A Dress to Die For

by Margaret Evans

  “What made you think to ask about the modeling agencies?”

  “She mentioned they do fashion shows when new designs come out. I found two business cards for talent agencies someone dropped in Rollins Florist and wanted to know more once Popovich explained how models become the clothes they are modeling. She gave me the names of the three agencies they use, and voilá! Two of them are on the business cards I found in the flower shop.”

  “Did you make a connection yet between models, fashion shows, and prom queens?”

  “Not yet, but I have high hopes there’s a connection between prom queen personalities and girls who want to be models. Oh, I want to mention that a strange guy came into the shop just as I was closing yesterday. He wore work gloves and bought one of the etched glass bowls and paid cash.”

  “How is that suspicious?”

  “A woman came in last week in what looked like a disguise of some sort. She also wore white gloves up to her elbows under her jacket sleeves, and she also bought a piece of the etched glassware and paid cash.”

  “I need more than that, Laura.”

  “I know. I’m sure it’s nothing. Just odd things.”

  “What’s next?”

  “I’m going to do some digging into the three modeling and talent agencies to see if there are any complaints in Yelp or the Better Business Bureau. Or anywhere else on social media.”

  He nodded, finishing up his Mongolian beef lunch entrée, and reaching for a fortune cookie. The cookie got snapped in half and he pulled out his fortune.

  “What does it say?” Laura asked.

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “What?”

  “It’s like a birthday wish. Doesn’t come true if you tell.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “What does it say?”

  “I will meet a tall, dark stranger.”

  “Liar.”

  “No, really. See?” He held it out for her.

  “Dang. Well, maybe the lucky numbers on the back will mean something. My advice, however, is to be on the lookout for tall, dark strangers.”

  He shook his head a bit.

  “Oh, the FBI told me the label on the red dress is definitely French re-woven into the seam, whatever that means, and they gave me the code. I’ll text it to you to send to Popovich. If she confirms that this is her dress and the one she sold to Brittany Johanssen, the FBI will get in touch with her. Let me know as soon as you hear.”

  “Good. Progress. Maybe. Hey, don’t forget we have to start practicing our dancing.”

  “How do Sunday afternoon and Monday in my parents’ basement sound? Your two days when the shop is closed.”

  “Good for me. Won’t your dad be home on Sunday?”

  Connor grinned as he scooped together the remnants of their lunch.

  “He may get the surprise of his life. Hey, what’s your fortune?”

  “It says I am a person who will be admired by many.”

  “I think you already are.”

  “But I don’t want that, Connor.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I don’t know, but not that.”

  He looked around to make sure nobody else was near his office and put his hand over hers.

  “I love you.”

  “I know. And I love you. I’m happy with that.”

  • • •

  Back at the shop, Laura barely unlocked everything when Harry Kovacs showed up.

  “Good. You’re back,” he announced, leaning on her counter.

  “Why, Harry? What happened while I was gone?” She hadn’t seen anything in the carport on her return from lunch. What else could there be?

  “Nothing, thankfully. Care to tell me what you know about those huge donations you’ve been getting?”

  “I don’t know what’s behind them. Honestly. It’s as disturbing to me as I’m sure it is to you and Beth.”

  “They could be bad for business if they continue, Laura. Yours and mine, both.”

  “I know. And we’ll get the people responsible, I’m sure, and stop them. I’ve got cameras everywhere that record everything that happens in the front and in the back.”

  “That’s good. How’s everything in your shop and apartment?”

  “All is well and working fine.”

  “Okay, just checking.”

  Eric Williams jangled the bells on the front door on his way in and had a brief handshake with Harry who was on his way out.

  “Why are you looking upset?” he asked Laura.

  “Harry doesn’t like what’s going on with these big ‘donations’ as he calls them. How am I supposed to have control over that when I don’t know who’s behind it and why they’re doing it?”

  Williams looked thoughtful a moment.

  “I hear they found another prom dress in the second load of bags and boxes.”

  She stared at him.

  “This is an open case, Eric. The feds took everything away that was collected by the RFPD on Sunday. How would either of us know this?”

  “I get around more than you do and I hear things. I hope you don’t get any more loads of trash.”

  “Oh, that makes me feel really secure, your saying that.”

  “Cameras are everywhere and recording everything.”

  She stopped to think and chewed a bit on the French manicured nails that were growing out and needed some filling or a complete redo if she waited much longer.

  “You’re right. And I hope you’re wrong about more junk showing up.”

  “Think someone’s flaunting trophies?”

  “I have no idea, Eric. What do you think is happening here?”

  “I think someone is being really stupid. Let’s keep our fingers crossed that they make an even bigger mistake and get caught.”

  She looked beyond him.

  “Here comes a customer. Eric, why did you stop by today?”

