A Dress to Die For

by Margaret Evans

  Laura stirred the juices over and around the veal, shut the oven door again, and set the table for dinner. Tonight, they were eating upstairs in her apartment over the shop, because she had had enough of bunny ears and bunny tails, and the shop reeked of peppermint from all the waxy bunny buck teeth she had sold. She had scraped and swept up a ton of lost and damaged orange jelly beans and quickly mopped the floor to keep away the ants. She needed a refreshing break from the first floor.

  Two place settings, cloth napkins, two plates. Hot pads and trivets. She then made sure Connor’s favorite brew was in the fridge. She could use one herself and would join him if he actually drank one. Then she changed her mind and threw a bottle of Chardonnay into the fridge on its side and pulled out two wine glasses to put on the table.

  The pasta was drained and tossed with oil then set, covered, on the stovetop. Sauce was stirred, the light turned down to its lowest setting. Steamed broccoli was tossed with lemon and left covered on the stovetop. She checked the veal, saw that it was done, as well, covered it with foil, turned the oven to its lowest setting. That would also keep the stovetop items warm without overcooking them.

  Then she remembered Jenna telling her to put her prom dress away where Connor couldn’t see it, so she dashed into her bedroom, and closeted the dress. She took a moment to look at it, which made her smile.

  Now it was time to wait for Connor.

  Back to the laptop.

  Maybe she should tell him about the red dress this evening.

  eleven

  From the online yearbook for Eagle Junction High School in the year Brittany disappeared, Laura was able to read an endless litany of comments by Brittany’s friends to and about her and how much they missed her and hoped to see her again.

  Please, Brittany, call me.

  Please text me, Brittany!

  You’re the best, girl!

  We all miss you.

  Text us, Brittany, we miss you!

  Absent was any comment from her supposed boyfriend, Dante Lelanley, the prom king. Laura figured he must have been one of the hottest suspects in the girl’s disappearance and wondered if he really did know more than he let on. The negative attention he’d gotten at the time was probably the reason for his online silence. She would have loved to interview these people today to see if what they remembered was different from what they said happened nine years ago. There was so much more information, attitude, and emotion or lack thereof that she could get outside the newspaper articles. People acted and spoke differently when they were “on the air” or in the public. They wanted to say the right thing and sound correct, and that colored their memories of what they actually thought they saw or heard. Would it have changed over the years?

  It often went that way, her mother had told her, that a memory years later was actually more accurate than what was said at the time of an incident. People tended to be more emotionally involved right after something bad occurred and often gave eye witness reports that were highly inaccurate. Or worse, they tried to protect themselves or others from suspicion and gave false statements or purposely withheld vital details. Or they just plain missed little things that they didn’t realize were significant. The prevarication of years in the past was often forgotten or now considered unnecessary for a variety of reasons; hence, the later years’ memories tended to be closer to the truth.

  She would definitely have to ask Connor about reading the old interviews and perhaps even talking to these people again.

  Laura’s phone dinged and she saw that Connor was at her back door.

  Moments later, as he devoured the delicious meal, Laura realized she had none of his attention.

  “Sauce, please,” he said, indicating she should shove the pot of spicy tomato sauce a little closer so he could scoop more of it onto the veal and pasta.

  As he drank some of the wine, she spoke.

  “I’d like to ask you something.”

  “Uh-uh,” he mumbled and took another swallow, then speared a piece of broccoli.

  “‘Uh-uh’ what?”

  “Whatever you’re going to ask me because the last two times you asked me to do something, I was left to die in the freezing snow and got my ribs kicked in. And don’t forget this.” He pointed to the scar above his lip. “And every time, I get in trouble with Internal Affairs for letting someone get the drop on me and take my gun. The last time I got into bigger trouble for letting a civilian discharge my weapon. There’s too much paperwork, not to mention defending myself with IA. That’s the ‘uh-uh.’”

  She saw the twinkle in the corners of his eyes but let him finish his meal. His stomach should be nearly full by now. He did not have on his cop face, nor did he look serious. But she waited all the same.

  When he finished eating and his wine glass was empty, he placed his napkin on the table, pushed his dish aside and folded his hands, also on the table. Only then did he look her in the eye.

  “What did you want to ask me?”

  “You said no.”

  “I didn’t mean it.”

  “Why did you say no?”

  “I hadn’t finished eating yet. I get so few uninterrupted meals that they become precious, especially a meal this good. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. But I’m not really a civilian anymore, though, am I?”

  “You still are unless you’ve magically gone through the police academy and graduated, all within the past couple of weeks. And you were one at the time you discharged my weapon, but the investigation showed you acted appropriately, and you did stop the guy from killing me, so you’ve been excused. That doesn’t mean I was. Thank Saint Samuel Rage it was all recorded on the dashboard cam you switched on before you got out of the car at gunpoint. That won’t ever mean that I will hand you my sidearm or any other weapon I have handy in the future and ask you to discharge it.”

