Carol Clark: Hitched

“Here I am!” Alfred announced, appearing in a burgundy silk robe. Regan had noticed that Alfred never walked into a room. He made an entrance. Just under six feet tall, he had a thin frame, wispy brown hair and ever present facial stubble that always made Regan wonder about his shaving schedule. How could he always look as if he hadn’t picked up a razor in at least three days? But he was attractive in a brooding way. “Brianne!” he now cried, sweeping toward the distraught bride-to-be. He took her strong hands, which she kept perfectly manicured-the better to flaunt her rock of an engagement ring-and leaned down to kiss them. He then turned to Teresa who was watching him with a stone face. She had never been impressed by Alfred’s airs nor the prices he charged, and now she was more perturbed than ever. Her dyed-blond hair had been teased and sprayed so much it resembled a shellacked helmet. She wore bat’s-eyes glasses decorated with rhinestones, tight brown pants, high heels, and a stretch top that she tugged over her rear end every few seconds.

“Mrs. Barth! I’m so sorry! Thieves broke in last night and tied us up. They stole everything.”

“Except my dress,” Brianne muttered. “I wish they’d stolen it instead of me having to see it in this condition. It’s very upsetting.”

“We want our money back,” Teresa said flatly.

Alfred gulped. “I will make Brianne a new dress.”

“I get married next Saturday.”

Me, too, Regan thought. There’s no way they can produce two of these dresses by next week.

“Charisse and I are used to working day and night,” Alfred said in a martyred tone. “I called the police. They are on their way.”

“I called Regan’s fiancé,” Nora offered. “He’s the head of the Major Case Squad. He was at his parents’ house in Westchester but he’ll get here as soon as he can.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Regan said, then turned to Alfred. “This is a crime scene. We have to be careful not to do anything that might contaminate evidence.”

“My studio is a crime scene,” Alfred repeated, shaking his head in disgust. “I feel violated.”

Regan walked over to the front door. “There’s no sign of forced entry. Did you lock up last night?”

“We ordered Chinese food because we were too tired to go out. Charisse answered the door and paid the delivery boy. Did you double lock the door, Charisse?”

“I can’t be certain,” Charisse said quietly. “The bag was heavy and the wonton soup was starting to spill from the container. It was hot.”

Oh, great, Regan thought. The door might not have been shut properly and someone could have just pushed it open. If it weren’t double locked, they might have been able to open it with a credit card.

“We had dinner in bed and were so exhausted that we just fell asleep with the television on,” Alfred continued. “The next thing I knew two figures dressed in black with stocking masks over their faces were in our room tying us up. One of them smashed the safe. It all happened so fast.”

“The television was still on?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what time they broke in?”

“It was three o’clock. The repeat of Larry King was coming back on. Those miserable jerks turned off the TV before they left. Just to be mean. We had to lie there in the horrible silence, scared to death until you arrived, Regan. There was nothing to distract us.”

“Hello…” a male voice called.

They all turned as several police officers came through the door at once. Regan introduced herself. The policemen all knew Jack, and from their comments she could tell they liked and respected him very much. The officers took statements from Alfred and Charisse. A fingerprint specialist dusted the salon and bedroom. Brianne’s wedding dress was placed in a special-evidence bag. A handful of reporters showed up, one with a cameraman. Brianne was happy to give them a piece of her mind, before they even had a chance to talk to Alfred, Charisse, or Regan.

When the area was cleared, and several of the police officers had left, Charisse went into the kitchen to make coffee. She opened the refrigerator and screamed. A note was taped to one of the shelves. In black Magic Marker was scrawled a message-YOUR DESIGNS STINK. GET OUT OF THE BUSINESS OR ELSE!

Alfred had been through hell for the last nine hours, but when he read the note, it was the worst blow of all. The words on the paper cut into his soul. He screamed and turned to Regan. “You’ve got to help me find who did this, Regan. I’ll never sleep at night again if these vicious, cruel people aren’t caught. This must have been a planned attack!”

Regan could feel Nora’s body stiffen, even though she wasn’t in Regan’s sight line. “I’m getting married next week,” she said softly. “I’ve got so much to do and now I have to worry about a dress…”

“I promise you, you’ll have a fabulous dress. I promise! Help me, Regan! Pleeease! I have another bride coming to pick up her dress today and I have to tell her it’s gone! I’m a little afraid of her. Don’t leave me!”

“Okay, Alfred,” Regan acquiesced. “My fiancé could be here soon. We’ll both help you. Here he is now.”

Jack was in the doorway, looking as handsome as ever. He was wearing blue jeans, a crisp white shirt, and a brown suede jacket. When he saw Regan he smiled broadly. She walked over, and as they gave each other a quick hug, Jack said under his breath, “I thought I was going to be the only one fighting crime the week before our wedding. Just promise me you’ll make it to the church on time.”

“You know I will,” Regan said as she felt herself shudder slightly. She didn’t want anything to happen to ruin their day and the start of her new life with Jack. So why did this queasy feeling suddenly come over her? She tried to push it away, telling herself, I’ll help Alfred but I’m not going to let anything get in the way of my wedding. I’ve waited too long for someone like Jack to come into my life.

But for Regan, things never turned out to be that simple. The week before she got married would be no exception.

In a row house in Queens where the planes from LaGuardia Airport roared overhead, old buddies Francis McMann and Marco Fertillo were stretched out on two well-worn couches in the small living room. Twenty-two years earlier they could be seen stretched out side by side on their mats at nap time in kindergarten, usually being told by their long-suffering teacher to stop kicking each other. Their horseplay continued for the next thirteen years, until high school graduation, when Marco took off for points west. Francis stayed close to home and got a job as a construction worker. Every couple of years since, Marco returned to New York for a visit, which never made Francis’s mother happy.

“Marco’s a bad influence on you,” she’d cry. “Stay away from him. Why doesn’t he have a job?” she’d ask Francis.

“He works at odd jobs around the country.”

“Odd jobs around the country my foot,” she snorted. “How long is he going to stay there with you doing nothing?”

It was the same question Francis’s girlfriend, Joyce, kept asking, especially since the place where they now laid their heads was her apartment. Joyce worked at the local pet store and had been attracted to Francis because he was named after St. Francis of Assisi, who loved animals. Francis loved animals, but that’s about all he and St. Francis had in common.

A parrot in the kitchen called out, “Lazy bums. Ahhhh.”

“Shut up, you stupid bird!” Marco yelled impatiently. His wrist was throbbing. He played with the gauze wrapped around the inside of his arm, which he’d accidentally slit when he was shredding Alfred and Charisse’s gown with his pocket knife.