on time.”

  “You know I will,” Regan said as she felt herself shudder slightly. She didn’t want anything to happen to ruin their day and the start of her new life with Jack. So why did this queasy feeling suddenly come over her? She tried to push it away, telling herself, I’ll help Alfred but I’m not going to let anything get in the way of my wedding. I’ve waited too long for someone like Jack to come into my life.

  But for Regan, things never turned out to be that simple. The week before she got married would be no exception.

  4

  In a row house in Queens where the planes from LaGuardia Airport roared overhead, old buddies Francis McMann and Marco Fertillo were stretched out on two well-worn couches in the small living room. Twenty-two years earlier they could be seen stretched out side by side on their mats at nap time in kindergarten, usually being told by their long-suffering teacher to stop kicking each other. Their horseplay continued for the next thirteen years, until high school graduation, when Marco took off for points west. Francis stayed close to home and got a job as a construction worker. Every couple of years since, Marco returned to New York for a visit, which never made Francis’s mother happy.

  “Marco’s a bad influence on you,” she’d cry. “Stay away from him. Why doesn’t he have a job?” she’d ask Francis.

  “He works at odd jobs around the country.”

  “Odd jobs around the country my foot,” she snorted. “How long is he going to stay there with you doing nothing?”

  It was the same question Francis’s girlfriend, Joyce, kept asking, especially since the place where they now laid their heads was her apartment. Joyce worked at the local pet store and had been attracted to Francis because he was named after St. Francis of Assisi, who loved animals. Francis loved animals, but that’s about all he and St. Francis had in common.

  A parrot in the kitchen called out, “Lazy bums. Ahhhh.”

  “Shut up, you stupid bird!” Marco yelled impatiently. His wrist was throbbing. He played with the gauze wrapped around the inside of his arm, which he’d accidentally slit when he was shredding Alfred and Charisse’s gown with his pocket knife.

  “Don’t let Joyce hear you talk to Romeo like that,” Francis said sleepily.

  “That bird drives me nuts.”

  “Lazy bums! Lazy bums!” Romeo chirped with gusto.

  Marco got off the couch, lifted the window shade, and peered out. His beat-up gray sedan was parked out front on the street. Joyce had the bottom floor of a two-family house, and there was no room for visitors’ cars in the driveway. Which meant Marco was always having to move his car so he wouldn’t be ticketed. He’d been doing this three mornings a week before 8 A.M. since Christmastime when he showed up for what turned out to be his most prolonged visit. It was only because Francis had broken his leg in a construction accident and was stuck at home until it completely healed that Joyce agreed to let Marco stay. He practically set up camp around the Bernadette Castro sofa bed in the living room.

  “I’d go out of my mind sitting here by myself day in and day out,” Francis explained to Joyce more than once. “He keeps me company.” But now that Francis was finally doing well with his physical therapy and hoping to get back to work soon, Marco knew his days at Joyce’s pad were numbered. He had no money and no place to go. That’s why he’d convinced Francis, who he’d nicknamed Linus back in kindergarten when he caught Francis sniffing a security blanket he’d hidden in his assigned cubbyhole, to pull off the job last night with him.

  “Come on, Linus!” he’d urged. “That snob Alfred turned his nose up at us at the craps table, won the money that should have been ours, and then had the nerve to give us his business card in case we were ever in the market for his designer wedding dresses after he’d insulted our sweatshirts. When he dropped his keys and didn’t notice, it was a sign from God!”

  “I don’t think God had robbery in mind when Alfred dropped his keys!”
/>   “Everything happens for a reason,” Marco had argued passionately. His lean body paced the floor of the living room all week. He was five feet ten inches tall, with olive skin, brown hair and eyes, and a narrow slit for a mouth. “There was a reason we went down to Atlantic City last weekend.”

  “To gamble.”

  Marco ignored him. “There was a reason we picked Gambler’s Palace. There was a reason Alfred ended up at the same craps table we were. There was a reason he dropped his keys.”

  “And the reason he dropped his keys was because his pocket was overflowing when he pulled out his business card.”

  “Well, the other reason was so that we could teach him a lesson. He not only gloated about winning all the money that had been ours, but he had the nerve to comment on our clothes.”