  “We can never know the future, though, can we?”

  Fitzpatrick tossed a scolding frown at her.

  “By the way, how is the crazy person on meth?” Laura continued, undaunted.

  “The crazy person on meth is out of the prison hospital and in prison without bail. A flight risk. The murder case comes up soon. I hope the jury does their job. So, what’s your question?”

  “Did you ever find out who the woman was that left all the stuff on my doorstep?”

  Fitzpatrick shook his head.

  “No. The artist sketches didn’t match any known people in our files. Forensics found nothing in the van, either. She was careful. Why?”

  “Well, it turns out that one of the items in the clothing bags she dropped off is identical to the dress worn by Brittany Johanssen the night she disappeared from her Eagle Junction High School prom nine years ago. Charlie Kovacs published her prom queen crowning picture in living color in the Bulletin and it’s also on the school’s yearbook website.”

  Connor shrugged.

  “Why is that significant?”

  “Because it’s a New York exclusive designer dress and very expensive, and it’s not likely that there would be two sold in the same area the same year.”

  “Why do you think it’s the same year?”

  “Because, according to Jenna, this designer doesn’t put out the same dresses year after year. There are new designs every year with most couturier designers. Nothing from the previous year is kept. They destroy it. They move with the times and try to outdo each other every year with new earth-shattering designs. Colors and styles change.”

  “You think the dress in your carport is the one Brittany wore? Is the size correct?”

  “I’ve seen her prom pictures right before she disappeared. The dresses are identical, down to the bow at the left hip. About the size—according to Jenna, this is not a dress that comes in all sizes on a rack.”

 
“What clued you into this?”

  “Jenna and Erica, when they saw the dress. Erica said it looked like Brittany’s dress, and Jenna looked at the label and told me who likely sold it. I did some Internet research on the designer and the shop. Jenna didn’t think Brittany would have flown to New York to buy a dress she could get in Minneapolis—at least, that’s what Jenna would have done—go to the closer place. I’ve got a call in to the boutique branch in Minneapolis, but the manager wasn’t there, so I left a message.”

  “Do you think there might be a connection between the woman who tossed the dress and the girl who disappeared nine years ago?”

  “I don’t know,” Laura said, looking into the middle distance.

  Connor could hear the squeal of wheels turning.

  “Be careful not to make the crime fit the suspicions you have.”

  She nodded.

  “I know. The pieces have to fall exactly into place. And we need evidence. And proof. It’s just frustrating that I have absolutely nothing at present to go on and I’m not even sure where to begin.”

  “Understood. But you may have found a valuable piece of evidence. And that’s a step. Keep the dress safe. Going back to the shop where the dress was likely bought is the right thing to do. Get it all verified. Hopefully, they’ve either kept good records or have excellent memories. Then you have a piece of evidence in her disappearance that the FBI never had in their investigation. That’s important.”

  “There’s so little to go on, starting with why they dumped this in a bag on my doorstep.”

  “A mistake? Not guessing anyone would notice?”

  “Maybe,” she conceded. “But why wait nine years? I would have burned it.”

  “Not everyone thinks ahead or logically as you do. Call me if you want one of our officers to accompany you to the store when you talk to the manager. I recommend you not do your interview over the phone. Face-to-face always gets you more information from people’s attitudes and reactions, where they live or work, what the whole situation looks like. And let me know all of your impressions and if you find out anything else.”

  “Is she in the Cold Case Deck?”

  “Yes. Number Thirty-seven. The other girls who disappeared from their proms in recent years in Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Iowa, all within an approximate five-hundred-mile radius, are Thirty-six, Thirty-five, Thirty-four, Thirty-three, Thirty-two, and Thirty-one. I’ll text you the list of names, cities, and the high school proms where they disappeared.”

  twelve

  Saturday began as usual. The sun came up. Babies and children woke up hungry, some before the sun. Another workday began for many, some legal occupations, some nefarious, some downright nasty. Plenty saw it as a new day of hope and joy, while for others it was just another day to make it through.

  With such a day that began as usual, Laura Keene literally sprang from her bed at about five o’clock. No cat had to jump on her to startle her sleepiness away or tickle her eyelids with whiskers to jostle them open. Few things in her life could get her up and going like this exciting project. She recalled the day she held the grand opening of her shop last fall. That was one. Her first date with Connor Fitzpatrick was another. This reason was different but had been conducted three times already over the past six months. This event would be the fourth.

  Today, Laura was starting her mystery board for Brittany Johanssen’s disappearance. It was the third free-standing white board she had upstairs—and the third she would have to camouflage or outright hide from everyone except Connor. The first two were shrouded in drapes behind a folding room divider nearer to her bedroom.

  Connor was right. She may have already found a clue that the FBI didn’t have that was connected to a prom queen’s disappearance. Whatever she did find would have to be turned over to them, but not just yet until she had something factual and substantiated: facts and proof. She didn’t have a prayer that the FBI would let her look at their files, but maybe there were local police files, too, that she could peruse. Sometimes the smallest, most insignificant-looking detail could pop a case wide open, as her father had often told her.

