by Julie Kramer
“Show me her tears. Then we’ll talk.”
had just learned another reason for pushing the wedding-dress story: Shep. Toby was on his way out of town to an animal rights conference in California. He’d always been a sucker for a furry face, but lately he’d grown interested in the politics of animal rights. He’d only be gone two days, but we decided it would be less disruptive for Shep if he just stayed in one place, my place, until his K9 trainer recovered enough to care for him.
So I’d stopped at a pet store and stocked up on Shep’s favorite dog food, some dried pig ears, and a tennis-ball squeaky toy. Since the missing-groom story was centered in my White Bear Lake neighborhood, letting the big dog in and out of the house was easier if I was chasing clues closer to home than if I was chasing news in downtown Minneapolis or beyond.
I grabbed Malik Rahman, my favorite photographer, as well as good friend, and we drove to Madeline’s place to put her on camera before she could change her mind. Madeline lived in a waterfront condo near White Bear Beach. Several of her neighbors, mostly rich retirees, watched from their porches and patios as we followed her inside, carrying the camera gear. They may have been curious, but they were also raised to mind their own business. So no one questioned us about what we were doing or which station we were with or when this was going to run.
Madeline had debated whether or not to be interviewed. In her social circle, appearing on the news was as gauche as waving one’s arms in a crowd shot at the Minnesota State Fair.
She finally agreed after I pointed out no one was looking for her missing fiancé. Not family. Not law enforcement. And frankly, the trail was cold. Years from now, if he was never found, she might wrestle with guilt and regret unless she was able to assure herself she did what she could when it mattered.
Malik lit the room to add some dramatic shadows. He draped Madeline’s wedding gown over the couch, artistically panning the camera from hem to neckline. Then he hung it from a doorway and shot front to back while I tilted the dress. Photographing their engagement picture, he started tight on the couple’s faces and pulled wide. For the invitation to witness the marriage he used a rack focus, first shooting blurry before bringing the image into focus with a stylish camera move.
Finally he dubbed home video from the rehearsal dinner so we’d have a copy of Madeline and Mark gazing into each others’ eyes as the whole room applauded. Warm-ups to get Madeline used to us and the camera. Also, if the interview went bad and she threw us out, at least we’d have sound and pictures.
These were the last pictures ever taken of Mark. He wasn’t your cliché tall, dark, and handsome groom, but he was presentable. He wore a black shirt, gray pants, and a narrow silver tie with dark stripes. He moved comfortably through the crowd, meeting and greeting guests. His face looked a bit peculiar with his bushy eyebrows, mustache, and hair, but his manner seemed pleasant.
Again, my eyes were drawn to his scar. I wanted to ask about its origin but kept quiet, fearing I might upset the bride. Despite his odd appearance, Mark seemed a class act until he wove a mother-in-law joke into his toast to his bride, which he read off a blue note card.
It occurred to me that comedians often have distinctive physical characteristics. Fat-boy Louie Anderson. Jay Leno with his big chin and two-tone hair. David Brenner’s nose. Mae West and her impressive … talent. The best of them use their looks to make us laugh at our own flaws, physical or not. For all I knew, Groucho Marx was Mark’s professional idol.
Later I watched him wrap his hands around Madeline’s waist and drop a kiss on her neck. Knowing that this might have been the final time they touched made the casual buss erotic and made me feel like an intruder.
She seemed a different Madeline on tape than the person in front of me now. I couldn’t quite tell how until she flashed a smile for the camera and I recognized it as the kind of smile that could launch a toothpaste commercial. TV reporters are very cognizant of smiles and I knew Madeline had never smiled that way for me. These pictures might be the last pictures ever taken of a joyous Madeline. And Madeline’s face, which I once thought was merely pretty, now looked stunning.
During the interview, I pressed her about that night, the last time she saw Mark, whether anything seemed unusual.
“With him?” she asked.
“Yes, or anybody else in the wedding party.”
