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  Regan watched as the expression on Tracy’s face turned from anger to horror.

  “Not the right thing for you now? What are you talking about? I said I’ll get another gown…You’ve made up your mind…What do you mean it’s not me, it’s you? I can’t believe you’re doing this! I can’t believe it!” She snapped the phone shut and threw it onto the floor. “Look at what you’ve done, Alfred! My fiancé dumped me because I don’t have a dress!”

  Something tells me there are extenuating circumstances, Regan thought.

  Tracy ran into the bathroom, her mother in her wake. “Tracy, maybe you caught him at a bad time. Give him a call back!”

  Adele shook her head. “The worst part of this is that she was determined to get married before she turned thirty. She was just going to make it by the skin of her teeth.”

  “When does she turn thirty?” Regan asked.

  “In two weeks. They were going to celebrate on the honeymoon.” Adele shuffled around the corner to the bathroom, apparently feeling that she should at least attempt to offer some sisterly comfort.

  Regan looked over at Alfred. Well at least he doesn’t have to worry about replacing Tracy’s dress. Unless she manages to find another husband before the day of her Big 3-0.

  Kit cleared her throat. “Regan, do you think we should tell her that you’re thirty-one and it doesn’t bother you that you’re getting married over thirty, and I’m thirty-one and I’m not even close to getting married? As a matter of fact, I can tell her that I don’t even have a date for your wedding.”

  Regan smiled. “Kit, somehow I don’t think that would go over so well.”

  “Just a suggestion.”

  “Well, Alfred, two more April Brides to go. Do you think we’ll be hearing from them soon?”

  “I hope not. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

  11

  Thank God for my animals, Joyce thought, as she placed a puppy she’d been grooming in the front window of the pet store. They always want to be with me. Unlike Francis who had called from the road and said that he was going to Atlantic City with Marco. She couldn’t wait for that Marco to get lost. He was such a bad influence. Hopefully, Francis could go back to work soon, Marco would leave, and she and Francis could get their life back.

  Joyce wanted to settle down. It was about time. She wanted to have kids and animals and buy a house out on Long Island. Just not too close to Francis’s mother, who had called and asked if Joyce wanted to come out and spend the night with the folks while Francis was away.

  No thank you! she had responded, almost too quickly. She would go home and take it easy. It would be nice to have some peace and quiet in the house. Marco had the television on every second he was awake. In the middle of the night, he’d wake up and turn it on, then the parrot would start to squawk.

  Although the parrot enjoyed watching television.

  “Hey, Joyce,” her co-worker Bunny called to her. “You have another phone call.”

  “Thanks.”

  All the workers at Teddy’s Pet Store had cell phones, but Teddy insisted the phones remain off in the shop. “All that ringing and beeping and those crazy songs disturb the peace,” he declared. “The animals shouldn’t have to put up with it!”

  Any personal calls would be on the house phone, and they would be brief. “If you’re not taking care of a customer, you should be giving love to the animals,” he proclaimed.

  Joyce hurried to the phone by the register. “Hello,” she said as she played with a tiny Velcro ball that was on the counter and intended for cats’ amusement.

  “Joyce, it’s Cindy.”

  Cindy was Joyce’s single neighbor. Nosy but nice. They saw each other more in the summertime when they threw barbecues together. Cindy was about her age, divorced, and always on the hunt for a new guy. “Hi, Cindy. What’s going on?”

  “I saw Francis and Marco speed down the block before. Are they heading out of town again?

  She’s always digging for information, Joyce thought. Cindy should have been an archaeologist. “Another boys’ night out,” Joyce answered, forcing herself to sound cheery. “It’s okay. By the time I’m through here, I’m happy to go home and relax.”

  “Uh-huh, sure. Listen, Joyce, I’m going into the city with some of the girls tonight. We’re going to Little Italy for pasta. The place has music. It’ll be fun.”

  Joyce paused—for a fraction of a second. She loved the energy in Little Italy. Its narrow cobblestone streets, colored lights, and bustling restaurants all made for a great atmosphere. “That sounds great. I’m not that tired.”

  “You go, girl,” Cindy said. “If the boys can go out and play, so can the girls.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  “What time do you get off work?”

  “Five.”

  “Go home and relax for a couple of hours. Take a nap. I’ll pick you up at eight. We’ll make it a fun night.”

  Pasta, a little wine, music, some laughs with the girls. It’s what I need, Joyce thought as she hung up the phone.

  So what was bothering her?

  The front door opened, and a young mother and her son came in. His arm was bandaged.

  “What happened to you?” Joyce asked sweetly.

  “I fell going up the steps and I had a glass in my hand. I cut my arm, and it bled all over.

  Joyce’s mind flashed to the bloody paper napkin she’d found in the bathroom wastebasket this morning. Francis and Marco were sleeping when she left for work. She’d forgotten to ask Francis about it when he called.

  “I told my mother I’d feel better if she bought me a puppy.”

  “I’m sure that would make you feel better…” Joyce agreed, leading them to the front window where three little cocker spaniels were scampering around in piles of shredded paper.

  I wish I knew what would make me feel better, she thought. Maybe a night on the town with the girls will do the trick.

