The Disappearing Dress (2/3)

There I was in Cefalù, staring down the barrel of a bad wedding. Little did I know just how spectacularly bad it was really going to be.

Ever since seeing Tasha’s wedding dress I couldn’t stop thinking about how beautiful it was and I was even sort of looking forward to seeing it ‘in action’ on the big day, even if I wasn’t thrilled about the wedding itself. “What they hey,” I thought, “Even if it all goes pear-shaped, they can always get divorced and Tasha will get to keep the dress. Maybe I could look after it on the weekends!”

The strange thing was that ever since the morning Tasha showed me that wondrous gown, my enthusiasm for the wedding had increased. At the same time, her morale had crashed. She was traipsing about the place looking like Ophelia with a toothache and dropping dark hints.

That night, the bride’s party was having aperol spritzes on the terrace. There was me, Tasha and her bridesmaids, the triplets Kerry, Sherry and Terry. For some reason, conversation turned to unconventional relationships. I forget who started it but I think it might have been Tasha. In retrospect, it was a Sign but I didn’t know it then.

“You know men?” she said, pensively twizzling her gold-paper straw.

We all said we did.

“Well, how common would you say it was for a man to have strange urges? On a scale out of one to ten, with ten being ‘Normal.’”

“What sort of strange urges?” I asked.

“In the bedroom,” Tasha said, with a quaver in her voice.

“You mean fetishes?” asked Kerry, who wore glasses and was considered the toughest of the three.

“I dated a guy with a foot fetish once,” said Sherry, who was the amorous one. “I couldn’t go around barefoot in public. It would set him off.” She giggled.

“I think it’s like geese,” mused Terry, the ditzy one.

“How’s that now?” asked Kerry.

“You know how a baby goose gloms onto the first thing he sees? It’s like that with a man. Once he hits puberty, the first thing he sees that excites him, whether it be a foot or a boob or an octopus girl…that’s the thing that’s going to excite him for the rest of his life and there’s nothing he can do about it.”

“Um, I don’t think it works like that,” said Kerry.

“I don’t mean fetishes,” said Tasha, who looked annoyed. “More like…forbidden fruit.”

“Nuns?” Terry asked, leaning forward with interest.

“No, I see what she’s getting at,” said Sherry nodding knowingly. “And I would say it’s a ten out of ten—every guy likes forbidden fruit. The grass is greener, you know. They all have roving eyes, to a man. They’re all latent cheaters, even your Derek. But as long as you know that about them, it’s not a problem. You just have to factor it in.”

“Oh shut up!” said Kerry, glaring at Sherry. “Don’t listen to her, hon,” she said patting Tasha’s hand. “Sherry’s only saying that because she exclusively dates married men.”

“No I don’t.”

“Well, men who are already in committed relationships then.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Sherry admitted.

“I’m not talking about that either,” said Tasha, exasperated.

“Well then what are you talking about?” I asked. I was starting to get a headache. It seemed this conversation was just going around in circles.

“Weird stuff. Illegal.”

“You mean…bestiality?” Terry shrieked.

“Shhh, no!” Tasha looked appalled. “But it’s that sortof ballpark. Um, well…you could call it ancient Greek?”

“Pederasty?” I said, more confused than ever.

“Oh never mind!” Tasha cried and stormed off.

The triplets and I looked at each other, baffled.

“She must be talking about Derek, right? Do you think he’s a necrophiliac?” Terry whispered.

“Don’t be stupid,” Kerry snapped.

“He’s definitely not,” Sherry smiled into her spritz. And somehow I didn’t like the way she said it, I didn’t like it at all.

***

It all kicked off the day before the wedding. Wedding-Eve, if you will.

I was the first one to the breakfast hall because I love food, I love coffee, I love the fact that Sicilians eat icecream in a giant bun for breakfast, I love the taste of freshly squeezed Sicilian lemons, and I love mornings. Frankly, my intention at this point was to hoard all the pleasure I possibly could out of this trip. If I was going to have to wear a giant pomegranate costume just to watch my friend throw her life away on a certified drip…Well, let’s just say that I intended to have a good breakfast.

I think I entered the breakfast hall at about 8.25. I was there for five minutes before Sir Regulus Wren came along.

Regulus is Tasha’s dad. He’s a big-shot divorce lawyer in London, a senior partner at Green & Wren Solicitors. Basically if anyone rich or famous gets divorced in the UK, one of the couple is going to hire Regulus. Not only is he loaded, he is also fairly handsome. He also looks extremely young, even though he must be about 50. I suspect he’s had a lot of plastic surgery but it’s the kind you don’t really notice. He’s always on ‘eligible bachelor’ lists.

