by Ali Brandon
The Gown, as Darla found herself thinking about it, was displayed on the platform before the trifold mirror, hanging from a cute vintage-looking mannequin made of white wire. Connie sighed audibly as she halted before it.
“It’s so gorgeous. Daniel, you’re such a genius, picking out the perfect gown for me.”
“You are too kind, my dear,” he replied with a grin and a stagey little bow that sent a faint wafting of body spray their way. “Of course, it helps when the bride-to-be is drop-dead gorgeous herself.”
“Oh, Daniel.”
She giggled, smacked her gum, and gave him a playful little “stop that” flick of her hand before getting down to business. “Okay, so what are we gonna do to make this dress even more perfect?”
“We’ll need to take it in a couple of places here, and here”—he hopped onto the platform and pinched a bit of the gown’s fabric—“and maybe let it out just a tad here so your derriere is perfectly highlighted. And I thought we could make a slight alteration to the neckline. Oh, you did remember to bring your wedding shoes with you, didn’t you? Good.”
While he and Connie discussed nips and tucks of the fabric variety, Darla slipped to one side and took her familiar seat on the wicker settee. Still reeling from Reese’s revelation about Mary Ann, she shut her eyes. Surely once she was questioned by the detective, the old woman would confess some logical if possibly embarrassing reason to explain the deliberate deception.
But what if there was no logical explanation except one . . . an explanation that Darla couldn’t even begin to entertain?
Biting back a groan, she reached into her bag and pulled out her copy of The Marble Faun as a distraction. But as she flipped over to the page where her bookmark lay, it occurred to her that maybe this wasn’t the best of stories to be reading, under the circumstances.
For, rather than being simply an overblown travelogue of mid-nineteenth-century Italy, the book had turned out to be a treatise on murder and guilt coupled with increasingly silly references to the male ingénue character possibly having pointed little faun ears. Still, there was something strangely compelling about the morality tale, so that despite herself she had kept on reading the night before. She had reached the midway point where one of the story’s unsavory characters had met a poetic death off a towering precipice. And said murder had been witnessed not only by the killer and his morally responsible accomplice but by an innocent bystander.
Who knows, maybe Hawthorne does have some decent advice for situations like mine, she thought as she resumed reading.
Today, however, the florid tale couldn’t hold her attention. She found herself glancing up every few paragraphs to see what Connie and Daniel were doing. Finally, with a flourish, the bridal shop owner stepped back off the platform and exclaimed, “Fini! What do you think?”
He and Connie circled around the platform wearing twin expressions of concentration as they pointed and muttered. For her part, Darla couldn’t tell much difference, other than the fact that the neckline appeared a bit more rounded off than before. But the changes apparently satisfied the other two, for Daniel clapped his hands.
“Very well, let’s try the gown on you and see how it fits.”
With much rustling of fabric, he and his assistant carefully removed the gown from the dress form. Then, with Connie trailing after them, the trio set off for the changing room. Darla sighed and opened her book again. The second time proved a bit more productive, so she was firmly back into the story when a voice from above her said, “Not much fun being the one left sitting around, is it?”
Startled, Darla glanced up to see Daniel’s half brother, Vinnie, looming above her. In one well-manicured hand he held a napkin-wrapped, open champagne bottle and, in the other, a champagne glass.
“Looks like they forgot to give you the old Davina’s treatment,” he said as he poured out the sparkling wine and then handed her the flute. “I can get you some petits fours or some cheese puff things, too, if you want.”
“Just champagne is fine.”
She warily took the glass, recalling as she did so his previous tirades there in the store . . . the one he’d pulled in front of her and the one she’d witnessed through the shop window afterward. The last thing she wanted was to be alone with the guy if he went off for some reason again. And he did appear on edge, features drawn and eyes ringed with purplish circles. Must have been a trying week in the bridal biz . . . but probably nothing compared to her past few days!
Without actually meaning to, she finished off the champagne in a single long swallow. “Wow,” she said as she lowered the glass, “guess I needed that more than I thought.”
“I know how that goes,” he answered, refilling her flute and then settling on the same wicker love seat where Jake had sat the last time. Raising the half-full bottle, he added, “Believe me, if it weren’t working hours, I’d be drinking, too.”
Though something about his haggard demeanor made her think he’d been doing plenty of imbibing after hours to make up for it. Just as she began feeling slightly uncomfortable with the unexpected familiarity, he frowned at her. “Do I know you?”
“I was in here last week with my friend Jake, while Connie was trying on dresses.”
“No, that’s not it. Do you live somewhere here in the neighborhood?”
“Actually, I’m the owner of Pettistone’s Fine Books. The bookstore is only a few blocks from here.”
Dismissing an uncomfortable feeling—he likely was simply trolling for a friendly ear—she put down her glass on the side table and dug into her oversized purse. Pulling out a business card, she explained, “We sell new books, and collectible and rare volumes, and book-related gifts. You should stop by sometime.”
“Sure.”