  12

  Francis and Marco were on the Garden State Parkway in New Jersey heading south to Atlantic City.

  “What’s the matter?” Marco asked.

  “Nothing’s the matter. Why should something be the matter?” Francis asked, looking out the side window.

  Marco took his hands off the steering wheel to adjust the hand towel he had wrapped around his wrist. The car started to veer to the right.

  “Watch it!” Francis yelled.

  “You’re very uptight.”

  “Please keep your hands on the wheel.”

  “I know how to drive. I’ve never had an accident.”

  “You also said you’ve never been arrested.”

  “Very funny. You’ve been quiet since you got off the phone with Joyce.”

  “I feel bad. Last Saturday night I left her home. Now, again this Saturday. It’s not right.”

  “She’ll get over it. Listen, I’m in pain. My wrist is killing me.”

  “Maybe you should go to a doctor in Atlantic City.”

  “I still don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “You probably need stitches. Just tell the doctor you cut yourself with a knife, that’s all. It doesn’t mean you committed a crime. Even though you did.”

  “So did you. What the…?” Marco looked in the rearview mirror. A police car was right behind them flashing its lights.

  “Pull over!” came a voice through a bullhorn.

  Marco cursed and Francis moaned.

  “It’s over,” Francis said. “We’re done. Done!”

  “We didn’t do anything.”

  “What about the dresses in the trunk?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  Marco pulled the aging vehicle to the side of the road and stopped. He quickly pulled his sleeve down so that it completely covered the blue hand towel wrapped around his wrist. Before the officer reached the car, he had his license and registration and insurance papers out, hoping to make the ordeal as quick as possible.

  A moment later a burly st
ate trooper was standing slightly back from the car. Marco quickly handed over his documents. The trooper took them and walked back to his vehicle while another police car pulled up behind his.

  “Safety in numbers,” Francis muttered. “They’re out to find drugs. They should know we have a bunch of foufy wedding dresses in the trunk.”

  “Shut up. We’ve also got a lot of cash back there, too.”

  Francis groaned.

  They sat and waited for what seemed like forever. The trooper finally got out of his car again. He sauntered back up to Marco’s window.

  “You in a hurry, boys?”

  “No, sir.”

  “It seemed like you were.”

  “Really?’ Marco feigned surprise. “How fast was I going?”

  “Ten miles over the speed limit. Here’s your ticket. And here’s another ticket for a broken tail light.”

  “A broken tail light?” Again Marco was aghast.

  “You’d better get that fixed real soon. It’s dangerous. And your front left tire looks as if it could use some air. Maybe it has a slow leak. Do you want to change it right now?” He stared down at Marco. “Better safe than sorry.”

  “Change it now?” Marco repeated. “Oh, I don’t think so, officer. Perhaps it would be best if we drove to the next rest stop. Maybe I could get the tail light replaced at the same time. And…and…and…I’ll put a little air in the tires. And get the car washed, too.”

  “It could sure use it. Wait a minute.” The trooper walked to the back of the car and looked at the tail light. He pulled on a piece of the broken glass.

  Francis almost fainted in the front seat. To open the trunk all you had to do was push the button. No key necessary. If the trooper kept fiddling around back there, he’d make four brides very happy.

  The trooper walked back to Marco’s window. “Your license here says you live in upstate New York. Where are you boys headed?”

  Don’t say Atlantic City, Francis thought wildly. Don’t be that stupid.

  “We’re going to visit a classmate from our younger days who just had an operation. He’s going to be fine, thank God, but we want to cheer him up,” Marco answered, doing his best imitation of Eddie Haskell.

  “What kind of operation?”

  “Knees. Knee. He was a football player and his old injuries were really acting up.”

  Francis feigned laughter and pointed to his leg. “I was hurt on the job. Been out of work for months. I hate it. Thought I’d go down and commiserate with him.”

  The trooper’s radio squawked, alerting him to a fender bender down the road. He tapped the roof of Marco’s car.

  “Take it slow, fellas.”

  “I will, sir. Thank you, sir. Yes, sir.”

  As the trooper walked back to his car, Francis commented with disgust. “You really laid it on thick, didn’t you?”

  “What about you? You didn’t have to tell him you were injured. Remember, don’t give out so much information.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve never been involved in the life of crime before.”

  “Get used to it.”

  Marco pulled out onto the highway. A few miles down the road was a rest stop. Marco drove right past it.

  “Aren’t we going to stop?” Francis asked.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “You think I’m going to pull into a busy rest stop? We’ll find a gas station that is quiet. We’ve got those dresses in the back. You want somebody noticing them?”

  “Let’s just get rid of them. Let’s get off at the next exit and find a Dumpster.”

  “No way. That’s money down the drain. They’re going to Las Vegas. One hundred thousand brides a year say ‘I do’ in that town. Surely my pal Marty can find four of them who will pony up a few bucks for those designer gowns. In my humble opinion, old Alfred really does have some talent.”

  “The note you left said that his designs stink.”

  “I knew it would get to him.” Marco smiled. “I also figured that taping the note inside the refrigerator would be twice as creepy.”

