A Dress to Die For

by Margaret Evans

  “Hmmm.”

  “Laura okay?”

  Connor nodded.

  “Harry’s wife Beth came over to stay with her until this mess is cleared up. Maybe she’ll get at least part of an open store day, but I doubt it. Feds take their time. Worse than us.”

  “Harry looks hot.”

  “Yeah, it’s bad for business, but if this is the rest of the dresses, as it looks to be, this may be the last time he’ll have to deal with it.”

  “We can hope. I just wonder why they picked Laura’s shop,” Eric said, waved and resumed his jog.

  twenty-three

  I want to be a model.”

  It was the single most-often-spoken sentence on the lips of nearly every young woman who entered through the doors of modeling agencies around the world.

  The agency director usually smiled and waved a hand at a wall filled with photographs of beautiful young women who had attained a successful modeling career through their agency.

  “Everyone wants to be a model. I’m curious why you want to be one.”

  Young women ranging in age from fourteen to nineteen usually launched into an emotional description of their passion to be on the front of a magazine or on the Internet. Each had a good body and face, great legs, good skin, loved wearing lots of pretty clothes, loved to pose for pictures. And every single one had thought of nothing else as she grew up.

  It was touching, but it did not touch the director behind the desk of Regal Airs. It was a story Deirdre Covington heard far too often from young girls who wanted to escape something in their lives. The reasons had to be right, and those reasons did not include escape. Girls who wanted to escape often ended up escaping from modeling, as well, after money had been spent training them without the expected success, no movie careers or huge salaries.

  Brochures about the rules were always handed out.

  “You read through our brochure carefully and come back if you still want to be a model.”

  The brochures described long hours, months and years of hard work, no dating, no dancing, no friends, no shopping, no pizza, no sweets, no goofing off, no vacations, and no fun. The first section started with how to lose twenty pounds you didn’t know you could spare.

  “If you agree to these conditions, sign below. If you want to think about it, take the brochure with you.”

  Few who read through the fine details ever returned to the agency.

  As usual, the girls turned to the wall of photos and looked down at the brochure, giving Covington a brief moment to assess each prospective model’s physical presence. In most cases, she saw nice clothes, probably a new dress, not expensive. Shoes not new, but polished and in good condition. Sometimes, small bruises peeked out from under blouse sleeves or just under a collar’s edge. They likely had a friend do their hair and makeup. Nearly all were pretty girls, but nothing special. No wow. Just another hopeful escapee from a life they could no longer bear.

  “Oh, but I do—”

  “Read this first. Agree to the terms and sign it. If you’re under eighteen, have a parent or guardian sign for you. Then come back.”

  Faces almost always fell quickly. Most wanted to change their lives right now, not tomorrow, not next week. Right now. Very likely, they didn’t want a parent involved. Directors guessed that many had lives that must be really bad, filled with abuse, perhaps, evidenced by the bruises. Or perhaps some just wanted something better.

  This director always gave out her business card. Maybe the random girl would come back, maybe she wouldn’t. If she did, it would mean she was made of sterner stuff than was evident. Being a model was a hard, tough world in which to live and thrive, and only the best and strongest made it. None of them were sweethearts, not any more, not in this day and age, and certainly not after fighting to get where they wanted to be, if they got there at all.

  “Call me if you’re still interested.”

  Some of the young women managed a thank-you smile and left; others just walked out, some leaving both the brochure and the business card on the director’s desk.

  Directors of talent agencies watched young women come and go, often thinking they gave up too easily, their shoulders had drooped too quickly. Maybe these girls would find another way out of the hell they were trying to escape, whatever it was. But it didn’t touch the directors. Their job was to identify the ones likely to succeed.

  Rarely did an appointment walk in and show promise even before she sat down. But sometimes it happened, even before the director could ask the first question.

  “I belong to the public,” the young woman announced, as if a camera were aimed at her. “I was voted prettiest prom queen in my high school’s history.”

  Directors loved the poise and self-confidence in this type, almost as if the girl were bringing prestige to the agency by simply showing up, as if she were entitled to bestow her presence upon it. This one might make it to a career and beyond…to other things.

  “Let’s talk a little more about it,” Covington said.

  And a tough but lucrative business arrangement began.

  • • •

  Around five in the afternoon, two business partners discussed the week that had just ended.

  “Any good prospects?”

  “You know they don’t grow on trees. If they did, we could both retire somewhere expensive and wonderful next week.”

  He raised his brows, waited for her response.

  “Three possible for modeling, maybe one for an acting career.”

  “That’s it?”

  “I told you they don’t grow on trees.”

  “Perhaps they do, but you just ignore the fruits that don’t hang within your narrow parameters.”

  Her face grew taut, adding years to her appearance.

  “If I didn’t, we wouldn’t be doing as well as we are. Don’t tell me what to do and don’t tell me to change my process. It’s working fine and low-hanging fruit is just that: low.”