“I see you’re doing yourself well Susan,” he smirked, nodding at the collection of tasty treats on my table.

“All right Reggie,” I grimaced.

Did I mention that he is also a posh twit? Which, in my opinion cancels out all the positives. He wears a tailored suit with an emerald silk cravat. His hair is styled with a big bouffant topknot. He left Tasha’s mother Julie when Tasha was a toddler, and then he went to London and became a bigshot lawyer. Tasha forgave him for that but I don’t think Julie did. Frankly, I was on Julie’s side on that one.

He scooted over to the salad bar, picked up a couple of pieces of lettuce, ordered an espresso and proceeded to ignore me.

Next to come in were Derek’s folks: his parents Virginia and Ian Harris. That would have been about 8.40. Looking at these two stiffs, I could see how Derek was the way he was. It wasn’t an excuse, but it would have helped a psychologist identify root causes. Virginia was one of those imperious tall wiry blondes with twisted mouths. She was wearing something expensive and a tiny hat perched on the side of her head. Her husband Ian, who I think is an auctioneer, resembled a bespectacled bullfrog.

I should add that with them they brought a tiny snaggle-toothed Yorkshire terrier that Virginia was pushing around in a little pram. She’d tied a little bow around a tuft on top of its head. Seeing me, the Yorkie snarled and Virginia chuckled like a doting nanny.

“There there, Sextus, mummy will protect you, won’t she. May we sit here?”

I was about to say, ‘Definitely not’, but I realized she was talking to Regulus.

“Certainly, certainly,” said Regulus. “I should be charmed.”

He stood up.

“You’re Sir Wren, I believe?” said Virginia. “Derek has told us all about you. He is a solicitor too, you know, graduated top of his class at the Cambridge Faculty of Law.”

“Indeed? A credit to his parenting, I imagine,” said Regulus. Virginia simpered.

“This is my husband Ian, he is a Baron, though he doesn’t like to advertise it, do you dear?”

Ian said nothing, but stuck out a hand, sensing that it was required of him.

“Pleasure,” he said unconvincingly.

“Likewise. And who’s this handsome little chap?” Regulus asked, bending over the pram.

“This is Sextus, aren’t you? Yes you are.” The creature started squirming and panting. “Oh! Ian dear, I think Sexty needs a tiny tinkle. Would you mind taking him to the garden?”

Ian looked as if he did mind but knew it wasn’t negotiable. He set off with the pram.

At 8.45 Tasha and Derek came in. Virginia called Derek over and started talking about how her darling son was looking to establish himself at a good law firm. Seeing the two men next to each other, I saw there was something different about Derek. I couldn’t put my finger on it at first but then realized that he was dressed differently. Ordinarily he dressed in the ‘anonymous toff’ style—trousers, shirt and a sweater. On this occasion, though, he looked like a dandy off to Ascot. He had on a tailored suit and a buttercup-yellow cravat. His shoes, vest and blazer all looked optimally fancy. Not only that, but his hair was done in a big puff.

It struck me all of a sudden that he was trying to look like Regulus. Seen from a distance, they could almost have been twins. Fascinated, I noticed that Derek was also mirroring Regulus’ gestures. The way Virginia was talking Derek’s talents up to Regulus, and affectionally stroking her son’s arm, I realized that this was all some scheme of Virginia’s to get Derek hired by the family firm. Tasha and I exchanged a look across the room and I felt a pang of pity. She was the picture of mute misery.

The triplets, Zach the best man and Tasha’s mum Julie all arrived in a bunch at 9.00. Ian followed close behind and for some reason he was as red as a beetroot. I was staring at him in surprise when he looked over at me and started guiltily. In fact, he was so disconcerted he knocked the pram into a chair, which caused Sextus to yelp.

“Oh, my love, what is it?” Virigina cried and gathered Sextus up in her arms, then covered him in kisses. “Mummy loves her baby very much. Very, very much! She could just eat you up.” she crooned.

Tasha stood up suddenly, knocking over her chair and ran out of the room. On her way out she almost bowled over Giorgio, who was coming in with a worried expression on his face.

“Ops!” he said as she fled past him. “Scusate, signori!” he addressed the room. “’As anyone seen my golden poodle cufflinks? I seem to ’ave lost one. Can’t find it anywhere…”

I decided to go and see if Tasha was OK. This new habit of hers of storming out of rooms seemed to be a worrying sign. Suddenly, I heard a scream from one of the hotel rooms. It sounded like Tasha, so I ran as fast as heels would allow.

“What is it?” I cried breathlessly, seeing her tottering in the doorway of her Honeymoon suite.

“The dress,” she said. “It’s gone!”

