“Neither is vinegar and water,” Maggie offered, slipping off her jacket. “Or so I’ve heard,” she added, cheeks turning pink.
Avis smiled and gestured toward the far wall. “I’m just going to see if I have something else that Roma might like.”
“I’m going to need a roll of double-sided tape to make this dress work,” Roma said when she came out of the dressing room. She put one forearm under the boned and underwired corset bodice of the dress and made a show of hiking up her chest, complete with a grunt for the effort.
I made the mistake of looking at Maggie. We both dissolved in laughter.
The second dress was a strapless mermaid-style gown. Roma looked beautiful but once again Mags and I couldn’t contain our laughter when Roma tried to sit down and discovered she couldn’t, no matter how she contorted her body.
The next dress was a fairy-tale tulle-and-lace creation. When Roma sat down on the bench beside us the skirt puffed out and up with an audible push of air so that Roma was surrounded by a cloud of tulle.
I pressed my hand against my mouth so I wouldn’t laugh.
Maggie frowned and tipped her head to once side. “It’s not that bad,” she said. “The skirt may be a little too poufy.”
Roma looked at Avis. “How do I pee?” she asked.
Avis made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “Oh, that’s no problem,” she said, as a customer carrying two sweaters and a black pencil skirt approached us. “You get one friend to hold up the skirt and the other gets your underwear down.” She headed toward the woman with the sweaters. “I’ll be right back,” she added over her shoulder.
“I call dibs on holding up the skirt,” Maggie said.
She and Roma both looked at me. “If I have to help you get your underwear down so you can pee on your wedding day I am not wearing chartreuse,” I said firmly.
Maggie was struggling not to laugh.
Roma looked down at the froth of fabric, lace and sequins around her. “How do you feel about helping me pee right now?”
In the end none of the dresses Roma tried on worked and after an hour we adjourned to Eric’s Place to figure out what to do next.
“I can just wear a regular dress,” Roma said, dropping two marshmallows into her cup of hot chocolate.
“It was just one store,” Maggie said. “And a special day deserves a special dress.”
I nodded and since no one was looking at me dropped three marshmallows into my cup. “Maggie’s right. As my mother says, how many times do you get married in life? Two, three times, tops.”
Roma smiled.
Ella King was sanding over by the counter, probably waiting for a take-out order. Maggie suddenly said, “Ella.”
“I see her,” I said.
Maggie shook her head. “No, I mean Roma needs Ella.”
“What do you mean I need Ella?” Roma asked.
“She could design a dress for you.”
“Really?” Roma looked uncertain.
Maggie nodded and got to her feet. “I’m going to see if she has a minute.” She walked over to Ella and they spoke for a minute, Maggie’s hands gesturing as she talked, then Ella came back to the table with her.
She smiled hello at us. I stood up and got a chair from a nearby table for her.
“Maggie says you’re having trouble finding a wedding dress,” she said to Roma as she sat down.
Roma nodded. “Yes. I need one I can walk in, pee in and that doesn’t require the use of double-sided tape anywhere on my body.”
Maggie smiled at me across the table.
Ella nodded as though she’d heard that before. “Do you have a particular style that you like?”
Roma picked up a spoon and stirred the marshmallows in her cup. “I’d like something simple and sleek with no lace or tulle—or boning.” She made a face.
Ella pulled a fine-point Pitt pen out of her purse. She grabbed a napkin and quickly sketched something, then she pushed the napkin across the table.
Roma looked at the drawing and a smile stretched across her face. “Yes,” she said. “That’s what I want.”
“I could make it for you,” Ella said, “if you’d like.”
Maggie and I leaned over to look at the sketch. The dress Ella had drawn had a sleek, fitted silhouette with sheer, long sleeves, a draped neckline and a flowing overskirt. The dress was Roma.
Roma looked at us.
“Yes,” Maggie said.
“Yes,” I echoed.
Ella smiled, and a flush of color touched her cheeks. “Call me tomorrow,” she said to Roma. “I’ll do a better sketch and we can get together to talk about fabric.” She got to her feet.
“I will,” Roma said. “Thank you so much.”
Ella said good-bye and walked back over to the counter, where Nic was waiting with a large take-out bag.
Roma looked at us, her expression a mix of excitement and a bit of shock. “I’m actually getting married,” she said.
I laughed. “What did you think all that lace was about?”
“What color are you thinking about?” Maggie asked, leaning forward for another look at Ella’s sketch.
I caught Nic’s eye as Maggie and Roma talked about blush versus ecru. I pointed at the carafe of hot chocolate and he nodded. I glanced at the napkin Ella had left on the table. Roma’s dress was going to be beautiful. She was going to be beautiful. I wished every problem could be solved so easily.
• • •
Hercules moved back and forth between the bedroom and the bathroom as I was getting ready the next morning, which I didn’t seem to be doing fast enough for him. Spending some time with Mia on Sunday night seemed to have motivated him to help figure out who had killed Leo Janes and he clearly wanted to keep going. He sat in front of the closet making grumbling sounds in the back of his throat and when I pulled my head out he was gone. I guessed that he’d given up and gone to wait for me in the kitchen.
When I got downstairs I found him sitting on top of my messenger bag, which I’d left on one of the kitchen chairs. Since Hercules knew my laptop was inside, I wondered if he was suggesting we needed to do some more research.
I had called Simon after I’d gotten home from dress shopping to share what Mary had told me. “I’m sorry,” I’d said. “It doesn’t really help, does it?”
“It was a long shot,” Simon said. “Thanks for trying. Maybe the PI will be able to track down the so-called witness or maybe he’ll come up with something else.”
It occurred to me that I hadn’t told Simon about my conversation with Celia Hunter. “Simon, did your father ever mention a woman named Celia Hunter to you?” I asked.
“The name doesn’t ring a bell,” he said. “Why? Who is she?”
“She was a friend of your mother. She’s here in Mayville Heights.” I hesitated. “She came to talk to your father.”
“Does she know he’s dead?” he said, his voice tightening.
I was in the big wing chair in the living room. I stretched my legs out on the footstool, which Owen took as an invitation to jump up and sprawl over them. “Yes,” I said. “She talked to him a couple of times before he died.”
“Do you think she has anything to do with this kick Dad was on to find out more about my mother’s accident?”
I rubbed my shoulder with my free hand, wishing I could see his face. It was hard to read him when I couldn’t see his expression. “Not directly. I don’t see how she could have been the source of whatever information he came across. But she did have a letter from your mother.” I let out a breath. “You know that they found some mail along with that cache of old photos when they took down that wall at the post office?”
“Kathleen, are you saying there was a letter from my mother in that mail?” He sounded skeptical and I didn’t blame him.