Twice Told Tail

by Ali Brandon

  “Oh no, dearie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean you,” Daniel gushed in distress as he refilled Jake’s glass, too. “I’m speaking about myself. I mean, after sixteen years, you’d think a proposal would be in the offing. But, nooooo. Sometimes, I’m really tempted to—”

  “Girls, look!” came Connie’s strident tones from the direction of the dressing room. “Here it is. I think I’ve finally found the one!”

  Fistfuls of white satin clutched at her hips, Connie came rushing out of the dressing room in yet another gown, followed by the tiny brunette shop assistant who’d been helping her. Connie clambered onto the same platform where Jake had paraded a few moments earlier while the young woman—Liz? Lori? Darla tried to recall—stood below her, tucking and rearranging folds of fabric. Finally satisfied, the woman stepped back.

  “So, girls, whaddaya think?” Connie demanded with a triumphant smile. “Is it the perfect dress, or what?”

  Perfect if you were a Kardashian.

  Darla exchanged a shocked glance with Jake. Though the strapless, ankle-length gown with just a hint of a train was sewn from appropriately virginal white satin trimmed with seed pearls, there was nothing demure about its neckline.

  How the gown’s bodice was staying up, Darla couldn’t guess, though she suspected toupee tape might have something to do with it. The décolletage didn’t so much plunge as it nose-dived south almost to Connie’s navel, leaving exposed a broad expanse of tanned flesh. The last time she’d seen a dress like that, Darla told herself, it had been on a Vegas showgirl at a decidedly R-rated performance.

  Finally, she managed, “Uh, Connie, you were planning a church wedding, right?”

  “Of course,” the other woman replied as she began a leisurely pirouette. “Why?”

  “Because you’re showing an awful lot of cleavage,” Jake answered for Darla, adding as Connie finished her slow twirl, “and I don’t mean just up front.”

  Connie had been admiring herself in the trifold mirror. At Jake’s words, she glanced over her shoulder, and Darla winced.

  Had Connie sported a so-called tramp stamp tattoo, said ink would have been visible in this gown, given that it was backless and plunged even lower in the rear than in the front. More problematic was the fact that the mere twisting of her torso exposed even more southern real estate. The resulting view was one that—while doubtless appropriate for an attention-seeking actress on the red carpet—was far too risqué for the altar.

  “Well, I think it’s sexy,” Connie stubbornly proclaimed, giving the gown’s train a little twitch in emphasis. “It looks like something Beyoncé would wear. And I’m sure Fi will love it.”

  Yeah, I bet he will . . . not, Darla told herself. She knew Reese well enough to suspect that while he’d appreciate lingerie cut down to there, he’d be far more prudish about what his future bride wore to church.

  “Oh my, that’s awful,” Daniel murmured beside her, apparently forgetting it was his store and, hence, his stock choices. Setting down the champagne bottle, he gave his plump hands a quick clap.

  “No, no, that will never do. Liz”—he addressed the brunette assistant—“go get the Carolina Herrera white lace that just came in. You know the one. It should be Ms. Capello’s size.”

  While Liz hurried off in search of that gown, he added to a pouting Connie, “My dear, you have far too elegant a figure to prance about in—well, there’s no other word for it—something so vulgar. Ah, ah,” he went on, raising a finger as she opened her mouth to protest, “I know what I’m talking about. Davina’s has dressed thousands of brides over the years.”

  Leaving the champagne with Darla and Jake, he marched over to the platform where Connie stood poised and helped her down. “Let’s go try on the Herrera, dearie. And if I’m right, I’ll make you a great deal on it.”

  Connie gave her reflection a final longing glance. “Okay, fine,” she conceded with just a bit of a huff.

  As Connie and Daniel headed toward the curtained dressing area, Jake turned to Darla and muttered, “Wow. All I can say is that if Connie wore that to the wedding, we’d be attending a whole lot of funerals the next week.”

  Darla snickered. “Can you picture it, Connie walking up the aisle and people fainting right and left every pew she passes? And good old Fi standing up at the front with his groomsmen having no idea why all the friends and relatives are keeling over like dominoes.”

