“…fingertip veil and lace-edged overskirt train, five feet long but flowing out.”
Temple nodded.
Kit turned to Courtney, all business, all icy command. “Whose is this and how can we get it?” She could have been a mobster ordering a hit.
“It’s…abandoned.” Courtney again appeared on the verge of tears. “It’s rather legendary. It was ordered by a magician’s assistant on the Strip, several years ago. We use it as an example for flower girls, very feminine but…petite.”
“A magician’s assistant?” Temple asked.
Courtney was on firm ground here. She turned to Temple and looked down on her without appearing to tower. “Magician’s assistants must often be tiny and agile. You know, to be credibly sawn into two pieces in a box. I’m told this one said she was leaving the business to marry. And as for the magicians, they come and go in Vegas, even the iconic institution of Siegfried and Roy, tragically not performing anymore. I believe this magician had retired, and his assistant therefore also. We tried our best, having such a petite woman as a client and designed this especially for her. But. It’s Vegas. She disappeared.”
“So we can buy it?” Kit asked.
Courtney laid a large hand on the dummy’s small shoulder. “Can you buy a mystery? It’s strange. I’m a veteran employee, but I never thought of this gown for you, Miss Barr. It’s been a fixture. The staff had really liked the client, and then it was like someone in the family vanished. Not stood up at the altar, but never came in for the final fittings. We do weddings. This is a happy business, despite occasional silly spats over the details. I’ll talk to the owner, but if someone loves our Lost Lady’s gown, I’m sure she’ll be happy to give it a new home.”
“May I try it on?” Temple suggested, already realizing the very front of the hem would be ankle-length on her, when wearing the Midnight Louie Austrian-crystal pavé Stuart Weitzman pumps.
“Certainly. You and your mother can have a seat in our dressing room while I unpin it from the model.”
Then they were alone, seated on slipper chairs in front of a narrow platform with three steps up, three steps down and a nine-foot train-flaunting “aisle” between them.
Kit took Temple’s hand, leaned across the space between their chairs, and whispered, “Karen would have a fit if she knew I was playing Mama for a Day. I’m loving it. I’m way past my own children, and you’re my favorite niece.”
“I’m your only niece.”
Kit shrugged. Her hand tightened on Temple’s. “One thing. You don’t think the vanished magician’s assistant was from Max’s act when he folded up his show in Vegas and hared off? That might be a little too weird in the ‘something old’ department.”
Temple laughed “Kit. Max worked alone. He was the whole show. I might have fantasized being one briefly, but he never had a female assistant, except for a flock of doves, fifty percent of whom might be female.”
“Max worked alone.” Kit shook her head at herself. “I should have known.”
“I’m really excited,” Temple said. “That neckline is so different. The gathers and lines are graceful and there’s the train, a slim yet sweeping train. Not a nuisance, not a pregnant peacock’s tail with a bow on the butt.”
Courtney knocked, swept in when invited, a long limpid column of white silk lifted high and trailing fabric. Now Temple understood that Courtney’s height was a job requirement.
She dangled the confection from another hang-’em-high hook. Temple thought of Western movies.
“You’ll need the correct undergarment, of course. But for now, I think au natural will work.”
Temple turned her back to the mirrors, unhooked her 32-A bra and let it drop to the floor as Courtney wafted the gown over her bare shoulders.
Courtney plucked and twisted and hooked. Apparently these things must be done, as according to the Wicked Witch of the West, del-i-cate-ly. Temple looked over her bared shoulders at Kit.
Courtney turned to her too. “Mrs. Barr, I think you’ve called the size to an A-plus.” She turned Temple to face her.
It was so strange to Temple, the tug of all that fabric on her twisting torso. She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin.
“Voila.” Courtney stepped back. “Wedding portrait pose already.”
Kit had her smart phone stretched out and clicking away.
“The fabric is so light and airy,” Temple said, taking a tentative step toward the runway.
Courtney and Kit were conferring on the slipper chairs in quick, low tones about “drape, accessories, head piece and veil”.
The gown followed Temple as naturally as a breath. She finally peeked at herself in the huge three-way mirror. Definitely not your Photoshopped bridal site sight. She put a tentative high heel on a step. A bridal shoe bearing the black Austrian-crystal image of Midnight Louie should not be tentative.
She marched to the middle, turned around and swept offstage to face herself flushed and happy again in the intimidating three-way mirror. She knew she could never step wrong with Midnight Louie by her side and on her feet.
13
Mother Confessor
Molina unfolded and rose to her impressive five-ten inches of height, bending to swoop up his coffee mug and her almost full lemonade glass.
“I have a confession to make. Better get you a beer.” And then she left the room.
Matt had little time to speculate, and decided to put on his counseling hat, a deerstalker in this case.
“Hmm,” Matt intoned as Molina returned to put the open beer bottle down in front of him, “Dos Equis. ‘Dos’ is ‘two’ in Spanish. Two horses. You must be facing at least a two-pipe problem.”
He smiled and answered her puzzled frown. “That’s what Sherlock Holmes told Watson when the great detective was handling a particularly troubling case. It was a three pipe problem. So I’m playing Watson here? At least I don’t smoke.”
I regret to inform you,” she said with that utterly deadpan Molina the homicide lieutenant face, “that you’re facing a pretty nasty rejection.”
“Rejection?”
All Matt could think was, Oh, God, Molina had been keeping tabs on Kinsella and he was back in town…seeing Temple? No. Temple wouldn’t put up with his now-you-see-him, now-you-don’t act anymore.
Still, his head was buzzing so wildly he almost didn’t take in her next sentence.
“This is no mystery. You are no longer required as escort for the annual Fall Dad-Daughter Dance at the junior high.”
“What? Mariah? She doesn’t want to go now?”
“She doesn’t want to go with you. I’m sure it breaks your heart. She’s changed her mind, Matt. Mariah has decided to ask Rafi Nadir to escort her to the Dad-Daughter dance this fall.”
“Whew,” Matt said, just happy not to have heard the word, “Max”, then taking a pull on the Dos Equis. “Would you be insulted if I said I’m relieved? That’s a really mature decision on Mariah’s part. Rafi Nadir has truly helped her fulfill her aspirations without betraying your confidence. He’s playing a Dad-type role he never had a chance at earlier. So what’s the problem?”
“Rafi Nadir is an Arab-American name,” Molina said absently. “Think Ralph Nader, the long-time political activist, who has Lebanese roots. These days a Mideast ancestry can be as targeted as a Hispanic one.”
Now she was twisting the condensation-dewed beer bottle in her hand.
“Look, Carmen.” He nodded at her hands. “You never fidget. It’s against your professional and personal code. You’ve been fidgeting since I got here. What’s really going on?”
“Mariah and Rafi are coming back from a rehearsal session at a studio. Seems everything musical today involves digital manipulation.” Her apologetic crooked smile and shrug were out of character too.