A Dress to Die For

by Margaret Evans

  “I haven’t seen you this angry in a long time.”

  She finally turned to greet him. Her arms went around his neck as she reached up to kiss him, and they remained there moments longer.

  “My mother always taught me to turn my anger into positive action.”

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “Well, still steaming and working on it. I will have to come up with two. First of all, I can’t find out where the Kovacs brothers came from. I’m not even sure Kovacs is their real surname.”

  “My dad can probably help you with that one, but it’s not common knowledge, so you’ll have to keep a really tight lid on it. They’re okay, and you can cross their names off your list.”

  She looked surprised but immensely relieved. The triplets had been a mainstay in Laura’s life from her childhood forward. They still were. Harry was like another father.

  “Your second plan?”

  “I need another white board,” she began, thinking this would be the fourth, and noted his raised eyebrows. “For the rest of the missing girls. I’m convinced all of the vanished prom queens are connected with the first girl, Brittany Johanssen. I just have a gut feeling that she’s ‘patient zero.’ And I bet you five dollars your people find at least one more prom dress in today’s batch of junk. Oh, and one last thing for you—do a lab on that stain on the front hem of the red dress.”

  “What are we checking for?”

  “Blood. If it is, try to type it to see if it at least matches Brittany’s. And if there’s enough DNA left in it after all the washing it looks like it’s been through, check it against Brittany’s parents. I think I read in Charlie’s paper that they gave the police their DNA after she went missing.”

  fifteen

  If Laura Keene hadn’t had an important meeting with the manager of Marjeanne early on Monday, she would have been out buying that fourth standing white board. The thought she should prefer a big white board surprised her in this digital age and with her technical skills. But her parents were right, making it not so surprising. When you stood up and waved your arms in the air, writing, erasing, re-writing, and drawing arrows and lines from pictures to other pictures, it was exercise for the brain as well as the body and very therapeutic for the spirit. Talking things through, aloud, whether with a second or third person standing next to you or completely by yourself, took it a step further.

  But she had to wait until this morning’s meeting was completed before doing that, and she admitted to herself that she was anxious to get confirmation of what were only bullet points with question marks after them, on what was now “the Brittany white board.” There was no going further until you laid the first paving stone.

  Diana Popovich was the manager of the Minneapolis branch of the New York City boutique called Marjeanne, after the designer whose fashions were offered there. She was elegant, moved gracefully through her shop, which was roomy and never jammed with patrons, but always with a few customers that her staff was well trained to treat as if each were the most important person in the world.

  And that was how she made Laura Keene feel, as she and Laura sat in Popovich’s cozy but comfortable office upstairs from the actual shop. Laura had gone alone to meet with her, fearful lest a police officer’s presence would signal a problem and inhibit them from sharing what they knew or remembered. The manager remembered the red dress incident, the nine years passing notwithstanding.

  “So the dress has turned up?”

  “We think so,” Laura responded, not telling her in what condition or how it turned up, or that it was one hundred percent certain it was the dress that Brittany Johanssen wore.

  “I suppose,” Popovich continued, “some people keep things as a memory or to hand down to someone in the family to wear, especially if it’s something valuable or meaningful. I remember this dress well. You see, I was only able to sell one. We had just the one. Red was not a popular color that spring, so the New York studio sent us the one in that color from the designer.”

  Laura’s heart began thumping.

  Only one red dress?

  “We always give our best efforts to sell every beautiful design the House of Marjeanne creates, and nothing she, or her staff of designers, creates is not beautiful. I believe I recall the New York boutique sent it to us when they received no interest after the fashion show in the city. You understand we would have made our best efforts to sell it somehow.”

  Laura wrote in her notebook then put down her pen.

  “So the dress was modeled? Do you ever sell the modeled dresses to the models themselves?”

  “On the very rare occasion.”

  “Do you mean, if you can’t find the right owner during its season?”

  Laura caught the slight nod.

  “Most models we use cannot afford to buy them, but we do our best. Nothing goes on sale and nothing is left over for the next season.”

  “Do you have any way to tell if the dress we found was definitely sold from your studio and not to a model?” Laura asked, her excitement rising. Was this really Brittany Johanssen’s dress—the one that had been in Laura’s workroom behind Second Treasures? If there had only been one such dress, then it had to be hers.

  Didn’t it?

  “Yes. I wouldn’t have to see the dress itself. There would be dress and branch codes on a label in the left side seam of the skirt about one-third of the way up from the hem. There are only a few of our branch boutiques, and each one has its own code. If you could text me the number on that label, I could tell you which branch sold it. But if it’s the exact one in the picture, it would have to be ours. That year I guarantee to you that there was only one of these dresses in red. New York also had one pink and one ivory, but those were bought at the fashion show. I’ll just need you to also confirm something about the label to determine it is not a knock-off. We have a way of labeling that is unique and not easily copied, so please also tell me what the label looks like and how it’s fastened to the dress seam. We use a technique called ‘French re-weaving’ and we actually weave the label into the seam allowance. It would cost the knock-off makers too much money and time to do that. Who knows if they even know how? But if it turns out to be a knock-off, we’ll need to get in touch with our attorneys. So please do let me know what you discover.”

