“Hey, wasn’t that girl who disappeared some years back wearing a big, fancy, red gown?” Erica asked.
“You mean the first one who disappeared from her prom? Yes, I think so. Maybe that’s why it looks familiar. Pictures of her were all over the papers and Internet. Same style, I think,” Jenna continued. “And I believe I remember hearing she was last seen wearing a very expensive red dress. This one would fit.”
“Okay, you two,” Laura stopped them. “Now you’re going to have to tell me all the details of what you’re talking about. Remember, I wasn’t here.”
“You mean you didn’t hear about it down in DC?”
“Not if it wasn’t related to a congressional scandal. Or a foreign country that is not a good ally. Or a Metro bus hitting a pedestrian. Or part of the Metro subway closed for repairs.”
“How long ago was this, Erica?” Jenna asked, turning to the redhead.
“Eight or nine years ago, I think. Nine. We were juniors. I remember because it was the same year my parents decided I wasn’t going anywhere without one of them as a chaperone any more. Some kid had brought alcohol and drugs to a party over in Mapleton at one of the rich kids’ homes when their parents were out of the country. Made big news, but I wasn’t even at the party. I laughed at the chaperone idea until I realized they were serious. Good thing I talked them out of it.”
Jenna nodded.
“Yes, nine years ago, a girl from Eagle Junction High School went to her prom and disappeared in the middle of it. They never found her, to this day.”
“Yikes,” Laura whispered. “Did they think she ran away or was kidnapped?”
“They didn’t know what happened. She was from a wealthy family. In fact, my parents knew her parents, so I know they spared no effort to find her. She went poof. No ransom demand or anything. There was even a reward—”
“Oh, I remember that reward,” Erica broke in and continued. “Wasn’t it something like a quarter of a million dollars? Everybody was looking for this girl everywhere. That’s where I saw the red dress. Pictures were in all the papers and plastered everywhere on telephone poles and in shop windows. Wasn’t it like this one? I remember the drop shoulders and the big puffy skirt.”
“It could have been,” Jenna murmured, handling the dress and looking it over. “Or one very much like it.”
“She just got crowned prom queen, too,” Erica added. “Everybody thought her boyfriend had something to do with it, but the cops never found any evidence connecting him with her disappearance. Everybody saw him at the prom until it ended and said he kept looking for her to take her home. I think the FBI got involved, too.”
“Wait,” Laura interrupted. “Did you say she was the ‘first’ one? What did you mean?”
“There were a few others who disappeared, as well, even one from Raging Ford. Brittany was just the first one. They never found any of them; a couple of them were thought to be runaways, but nobody found out if that was true or not.”
Laura’s mind was already going gangbusters over the missing girl and the dress that had literally shown up on her doorstep and might be a clue to a cold case disappearance. If there were others, she’d have to process that at a later time. She heard a soft merrow and glanced at Isabella perched on one of the donated boxes. She could have sworn the cat nodded.
“Let’s set that aside for now,” Laura said, “and focus on the other things here.”
Laura’s gloved hands may have turned back to sorting, but her brain was headed in another direction, making plans to talk to Charlie Kovacs, eldest of the town council triplets, and owner of the Raging Ford Bulletin. He likely knew some of the facts from the case, regardless of how spicy his news stories usually were. And he never went anywhere to cover a story without his camera or smart phone, so there would definitely be photographs. Yeah, during her lunch break tomorrow, she would head over to the newspaper to check the archives.
“What was your news?” Laura asked, recalling Jenna’s words upon her arrival.
“Kelly wants to do a face-painting station for the Easter egg hunt on Easter Monday, five days before the prom. So we have that to plan, as well. Hey, Erica, did you talk to your parents about donating a few silk flower arrangements for our silent auction? I was thinking, if they’re agreeable, a couple of smaller ones and one big one.”
“Yeah, they’re good with that. When do you need them?”
“As soon as possible. The same with the dream baskets.”
“What help do you need from us to set up everything for the silent auction?” Laura asked.
“I’ve temporarily stolen Mother’s houseman, Reynolds, to organize, staff, and all the rest, such as bringing over tables, drapes, and folding chairs from the storage rooms in the basement to the hotel in a couple of weeks. I grew up with Reynolds always about and didn’t realize how much I missed him in my household since Mother moved back to Connecticut and took him with her.”
“When did you start calling your mom ‘Mother’?” Erica asked, stopping her work to look up at Jenna.
Jenna looked a little embarrassed but recovered quickly.
“She wants me to call her that now, so I will. I don’t mind. And don’t worry about helping; I will definitely appreciate everyone’s help in keeping lists, pricing, placing items and everything else that will come up, including the refreshments. Just be patient. You’ll get your call.”
