“I’m actually thirty-five, why?”
Esmerelda’s eyes widened and her little mouth gaped. “You’re thirty-five years old?” she spat.
Johanna put a hand on her hip. “Yes, I’m thirty-five years old. What’s wrong with that?”
A little snicker escaped the cat’s mouth. “You’re thirty-five and not married?”
“Yeah, so?”
“Where did your life go wrong?”
“Essy!” chastised Whitley.
“Well, that’s rude!” said Johanna, giving the cat a fiery-glare. “I’ll have you know I’ve got a great life!”
“Sure ya do…”
Johanna’s dander was up now. “I do! I have a great apartment. I live in a great city. I love my career. I have an amazing dog. I—I love my family…”
“And yet you spent your Thursday night on the couch, watching a sappy Christmas movie with a glass of wine from a box and shaking a snow globe, wishing for a man?” Esmerelda’s green eyes swiveled up towards the ceiling. “Yeah, real great life.”
Johanna’s eyes burned with the same tears that had gone unshed earlier. She knew she had a great life. She did! And she didn’t have to prove that to anyone! How dare this—this—talking cat criticize her life! Swallowing back the lump in her throat, Johanna looked at Whitley expectantly.
“So now what? You gave me the dress. Now you can go back to your snow globe? Rocky and I would be happy to walk the two of you back to the antique store so you can freak out another unsuspecting shopper.”
Whitley grimaced. “Well, it doesn’t exactly work like that.”
Johanna shook her head in dismay. She suddenly had a desperate need to have the two figments of her imagination out of her head and out of her apartment, immediately. She strutted over to her apartment door and opened it, swooping the air with a hand. “You said you had to give me the dress. I accept. Thank you. Now you can go.”
Whitley pursed her lips. “Umm. So that’s part of it.”
“Part of it? You didn’t tell me there was more.”
Whitley flicked her magic wand towards the apartment door, forgetting that it didn’t work. She sighed and shook her head, walking over to it and shutting it manually. “I know. I don’t exactly know all of it, but I do know a little bit more,” she admitted, pinching one eye shut.
Johanna’s face dropped. “Ohh-kay?” she drawled.
“That dress was pre-owned.”
Johanna held the flared skirt out on either side of herself and looked down at it. “It’s in really good shape for being pre-owned. It doesn’t even look worn. Regardless. I’m totally okay with that. I still accept the dress. Now you can go.”
Whitley scratched her head before continuing. “I really don’t know who wore it before. Or for how long or anything. All I know is that it was pre-owned and there’s a mystery surrounding it.”
“A mystery?” The word hung in the air. Johanna was a mystery writer after all. “What do you mean there’s a mystery surrounding it?”
Whitley’s head bobbed up and down slowly. “Yes. I wish I knew what I meant. I was told that there’s a mystery surrounding all of the dresses in my wardrobe. I don’t know what that means. I just know that we have to figure out what it is and then solve it.”
“We?” Johanna practically sneezed out the word.
“Yes, we,” chimed in Esmerelda from the floor. “And if you don’t help us, you get to take Whitley’s place in the globe, and your horse over there gets to play the role of your trusty sidekick, got it?”
“What?!” demanded Johanna, her jaw dropping.
“Yup!” she added. “If you don’t help us solve the mystery, then you and Slobber Boy get to take our places.”
“I didn’t agree to that!” gasped Johanna.
Esmerelda leapt up into Johanna’s arms. She poked a paw into the woman’s chest and looked directly into her eyes. “You put on the dress. You help us with the mystery.”
Johanna’s big brown eyes were wide as she sputtered, “B-but I didn’t ask to put on the dress. You two forced me!”
Whitley clambered to her feet and plucked Esmerelda from Johanna’s arms. “Essy, tell the—”
“Bup, bup, bup.” Esmerelda put a paw to her sister’s mouth. The twins made eye contact for the briefest of moments. “She helps us or she’s the new genie in the lamp, right, sis?”
Whitley looked down at the snow globe sorrowfully.