  Laura took a couple of breaths to calm herself before continuing as she accepted Popovich’s business card. She would call Connor to check that label the minute she got home, and nothing would stop her. Not even the fourth white board.

  Solve the first mystery; then the others should fall into place.

  “Tell me again what you remember about the dress your branch sold nine years ago.”

  Diana Popovich sat gracefully in a chair that was behind a mahogany desk but didn’t look as if it belonged in an office at all. Its wood was also mahogany, but the lady looked perfect against plushy embroidery, her legs crossed neatly in one direction and hands displaying a very expensive silk wrap manicure folded in her lap.

  She reminded Laura of her cat, the Empress Isabella, only this one could talk and was treating Laura as if she had nothing better to do than answer a bunch of silly questions about something that happened almost a decade ago. Laura pulled herself back to reality. No arched tail or green-eyed glare. No perching on impossible edges. Just a well-practiced lady, although Laura much preferred Jenna Buckley’s type of rich lady.

  “The young girl told me she needed to purchase this particular dress. She explained her boyfriend wanted to see her in a beautiful red dress, and she was convinced he would ask her to marry him either after the prom or on their high school graduation day. I remember thinking she wanted him to sing that song to her—what was it called?”

  “‘Lady in Red?’”

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  “She said all that?�
��

  “Oh, yes. And she also called it ‘a dress to die for.’ I had to stop myself from smiling because all of Marjeanne’s dresses are that beautiful; they just need to find the right owner.”

  Laura looked down at her hands and the French manicure that Jenna had given her a couple of weeks ago; it was growing out and would need some help. Jenna planned to do that for the prom, which made her hope that her teal prom dress had found the right owner. Five weeks to go until the moment and she would know. And that reminded her that she and Connor better get going on their dance practice. Daydreaming stopped abruptly, however, when Popovich continued her story.

  “The only problem was that she didn’t have enough money to buy the dress. Now we are not the sort of shop that would accept anything like a lay-a-way arrangement, but the child was so tearful that I agreed to let her make four payments, each two weeks apart, all from her part-time job. We would hold the dress until she made the final payment. I also gave her a discount on it. Her final payment was due on the Tuesday before the Saturday prom. I put a special hold tag on the dress and hung it on the rack in the back where we do hold dresses when a client wants to try something on, think about it, and try it on again in the next day or so. That way, we prevent dresses from being tried on by too many clients and looking, well, ‘tried on.’ That’s not good for sales.”

  “Do you remember her name?”

  “Sadly, I don’t, and there’s no record since it was off book. I kept the money she gave me in an envelope in my client journal with the dress code. I do recall that I thought she was using an alias, as if she were afraid of telling me her real name. I saw it in her eyes.”

  “And you’re certain it wasn’t this girl who made the payment arrangement with you?”

  Laura showed her a picture of Brittany Johanssen in her phone.

  “No, it was not her.”

  “Have you ever seen this girl?”

  “Not in person or here in the store. This one’s picture was in all the papers.”

  “I’d like to re-ask a question, if I may. I guess I’m still a little confused as to why you made the arrangement when it wasn’t your usual way of doing things.”

  The lady hesitated.

  “I thought she might be pregnant; she was certainly acting desperate enough, as if she had no other alternative. We might be an exclusive boutique, but we also have a heart.”

  “Have you ever agreed to such an arrangement with any other client?”

  “Not since I took over the management of this boutique branch. I’m not aware of any arrangements like this occurring before I came here.”

  Laura tilted her head, begging the question.

  “You want to know why? Also a good business decision. No one was buying red that spring. I had a customer who wanted it badly.”

  Wheels turned in Laura’s head with so many more questions. If there was only one red dress, then which girl bought it?

  “Did she end up buying it?”

  “No, unfortunately. I was in New York City on the day before what would have been this young lady’s fourth and final payment. Someone else came into the boutique and asked for a red dress that day. My assistant was unaware of the arrangement I had made for the dress, and in the jostling of clothing in the back room, my tag had fallen off. The dress was brought out for the young lady to try on, she liked it, and she bought it on the spot at full price.”

  “So what happened the next day?”

  “I came back from the city and dealt with a broken-hearted girl to whom I gave a full refund of all she had paid plus many apologies up here in my office. I tried to find another dress for her, even offered a deep discount, but she was inconsolable at first. Finally, she picked out the least expensive dress she could find and bought it, without even trying it on. If you ask me, she picked a dress that went better with her skin tone and fair hair than the red dress. I tried to tell her that, but she was, as I said, broken-hearted and inconsolable.”