  Look at everything, Laura. Nothing is unimportant.

  Of course, these were things he told her as a child when she was trying to find clues to where her Easter eggs were hidden. It was hard then, but now, as she looked back to those days, she realized there were clues that could easily be overlooked. He had helped her hunt for them, spot them, think about them and where they were leading. Or where they might lead. Explore all possibilities, keeping in mind they are just that: possibilities. That’s what he had said.

  Her fingers itched to get moving on this latest mystery as she pressed her coffee, scrambled two eggs, toasted an English muffin, and cut up half an apple. She gobbled her food without taking her eyes off the empty white board standing roughly ten feet from where she sat at the kitchen table in her apartment over the shop. In a flash, she rinsed her dishes, almost threw them into the dishwasher, and refilled her Starbucks’ coffee mug from her collection of their many holiday specials over the years.

  Now she stood in front of the blank white board positioned near the kitchen. She took a moment to look around her whole apartment to figure out if she ever needed more boards, where she could possibly hide them. Failing at that, she returned to this morning’s pursuit.

  Laura sipped her coffee, laced with marshmallow cream and caramel, and set it down on the kitchen table. Staring thoughtfully at the board’s blankness before picking up a marker, she realized she had little to put on it. So she started at the beginning and put Brittany Johanssen’s name at the top center. Below that she wrote, “Disappeared from prom.”

  With nowhere else to go, she listed the bullet points she knew beneath her title.

  • Disappeared from Eagle Junction High School prom at approximately _______ p.m. on _________ (date)

  • Wore red dress – Did we find it? Get verified with boutique.

  • Parents posted huge monetary reward – no responses.

  • No clues or leads.

  • Questioned lots of people Brittany knew – should question them again – now.

  Here’s where Laura stopped because, while she was certain the local police and the FBI had questioned people up one side and down the other, and they were very capable and trained to do that, she was dying to talk to all of these same people herself. She would have to check with Connor on that.

  Her phone dinged.

  Connor had texted her information on the rest of the missing girls, and he had included the actual time when Brittany had disappeared, or rather, the last time when someone remembered seeing her. Her boyfriend Dante reported a song ending, and they had just finished dancing when she abruptly said she needed to visit the restroom. It was 8:45 p.m. sharp. Nobody saw her after that time.

  Laura filled in that item on the white board, along with the date from the Bulletin. It would be like this for every detail she added.

  Then she noticed her phone alarm buzzing that it was time to fill more jelly bean bags for the Saturday crowd, shower and get dressed. Again, today, it would be sensible shoes on her feet, especially since she discovered how sticky the jelly beans were that slipped from little hands and mouths and coated the shop’s floor. Almost every lunch time was spent mopping and scraping the floor, but she was grateful she had one of those much-advertised quick mops that did everything it was supposed to do, unlike so many other products on the market. She had to rub a little harder with the sticky spots, but it worked.

  Downstairs, she restocked everything, from bunny ears and tails to waxy bunny teeth. She dumped her carrot-shaped bags of orange jelly beans into the basket in front of the register, and she even remembered to check sales from the day before and mark the higher dollar amounts on the fund-raiser charts for each product.

 
Next came the new batch of brownies in the downstairs kitchenette that got whipped up and shoved in the preheated oven, the timer set, and she sat down for another cup of coffee from a fresh pot. With her laptop open on the table, she put up her feet on another chair, forcing Empress Isabella to flee from that spot, and accessed a Web news site to see what was going on in the world and Washington, D.C., a place where she had learned during her eleven years in Maryland that political news and scandals never ended. Big stuff—or little stuff made to sound big—but no cats caught up in trees.

  As soon as Laura got bored with the news, she began compiling her list of items for the dream baskets she planned to make for Jenna’s silent auction. Her dream destinations included Paris, Rome, Dublin, Edinburgh, Rio de Janeiro, Tokyo, Honolulu, and Mumbai. Not all would make the cut for donations, but these were the baskets she wanted to make now. She had toyed with the idea of including Berlin, Amsterdam, Oslo, and others, but there had to be boundaries. Perhaps she’d just add the others to her regular stock in a couple of months.

  The items were added, and next to each she added costs, which, after doing the baskets for six months, she found easy to do. Each basket had an expense limit, so items were crossed out or revised to fall within that limit. Then she placed all her orders online.

  Her phone startled her when it suddenly rang. The caller ID suggested the call was from the Marjeanne boutique in Minneapolis, but it was just grazing eight o’clock in the morning. Not many calls came in this early on a Saturday. It was the boutique owner, Diana Popovich, returning her call and asking Laura to come in and see her early Monday morning, if possible. She understood what Laura wanted to discuss and was making herself available to help in any way, if she could. Unfortunately, it had to be early on Monday, as she was travelling later in the day to New York and would be out of town for the rest of the week.