The scream had acted like a summons to the whole party, and they gathered in the garden clamouring to know what the matter was. They were all on the verge of rushing into the room like a herd of buffalo. Having watched more than my fair share of police procedurals, I immediately took charge and whistled.

“No one goes in there—it’s a crime scene now. We can’t contaminate it. Zach, go and ask the receptionist to call the police. Julie, take Tasha back to the breakfast hall and make her some sweet tea. Sherry, look after Giorgio, he just fainted. The rest of you, go back into the breakfast hall immediately.”

“It can’t be gone,” Regulus muttered. “I had to sell my 1950 Alfetta for that thing. It can’t be. Let me look,” he was about to barge in when I stepped in front of the door.

“No Reggie. If it’s there, the police will let you know, OK.”

About twenty minutes later, the detective arrived. He was a short, stocky guy with a deep tan and a very high opinion of himself. You could tell from the way he walked slowly and proudly—like some overfed staffy selecting the optimal peeing post.

“Buongiorno, signorina. Zis is ze room?”

“Yes,” I said.

“OK. I am Inspector Montalbano.”

“Piacere. Where’s your forensics team?” I asked.

He smiled wryly, walked in, looked about a bit then walked out.

“OK, grazie.”

“That’s it?” I said.

“I ask la sposa bella to write ze report.”

“Aren’t you going to check for fingerprints and DNA and things?”

“Cara mia, you ’ave a dead body?”

“No, but—”

“Allora. Zis is not CSI Miami. It is a cloth zat maybe a silly girl put in ze wrong place.”

“But!”

“My ’ousekeeper ’as made pasta ’ncassata and I can not waste time on zis.”

He waved a hand and stalked away, leaving me boiling with rage behind him. Typical patronizing, chauvinist…

Well, if that Sicilian bozo wasn’t going to investigate, I might as well do it myself. I opened the door of the Honeymoon Suite and took stock of the scene. Breathing in, I noticed a faint scent of eucalyptus.

The wardrobe door was still open. Whoever had taken the dress had taken its protective cover too, but they’d left the hanger, which had broken in two and was lying on the floor. It suggested the thief had been in a hurry. Bending down to pick up the hanger, I noticed a long, straight black hair. Tasha was blonde. It might not have meant anything, though—who knows how thoroughly the maids cleaned the carpet. I fetched a small plastic bag from the bathroom and put the hair in there.

While I was in the bathroom I noticed that it hadn’t been cleaned properly. There were still damp towels on the floor and the soap and toilet paper needed replenishing. It surprised me because the bed had been made hotel-style, with the decorative pillows and token bedspread thing set up neatly. Pretty sloppy housekeeping, I thought disapprovingly. I’d worked as a maid in the summers in my parents’ hotel so I know what’s expected in a good place.

Going back out into the bedroom, I saw something gleam on the floor. It was Giorgio’s golden-poodle cufflink. I picked it up and put it in the bag with the hair.

At that point I heard a general murmur that meant the detective had dismissed everyone and they were returning to their rooms. I went out of Tasha’s room and slipped into my own, two doors along.

As soon as I went into my room, I knew something was wrong. It smelled funny. Someone had put paper towels on the carpet, and they were soaked. Not only that, but there was a little blue ribbon on the floor. I realized then what the smell was: Sextus had peed in my room! That little mutt. No wonder Ian had looked so flustered.

Looking around the room, I saw what looked like a dead cat and screamed. This was the last straw.

I stormed out and saw Ian across the garden.

“Hey!” I yelled.

His eyebrows shot up but otherwise he still looked like a bullfrog. Casting a nervous glance at his wife, who was too busy snuggling with Sextus to notice, he bustled over to me.

“Was that your room?” he asked, sotto voce. “I’m sorry about it but you really shouldn’t have left your door open like that. Tink…er, the dog is curious. When I let him down he scampered in there and, er, relieved himself before I could stop him.”

“But I didn’t leave my door open. I locked it!”

“Well, it was open when I was here,” he said stubbornly.

“It can’t have been.”

“Do you suppose Sextus reached up and opened it himself?”

“All right. It’s odd, that’s all. Here’s his ribbon. But I would like to ask you to remove the cat that he murdered.”

“Eh?” said Ian.

“The dead cat. I can’t deal with it.”

“Sextus couldn’t kill a baby mouse.”

I stared.

“I’ve tried him on one,” he said. “It was an experiment.”

“Well, I’ll bloody well show you it,” I said. Pushing him into my room, I pointed to the furry dark bundle lying inert on my floor.

Ian bent down and squinted at it.

“That’s not a cat,” he said, “It’s a wig.”