  “Just checking on you and making sure you’re okay and all systems are working.”

  “And your conclusion?”

  “Everything’s just fine. Oh, and you should start receiving insurance premium rebate checks for the lower rates you now qualify for.”

  • • •

  The minute Connor’s text with the red dress’s label information landed in Laura’s iPhone, she sent a clean text to Diana Popovich with the code and confirmation of the French re-weaving of the label into the dress seam. Within a minute, she received a response from Popovich stating the dress that was found was indeed the one they sold to the young lady who went missing. Laura called Connor.

  “The FBI has already taken over the case; I’ll let them know to reach out to Diana Popovich directly and they can take it from there. You should not do any more investigating or you could put their case in peril, or you might put yourself in danger. Keep up your mind mapping on the white boards—however many you have by now—and let me know if anything else happens or if you make another connection. I’ll see you Sunday.”

  • • •

  In the late evening darkness, a quiet procession of security guards began transferring the valuables for the upcoming silent auction from the Buckley vault room to the armored truck, all under the watchful eye of the houseman. Reynolds was used to looking in many different directions at once, a necessary skill when running a household such as that of the Buckleys. He had overseen the careful wrapping of every object and watched each one go into the gloved hands of a security guard, following its journey into the conveyance in which one additional guard was already ensconced in the driver’s seat.

  One security supervisor was also watching the entire process, checking the Buckley property by means of a communication device with another guard who was wal
king the perimeter with a dog.

  Jenna Buckley’s mother had spared no effort or penny in order to ensure that nothing went wrong with this transfer or with her daughter’s first big charity event. She spent the previous evening on the phone with her daughter while receiving reports from the security supervisor on another phone. It was necessary to keep Jenna calm and away from the scene so that everything went smoothly. Jenna still needed to finalize her menus and had to be kept on task instead of worrying about anything else.

  When the armored truck was filled and locked, and making its way to the Harmington Hotel outside of Duluth, Reynolds notified Mrs. Buckley that it was all underway. Then he knocked on Jenna’s suite door and advised her that everything was in the good hands of Fauntleroy Security. Tomorrow, Reynolds would arrange for the tables, drapes, and chairs to be sent to the hotel, as well.

  Tomorrow.

  • • •

  It was also very late into the night when Laura Keene stood looking at the third and fourth white boards in her apartment. She had transferred all the “other missing girls” data onto the fourth one so that Brittany’s board only contained Brittany’s information.

  Dry erase marker in hand, she tried to figure out what the connection was among all these girls. The top third of the fourth board remained clear, and under it, a horizontal line was drawn. She turned to the left side of the board beneath the line.

  Printed prom pictures of the other six girls were tacked on with removable putty in a vertical line in the order of their disappearance. Taylor Andrey was at the top. Laura had written each one’s name under her specific picture. In the right hand column, she put bullet points of high school names, town, state, date of prom and disappearance, name of prom date and/or prom king, and any details she could glean from online news reports and posted high school yearbooks.

  After writing in everything she knew about each girl, including “dress showed up” next to Taylor Andrey, she returned to the big, blank space at the top.

  She stood, holding her chin in her hand, and wondered what they all had in common besides being prom queens. Erica would know how to tag this so well, but she was likely fast asleep. Trying to think like Erica, Laura came up with the following list.

  #1: Pretty

  #2: Wealthy Family

  #3: Prom Queen

  #4: Boyfriend=Prom King

  #5: Snobby and stuck-up?

  #6: Modeling?

  Below her points, Laura added a category that duplicated one on the Brittany board: Motive.

  For Brittany, she had listed two: Jealousy and Revenge.

  When she added Motive to the “six other girls’ board,” she left it blank.

  She paced in frustration as she simply didn’t know enough about any of the other six girls to guess what the motive might have been. Different schools, different dates, different years—how did it all match up? With Brittany, at least there was the known issue with her dress and that somebody else wanted it.

  Laura whirled when she heard noise out front and her iPhone started buzzing like crazy. She grabbed it off the table and saw a picture of a white van by the curb, its rear doors open. Two people were dumping boxes, furniture, and a ton of black garbage bags on her front doorstep and sidewalk. As before, there was so much it spilled into the street. Only this time, there was about twice the amount of stuff.

  She didn’t wait for the security company. She called Connor and woke him up.

  “Hurry before they leave!” she cried but knew that they’d be gone in no time.

  “Stay inside! Don’t go outside,” he warned. “I’ll have a unit there shortly.”

  But Laura knew they needed the license plate number and raced down the stairs. She grabbed a dark hoody from the peg, went out the back door, tore down the alley behind Harry’s barbershop, swung around toward Taylor Street, just as they were closing the truck doors. She crouched low behind the barber shop sign at the corner and saw the lit license plate clearly. And now it was etched in her brain.

