Carol Clark - Hitched

“Who is this guy?” Francis asked.

“I met him in my travels.”

“Can he be trusted to turn over the money to us?”

Marco nodded. “He wouldn’t mess with me.”

I wonder what that means, Francis thought. “It’s Saturday,” he said quickly. “The post office is already closed.”

“So we’ll do it Monday. I want to get rid of those gowns. I don’t like riding around with them in the trunk. If we ever got stopped, and they checked the trunk, we’re dead meat.”

Francis waved his hands forcefully. “Why don’t we just throw them in a Dumpster and be rid of them?”

“Too dangerous. And not profitable. Did you call Joyce and tell her we’re going out of town tonight?”

“Not yet.”

Francis’s cell phone rang. His body twitched. I’m not cut out for this, he thought. I’m turning into a wreck. He looked at the caller ID. “It’s my mother.”

Marco rolled his eyes.

“Hi, Ma.”

Francis’s mother, Janice, lived out on Long Island with his father, who was an electrician. Janice worked part time as a waitress at the local diner. She was a sturdy woman with strong opinions that she never kept to herself.

“How’s your leg?” she asked. “With this rain I thought it might be bothering you.”

“I’m all right.”

“You don’t sound all right. Is Marco there?”

“Yes.” Francis glanced over at his friend who could tell that he was about to be disparaged.

“Hmm,” Janice grunted dismissively. “Joyce at work?”

“Yes.”

“I made a nice lasagna. Why don’t you and Joyce take a drive out when she gets home? I suppose you can bring Marco if you have to.”

“Thanks, Mom. But we can’t.”

“Why not? What are you doing?”

“Marco and I are…we’re…we’re going to Atlantic City.”

“Again? Weren’t you there last week?”

“Yes. We had a great time. I need to get out again and get some fresh air.”

“We’ve got fresh air out on the Island. What about Joyce?”

“I don’t think she’ll be joining us.”

“You just got off the crutches. Do you really think you should be walking around the casinos?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“When are you and Joyce getting married?”

“What?” Francis asked, astonished.

“You heard me. I don’t approve of living together before marriage. You know that.”

“I have to get back to work first,” Francis said evasively. He paused and licked his lips. “What made you ask that now?”

“I just got home from work. Right before I left the diner it came over the radio that a bridal salon in Manhattan had been broken into and the dresses were stolen. Everyone started talking about the poor brides who were left in the lurch. They have to scramble to get new dresses. Whoever did that must have been a real louse. A real louse! They broke into a safe and made off with money and jewelry. So why did they have to steal the dresses? They couldn’t have been raised well.”

“I guess not. Mom, I have to go. Thanks for calling.”

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Call me.”

“Okay.” Francis closed his cell phone. “I’ve got to get out of here. I’ll call Joyce from the car.” He stood quickly and almost lost his balance. Adrenaline was flowing through his body.

“Hey, be careful,” Marco admonished as he rushed to grab Francis’s arm.

It’s too late for that, Francis thought desperately. Much too late…

I can’t believe this is happening the week before my wedding, Regan thought. She had walked Jack out to the hallway, where he’d opted to take the stairs instead of waiting for the slow-as-molasses elevator. As she stepped back into Alfred and Charisse’s salon, Regan could see that her mother was getting that worried look, the look that came across her face when she was deep in thought, mulling over a problem. Or when she was trying to figure out a plot point in one of her books. This time the look seemed to say, “Regan, your wedding is in seven days and we’ve got a million things to do. Don’t get involved in this!”

But my bridal gown is out there somewhere, Regan thought, stolen by a couple of thieves who could have harmed Alfred and Charisse. I need to find out who they are. She smiled to herself, thinking of Brianne’s thirst for revenge. I certainly wouldn’t want to meet her in a dark alley.

“Alfred, I’d like to slowly go over everything that happened since the break-in.”

“We already did that with the police,” he answered as he sank further into the curved black leather couch. On the coffee table were the remnants of their lunch.

“I’ll make a pot of lavender tea. It’s very calming,” Charisse said quickly. “With all the anxious brides we get in here, it comes in very handy.” She started to clear the table.

“Kit and I will take care of it,” Nora offered.

“Of course,” Kit agreed, not sounding like she really meant it.

“Thanks, Mom,” Regan said. “Charisse, if you don’t mind, I do want to talk to both of you together. I know you both spoke to the police, but if we go over everything again, I think it could help.”

Charisse pushed back her wavy hair, sat down next to Alfred, and reached for his hand. They’ve had some night, Regan thought. She couldn’t blame Alfred for being agitated.

Regan’s notebook was in front of her. She’d already covered several pages with notes. She cleared her throat and began. “Obviously we want to find out who did this and hopefully get the dresses back.”

Alfred moaned. Charisse squeezed his hand.

“You say the two figures were dressed in black with stocking masks that covered their heads?”

Alfred nodded. “When I heard the commotion I opened my eyes. Larry King had on a pair of his bright red suspenders. Then I turned and saw the thieves in their dark drab clothing. What a contrast.”

“They didn’t say a word?”

“No,” Charisse answered. “Alfred and I awoke at the same moment. The two men were in the bedroom, both holding the ropes they used to tie us up. One of them came running around the bed.” She paused. “Come to think of it, he moved kind of awkwardly.”

“What do you mean?” Regan asked.

Charisse developed a faraway look, then closed her eyes, trying to conjure up images from the previous night. “He was moving fast, but it was as if he was unsure on his feet.”

“You’re right, darling,” Alfred said lovingly. “You see, Regan, movement is so important in our business. When we interview girls to model our dresses, we always want to see how they walk, how they’ll present themselves on the runway. We notice more than most people how a person carries themself. One of the thieves did seem to have a little limp.”

“Then they tied you up?”

“I should have fought them off,” Alfred said with disgust. “But it all happened so quickly. Everything was a blur. After they tied us up, one of them bashed the safe in our closet with I don’t know what! The sound was awful!”

“Neither of them said anything?” Regan prodded.

They both shook their heads. “That safe didn’t do us much good,” Alfred moaned. “It crumbled like a tin can. I used to try hiding our money and jewelry but then I could never remember where I put it.”

Like your keys, Regan thought. “You told the police both intruders seemed to be about the same height and weight,” she continued.

“Not too tall, not too short,” Alfred answered.

How helpful, Regan thought, glancing down at her notes. Sight, sound, taste, and touch, she thought. Charisse and Alfred hadn’t gotten a good look at the intruders, hadn’t heard them speak, could only have tasted the gags in their mouths, and had already mentioned they were wearing leather gloves. One sense left to explore.