  “Well, let’s just hope Daniel manages to wrestle Connie into a suitable gown. I’ve about hit my limit on champagne, and I’ve got a heck of a sugar buzz going from all those petits fours.”

  Despite the disclaimer, however, she joined Darla in another sip of the sparkling wine as they critiqued the other bride-to-be while she modeled a surprisingly chic white satin bridal tuxedo. When the novelty of that debate faded—Jake had been pro-tux, while Darla had found the style a bit too avant-garde for her tastes—they sat in companionable silence for a few moments before the PI said, “And you might as well get used to all this bridal stuff. I have a feeling we have another wedding on the horizon.”

  “Another wedding?” Darla shot her a puzzled look, trying to figure out that one. Then, as a possibility occurred to her, she exclaimed, “Wait! You don’t mean James and Martha, do you?”

  Martha Washington—no relation to the president’s wife, the woman would laughingly tell new acquaintances—was leader of the book discussion group that met every couple of weeks at Pettistone’s. She and James had been dating for almost a year. To Darla’s mind, they made a surprisingly compatible couple despite the fact that Martha was a good thirty years younger than James and came from a totally different background. (The dreadlocked, English-accented Martha was an army brat with a father from the Deep South and a mother from a London suburb, while the former university professor was Brooklyn born and raised.)

  Both continued to insist the relationship wasn’t serious, though Darla had always suspected otherwise. But marriage?

  Jake, however, was shaking her head. “No, not those two. I’m talking about Mary Ann.”

  Darla’s previous bafflement morphed into disbelief. The notion of James marrying was incredible enough, but Mary Ann . . .

  “Hold your horses. You mean Mary Ann Plinski? As in, the little old lady who lives next door to us? Our Mary Ann?”

  “One and the same,” Jake replied with a satisfied smile. “Rumor has it that things are getting pretty hot and heavy between her and her new boyfriend.”

  Darla took a considering sip from her glass as she mentally digested that. “Well, I guess at their ages they don’t have a lot of time to waste,” she finally conceded. “But it’s only been, what, two months?”

  She had been surprised but pleased when, a few weeks earlier, the septuagenarian had stopped by the bookstore with her big news. Apparently, the computer-savvy Mary Ann had been feeling nostalgic one night and impulsively done an Internet search for her long-lost high school boyfriend. Fortunately, in dealing with a name like Hodge Camden, her “hit” list had not proved extensive.

  By the next day the old woman had located her particular Hodge sharing pictures of his grown grandchildren on Facebook. She’d followed up that bit of sleuthing with a private message, which Hodge had returned within the hour. He let her know that a) his wife had passed away a year earlier and b) he hadn’t forgotten their high school days.

  The messages had led to a lunch meeting (he now lived in Queens) which then led to them seeing each other almost daily. Mary Ann had even brought Hodge by the bookstore to introduce him. A jovial, snowy-haired charmer who was surprisingly robust for his age, he had impressed Darla with his solicitous, old-style manner.

  “Just one problem,” Jake added. “It seems like Mr. Plinski isn’t too thrilled with the whole high-school-sweetheart-reunion situation. Mary Ann told me that they had a big argument the other night about her relationship with Hodge.” />
  Darla frowned. Mr. Plinski was Mary Ann’s older brother . . . “Brother” also being Mary Ann’s nickname for him. Darla assumed that Brother had an actual first name, but she’d never heard it used by either of the elderly siblings. Together, the pair owned the brownstone next to Darla’s, which housed their antiques and collectibles shop, Bygone Days, as well as their apartment above and Robert’s garden apartment below.

  “Why is Mr. Plinski concerned?” she wondered aloud. “I figured he’d be happy that Mary Ann has found someone after all these years. I hate to say it, but with his past health problems, it’s not like he’s going to be around forever.”

  Jake shook her head. “Mary Ann wasn’t too specific, but I got the idea that Hodge and Mr. P. were high school rivals, which is why Mary Ann broke it off with Hodge all those years ago. They didn’t get along then, and apparently Mr. Plinski still holds a grudge.”