Whitley let out the breath she’d been holding and made a face at her sister. Then she looked at Johanna. “Es is right, Hanna. Either help us solve the mystery or you’re the new genie in the lamp.”
Johanna’s mouth opened wide. “But I don’t wanna be the new genie in the lamp!”
“Then help us solve the mystery of the dress,” countered Esmerelda, leaping back down onto the floor.
Johanna lifted the hem of her skirt and rushed over to the cat. “What mystery? What’s to solve?”
Esmerelda shook her head. “Part of the mystery is figuring out what the mystery is.”
“But how are we supposed to do that?!”
“There’s a dry cleaning tag,” whispered Whitley. Her head hung low and her tiny voice was barely audible.
“What?” snapped Esmerelda.
“There’s a dry cleaning tag,” she whispered a little louder.
Esmerelda gave an exasperated sigh. “A dry cleaning tag? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Hanna, did you happen to notice the dry cleaning tag when you put the dress on?”
Johanna shook her head. “I didn’t notice anything.”
“It’s inside the dress,” whispered Whitley. “Attached to the manufacturer’s label.”
Johanna’s eyes brightened as she nodded. “Oh!”
Esmerelda’s gaze ping-ponged back and forth between the two women. “I don’t get it. So the dress got cleaned before it got given away to the secondhand store. What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s a clue,” explained Whitley.
“How is it a clue?” Esmerelda rubbed her paw against her temples.
“If we can find the dry cleaners that the tag came from, maybe we can find another clue to help us figure out what the mystery is.” Whitley shrugged. “It’s all we’ve got right now.”
“Wait. That’s the only clue?” Johanna’s voice rose an octave. “So, let me get this straight. We have to solve a mystery. No idea what kind of mystery, just a mystery. The dress could have been stolen. The owner could have been abducted. There could have been a fire. We don’t know. And the only piece of evidence we have to go on is a dry cleaning tag?”
Whitley’s head bobbed. “Yup.”
Johanna sprawled her hands out wide as she shook her head. “Impossible. There’s not enough evidence.”
Whitley’s bottom lip pouted out. “It’s not impossible. It’s going to be hard, especially since I don’t have my magic, but it won’t be impossible. I have faith. I’ve read a lot of mystery novels. I think we can do this.”
“Yeah, well I’ve written a lot of mystery novels and I don’t think we can do it,” said Johanna with a furrowed brow.
Whitley sucked in her breath. “You’re a mystery writer?”
Johanna nodded. “I like to think so.”
“What have you written?”
Johanna plodded over to the bookshelf in her new wedding gown and pointed at the row of titles she’d penned. “These are mine.”
Whitley’s eyes widened. “You’re Hanna Hughes?!”
A soft smile covered Johanna’s face. “You’ve heard of me?”
Whitley shook her head. “No, but wow! Look at all the books you’ve written!”
Esmerelda laughed from the floor.
Still in awe, Whitley blinked rapidly. “So you’ve written mysteries, and I’ve read mysteries. We’re gonna kill this case. Pun intended!” Whitley laughed.
“Oh geez. Now she thinks she’s a sleuth and a comedian,” groaned Esmerelda.
“When
can we start?” Whitley asked excitedly.
It was well past midnight when Johanna looked down at her dress and then at the dark sky outside her window. “I can’t believe this,” she sighed. “I have so much work to do tomorrow, but I’d like to get you two out of my life. I guess we’ll start in the morning.”
Whitley squealed, clapping her hands.
Esmerelda made a beeline for the bedroom and hopped up on the bed. Kneading the soft comforter with both paws, she curled up in a ball. “So where are you two sleeping?”
7
“I ’m sorry, those tags have been discontinued,” said the burly red-faced man behind the counter. His sweaty brown hair curled up around the base of his neck, and his maroon t-shirt boasted big round armpit stains.
“Yeah, but what does that mean?” Johanna asked, tipping her head sideways and trying to understand what he was telling her.
“It means we don’t use those kinds of tags anymore. What else do you want me to say?” asked the man in a thick New York accent.
