The trooper walked back to Marco’s window. “Your license here says you live in upstate New York. Where are you boys headed?”

Don’t say Atlantic City, Francis thought wildly. Don’t be that stupid.

“We’re going to visit a classmate from our younger days who just had an operation. He’s going to be fine, thank God, but we want to cheer him up,” Marco answered, doing his best imitation of Eddie Haskell.

“What kind of operation?”

“Knees. Knee. He was a football player and his old injuries were really acting up.”

Francis feigned laughter and pointed to his leg. “I was hurt on the job. Been out of work for months. I hate it. Thought I’d go down and commiserate with him.”

The trooper’s radio squawked, alerting him to a fender bender down the road. He tapped the roof of Marco’s car.

“Take it slow, fellas.”

“I will, sir. Thank you, sir. Yes, sir.”

As the trooper walked back to his car, Francis commented with disgust. “You really laid it on thick, didn’t you?”

“What about you? You didn’t have to tell him you were injured. Remember, don’t give out so much information.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve never been involved in the life of crime before.”

“Get used to it.”

Marco pulled out onto the highway. A few miles down the road was a rest stop. Marco drove right past it.

“Aren’t we going to stop?” Francis asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You think I’m going to pull into a busy rest stop? We’ll find a gas station that is quiet. We’ve got those dresses in the back. You want somebody noticing them?”

“Let’s just get rid of them. Let’s get off at the next exit and find a Dumpster.”

“No way. That’s money down the drain. They’re going to Las Vegas. One hundred thousand brides a year say ‘I do’ in that town. Surely my pal Marty can find four of them who will pony up a few bucks for those designer gowns. In my humble opinion, old Alfred really does have some talent.”

“The note you left said that his designs stink.”

“I knew it would get to him.” Marco smiled. “I also figured that taping the note inside the refrigerator would be twice as creepy.”

As they drove on, Francis desperately wished that he were home with Joyce. Little did he know, she was about to have a wild night on the town.

13

When Tracy reemerged from the bathroom, her eyes had a vacant stare not unlike the ones actors who played psychos in horror movies affected right before they pounced. But her makeup was perfect-she’d clearly powdered her nose and freshened her pink lipstick, Regan noticed.

One wall of the main room of the loft was mirrored, another was all exposed brick. On good days it felt like a happy, open space full of endless possibilities, Regan thought, where excited brides were fitted for the most important dress of their lives. But now, for the second time in twelve hours, it was the setting for personal disaster. The spot where Brianne found her shredded bloodied dress in a heap was exactly where Tracy had been standing when she’d been shot through the heart, so to speak.

Regan was sure that neither one of them would ever forget every detail of their terrible experiences at Alfred and Charisse’s salon. Tracy ’s pain, of course, was far deeper. After all, what could be worse than having your heart broken a week before your wedding? And better yet, what can turn a basically sane, albeit high-strung person, into a psycho in no time flat?

Getting the royal dump.

Charisse was leaning over the coffee table, pouring tea as though her life depended on it. Nora and Kit were making noise about how wonderful yet another cup of tea would taste. Alfred was slumped on the couch, looking nervous and defeated. When he saw Tracy, he attempted to straighten up.

While her mother and sister stood in the background, Tracy walked over to Alfred and said in a scarily controlled voice, “You have ruined my life. I wanted to pick up my dress two weeks ago. It wasn’t ready. And last week it still wasn’t ready…”

Alfred never mentioned that, Regan thought.

“If it had been ready, it wouldn’t have been stolen. And if it hadn’t been stolen, I wouldn’t have been dumped.”

And if you had married that guy, Regan thought, you’d really be miserable. He clearly didn’t believe in “for better or for worse.”

The room was silent.

“Alfred,” Tracy continued. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“Not really.”

Tracy shut her eyes as if somehow this would help her process his unexpected response. She opened them again. “Jeffrey, my former fiancé, likes everything to run like clockwork. Just like me. The fact that I didn’t make sure my dress was ready when it should have been, and now I don’t even have a dress, made him question my competence, I’m sure. My value as a life partner. If I picked someone as irresponsible as you to design my dress, then surely he couldn’t expect me to make the proper decisions about…” She broke off, her voice cracking.

“Alfred and Charisse are victims of a crime,” Regan interjected. “They were tied up all night, and we’re lucky they weren’t hurt or killed.”

Tracy turned her vacant stare in Regan’s direction. “You might still have a fiancé, but your dress is gone. How come you’re being so understanding?”

“I’m a private investigator. I’m going to try and help Alfred and Charisse straighten out this mess. And hopefully find out who did this.”

“Good for you. If you can find any dirt on a guy named Jeffrey Woodall, let me know. If I can’t kill him, I want to make his life miserable.”

“Dear,” Ellen said to her daughter, “don’t be so hasty.”

“Mother! One week before the wedding he calls it off. How could he do such a thing?”

“I never liked him,” Adele volunteered enthusiastically. “He’s way too uptight.”

“Who asked you?” Tracy cried. “Just shut up!”

Adele shrugged. “I was just trying to make you feel better.”

“My life is ruined! I’m never going to feel better. I don’t care what happens anymore.” Tracy rubbed the sides of her forehead. “I’m getting one of my headaches.”

“Let’s get you home, dear,” Ellen suggested. “Tonight we’ll go for a nice dinner at the club.”

“The club? I can’t show my face at the club! That’s where my reception was supposed to be!”

“Then we’ll order in Chinese.”

Charisse was vigorously stirring her tiny cup of tea. “ Tracy, this happens more than you think, and it’s always for the best. We’ve been making wedding gowns for years. We started in Alfred’s mother’s basement out in Indiana.” She tried to laugh. “You wouldn’t believe how many of them never saw the light of day! Boy, do we have stories! But in the end, it always meant the guy was not the right one! You’ll find someone so much better and we’ll make you a fantastic new dress-”

“Over my dead body.”

“Your next wedding dress is on the house!” Alfred said with gusto.

“I want my money back,” Tracy countered in an icy tone. “Then I intend to walk out of here and never come back. This place is nothing but a nightmare.”

Charisse went running for the checkbook. “If you don’t mind I’ll postdate the check. We have to move some money around in the accounts. We were robbed of cash, too, you know. Lots and lots of it. And some of my favorite pieces of vintage jewelry…”

“If the check bounces, my lawyer will sue you.”

The phone rang. Alfred grabbed it off the table next to the couch. Regan was surprised he didn’t let it go to voice mail, but then again he was frantic to avoid this unpleasant conversation. “Hello? Yes, this is Alfred. You like my dresses?” He smiled. “Thank you very much. You’re from where? This is a terrible thing…” He twirled the cord of the phone, listened, then cupped the phone with his hand. “It’s a reporter from the Galaxy Gossip. He feels just awful about what happened. He wants to do a human interest story on the five brides who lost their dresses…”