He studied the business card, lips pursed, and the creepy feeling resurfaced. She’d begun to wonder if she was going to have to request some cheese puff things to get rid of him, when he stood and tucked the card into his pocket.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it. Stock to order, brides to make cry . . .”
“Books to read,” Darla cheerfully finished for him, raising the book from her lap by way of illustration and then proceeding to do just that.
She was halfway through the next page when she realized the man was still standing there. Frowning a little, she looked up from her reading to find his intent gaze fixed on her . . . or, rather on the book she held.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “was there something else?”
Vinnie jerked his hollow-eyed gaze up to meet hers and took a step back, as if she’d startled him. “Oh, I didn’t mean to be rude. I was curious about that book you’re reading. It looks pretty vintage. Where did you find it?”
“At my store. It came in with some other books we bought at an estate sale.” When he made no reply to that, she tried again. “So, do you like old books?”
“Some of them,” he said with a shrug. “I suppose this one just struck my fancy. Would you mind if I took a closer look at it?”
For some reason, her first impulse was to clutch the book to her chest and invoke The Hobbit with a Gollum-like hissing of My precious! But since he seemed sincere in his request—and because she didn’t want to scare off a potential rare-book customer—she closed it and handed it over.
He set down the champagne bottle with a clatter and reached for the book. Gently, he opened its front cover, and she saw him nod.
“The endpapers are lovely, aren’t they?” she agreed. “And the title page is simply gorgeous. Of course, it’s not that valuable for all that it’s pretty old. But it makes for a nice book to display on the shelf.”
While she was speaking, he was leafing through the pages. Sorry, I already looked through it for money and clipped recipes, she thought with an inner chuckle. Then he closed the book with a sharp clap that made her jump and said, “I know someone who’d really like
this as a gift. How much would it be?”
“Actually, that’s my personal copy, so—”
“But would you sell it to me? I can give you a couple of hundred bucks for it.”
She hesitated as the creepy feeling returned, full-blown. James had shared many tales of his more eccentric book-collecting customers, but this was the first time she’d encountered one herself. Though Vinnie the bridal shop owner was obviously no true collector, since he had no clue of this book’s value. Besides which, she had grown rather attached to the charming little volume and didn’t particularly care to sell it, even for a nice profit.
“We have an 1871 edition at the store that’s much more valuable than my copy,” she offered by way of compromise. “Volumes one and two in a nice slipcase. You could get it for that same price.”
He shook his head. “I already . . . I mean, I like this version. Are you sure you won’t sell it?” He reached into his pocket. “I can give you the money now. Like they say, cash in hand.”
Cash in hand?
Wasn’t that what James had said his Marble Faun buyer—the one who’d stomped out in a fury over the wrong volume—had said? She gave Vinnie another swift, covert look. Bundle him in a full-length coat and pull a ski cap down over his forehead and ears, and he could quite possibly be BookBuyer75.
But if he was, why wouldn’t he simply admit that he’d been at their store searching out a copy of that same book a few days earlier? And why was he set on this exact volume?
“Tell you what,” Darla said with a bright smile. “Let me think about it the rest of the day, and if I decide to sell it for two hundred dollars, I’ll get in touch with you. Can you give me your number?”
He nodded and pulled a slightly crumpled business card from his pocket, which he handed to her.
“Thank you,” she told him as she took it, and then she put out her other hand.
For an instant, she thought that he was going to do the “my precious” routine himself, for the book was still clutched to his pleated shirtfront. But after the merest hint of hesitation, he handed the volume back to her and smiled.
“I hope you do call me. I know my friend would really like the book. But even if you don’t, maybe I’ll stop by your store anyhow.” He looked again at the business card she’d given him. “I think I know where this is. You’re right next to the antiques store where—”
He broke off, expression embarrassed, and Darla knew without asking what he was going to say. She nodded. “Yes, unfortunately, that’s us.”
“Say, do you rent out any space in your building?”
At her quizzical look at this seeming non sequitur, he added, “I’m asking for that same friend. He’s going to need some local square footage, and your place looked pretty nice from the outside. Or maybe you’re like some of the other retailers and live over your own shop?”
“The top-floor apartment is mine,” she told him, not exactly comfortable with divulging her living arrangements but wanting to make certain he knew that there weren’t any “For Rent” signs hanging in her windows. “And my friend Jake leases the garden apartment. So, sorry, no room at the inn.”
“That’s okay. I’ll tell him to keep looking.” Picking up the half-empty champagne bottle again, Vinnie turned and started toward the front desk, leaving her blessedly alone with Mr. Hawthorne’s work.
Really, really strange, she thought as she tucked the business card into her book. She’d have to tell James all about this odd encounter. Maybe he could figure out a reason why the man seemed so fixated on acquiring that particular volume.
But she’d barely had time for a sip from her refilled glass when Daniel and Connie—the latter in a flurry of white satin—came marching back in.
“What do you think, Darla?” the woman asked in excitement as, with Daniel’s help, she scrambled onto the platform.