Johanna sighed. She was getting nowhere fast with the growly dry cleaning clerk, and the overpowering stench of the dry cleaning chemicals nauseated her. “How long ago was it discontinued?”
The man threw up his hands. “How am I supposed to remember that? It’s been years!”
“But this was definitely your tag at one time?”
He closed his eyes and lifted his brows while bobbing his head. “Yeah. I mean, it says Duncan Dry Cleaners on it, doesn’t it?”
“Is there any way you can look the number up in your computer system?”
“For what?”
“I need to know whose dress it was.”
“You’re the one carrying the thing. It ain’t your dress?” he asked, wiping beads of sweat off his brow with the back of his hand.
“No, it’s not my dress. I got it from a secondhand store. I need to know who the original owner was.”
“Why do ya need to know that?”
Johanna turned her head towards Whitley, wondering if she had an answer to that question. “Why do we need to know?”
Whitley shrugged. “Because the original owner might want it back,” she said weakly.
“You’re askin’ me?” He made a face as he peered over Johanna’s shoulder.
Johanna’s eyes narrowed as she glanced at Whitley again. She threw a thumb over her shoulder. “No, I was asking her.”
The man behind the counter threw both hands on his hips. “Is this some kind of joke? ’Cause I got a lotta work to do in the back and I don’t have time for this.”
“Umm, Johanna, I don’t think he can see me,” Whitley whispered.
Johanna cringed internally. Of course he can’t, I’m the one with the brain tumor.
Much to Johanna’s surprise, Whitley had still been sleeping on her sofa when she’d had awoken that morning, and Esmerelda had still been a talking cat. Johanna had thought for sure she’d wake up in the morning and discover that the night before had all been a dream, so when it wasn’t, she was more than a little disappointed.
Johanna glanced out the window. Esmerelda sat calmly on the sidewalk with her tail fluffed up around her legs while Rocky bounced around her, trying to entice her to play with him. Johanna scratched the base of her skull with a finger and pursed her lips.
“Right, no, sorry. I was talking to myself. I do that sometimes. What I meant to say was, I just need to know. Isn’t there some way you can just punch this number in your computer and have it spit out a name?”
The man let out an exasperated sigh like Johanna was really getting on his nerves. “No, I can’t do that for two reasons. A, we don’t disclose our customers’ personal information, and two, that number don’t mean anything anymore. It’s too old. We purge our records once a year, and that tag has to be at least five years old.”
“Ask him if he remembers the dress,” suggested Whitley, hope widening her eyes.
“Well, at least tell me if you remember the dress,” said Johanna, holding up the dress by the hanger and lifting the plastic sheathing.
The clerk glanced at it for a split second with lifted brows. “Lady, I started workin’ here in ’03. Do you know how many wedding dresses I’ve cleaned since ’03? Probably a couple thousand. At the least. Ya know what I’m sayin’?”
Johanna sighed. “There’s nothing else you can tell me about this dress?”
He rubbed his forehead again and then took the hanger from her. He spun the dress around and looked down inside it at the dry cleaning tag that was attached to the manufacturer’s label. His head shook and one side of his mouth bunched up. Finally, he sighed and handed the dress back to Johanna.
“This is an A tag.” He said it like it should mean something to her.
“An A tag,” she repeated.
“Yeah, ya know. Like an alteration tag. This was here getting altered, not cleaned.”
Whitley’s brows sprang up. “Ask him if we can talk to the seamstress!”
Johanna waved a hand at Whitley. She already knew that. “Sir, is there any way that we can speak to your seamstress?”
“You wanna talk to Virginia?”
“Is she your only seamstress?”
He nodded. “Yeah, she’s been here going on twenty-five years.”
“She would have been here when this dress was altered?”
“Well, yeah. I’m sure she did the alterations herself. There’s no one else here that could have done it,” he said.
Finally, maybe we’ve got a break in the case! “Can we talk to her?”
“I mean, I guess, but she’s like a hundred years old. She ain’t gonna remember that dress any more than I am.”