  “All he said was that he never understood the appeal of sweatshirts in social settings.”

  “That hurt my pride,” Marco protested. “He was a pompous jerk.”

  “You got back at him when you told him that if his green velvet jacket had four more pockets it would look like a pool table.”

  “I don’t feel vindicated. Not only that,” Marco paused, “I’m broke.”

  “You’re broke?”

  “Practically. If we pull off this job, then I’ll be able to leave here.”

  Francis’s ears had perked up. He knew Joyce was getting fed up. He had to get Marco out of her house. But this was resorting to drastic means to hasten his departure. Ultimately swayed by Marco’s relentless nagging, Francis had agreed to take the risk. Even though Marco wasn’t big in the charm department, he could still get Francis to do what he wanted.

  And they’d done what Marco wanted last night in the middle of the night. Caught up in the excitement of robbing the salon, Marco had gotten carried away and decided to slash one of the gowns. In the process he’d cut himself. Although he was pleased with the way the dress looked with the drops of blood all over it, now his wrist was really throbbing, and he thought the cut needed stitches. But he was afraid to go to the hospital because going to the hospital meant having to explain what happened. He couldn’t risk it.

  “Your car still there?” Francis asked.

  “That big old clunker isn’t worth stealing,” Marco answered.

  “Unless someone knew those dresses were in the trunk. If you sold those you could get yourself a new Mercedes.”

  Marco let go of the shade and turned to look at his friend. They were the same height and weight, but Francis had strawberry blond hair that was starting to recede and the map of Ireland on his face. His pale blue eyes looked a little worried. He’d never done anything like this before. In high school, Marco had convinced him to swipe food from the school cafeteria, and they’d taken a few cars for joyrides, but nothing as serious or premeditated as this. It made Francis wonder what else Marco had pulled off in his travels around the country.

  “We have to be careful, Marco,” Francis continued. “I don’t want to get in trouble.”

  “You’re so chicken! You’ve been worried about trouble since we were five years old. Thanks to me we have twenty thousand dollars, some gaudy jewelry that we can hock in Atlantic City, and four valuable designer gowns. And we put a man who dishonored us in his place. It was a good night’s work.”

  “If we get caught, Joyce will kill me. Your blood is all over that dress. They can do DNA testing, you know.”

  “We won’t get caught. I’ve never been arrested so they don’t have my DNA on file. I say we go to Atlantic City tonight and celebrate.”

  “That’s too dangerous.”

  “Dangerous? What are you talking about?”

  “If Alfred realizes he lost his keys in Atlantic City, they might start looking for us there. You know, they say criminals often return to the scene of the crime.”

  “The scene of the crime was his loft in Manhattan.”

  “But we stole his keys in Atlantic City. And what do I tell Joyce? It’s Saturday night again.”

  “Tell her to go out with her girlfriends.”

  Marco picked up the remote control off the coffee table and flicked on the television. NY1 reporter Kristen Shaughnessy was at the anchor desk.

  “This just in. Spring is wedding season and brides all over the tristate area are making preparations for their big day. But a few brides showed up this morning to pick up their dresses at Alfred and Charisse’s Coutures in downtown Manhattan and were shocked to learn that the salon had been broken into and four dresses were stolen…”

  Francis sat up quickly, clutching the ratty blanket he’d owned since grade school, while Marco stared at the screen.

  “The thieves left one dress behind, which they did their best to destroy. The robbers took the time to slash the gown to ribbons, and it appears that one of them may have cut himself. Blood was spilled on the front of the dress. The NYPD Crime Lab will be checking it for DNA. The owner of that dress, Brianne Barth, is not happy.”

  The newscast cut to a clip of Brianne staring into the camera. “Mark my words. If I find out who did this, they’ll regret the day they were born.”

  “Them’s fightin’ words,” Kristen said in a voiceover. “I can’t say I blame her. The designers are not happy, either.” The image of Alfred and Charisse filled the screen.

  “I’m shocked that anyone could stoop so low as to try and deprive our April Brides of their gorgeous gowns. But we won’t let them!” Alfred declared. “Regan Reilly is going to help us get them back! Right, Regan?”

