When I agreed to move in with my boyfriend, Jackson Dean, in April, I had a vague notion I’d throw my clothes into a couple of bags and carry them into his house. Job done. I mean, how much clothes could I still have in my apartment after spending most of my nights at his place since February?
Three weeks later, I was eyeing the pile of boxes filling my apartment with dismay. I’d spent every free evening—which admittedly hadn’t been all that many—stuffing every box I could beg, steal, or borrow with gewgaws I had no recollection acquiring. Why did I own a smoothie blender anyway, or two irons?
When had I ever ironed anything?
I’d contacted Goodwill for the furniture I wouldn’t be taking with me, and I’d cleaned the empty cupboards and wardrobes. I was done.
It was Monday morning, my last waking up in this room, a nostalgia trip I needed in order to say goodbye to the apartment where I’d lived since my divorce six years ago.
I’d spent the night alone because Jackson had refused to sleep over. It had something to do with sleeping on a narrow mattress, as I’d already given the bed away, but I’m sure we could have made it work.
His loss.
“I think we need a moving truck,” I said to Jackson, who had come to fetch me to work. I was his apprentice at Jackson Dean Investigations, learning to become a private detective—a definite move up from the waitressing that I’d done before, even if I wasn’t exactly good at it yet.
Jackson was a former juvenile delinquent-in-making turned Marine turned homicide detective turned private investigator after inheriting the agency—and the house in Marine Park I’d be moving into with him—from his uncle. He was thirty-five, eight years older than me, almost six feet tall with a slim, athletic body he took good care of, and handsome, with dark eyes and hair, a propensity for wearing black, and a smile that made my knees weak.
Jackson studied the boxes with narrowed eyes. I could almost hear him making mental calculations. “Maybe we could move a couple of boxes at the time in my car during the week. It would be easier.”
“But with the truck, we could move everything at one go on Sunday,” I countered.
“Day after the wedding?” He gave me a dubious look. “We won’t be in any condition to carry one box, let alone all these. Let’s do it on Friday.”
He had a point, but I shook my head. “I’d rather be too tired to move because of the wedding than too tired to celebrate the wedding because of the move.”
A wry smile tugged his mouth. “Later next week?”
“I guess we could take a day off…”
We shared doubtful glances. With our current workload, it was a miracle we were able to take the weekend off.
“Sunday it is, then.” Jackson glanced into my housemate’s room, where chaos still reigned. “Will Jarod be ready by then?”
I spread my arms. “He claims so. He said he won’t pack his computers until he absolutely has to, but I’m not sure about his clothes and other stuff.”
Jarod Fitzpatrick, my roommate since last August, would be moving with us. It might seem unorthodox and unromantic, but it was necessary. An assassin had held him hostage during our last big case, and it had left him jittery. He had a doctorate to finish in computer science and I sincerely doubted he would be able to do it if we left him on his own.
Jackson hadn’t objected. In fact, he had suggested it himself. He had a spare room filled with all sorts of junk, mostly the agency’s archives from the time his uncle owned it. It now filled his downstairs study. Good thing he never used it.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” he said philosophically. Then he grinned. “So … are you ready for the final fitting of your wedding dress?”
Jackson and I weren’t getting married. We’d only dated since January, and I’d already done one fast wedding when I was twenty. It didn’t end well.
You might say moving in together after barely five months was fast too, but we’d known each other since August, when I became his apprentice. Or since childhood, really, as he’d been the best friend of my eldest brother, Travis, but since they were eight years older than me, I had no recollection of him before he disappeared from our lives at seventeen.
We’d been through some exciting and hair-raising stuff these past months that had helped us bond. Taking this step felt good and right.
The wedding was for my six-years-older sister, Theresa, or Tessa as we called her; her first marriage. She was marrying her girlfriend, Angela—her second marriage, though first to a woman.
The wedding would be held this Saturday in Douglaston, Queens at the house of Travis and his wife Melissa. They had a garden patio with a perfect seaside view for the ceremony, and a vast lawn for the party tent.
I would be a bridesmaid, and the fitting was for my dress. It was a self-appointed position. Tessa didn’t think bridesmaids, let alone matching dresses, were necessary, but Angela loved all the traditions, so Melissa and I would do the honors.
There would be no one from Angela’s side of the family attending, not as bridesmaids nor guests. They’d cut all contact with her after learning she was gay. To make up for their absence, we were determined to make the wedding exactly like she wanted.
Well, Melissa was organizing everything, but I was fully committed to anything she suggested.
The bridal shop was Angela’s choice though. It wasn’t the best or most elegant establishment in Brooklyn, but it was the closest to University Hospital of Brooklyn, where she and Tessa worked and therefore garnered the least resistance from Tessa. She’d chosen their wedding dresses too, but at least Tessa had showed up for the fittings.