“Please, sir. It’s really important that I get this dress back to its rightful owner,” begged Johanna. It was even more important that she get this mystery solved so she could get rid of the two nutjobs taking up residence in her apartment.
He sighed and cast a backwards glance over his shoulder. “I guess I can see if she’s got a minute. Just a second.”
“Thank you,” said Johanna as the man disappeared through a door behind the counter.
“This is so exciting! I’m solving mysteries with a real live mystery writer!” squealed Whitley.
Johanna puffed air out her nose. Just because she wrote mysteries didn’t mean she had ever actually solved a real mystery. This was all new to her. “Well, calm down. Chances are Virginia won’t remember this dress either.”
“She has to,” said Whitley. “We have nothing else to go on!”
“Ma’am,” said the gruff voice from the doorway. “Virginia said you can bring the dress back and she’ll take a look at it.” He gestured for Johanna to follow him.
“Thank you.” She folded the dress over her arm and followed the man through a short hallway until they got to a sewing room.
The man ushered Johanna in but stood in the doorway. “This is Virginia. She’ll show you out when you’re done. Virg, I’m headed back to work.”
An old woman with white hair bundled on top of her head in a butterfly clip looked over her glasses at Johanna. “Sure thing, Herb,” she said to him before he disappeared.
Johanna glanced around the cramped room. Spools of colored threads on wooden racks lined the upper half of one entire wall, and rows of different-colored zippers hung below it. There were several different sewing machines on small tables, and a dress form held an elegant little black dress pinned around the hem.
The woman turned to Johanna. “Now, what can I help you with? Herb said you had questions about a dress I altered?”
“Yes,” said Johanna, holding the dress up. She hung it on a wooden coatrack near a sewing machine. “I got this dress from a secondhand store, but I was hoping to find its original owner. The only clue I have to go on is the dry cleaning tag inside the dress. Herb said it was an alteration tag from at least five years ago. I wondered if maybe you remembered the dress?”
“Ah.” Virginia scooted herself over to th
e dress on her rolling chair. She lifted the plastic bag. “I alter a lot of wedding dresses.”
“I know, but maybe you could just take a look?”
Virginia was already looking the dress over, pulling on the fabric, and then smoothing it with her time-worn hands. Finally, Virginia’s white brows dropped. “These aren’t my alterations.” She touched the lace and the sash.
“Yes, those were added later,” said Johanna.
The woman nodded and turned the dress around. She’d studied it for only a few seconds when something about it made her breath catch in her throat. “I put in this zipper!” she said with a soft reminiscent smile.
“You remember the dress?” asked Johanna, her brown eyes brightening. What luck!
Virginia frowned. “Unfortunately, I do.”
“What do you mean, unfortunately?” Johanna glanced up at Whitley, whose smile was slowly fading.
“Well, I remember this gal clearly. She came in on the morning of her wedding rehearsal to pick up her dress. I had her try it on one last time, just to be sure everything fit properly, and wouldn’t you know, the zipper broke!”
Listening to the woman’s story carefully, Johanna nodded at her encouragingly.
“She was so disappointed, because she had a list of things to do before her rehearsal dinner, but I promised her it wouldn’t take me long to replace the zipper. She was going to wait here for it, but then she got a message on her phone.”
Johanna’s eyes narrowed. “A message from her fiancé?”
Virginia shook her head. “No, it wasn’t her fiancé. It was someone wanting to look at a house.”
“Look at a house? What do you mean?”
Virginia’s hand shook as she pointed to the dress. “The woman was a realtor. I guess she was quite the go-getter. Every time she stopped in for a fitting, she was in a rush. Buzzing here, buzzing there.” Virginia swatted the air with her hand.
“So she was a realtor and someone asked her to show a house on the day of her wedding rehearsal?” asked Johanna, her eyebrows lifting in surprise.
“Boy, she must have really been dedicated to her job,” said Whitley from the corner. “I don’t think I would have gone to work the day before my wedding!”
Snow Cold Case: A Mystic Snow Globe Romantic Mystery (The Mystic Snow Globe Mystery Series Book 1) Page 5