“No. Everybody seemed happy for us. So very excited.”
“How about Mark? Is it possible he was having second thoughts?”
“No.” She was adamant, closer to indignation than tears.
“How can you be so sure?” I tried coaxing some on-camera emotion. I didn’t use the word “jilted” because I didn’t want her to clobber me with the tape rolling.
“Because he loved me.” She looked at me, unwavering confidence in her gaze and tone. “I could see it in his eyes. I could hear it in his voice. I could taste it on his lips.”
That was some lyrical sound bite she laid on us. And the way she said it was almost vampirish.
As she leaned forward, I leaned back to give her space. Her fists were clenched. Her delivery flawless. “That was supposed to be our beginning, not our ending. Something’s wrong.”
I tried to lighten the mood by asking her how Mark proposed. She struggled to answer before emotionally describing a magical night of romance on bended knee in the moonlight.
But to my surprise, Madeline Post was too tough to cry on camera.
WHEN IT COMES to a missing person, it’s often an inside job.
Sometimes the culprit is even the missing person themselves. Like the runaway bride from Georgia. Or the missing coed in Wisconsin. Both women staged their own disappearances for reasons that were never very well explained.
When a child vanishes, it’s frequently a parent. Sometimes a custody dispute. Sometimes a cover-up when an abusive relationship goes too far. Occasionally an accidental death the parent can’t face.
When a woman goes missing, her man moves to the head of the class of suspects. But the reverse is seldom true; girlfriends rarely become suspects. And Madeline didn’t fit that category for several reasons.
First, she was allowing media scrutiny. And guilty girls don’t usually do that. If she had anything to do with her fiancé’s disappearance, all she had to do was keep her mouth shut and she’d be home free.
Second, as the bride, she was under almost constant observation following the rehearsal dinner. She stayed up late at her mother’s house, giggling with the maid of honor. And while the groom isn’t supposed to see the bride before the wedding, that tradition doesn’t include the wedding party, the hair and makeup guy, the manicurist, and the photographer. Plenty of witnesses could vouch for Madeline’s whereabouts. No one could vouch for Mark’s.
Third, Madeline had no clear motive. Public humiliation is not on any bridal registry. She lost face when she lost her fiancé. And her mother was shelling out enormous sums of money to marry her only daughter to Mark Lefevre. So if he wasn’t dead, Madeline probably would kill him.
ithout Madeline’s tears on tape, my NEVER WORN story was probably dead for May. At least in Noreen’s mind. But until my boss came right out and asked me how the bride’s interview went, I intended to explore the case from a couple of other directions.
I left Madeline’s house armed with a guest list from the wedding. As we’d gone over the names, I’d made who’s who notes in the margin. Most were friends and relatives from the Post side of the family. Madeline didn’t know the specifics behind all the guests on the groom’s side. But she circled the names of the two people who presumably knew the bride and groom best.
THE BEST MAN was traveling on business for the Minnesota Department of Transportation so I listened to him on the speakerphone in my house while Shep explored his new surroundings. The telephone interview was a trade-off. Face-to-face I’d get a better sense of Gabriel Murray and his story. But this way, my taking notes wouldn’t make him nervous and I’d get answers faster.
Normally, I’d wait to meet in person, but Gabe wouldn’t be back from St. Louis for a few days. He was attending a conference on concrete bridges. His state agency had been through a rough stretch ever since one of Minnesota’s main bridges had collapsed during rush hour.
I knew what Gabe looked like because Mark had introduced him as his best man on the home video of the rehearsal dinner. Corporate suit and haircut. A contrast to the groom’s cartoonish but affable appearance.
Gabe knew what I looked like because he watched television news. He claimed Channel 3 was his favorite, but probably just said that to all the TV stations. He agreed to discuss Mark Lefevre as long as I agreed not to bring up the bridge fiasco or press him about when the new one would be completed.