  Laura was lost in thought. She knew if Connor or one of the other officers had come with her to this interview, they might have come up with more and better questions. Perhaps she should have brought an officer along. Still, it was a beginning. Then one more question popped into her head.

  “Is your assistant who sold that dress still here?”

  Popovich picked up her iPhone in an elegant sweep and called someone named Ann into her office.

  “Show her your picture,” the owner instructed Laura. “And ask her any questions you want. We were all upset over the incident. Nothing like that has ever happened here until that day.”

  Ann nodded over Laura’s phone displaying the picture of Brittany Johanssen.

  “Yes, that’s the girl who bought the red dress. I remember her very well. She had been in and bought two pastel prom dresses from our new spring collection. Then she called several weeks later, asking if we had a red prom dress. I knew we had one, and she came in, tried it on, was in a big rush and acted quite rude to two of our other clients. I am aware that she is the girl who disappeared from her prom and was never seen again. I’m sorry I can’t help you more than that. I just remember how rude and demanding she was, and I had to smooth it over.”

  Laura could feel her pulse quickening and felt a buzzing in her ears.

  “You told all of this to the police, I’m sure.”

  Both ladies nodded, and Popovich continued, taking a moment to stretch out her long, shapely fingers and look over her silk wrap that Laura guessed had likely cost at least a thousand dollars.

  “The police, the FBI, the state troopers, you name it. We told everything we knew to everyone who asked. Multiple times. I gave a description of the first girl as best I could. As I said, we were all very upset with the unfortunate incident and more so over the disappearance of the second girl, regardless of our personal feelings for someone who treats those around her…not so nicely. No one wants whatever may have happened to her to happen to anyone. No one should disappear as she did, at least not without good reason. And I understand the FBI and police could find no trace of where she might have gone. Tragic.

  “And to answer your next question, Ms. Keene: No, we do not have surveillance cameras. The city takes care of that on the streets. My clientele prefers not to be on camera, so none of the cameras are aimed at the front door from any building on our block.”

  “What about thefts or break-ins?” Laura asked. “Your merchandise is very valuable.”

  “Yes, it is. We also carry a few pieces of exclusive, accent jewelry that we sometimes sell to go with a particular fashion, made precisely for a specific design. Those are kept in a safe. Regarding security, we have a camera in the back and a very good insurer,” Diana Popovich continued. “You know, you would make an excellent detective with all your questions and how your mind works. But I could turn you into a successful model and you’d make more money at it.”

  The offer struck Laura as a bit odd when the lady gave her such a pointed look, as if she were trying to read Laura’s mind or suspected Laura had a hidden agenda. In spite of the fact that Laura had a real challenge with lying, she was good at masks and dropped a pleasant one over her face.

  “Wow. I’m flattered. I’ll think about it.”

  “If you think of other questions you want to ask me, just send me a text and I’ll call you back when I can. I am glad someone is following up on this and sincerely hope the police find her all right. We’ll help in any way we can.”

  The drive back from Minneapolis was a struggle for Laura to keep her attention on the Monday morning highway traffic with her mind now filled with so much she hadn’t known about how Marjeanne ran its business. She had written more in her little notebook than she hoped Popovich had noticed, using an abbreviated code so it didn’t look like much, but now she wondered about the woman who had seemed so a
ccommodating. She sensed that some information had been held back, but it wasn’t until she neared Raging Ford that she thought of more questions she hadn’t asked and wished she had.

  She spoke a memo into her iPhone.

  On Laura’s return to Raging Ford, she stopped in Rollins Florist for her weekly batch of long-stemmed yellow roses, something she did in her mother’s memory. The shop was empty at the moment, including behind the counter, so Laura waited a few minutes and wandered about, admiring all the refrigerated blooms and the silk-flower arrangements on shelves.

  Next to one such arrangement, she spotted what looked like a business card. When she flipped it over, she saw that it was really two of them. The first had the simple, block-lettered name of Regal Airs. Beneath the name was a statement that it was a model and talent agency. The listed telephone number had an area code in Duluth. The second one was Luxe Talent, printed in a scroll font, with a single telephone number below it, also in Duluth. She was thinking about models and fashion runways from Kelly’s comment the day before at the hotel where Jenna was organizing a fund-raising silent auction.

  Erica’s “ahem” snapped her out of the dreamy world of thoughts and ideas.

  “What’s got you so out there, girl?”

  “Oh, nothing, just these business cards I found on one of your shelves.”

  Erica took a quick look at them.

  “Someone probably dropped them by accident or didn’t want them. We have a pile of things that people leave behind, and if I didn’t stay on my parents’ case, we would have to rent storage facilities for it all. I compromise by allowing them to send out emails to our purchasing customers to see if they lost anything. After ninety days, whatever it is, goes to Goodwill or in the trash.”

  “May I keep these?”

  “Sure. Knock yourself out.”