  “You know this whole business would be so much easier if you weren’t so fussy about your girls.”

  “I’m fussy about my girls, as you call them, because I have a very high standard.”

  “They’re just models.”

  “They are models who are beautiful and well-trained.”

  “I mean the type you pick. If you weren’t so stuck on a certain type, we could get a lot more into the business.”

  “Yes, I do have a liking for a certain type. Yes, I do. And they are the only ones that will continue to be chosen for the lives they deserve to have.”

  He was silent a moment.

  “I was looking at the books. Another good month, but not great, and we really have to keep in mind that our biggest clients give us our best return on investment.”

  She threw him a scathing glare.

  “I never forget our biggest clients,” she hissed at him and turned back to her desk.

  He stared at the back of her head for a moment before he left the office and missed her unlocking a desk drawer or he would have learned where she kept the key. Apparently, he hadn’t grown tired yet of picking the lock when she was out.

  She pulled out a well-worn, little booklet that was rubber-banded shut and slipped off the elastic before opening it. A shining nail on a beautifully manicured index finger slipped between two clipped pages and opened the booklet. Smiling, she read through the entries, the numbers, the dates. Yes, this was working out very well.

  • • •

  It was nearly seven in the evening by the time the FBI had cleared everything out from in front of Second Treasures. It was also the first workday since Laura opened the store last fall that she hadn’t had a single sale. She went outside to sweep the sidewalk and make sure all traces of the yellow tape were gone. She wanted the pa
rents to bring their children to her shop, she wanted them to come back and be unafraid, but she doubted it would ever be quite the same, at least not for a while.

  Friday evenings on Taylor Street usually meant “ghost town.” This week was no different. Laura saw lights on across the street at the Valencia Café and decided to get a bite to eat before she crashed. Halfway out the front door, her phone dinged and she saw Connor was at her back door. She re-closed the front door and went to the back to let him in, thinking maybe they could both catch a quick dinner.

  Laura was surprised that there were five officers with him, but they all looked pleasant and she let them in.

  “Your shop still open, Laura?” Brianna Broadmoor asked.

  “Well, it never really opened today.”

  “Do you plan on opening it?”

  “Why? Nobody’s here.”

  Sven laughed with Sam.

  “I’ve been called a lot of things but never nobody.”

  “Hurry up, I have to pick up my baby at the sitter’s,” Brianna continued. “I need some of the Easter bunny stuff.”

  Laura turned on the register as the group of officers walked past the fresh dream baskets. Sven picked the Tokyo one for his wife, while Mo Sanchez took Edinburgh. Brianna drooled over the Paris but had to stay on target because of the babysitter.

  That was when Eric Williams and his wife Susan, Jack and Sabina Flynn, Marie Vandergard from across the street at the Valencia, and two members of the crafting club, Jessica Warnke and Maura Stapleton, showed up at the front door. Max and Nicky weren’t far behind, chased by Kelly and Erica. They jangled the bells on the front door, and immediately the smell of hot, fresh pizza filled the air.

  “You’re going to make me cry,” Laura said, wiping at the edges of her eyes.

  “I’ve never seen Laura cry before,” Sven said.

  “I have,” Connor cut in. “When Mr. Lamm gave me an ‘F’ on the book report she rewrote for me.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “I remember ranting and screaming,” Laura returned, compounding the laughter.

  “Tears of anger then. No matter the reason. Tears. I saw them.”

  “I know where the pizza goes, everyone,” Eric announced, leading the way to the kitchenette. “Follow me to the awesome pizza that Marie’s chef bakes.”

  Three dream baskets were purchased, plus other Easter and spring items. Non-spring items were bought. Even two pieces of etched glass candy dishes were bought and bagged. Laura pulled in a decent haul for a totally no-sale day.

  Then folks crowded into the kitchenette for some pizza. Chilled beer magically appeared, as well as root beer and other sodas, too.

  Williams shamelessly drowned every bite of pizza with a pull on his beer. When Laura gave him a frown, he pointed to his wife who was drinking only root beer.

  “Designated driver.”

  Laura met his wife for the first time. She liked Susan and hoped this third marriage of Eric’s would work out. If third time was a charm, then maybe he had finally found his soul mate. She gave Susan her business card and asked her to stay in touch, then introduced her to the two craft club members when Susan mentioned she needed a new hobby because her job was getting stressful.

  All but one surprise guest had left, and it was now close to nine o’clock. Laura was locking up while Connor poked through the fridge hunting for brownies. He found two and immediately ate one.

  Surprisingly, Eric had brought the feast and drinks, and cleaned everything up before he left. There was nothing left to do except sit with Connor and take the last brownie he offered to her.

  “I’ve been awake a long time now, and tomorrow is my busiest day of the week. I sure hope people come after what happened today. Actually, I just hope I’ll wake up when the alarm goes off.” She was thinking the cat that remained absent the whole day would never let her sleep past any alarm.