Darla stood to take a better look while the bridal shop owner did the usual rearranging and fluffing of the gown. Even though she’d seen Daniel’s pinning and tucking routine earlier, now that Connie was wearing the dress, she couldn’t remember what he’d fixed. But she could see a subtle if definite difference in the way the gown now hung, as if it had been custom-made for Connie.
“It’s perfect,” she told the other woman as Daniel stepped aside to let Connie see the full effect. “Really, it’s fabulous. Here, let me get a picture.”
She pulled out her smartphone and took a few quick shots while Connie posed and preened.
“Just don’t send any of those to Fi,” the woman warned, smile bright as the shiny white satin of the dress. “Remember how he got all superstitious about it last time?”
“I won’t,” Darla promised. “I’ll send all the pictures to you.”
Daniel, meanwhile, stood with hands clasped and looking almost as radiant as the bride-to-be.
“Truly stunning,” he said, and Darla suspected he meant his modifications to the dress as much as Connie. “I don’t think we need to make another adjustment. Let’s get that off you now—which is what your new husband will be saying when he sees it—and we’ll get it queued up so the alterations can be finished by next week. We’ll need one last fitting after that, and then the next time you wear the dress, you’ll be saying I do.”
“Oooh, I can’t wait!” she squealed.
Daniel nodded and then gestured to Liz, who was lurking near the dressing room, to lend a hand. As the two headed toward the back, Daniel turned to Darla. “Weddings make everything nicer, don’t you think?”
“Well, they make a great excuse for a party,” she agreed.
He smiled a little at that, and then his cheery expression faded. “I hate to bring up something unpleasant, but I read all the news accounts of the recent murder here in our very own neighborhood. That happened near your bookstore, didn’t it?”
Darla sighed and nodded. “The victim was my next-door neighbor. Mr. Plinski was a truly lovely old gentleman. We’re all horrified by what happened.”
“As were my brother and me.” The bridal shop owner shook his head. “You don’t expect something like this in a pleasant community like ours. Do you know, is there any hope of solving the case?”
“I hope so. Unfortunately, I believe the police are looking at it as a random crime.”
Although one cop seems to think it was an inside job, she mentally qualified.
Daniel’s frown deepened.
“Really? I suppose I always thought of guns and knives as the weapons of choice in a random murder, not silly embroidered pillows,” he observed. “But I think we should be relieved that’s what it is turning out to be. Because if it was random, what are the chances of it happening again?”
“Not very good, I hope,” she said, and took a large swig of her bubbly. Maybe she should have asked Vinnie to leave the half-empty champagne bottle behind.
Sadly shaking his head, Daniel left her to attend to another customer who had just walked in. Darla contemplated her book again, then stuffed it back inside her purse. In a contest between book and champagne, the latter was going to win this round.
By the time Darla had sipped her way through the second glass, Connie had changed back into her street clothes and blue heels. As before, she had her leopard-print coat over one arm, and purse and shoes over the other.
“I texted Fi,” she said with a pout, “and he said he’s still tied up. But he said if we want to walk, he can meet us over at the deli by your bookstore as soon as he’s done, and he’ll buy us a late lunch.”
“Might as well. By the time a car shows up, we’d almost be there, anyhow.” And besides, she added to herself, the crisp air would help blow the champagne cobwebs from her brain.
Once Connie had made arrangements for her final fitting, the two headed out into the chilly afternoon. As they started down the sidewalk, Darla gave the other woman an admiring look. “I don’t
see how you do it, hiking for miles in shoes like that. Don’t your feet kill you wearing them?”
“No, never. Of course, I’ve been wearing heels like this since I was twelve.”
She grimaced a little, and added, “The only problem is, I can’t wear flats like yours anymore, and it hurts when I go barefoot. The doctor says I have a shortened Achilles tendon. Fi says I’m like the girl in the movie who can’t run when she’s being chased. He laughs and says I’d better hope I’m never chased by zombies, because I’ll end up eaten.”
And then, quite unexpectedly, she burst into tears.
“Connie, what’s wrong?”
Connie didn’t answer. Instead, while Darla stood helplessly by, the other woman began pawing through her purse. By the time she dragged out a handful of tissues, the volume of her bawling had reached epic proportions, so that a few passersby stared at her in alarm.
More than a little concerned now herself, Darla took Connie by the arm. Vinnie and his traveling bottle of champagne would have come in handy right about then, she told herself. But she spied the second best thing . . . a narrow concrete bench stationed just outside a nearby trendy children’s boutique. Darla steered the weeping woman in that direction, plopping her down onto the cold, hard seat and then joining her there.
With luck, she told herself, her hindquarters wouldn’t freeze before the teary storm subsided.
A few moments later, when it seemed the woman was beginning to regain her composure, she gently said, “Connie, you know Reese was kidding with you. You know he’d never let anything happen to you.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” she half said, half wailed through the flurry of tissues she held to her face.
“Then what are you so upset about?”
Connie snuffled a minute longer into the tissues, which by now had pretty well dissolved into a soggy wad. When she finally raised her face again, her mascara had run halfway down her cheeks, so that she looked like one of Robert’s goth friends after a particularly rowdy night.