  She spotted lights flashing on silent burgundy-and-whites a couple of blocks away as the van took off down the street.

  Corporal Sven Mortensen slowed in front of Second Treasures and behind him was a dark FBI SUV.

  She stepped out of the shadows and walked, with her hands up, to Sven who identified her to the FBI agents as the owner of the shop.

  “The license plate number of the white van is Yankee-Yankee-Alfa-zero-zero-zero-zero.”

  Mortensen sent one of his officers after the fleeing white van, called it in to dispatch and reported it to Connor who was already on his way to Laura’s shop. The feds sent one of theirs already en route to chase the van, as well.

  Then Laura noticed that several of the clothing bags were not properly tied and falling open. Each had a pastel ball gown coming out. She counted five.

  twenty-two

  Which part of ‘do not go outside’ did you not understand?”

  His voice was low, but it was filled with anger.

  It was still extremely early on Friday morning, but Second Treasures was lit up like a nighttime football game, both inside and outside with police floodlights. Laura sat, still in her dark hoody, on a stool behind the register. She hated it when Connor was angry with her.

  She said nothing as there was nothing she could say. There was no defense good enough to disappoint him as she had. She watched sadly as he returned to the group of peace officers and federal agents which had grown over the past hour.

  One of the agents approached her.

  “Ma’am? You’re the store owner?”

  She nodded.

  “There are more CCTV cameras set up at the street corners than there used to be. We probably could have gotten the license plate without your taking the risk you did. They could have been armed. I understand you stayed hidden and they didn’t see you?”

  “Yes, that’s correct. I went out the back door and came down the alley and around the corner, staying low. I hid behind the barber shop sign on the corner and could see the license plate from there. It was illuminated. The two people were already getting into the van. I don’t believe I was ever in their view.”

  “Description of them?”

  “It was too dark; I couldn’t really see. Neither was over six feet—maybe around five-nine or –ten? Loose-fitting clothes, heads covered like mine. Sorry.”

  “And how did you know they were out there?”

  “I had my DoorBell security app turned on.”

  The agent jotted this in his notebook, nodded, and thanked her.

  The pile of junk dumped on the sidewalk was still there. Agents were still looking it over to determine if it was related in any way to their current investigation. Nobody missed the five prom dresses, evident from the agents standing and pointing at them.

  Laura made a move off the stool to get some coffee going after missing a whole night of sleep, just as Connor turned and saw her. She sat back up on the stool.

  He came over.

  “Go do what you need to do.”

  She slipped off the stool and didn’t notice that he followed her into the kitchenette. As she reached for the coffee beans, she stopped and dabbed at her eyes. She jumped when he touched her shoulder but didn’t turn around.

  “Laura, I can’t protect you if you don’t listen to me. I know you wanted to get the license plate of the van, but we would have gotten it another way, on a camera someplace, without your putting your life at risk.”

  When she did face him, she noticed he had closed the door to the shop.

  “Do you want some coffee?”

  He kissed her forehead and pulled her close, wrapped his arms around her.

  “You are my heart, Laura. But I have a job to do. I need to know where every one of my officers
is at every minute. I expect each one of them to be where they’re supposed to be. And if I ask you not to go somewhere, I need to trust that you didn’t go there, so I can depend on that and focus on all the things I need to do. Make sense?”

  She nodded, against his chest.

  “Yes, coffee sounds good. Can you make enough for everyone?”

  “I’ll bring the other press down from upstairs.”

  As it began to lighten, Eric Williams passed by on his apparently now daily jog down Taylor Street. The pile, the feds, the cops, and the half-asleep growing crowd paused him once again. He sauntered over to Connor’s vehicle, waved, and peeked over the yellow tape at the bags and boxes. His eye was caught by the very things that everyone else’s were: five prom dresses.

  “Fitzpatrick,” he called, asking Connor to come close.

  “What’s up?”

  “Not much,” Williams commented, staring pointedly at the dresses falling out of the bags.

  “We don’t know anything about the dresses. No confirmation they belonged to the missing girls.”

  “I don’t need it. You have confirmation on the red dress, the first one.”

  “It’s in the FBI’s hands now.”

  “Well, you know what they say about evidence.”

  Connor tilted his head for the pronouncement. There were so many things people said about evidence. He was curious what Eric Williams thought.

  “Well, it’s that TV detective series about the guy with all the phobias. My wife watches the reruns all the time. I mean all the time. I can recite some of the dialogue if you’re ever bored with your day.”

  “Monk.”

  “Right. He says it’s always the guy who wants to help with the investigation. Somebody looks like they really want to help on this one. Gotta be the guy. And this guy is seriously stuck on stupid if he thinks for one minute that giving you more evidence is not going to lead you to find him.”