  “I beat you on the sleep. I was out for four hours before you called. I am happy I don’t have to work tomorrow.”

  “Who was responsible for this? You?”

  “Eric. I may have mentioned to him how slow the feds are with examining things and cleaning up and how you might have a no-sale day. He even made Harry open the barbershop and give him a haircut.”

  She thought about that.

  “Yeah, Harry’s not happy.”

  Connor nodded, swallowed the last of his brownie, chasing it with a final swig of milk.

  “The good news is that it might be over, but being over doesn’t mean it’s really over. Now the real work begins. I’m hoping they just leave you alone from now on. Oh, and they spotted the van on camera and got the tag number which matched exactly what you saw, but it was abandoned by the time the feds got to it, and guess what? Perfectly clean. Also stolen from an unmarked van pool.”

  “I promise not to disappoint you deliberately ever again.”

  He narrowed his tired eyes at her.

  “I have to admit you’ve been pretty good lately. Until this morning. I have to be able to depend on your doing or not doing what I ask when it relates to a case. And especially now that the case has become federal.”

  “I understand.”

  That’s when he saw a twinkle in her eye and knew she was already looking for the loopholes, maybe even had found one. That fast.

  “Good night, Laura,” he said, got up, pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

  twenty-four

  Empress Isabella pulled rank on Laura Saturday around seven in the morning. She plopped herself on Laura’s belly with no effect. Next she tried the chin-licking trick, also unsuccessfully and only eliciting a groan. Then she pulled out the big guns and tickled Laura’s eyelids with her whiskers causing Laura to choke, cough and sneeze, and sit up.

  “What the heck!” she cried out. “Oh, it’s you. I should have known.”

  The cat sauntered to the edge of the bed and hopped onto the floor and out of the room. She could see the feline leap onto her father’s La-Z-Boy, its job done.

  Then Laura looked at the time on her iPhone and the clock on the night stand and realized she’d slept through both alarms. In fact, they were still making their sounds. She shut off all noise and fell back against her pillow, a hand over her forehead.

  “I don’t even know if anyone will show up today, Isabella. You may have gone through this whole rigmarole for nothing.”

  But Laura got up, showered, dressed, did hair and make-up, and went through all the routines before she went downstairs to start a fresh pot of coffee. When she arrived in the kitchenette, she was surprised again to see it all cleaned up. Who would have thought Eric Williams would ever have done anything like that? But she had witnessed it, as had the others.

  Surprisingly, people were at her door right at nine when she unlocked it and flipped the sign to Open. And also unexpected were the sales she had throughout the day. She figured they either hadn’t heard about yesterday’s debacle or were just glad that everything was cleared and she was open today.

  Connor texted her a reminder about dance practice at his parents’ home tomorrow around one in the afternoon. He told her to dress comfortably, but she knew what to wear. That evening after scraping orange jelly beans off the shop floor, mopping up and bringing everything back to normal, she dug through her closet for the ballet slippers she hoped she had brought with her. There they were. Soft leather—perfect for dance practice.

  She fell asleep early, once with the cat on her lap in her dad’s favorite recliner, and again later when the cat licked her chin and made her get up and go to her real bed. Laura figured it was so the cat could sleep in her dad’s chair and not for any concern for the human in the house, but she was too tired to look behind her and witness it. She heard the purring, though.

  • • •

/>   Justin Carlson had had a completely different day from any he had experienced in recent years. All he had done was to go and meet that nice lady named Edna Phelps and talk with her about his letter and what it all meant. He was back in his hotel room, but apparently, he had stayed at her home for several days, with the explanation that he asked to stay and talk, needed extra support at the shocking news about his birth family. He wished he could remember more, but it was so like that summer right after high school graduation when he had been in a coma for nearly three months. He just couldn’t remember any of it other than Edna had been kind to him.

  She had served him tea and some very sweet, homemade cookies.

  No doctor could explain the coma after his high school graduation. There had been mention of some kind of accident of which he had no recollection, and he was sent to a special hospital for comatose patients. There he remained until he woke up suddenly one day. His parents hadn’t yet told him about being adopted; that came right before he headed off to college. So many tests had been run by his doctor, but they found nothing wrong and no cause that could be related to any injury. When he woke up, they sent him home. Everything was fine since that summer except for the occasional headaches. He was himself again.

  It was almost as if nothing had taken away a whole summer of his life. And now he lost most of a week! If only he could remember his doctor’s name from that time, but that was gone, as well.

  Was it happening all over again? Was it the shock of his discovery? This felt almost the same. He had to check his phone and a newspaper to confirm what day it actually was. Five days lost! How could that have happened? Phelps hadn’t said he was sick or anything, only that they had talked for a few days. Why couldn’t he remember that?