“Count me in to help with the refreshments. And,” Erica added, winking at Laura, “you may want to put in your orders now for the brownies.”
six
It was late on Wednesday and much harder than Laura thought to work with the sketch artist, but in some ways, easier than attempting to draw the woman’s likeness herself. Her friends had left and Laura drove to the police station to meet the artist. Her basic problem with identifying and remembering faces confronted her.
Laura reflected briefly on her mother’s words when she was about twelve years old, and they were at a booth selling Girl Scout Cookies. Young Laura had complained that she couldn’t remember to whom she had sold cookies and to whom she hadn’t, and that everybody was starting to look alike.
Frannie Keene told her daughter that there were a number of facial shapes and sizes that often looked alike but were really each quite singular if you looked closely and spotted the uniqueness of that one person. She stressed it was an easy task for some people, and others had to work harder at it. Laura had concluded long ago that she fell into the latter group.
She shared this challenge with the artist up front.
“I hear you are very good with puzzles,” the artist told her. “Putting together these drawings is a lot like a jigsaw puzzle. We can start with the outline which begins with your impression of the shape of her hair or head.”
“Everything about her was wrapped up in black or very dark clothing. She had a big, loose scarf around her head.”
“Okay, what about the triangle from the top of her head to the outer edge of her shoulders? Tall, narrow triangle, short and wide triangle, or equilateral?”
“Equilateral. But again, I think she was wearing a wig, and her jacket may have had padded shoulders. She wore gloves, but I got the distinct impression her hands were thin and she had long fingers.”
“That’s okay. We can work with that.”
And so it went over the next two hours. The artist used Laura’s impressions and locations of body parts that were not changeable, such as length of arms and where the hands and fingertips fell. By the time they finished, there were two sketches: a head and a total figure with lots of details including long, gloved fingers.
Laura was amazed when he turned the sketches around for her view.
“That’s her!”
The artist smiled.
“You remembered a lot more than you realized. You
just needed a bit of help in pulling it all together. Like everybody else.”
“It was a puzzle, like you said,” Laura responded, looking in wonder again at a very good likeness of the woman who had dumped all those belongings in front of her shop.
“It looks to me, from this sketch, as if she is making some effort to conceal her real appearance. But keep in mind all of those things we pulled together that do not change about people. Length of arms, height excluding the shoes, distance between the bottom of the nostrils and the top edge of the upper lip, distance between the inner corners of the eyes, and things like that. Lots of things can change someone’s appearance and cause you to miss recognizing the person again. Make-up, cheek pads, padded clothing, ear extensions, nose padding, fake scar and wrinkle pads, wigs, slouching or standing upright, can all make you think you’re looking at a different person.
If you think you’re seeing this woman again and she’s sitting down, try to get her to stand and check what shoes she’s wearing to verify her height. Look at where her arms fall. Even voices are easily disguisable if you aren’t recording them and comparing the audio waves and voice patterns in a lab. The list is endless. A limp is not likely real and often intended to draw your attention away from her face and create a false impression. If you focus on the items that do not change, you’ll be able to recognize people more easily and maybe even see this woman again.”
seven
Way in the back corner of the bus, the young man chose a seat on the next leg of his journey, where he could be alone with his thoughts. He needed such a spot to focus on how his future might change when—not if—he opened the envelope and read the letter. He hoped its contents would not stop him from returning to his employer or continuing to work on his second big engineering project. He had done so well on the first and gotten a decent promotion for his work. Small but very meaningful in the mechanical engineering profession where baby steps could lead to significantly greater things. He hoped to run his own engineering firm one day and considered he was well on his way to realizing that dream.
The envelope.
The letter.
It bothered him like a Facebook poke or the notice of an instant message, whether a ding or a buzz. Intensifying as the hours and days passed, its existence was growing unbearable. After nine years, now with nothing else to distract him, the pressure to read the letter had escalated to a level he could no longer tolerate.
He pulled it from his inner pocket, again.
This time, he focused on the printed name on the envelope: Justin Richard Carlson.
Funny in a way, and not ha-ha. Whoever gave the envelope to his adoptive parents even dictated to them what his first and middle names should be. Or maybe not. Maybe whoever printed the envelope—which he thought rudely impersonal since it was not even handwritten—printed the names his adoptive parents told that person to print. It struck him that he didn’t even know who had named him or if he’d been going by the right name all his life! It never occurred to him to ask his parents this question, during that time of shock when they first told him he was adopted.
It was the only name he had ever known.
He felt an all-too-familiar throbbing in his temples, a torture he hadn’t felt in years since the summer after his graduation from high school. He had hoped and prayed he would never experience it again, but one never knew. The future couldn’t be predicted, just planned meticulously, and that was when real life came to pass. A dear and affectionate grandmother he grew up thinking was his blood relative once told him that God laughed when people made their plans. She told him she couldn’t remember where she’d read it or who had originally said it, but her father had told her when she was little that it was indeed true.