First, we chitchatted about his wife and kids and life in the suburbs. Then he recounted how, when Mark failed to show up for the wedding and didn’t answer either his home or cell phone, Gabe—in his role of best man—drove the most likely route from the park in White Bear Lake, where the ceremony was supposed to take place, back to his friend’s Minneapolis apartment.
During the half-hour trip, he watched for Mark’s black Jeep. He didn’t see it flipped over in a ditch or stalled on the side of the road. He didn’t see it wedged against a tree or wrapped around a light pole. And he didn’t see it parked anywhere near Mark’s apartment building though he circled several blocks in each direction.
Gabe banged on Mark’s door anyway, but no one answered. Finally he convinced the landlord to open the small apartment.
Empty.
“Was the bed slept in?” I asked.
“Hard to tell, what guy living alone makes his bed?” he answered. “But his tuxedo was hanging on the closet door. So if he was heading to the altar, he was underdressed.”
“Did you notice the clothes he wore at the rehearsal dinner lying anywhere?” I asked.
That might prove whether Mark made it home after the party.
“I don’t remember what he was wearing.”
“Black shirt, gray pants, silver tie with dark stripes.”
As I watched Madeline’s home video, I paid close attention to Mark’s attire in case we needed an official description of what her fiancé was last seen wearing, or in case we needed to help identify a decomposing body. I wasn’t trying to be negative; I just like being prepared.
“Honestly, I don’t remember much about the apartment,” Gabe said. “When I saw he wasn’t there, I left.”
Then, with an anxious feeling in his stomach, Gabe drove what he deemed the second most likely route back to the waiting wedding party. Again, no sign of his buddy.
By now Shep had sniffed enough corners in my house to verify not only that he was the alpha dog but that the place was cat-free. He nudged me to play, but I tossed him a dried pig ear to chew on because I needed to concentrate on taking notes.
“What was it like when you got back to the wedding party?” I asked Gabe.
“Confusion. Madeline was upset. Her brother was trying to comfort her. Her mom livid. His mom mortified.”
He described how Mark’s mother fussed nervously with the flowers, just for something to do. She was a florist and had designed the wedding bouquets and floral arrangements for her son’s big day. Burnt-orange roses and brick-red berries with dried wheat. Just as I was wondering how Gabe could possibly remember such a specific autumn mix yet couldn’t recall what his pal was wearing at the rehearsal dinner, he explained that he and Mark used to work in her flower shop after school to earn spending money.
In fact, Gabe said mother and son had been at odds recently because she wanted him to take over her floral business and he wanted to pursue a comedy career. He only helped out at her shop if he was short on money. Marriage to Madeline meant Mark would never have to make another prom corsage.
“Was he funny?” I asked. “As a comedian?”
“I laughed.”
Gabe wasn’t an objective critic. They’d met in grade school when Mark’s mom moved into the neighborhood with her then little boy. After high school, they’d drifted apart, but reconnected five years ago at another dude’s wedding. The laughs felt just like old times.
“I was honored when he asked me to stand up for him.”
I believed Gabe. Even though I couldn’t see his face, his voice, just then, had the quiver of a guy trying not to let on that he was scared.
One thing never changed during their friendship: Mark was the class clown. Always pulling pranks. Gabe chuckled on the other end of the speakerphone as he relived how his buddy took their sixth-grade teacher’s dress out of a Laundromat dryer and wore it to school as a Halloween costume.
“So I wasn’t too worried when he was late to the wedding,” he said. “I figured he’d show up in a gorilla suit or something.”
When the ceremony didn’t start on time, the guests began to pick up on the drama. First they whispered. Then they pointed. Then they snickered. It was a relief when the minister finally told everyone to take their wedding gifts and go home.
“I halfway expected Mark to be waiting at my house or at least show up when all the commotion died down,” Gabe said. “But I never heard a word from him again. Even if he decided he wasn’t ready to get married, why would he write off his friends?”
