Right away Regan could tell something was wrong. The door to the loft was ajar. Whenever she’d been at the salon, Alfred always made a point to keep the door closed. He was paranoid that his genius might float out the door and people would somehow steal the ideas for his designs. Regan hurried across the hall and pushed the door fully open. There was no one in sight. The dress racks were empty. But one lone gown was in shreds on the floor.

“Charisse?” Regan called. “Alfred?”

There was no answer.

Nora grabbed Regan’s arm. “Regan, be careful.”

“Charisse?” Regan called again, her voice rising. “Alfred?” She slowly moved farther into the loft and saw that the shredded dress had drops of blood on it. Regan inhaled sharply and hurried to the back of the loft and around the corner to where she knew their bedroom was. Gingerly, Regan opened the door.

“Oh, my God!” Regan cried.

Charisse and Alfred were stretched out on their bed, bound and gagged. Regan hurried over and removed Alfred’s gag.

“Regan!” he cried, struggling for breath. “A couple of thieves broke in here in the middle of the night. They tied us up. I thought they were going to kill us. They smashed our safe here in the bedroom and grabbed our cash and jewelry!”

“They did more than that,” Regan said quickly as she ran around the bed and untied the cloth around Charisse’s mouth. “It looks like all your dresses are gone. Except one that could use a lot of help.”

Two screams pierced the air: One belonged to Alfred. The other emanated from the owner of that sorry bridal gown who had just arrived in the next room.

Regan couldn’t decide whose scream was worse.

Jack had gone to his parents’ house in Bedford, New York, after Regan’s shower. He’d wanted to spend a little time with his family on Saturday. The next week would be hectic, and he was burdened with a series of bank robberies that had been taking place around the city since January. The robber always struck when it was raining hard or snowing and everyone was wearing gloves and hats and bulky clothing. The perp would walk into a bank wearing a dark hooded raincoat, dark glasses, and a fake beard or mustache. Most criminals who knew they’d be caught on surveillance cameras did their best to disguise their look-this bank robber was no exception.

The banks were always on alert, but this case had them all stymied. They’d studied the surveillance pictures from all eight robberies, but so far had no suspect. Whoever it was always managed to escape into the driving rain or snow and disappear.

It was driving Jack crazy. He hoped there’d be a break in the case before he got married and went on his honeymoon. He and Regan would be spending two and a half weeks in Europe. Then, the best part was that after this trip she was coming home with him, not heading back to Los Angeles. The last few weeks she’d sent numerous boxes filled with clothes, pictures, and books to his apartment. It didn’t bother her at all to move into his place. She didn’t give him any of the I-won’t-feel-as-if-it’s-our-home. Instead, she’d said, “I love your apartment. Let’s see how we feel in a year or two, then we can make a move if we want.”

Jack’s mother had cooked a late breakfast for the assorted family members who’d come into town for the shower. Most weren’t leaving until after the wedding.

“One more week, Jack,” his mother had said when she handed him a plate of eggs.

“This time next week Sheila Mullen will be drowning her sorrows,” Jack’s older sister, Trish, teased.

“I haven’t seen her since high school,” Jack protested.

“She was always sweet on you,” his mother remembered. “But Regan is ‘The One.’ ”

“You’ve got that right, Mom,” Jack said as he salted his eggs. He was about to dig in when his cell phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID: 201. That’s Nora’s cell phone, he realized. Flipping it open, he answered quickly. “Is everything all right?” he asked.

As he listened, his body relaxed. “Nora, I’ll leave now.” He closed the phone and looked around at all the inquiring faces of his family members. “Regan’s dress was stolen. The designers’ studio was broken into last night. That’s all I know.”

“That’s enough!” his mother exclaimed as Jack took off out the back door.

“Mommmmmyyyyyyy! Look at my dress!”

Regan finished untying the rope that bound Charisse’s delicate wrists and ran back into the front room while Alfred yelled, “I’ll call 911!” The scene that greeted Regan was like something out of a Greek tragedy. A red-haired young woman was crumpled on the floor, clutching the shredded bloodied garment that as of eight hours ago was supposed to make her feel like a princess on the biggest day of her life. Now the sight of its ruination had transformed her into a raving lunatic. “Whyyyyyyy? Why me?”

An older woman, presumably Mommy, was standing over the bride-to-be, weakly attempting to offer comfort with a half-hearted shoulder massage. “I told you you should have worn my wedding dress. You’re a little heavier than I was when I married your father, but it could have been let out. I packed that gown up so carefully in the hopes that one day a daughter of mine would want to wear it down the aisle. The pictures of Grandma on her wedding day sixty-two years ago, wearing that very dress are stunning.” She shook her head. “Stunning. Too bad you didn’t want to continue a family tradition.”

A howl erupted from the mass of white fluff as the bride shut her eyes and cradled the gown to her breast. She lifted her head and started to shriek, “But Mom-” The second she saw Regan she stopped short. Wiping her heavily made-up eyes that now resembled a raccoon’s, she grunted, “Who are you?”

“Regan Reilly. If misery loves company, then you should know that my wedding dress is among the missing.”

“You see?” her mother said. “She’s not crying.”

“She’s probably still in shock,” the girl replied as she picked at a piece of black goo that was stuck in the corner of her eye. “And her dress might still be in one piece.”

“I happen to be a private investigator,” Regan said. “If you don’t mind, could you please let go of your dress? I saw there was blood on it. It could be used to gather evidence.”

In a dramatic gesture, the girl tossed the dress aside, pushed herself off the floor, and straightened up to her height of five feet nine inches. Regan figured she was probably in her midtwenties. Her short, stylish red hair, freckles, shapely but slightly stocky build, and tough attitude reminded Regan of a girl she’d gone to high school with. That is, until the girl got expelled. But the girl from high school never showed any emotion, even when she was ceremoniously shown the front door by the principal. This one looked like a case of “the bigger they come, the harder they fall.”

The girl brushed off her jeans and ran her hands through her hair, which appeared to have been recently cut. All the how-to wedding books told you to get your hair cut at least two weeks before the wedding so it would look natural. Too bad they didn’t drive home the fact that you should have your dress safe in your own closet at least a month before the big day.

“I’m Brianne,” the girl said somewhat peevishly. “This is my mother, Teresa.”

Regan shook both their hands and quickly introduced them to her mother and Kit who had come into the room. Under different circumstances, there would have been congenial wedding talk, but these weren’t different circumstances.

“How did this happen?” Brianne asked. “And where’s Alfred and Charisse?”

“Here I am!” Alfred announced, appearing in a burgundy silk robe. Regan had noticed that Alfred never walked into a room. He made an entrance. Just under six feet tall, he had a thin frame, wispy brown hair and ever present facial stubble that always made Regan wonder about his shaving schedule. How could he always look as if he hadn’t picked up a razor in at least three days? But he was attractive in a brooding way. “Brianne!” he now cried, sweeping toward the distraught bride-to-be. He took her strong hands, which she kept perfectly manicured-the better to flaunt her rock of an engagement ring-and leaned down to kiss them. He then turned to Teresa who was watching him with a stone face. She had never been impressed by Alfred’s airs nor the prices he charged, and now she was more perturbed than ever. Her dyed-blond hair had been teased and sprayed so much it resembled a shellacked helmet. She wore bat’s-eyes glasses decorated with rhinestones, tight brown pants, high heels, and a stretch top that she tugged over her rear end every few seconds.