  The camera turned to Regan. “We’re going to do everything we can,” Regan replied in a serious tone. “Thieves often make one stupid mistake that trips them up. If that’s the case here, we’ll find out what it is and make sure the culprits land behind bars. Where they belong.”

  Marco stared at the screen. “We didn’t make any stupid mistakes, Regan Reilly!”

  “Oh, my god!” Francis squealed. “We’re going to get caught!”

  “Did you make a stupid mistake?”

  “I don’t think so,” Francis moaned as he clutched the blanket for comfort, the blanket Joyce wouldn’t allow anywhere near her bed. He knew that this was not going to end well. “Maybe getting out of town tonight is a good idea after all.”

  5

  Regan, Jack, Nora, Kit, Brianne, Teresa, Alfred, and Charisse were all seated on the horseshoe-shaped couch in the salon, finishing up the sandwiches and coffee that Charisse had ordered from the local deli. The fact that she was fed and had already appeared on local television had slightly cheered Brianne. But not for long. She wiped her mouth and announced, “Alfred, I want a cash refund. My mother and I are heading over to Kleinfeld.”

  Teresa nodded in agreement. “This is outrageous.”

  Kleinfeld was the legendary bridal shop that had provided beautiful wedding gowns to happy brides for generations. It opened its doors in Brooklyn, New York, in 1941 and recently moved to a new location on West 20th Street in Manhattan. Kleinfeld had the largest selection of designer wedding gowns in the world. Women from all over walked through their doors and found the dress of their dreams.

  “Cash refund?” Alfred gasped.

  “Cash on the barrel,” Brianne answered. “Or at least a check. I can’t be nervous all week about whether I’m going to have a dress or not next Saturday.”

  “It’s not right,” Teresa said mournfully. “Not right at all.”

  “I wouldn’t be able to go to sleep tonight wondering whether I’ll have to walk down the aisle in my prom dress.”

  “I promise we’ll get it done for you,” Alfred moaned. The thought of handing back the five thousand dollar deposit made him dizzy.

  “I’m not willing to take that chance.” Brianne shook her head stubbornly and stood. “Nice meeting you all. We’re out of here. Alfred, I want my money back. Now.”

  Alfred threw his hands in the air. Dragging his feet, he went around the corner and into his little office. A moment later he came back and handed Brianne a folded
yellow check. “If you don’t find anything, just call. I will make you a new dress in time for your wedding. That is, if you let me know by tonight,” he added almost snippily.

  “Can you fix my wedding dress so that Brianne could wear it?” Teresa asked.

  Alfred’s face looked aghast. He started to stammer. “Ah, ah…most designers are only interested in working on their own…”

  Teresa’s expression was steely. “It wouldn’t be very good publicity if you didn’t help one of the brides you let down because you either didn’t lock the door or you lost your keys.”

  “I don’t know whether I lost them or not,” Alfred protested.

  “I heard the police ask you. You said you couldn’t find them. It’s your fault this happened.”

  Oh, boy, Regan thought. The police had questioned Alfred extensively because there was no sign of forced entry. He said that he couldn’t find his keys and had promised to look for them. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d used them.

  “Charisse is always the one taking care of things like that,” he’d explained. “When we go out, she is the one who brings the money and the keys. I rely on her for all those little matters…”

  Charisse was sitting quietly in the corner. With her delicate features, pale skin, and long, wavy blond hair cascading past her shoulders, Regan thought she looked like she came from a long-ago era—and she certainly dressed the part. She now had on a white lacy blouse and burgundy velvet pants that matched Alfred’s silk robe. She had an ethereal quality that made it hard for Regan to believe that she was the one with the practical sense. But, then again, her partner was Alfred. “Even though Alfred leaves that kind of thing to me, I couldn’t ask for someone more protective. He double locks the door during the day. I don’t think that whoever was in here last night gained access with Alfred’s keys.”

  “Whatever,” Brianne said dismissively. She glanced at the check and stuffed it in her front pocket.

  You’re not so careful either, Regan thought. That check has to be for several thousand dollars. “Brianne, I’d like to talk to you…”