The situation made no sense. But neither had the engagement. Mark was his buddy, but even Gabe couldn’t see what Madeline saw in him.
I questioned him about his take on the couple’s relationship. Solid? Steamy? Stormy?
“That’s the funny thing,” he said, “they didn’t really have a relationship. They lacked history.”
The pair had met in a downtown Minneapolis bar near a comedy club where Mark and other wannabes did stand-up routines. She’d seen his act that night and raved about it to him. Strange, according to Gabe, because while Mark’s humor made men laugh, snort, and hoot, most women considered his antics stupid.
But the joke was on them because exactly two months after they first met, Madeline Post, the only daughter of one of Minnesota’s wealthiest families, was engaged to Mark Lefevre and due to be married the following month. The pair picked a Saturday afternoon in early October to forsake all others. Not bad for a guy whose day job was working in a downtown parking garage.
“How did Madeline’s family like him?” I asked.
“Well enough. Her brother was friendly. Madeline’s mother started off a little aloof, but Madeline told him she’s like that with everyone. Takes a little while to warm up.”
All Gabe could figure was something happened to his friend after he left the rehearsal dinner. The party was held at Rudy’s Redeye Grill, a popular upscale restaurant known for its steaks and coconut shrimp. It was connected to the White Bear Country Inn where many of the wedding guests were staying. The party videotape showed dark wood, red walls, rich atmosphere.
“Did you guys do anything later?” I asked. “One last night on the town, perhaps? Throw back a few drinks? Check out some babes?”
“Actually my wife and I were among the first to leave,” Gabe answered stiffly. I wasn’t sure whether he felt sheepish that he cut out early or offended by my suggestion that he might be a party boy.
Gabe mentioned that he lost his coat that night, a distinctive black leather jacket with a loon stitched on the back. He hoped he’d left it in his car. Nope. He returned to look at the restaurant. No luck. Please let it be at home, he thought. Not there. He concluded that someone had stolen it, not a huge problem except his wallet was in the inside pocket.
“I was rushed the next morning because I had to call my bank and cancel all my credit cards. Otherwise I probably would have checked in on Mark, razzed him about his last hours of freedom and given him shit about paying me back.”
“He owed you money?” I asked.
“Two thousand dollars. Not enough to disappear with and not enough to disappear over. He was going to pay it back right after the wedding.”
“Did he say what the money was
for?”
“He didn’t have to. I trusted him. We had a don’t ask, don’t tell policy. Later he mentioned wanting to wow a girl.”
“A courting allowance?”
“Who knows? It started out just a couple of hundred bucks, but before long it was adding up to a couple of thousand.”
“Are you sore at him?” After all, two grand is two grand.
“I’m worried about him, not the cash.”
Gabe said it like the subject was now closed, and because I didn’t want him hanging up on me, I respected that.
So what kind of person was Mark? The kind of guy who’d walk away from his life and not look back? Welsh on a debt? Publicly spurn and mortify a woman who loved him?
“If he wanted to end things with Madeline, wouldn’t he just dump her?” I asked. “How did he call it quits with other girlfriends?”
That question brought a long pause on the speakerphone. Suddenly I wished we were face-to-face so I could read him better, because I must have hit on something he didn’t want to discuss.
“You know what I mean,” I pushed. “Normal it’s-not-working breakups or crazy business?”
Still no answer.
“Gabe, what aren’t you telling me?”
I explained that I needed to know the truth about Mark if I was to have any chance of finding out what happened. Now was not the time to hold back facts, or even suspicions, for fear of embarrassing anyone.
“This is tough on Madeline, Gabe, but she’s cooperating. I need your cooperation, too.”
With clear reluctance, he told me that Mark had been engaged to someone else when he met Madeline. But it wasn’t serious.
“How can being engaged not be serious?” I asked.
“They hadn’t picked out a ring, much less a wedding date,” Gabe answered. “It was more like an understanding.”
“So how understanding was she about Mark’s new fiancée?”