  Darla frowned a little, doing the math in her head. Based on her age, Mary Ann would have been in high school in the mid-1950s. World War II would have been long since over, and the Korean War as well. Kids who were Mary Ann’s age would have been sock-hopping it, watching Leave It to Beaver, and liking Ike. So any drama would likely have been of the soda-shop variety.

  Jake, however, was continuing, “—bad feelings even after all these years. From what Mary Ann said, the last time Hodge stopped by, things got heated. In fact, Mr. P. even threatened—”

  What Mr. Plinski had threatened, Darla didn’t learn, because Daniel abruptly burst through the curtains. “Attention, ladies,” he told them, smiling broadly. “I think Ms. Capello has found the one, and I’m not talking about her fiancé.”

  With a flourish, he drew aside the curtain. Unlike the previous times when she’d pranced out like a model on a runway, Connie moved uncertainly toward the mirrors, dress hem again clutched high as Liz trailed after. The assistant helped the bride-to-be onto the platform and went through the tuck-and-fluff ritual again while Daniel directed, tsk-ing and tutting.

  Darla watched with interest. What she could see of the gown—sleeveless, with white lace overlaying satin—appeared promising. Maybe this really was the one.

  “Fingers crossed,” she muttered to Jake. “I’m about dress-shopped out.”

  “No peeking,” Daniel meanwhile was warning Connie when she tried to get a glimpse over her shoulder at the mirror behind her. “I want your first look to be a moment of pure perfection.”

  Then, apparently satisfied that said perfect moment was at hand, he gestured Liz away. “No one move,” he commanded as he stepped to one side. “Just look.”

  The sleeveless lace mermaid wedding dress had a sweetheart neckline that accentuated Connie’s ample bustline without going into showgirl territory. The gown itself seemed to have been sewn specifically for her, sliding over her curves without gripping too snugly. The lace overlay lent a simple yet elegant touch, with the fabric’s pure white hue complementing Connie’s olive skin.

  “Perfect!” Darla exclaimed, any niggling jealousy evaporating at the sight of the bride-to-be in full regalia.

  Ignoring Daniel’s earlier command, she popped up from her chair for a better look. The man had pulled out the big guns this time by also decking out Connie in a stunning veil—elbow-length, Darla pegged it, drawing from her recent bridal mag education. A lacy headband perched tiara-like on Connie’s teased tresses, from which two lace-trimmed tiers of tulle gently billowed down halfway to her fingertips.

  “Home run, Connie. You should be on the cover of a bridal magazine,” Darla told her with an admiring smile.

  Jake gave a vigorous nod and stood as well, lifting her glass in a toast. “It’s just stunning. No way you’re leaving here without buying that dress.”

  “Are you girls sure?”

  Expression hopeful, Connie slowly turned to face the mirror and then gasped herself.

  “Oh my Gawd, you’re right, it’s perfect! And the veil, too.”

  She preened a moment, then gave a half turn and looked over her shoulder to admire the view from behind. “Bite this, Beyoncé,” she exclaimed with a little hip waggle. Then, to Darla, she said, “Can you hand me my phone outta my bag? I need to get a picture of this.”

  While Connie posed on the platform taking a series of selfies, Daniel was giving the gown a final, critical look.

  “We need to do a couple of tucks and adjust the hemline a bit. As I told you on the phone, my seamstress is out this afternoon, but if you’d like to purchase this gown, we can schedule an alteration appointment.” He whipped out a small notebook from his trousers pocket and finished, “Shall I pencil you in for, say, next Tuesday?”

  “Hmm, let me think. I’m not totally sure,” she replied, her expression suddenly bland as she obviously realized her earlier enthusiasm had put her at a disadvantage in bargaining. Handing her phone back to Darla—who was amused but not surprised to see that the final selfie was a Beyoncé-style butt shot—she planted her hands on her hips. “I mean, it’s nice and all, but there might be something nicer out there. So, how much is it with the discount you were talking about?”

  He named a figure that would have busted Darla’s budget but that made Connie smile. “And throw in the veil?”

  “I’ll give you the veil at cost.”