  As they drove on, Francis desperately wished that he were home with Joyce. Little did he know, she was about to have a wild night on the town.

  13

  When Tracy reemerged from the bathroom, her eyes had a vacant stare not unlike the ones actors who played psychos in horror movies affected right before they pounced. But her makeup was perfect—she’d clearly powdered her nose and freshened her pink lipstick, Regan noticed.

  One wall of the main room of the loft was mirrored, another was all exposed brick. On good days it felt like a happy, open space full of endless possibilities, Regan thought, where excited brides were fitted for the most important dress of their lives. But now, for the second time in twelve hours, it was the setting for personal disaster. The spot where Brianne found her shredded bloodied dress in a heap was exactly where Tracy had been standing when she’d been shot through the heart, so to speak.

  Regan was sure that neither one of them would ever forget every detail of their terrible experiences at Alfred and Charisse’s salon. Tracy’s pain, of course, was far deeper. After all, what could be worse than having your heart broken a week before your wedding? And better yet, what can turn a basically sane, albeit high-strung person, into a psycho in no time flat?

  Getting the royal dump.

  Charisse was leaning over the coffee table, pouring tea as though her life depended on it. Nora and Kit were making noise about how wonderful yet another cup of tea would taste. Alfred was slumped on the couch, looking nervous and defeated. When he saw Tracy, he attempted to straighten up.

  While her mother and sister stood in the background, Tracy walked over to Alfred and said in a scarily controlled voice, “You have ruined my life. I wanted to pick up my dress two weeks ago. It wasn’t ready. And last week it still wasn’t ready…”

  Alfred never mentioned that, Regan thought.

  “If it had been ready, it wouldn’t have been stolen. And if it hadn’t been stolen, I wouldn’t have been dumped.”

  And if you had married that guy, Regan thought, you’d really be miserable. He clearly didn’t believe in “for better or for worse.”

  The room was silent.

  “Alfred,” Tracy continued. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

  “Not really.”

  Tracy shut her eyes as if somehow this would help her process his unexpected response. She opened them again. “Jeffrey, my former fiancé, likes everything to run like clockwork. Just like me. The fact that I didn’t make sure my dress was ready when it should have been, and now I don’t even have a dress, made him question my competence, I’m sure. My value as a life partner. If I picked someone as irresponsible as you to design my dress, then surely he couldn’t expect me to make the proper decisions about…” She broke off, her voice cracking.

  “Alfred and Charisse are victims of a crime,” Regan interjected. “They were tied up all night, and we’re lucky they weren’t hurt or killed.”

  Tracy turned her vacant stare in Regan’s direction. “You might still have a fiancé, but your dress is gone. How come you’re being so understanding?”

  “I’m a private investigator. I’m going to try and help Alfred and Charisse straighten out this mess. And hopefully find out who did this.”

  “Good for you. If you can find any dirt on a guy named Jeffrey Woodall, let me know. If I can’t kill him, I want to make his life miserable.”

  “Dear,” Ellen said to her daughter, “don’t be so hasty.”

  “Mother! One week before the wedding he calls it off. How could he do such a thing?”

  “I never liked him,” Adele volunteered enthusiastically. “He’s way too uptight.”

  “Who asked you?” Tracy cried. “Just shut up!”

  Adele shrugged. “I was just trying to make you feel better.”

  “My life is ruined! I’m never going to feel better. I don’t care what happens anymore.” Tracy r
ubbed the sides of her forehead. “I’m getting one of my headaches.”

  “Let’s get you home, dear,” Ellen suggested. “Tonight we’ll go for a nice dinner at the club.”

  “The club? I can’t show my face at the club! That’s where my reception was supposed to be!”

  “Then we’ll order in Chinese.”

  Charisse was vigorously stirring her tiny cup of tea. “Tracy, this happens more than you think, and it’s always for the best. We’ve been making wedding gowns for years. We started in Alfred’s mother’s basement out in Indiana.” She tried to laugh. “You wouldn’t believe how many of them never saw the light of day! Boy, do we have stories! But in the end, it always meant the guy was not the right one! You’ll find someone so much better and we’ll make you a fantastic new dress—”

  “Over my dead body.”

  “Your next wedding dress is on the house!” Alfred said with gusto.

  “I want my money back,” Tracy countered in an icy tone. “Then I intend to walk out of here and never come back. This place is nothing but a nightmare.”

  Charisse went running for the checkbook. “If you don’t mind I’ll postdate the check. We have to move some money around in the accounts. We were robbed of cash, too, you know. Lots and lots of it. And some of my favorite pieces of vintage jewelry…”

  “If the check bounces, my lawyer will sue you.”

  The phone rang. Alfred grabbed it off the table next to the couch. Regan was surprised he didn’t let it go to voice mail, but then again he was frantic to avoid this unpleasant conversation. “Hello? Yes, this is Alfred. You like my dresses?” He smiled. “Thank you very much. You’re from where? This is a terrible thing…” He twirled the cord of the phone, listened, then cupped the phone with his hand. “It’s a reporter from the Galaxy Gossip. He feels just awful about what happened. He wants to do a human interest story on the five brides who lost their dresses…”