His takeaway from her guidance was that people keep going, they keep planning and doing what they believe they’re supposed to be doing or what they want to do. God will take care of everything else and steer folks where they’re really needed and to touch the lives they’re supposed to touch, regardless of what a surprise and shock it might turn out to be. He guessed this was his turn for the surprise and shock, although it was difficult to see the hand of God in any of this. Perhaps it would be evident once he read the letter.
Speaking of adoption, what was going on with his birth certificate? It clearly stated that Arlene and Benjamin Carlson were his parents following the single, live birth of a male. His weight was listed as six pounds, fourteen ounces, and his length, eighteen inches. Was it a forgery?
Was it all a lie?
Would he ever know who he really was, or his parents, or if he had any blood relatives?
How much did he really weigh at birth?
Why would a birth certificate—one which had followed him throughout his life and countless registrations in schools and sports teams until now—be forged and contain the wrong information? Why was that necessary? Arlene told him it was a sealed adoption, and there were numerous details that she and Benjamin did not know, nor were they supposed to know.
What could the reason be for all the secrecy?
He shut his eyes after tucking the envelope away, stuck in his ear buds and fell asleep, for the rest of this leg of his journey, listening to the chamber music of Franz Schubert, his favorite composer.
Beneath his seat, a big gray cat lay, curled up with its tail outlining part of its body. It looked up a few times as the bus bounced through potholes, but nobody on the bus noticed the feline. Once the bus came to a stop in the depot, the cat disappeared.
eight
Keene’s Thursday morning was swamped with parents and children who all wanted orange jelly beans, as well as the wax peppermint bunny teeth, bunny ears, and fluffy bunny tails. The spring bunny banners flew off the shelf in no time, too. She was grateful she had ordered so much based on the St. Patrick’s Day sales and interest, but wondered if her supplies would last or if she should be getting more now. Also glad that she had stayed up a little later last night to fill the carrot-shaped bags with orange jelly beans. The carrot bags had arrived right before she’d met the artist at the police station.
Endless questions whizzed at Laura.
“What are the other surprises?”
“Is there a contest?”
“What are the prizes?”
“You’ll see,” she repeatedly answered throughout the morning.
And the money totals kept going up on the fund-raiser charts.
A red-haired woman wearing amber-tinted glasses who came into Laura’s shop this morning hovered about the etched glassware pieces as if trying to decide what or if to buy. She eventually picked out a candy dish and brought it up to the counter.
Laura noticed she wore gloves up her arms, under her coat sleeves. White gloves. And tons of makeup and false eyelashes. She looked rather wrinkled and older, but the gloves were odd. She paid cash for the candy dish and spoke as little as possible. When she walked toward the exit, Laura had no chance to notice anything more about her as there were droves of little wannabe bunnies at her counter.
The gloves stuck with her. Nobody wore gloves like that these days. Except cops or others who had injured hands, like Connor. These did not look in the least like medicinal gloves. Perhaps she had skin problems or scarring she wished to conceal? Maybe.
Near noon, the crowds slowed to a trickle as folks took their lunch hour. Eric Williams showed up, and he waited until all the other customers were finished.
“Eric, can you please take this marker and put ‘Back at 1:30’ on the ‘Closed’ sign, turn it so it’s outward, and flip the lock?”
He was happy to accommodate the request and seemed pleased that he would have a private audience with her, but it was short-lived. She was in a rush.
“Yes, I’m filling out the paperwork for the security company—”
“But you haven’t sent it in ye
t,” he finished for her.
“I have the cameras installed where they told me to put them, and I downloaded the software onto my laptop. I don’t really have the money to do the actual contract for another month.”
“I can loan you a little to get it in place—”
“No, I’m good. But thanks.”
“Laura, your staunch, independent spirit is laudable, but I assure you it’s misplaced, especially when I tell you that the rates will go down on all of your insurance policies, including the ones you haven’t bought from me, when they find out your shop is hooked up to security cameras and a live security company. You very likely won’t see any difference in your monthly expenses.”
She was silent a moment but still hurrying to straighten up in the shop before she turned back to him.
“Watch your step,” she warned.
He looked at the floor and carefully stepped away from sticky, orange jelly bean pieces.
“I appreciate that and all your help, Eric, but it will have to wait another month. I’m thinking it might be cheaper to get that door bell ringing set-up with the app for my iPhone. Besides, nobody’s interested in me or my shop.”
“Hmm,” he muttered, “and nobody just dumped a houseful of junk on your front door step, did they?”
She stopped tidying and looked at him in wonder.
“Are you camping out on my block?”
He shrugged.
“Small town.”
Laura narrowed her eyes at him, with more than a tinge of suspicion.
“I certainly hope that none of that stuff is sitting in this shop right now,” he continued. “You don’t know what she left at your front door.”
“Nope. It’s all out back in the carport. How did you know it was a woman? This incident wasn’t even interesting enough to make the Bulletin.”
A Dress to Die For Page 4