  She considered that a moment and then nodded. “Sure, let’s do it.”

  While Connie hurried off to the dressing room, Daniel gave Darla and Jake a knowing look and buffed his fingernails on his ruffled shirt. “Do I know my brides, or do I know my brides?”

  “I’m impressed,” Darla conceded with a smile. “If I ever decide to get married again, you’ll be my first stop.”

  “Second,” he told her. “It’s ring, dress, venue, caterer, and flowers, in that order . . . unless you ask the florist. He’ll tell you flowers come right after the dress. But I would be thrilled to be—”

  A woman’s piercing scream cut him short, the earsplitting cry followed by an unmistakable “Oh my Gawd!”

  “Connie!” Darla and Jake chorused, exchanging worried looks.

  Accompanied by Daniel’s gasp and the surprised cries of the other bridal-dress party, the pair rushed in the direction of the dressing room. Despite Jake’s longer legs, Darla was in the lead, though the curtain separating the changing area from the display room momentarily slowed her progress. Once she’d grappled her way past the length of rose-colored velveteen, she halted.

  The fitting area was slightly more utilitarian than the front of the store. A broad hallway ran parallel to the showroom and separated it from the half-a-dozen curtained dressing rooms. The drapes on the center two rooms were pulled open to show that they were unoccupied. Those on the remaining four alcoves were partially open. Connie, still in her wedding gown, stood beside the nearest one, her red-lipsticked mouth open in a wide O.

  “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” Jake demanded, having caught up with Darla.

  Connie shook her head, veil floating about her as she pointed toward the dressing room. “Oh my Gawd, it’s awful! I can’t look!”

  “Can’t look at what?” Jake persisted.

  Connie took a deep breath and then shrieked, “There’s a dead girl in the dressing room!”

  THREE

  Dead! Surely not, Darla thought in distress. It hadn’t been that many months ago—the day she’d learned about Connie’s engagement to Reese, to be exact—that she had stumbled across a dead body herself. What were the chances that the same thing would happen to Connie? But from the look of shock that had drained her olive complexion of its usual high tones, the woman had obviously encountered something untoward.

  Before Darla or Jake had a chance to react, however, an unfamiliar and furious male voice erupted from behind the curtain where Connie stood.

  “She’s not dead, you silly . . . cow,” the man declared as he shoved open the drape to confront
the three of them.

  He had the same blond, spiked hair as Daniel, though the resemblance ended there. Taller and leaner than the latter, he possessed sharper facial features in contrast to Daniel’s rounded cheeks. Daniel’s partner, she assumed, and not exactly Mr. Customer Service.

  His pale gaze took in all of them as, spare lips thinned even more by disgust, he repeated, “She’s not dead; she just fainted. You get these women all hyped up on being some sort of princess, and after the first couple of dresses they start hyperventilating and take a nosedive. It happens at least once a week. She’s fine.”

  With that curt diagnosis, he stalked off, leaving Darla and Jake to stare after him in astonishment before they pushed past a sputtering Connie to see for themselves.

  To Darla’s relief, the man was right. The supposed corpse was the same young woman who earlier had been modeling the white satin tuxedo. Now wearing a poufy ball gown featuring a cinched waist and yards of tulle, she lay sprawled on the carpeting like an oversized doll dropped unceremoniously by its owner. Still, her eyes were open, and she was making an attempt to stir while a tsk-ing Liz briskly patted her hand.

  “I knew we shouldn’t have tried to squeeze you into that one,” the shop assistant told the young woman. “But you look real pretty. How about we go for the next size up?”

  By that time, the fainting bride’s entourage had rushed back to see what the commotion was, shoving past Darla and Jake to crowd around the dressing room. Darla heard a plaintive wail from the fainting bride. “I don’t feel so good, Ma.”

  “Might as well go back to the showroom. Floor show’s over,” Jake muttered, then grinned a little as she added, “No pun intended.”

  “Not nice,” Darla told her with a reproving shake of her head, though she was having a hard time keeping a straight face herself. Then, as Daniel joined the gaggle of women, she added, “But you’re right. We’re in the way here.”