That left the bridesmaids’ outfits for Melissa.
She’d selected beautiful, strapless fuchsia satin dresses with a fitted bodice and a flared skirt. Hers came with a short-sleeved jacket, even though she had a better body than me. She was a former beauty queen whereas I … wasn’t. But she insisted that as a married woman with children, her choice was more appropriate.
I didn’t mind. I was looking forward to seeing the final version, and so was Jackson.
“Can I come in to see it too?” he asked, shooting an appealing smile at me as we drove toward the bridal shop. It was in the middle of a residential street, half a block from the hospital, and you had to know it was there to find it.
“Isn’t it bad luck?”
He laughed. “I think that only applies to the wedding dress.”
I hesitated. “I kind of want to see your reaction when I’m fully decked up.”
“Fine…” His warm smile made me reconsider my decision to wait until Sunday to move in with him. But I’d get to go home with him tonight, so…
He made to turn on the Clarkson Avenue where the bridal shop was, but our way was blocked by a police patrol car. Fire engines filled the street behind it, but the firemen were already storing away their gear after dousing the fire. The pungent smell of smoke filled the air.
We exchanged worried looks. The opposite side of the street from the bridal shop were tall, modern residential buildings with hundreds of apartments. If the fire had broken out there, lives had been in real danger.
Jackson pulled over on the other side of the intersection and we exited. I followed him to the uniformed officer guarding the street, my gut tight with worry.
“Where was the fire, Officer?” Jackson asked, but I’d already spotted it. My legs went weak, and I leaned heavily against Jackson, who wrapped an arm around my waist, startled by my reaction.
“It’s the bridal shop,” I managed to say, my body numb with shock.
The cop nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Was your wedding dress there?”
“No, my sister’s.”
“What happened?” Jackson asked, propping me up. My legs held, but I had trouble breathing. This could not be happening…
“The alarm came around five this morning. Someone from the building across the way noticed it. But I have no idea where or how it started.”
“Thank you,” Jackson said, and guided me toward the car. “What do we do now?”
I studied his face, anxious. “Maybe it isn’t so bad. Should we wait and see?”
He placed a comforting hand on my shoulder and began to knead it. “I doubt there’s anything to see. There’s nothing to salvage at any rate, with the smoke and amount of water they’ve had to use to put the fire out.”
We got back in the car, but he didn’t start the engine. My hands were shaking as I dug out my phone from the large messenger bag I used at work. I selected Melissa’s number—and then I just sat there, staring at it, gathering the courage to press the call icon.
Jackson gave me a concerned look. “Do you want me to call her?”
There was a tiny part in me that wanted to say yes. “I can do this…” I pressed the call icon and she answered before I lost my nerve.
“Hi, Tracy. Are you at the fitting? Is the dress okay?” Her happy tone made me swallow and take too long to answer. “The dress doesn’t fit?” She sounded worried now.
“Well … are you sitting down?”
“Yes. What’s wrong? Have they ruined the dress?”
“After a fashion…” I inhaled deeply and plunged in. “The bridal shop burned down last night.”
The line went quiet. I pulled it away from my ear to check that it was still connected.
“Are you all right? Do I need to come over?”
“No, I’m … fine.” Her voice was reedy. “I’m doing yoga breathing to calm down.”
I let her breathe for a while. It wasn’t like I could do anything. Not even looking at the hunky firemen cheered me up when Jackson pointed them out to me.
Melissa came back on the line. “I’m calm again. Here’s what we’ll do. Tessa will wear my dress. It’ll fit her. I’ll only have to take it out to air.” Tessa was a former supermodel whose body was still super even if she wasn’t a model anymore.
“And I’ll ask around from my friends for a dress that’ll fit Angela. If there’s nothing, then I’ll contact all the bridal shops in New York if I have to. With enough money thrown in, we’ll get a dress for her.” Angela was short and curvy, so nothing off-the-rack wouldn’t fit her. “That leaves only the bridesmaids’ dresses.”
I gave it a quick thought, glad to concentrate on a tangible problem. “I have an excellent fifties style designer cocktail dress in burgundy I’ve only worn once. If you have something to match, great. If not, that’s not the end of the world either.”
She breathed in and out a few times. “Yes, that’s a good plan. Will you tell Tessa and Angela, or shall I?”
“I’m closer. It should be done in person.”
I’d told people their loved ones had died. This couldn’t be worse.
The last fire engine left, and the patrol car moved closer to the shop to keep people from going into the wreckage, opening the street to traffic again. We exited the car and made our way there. My knees buckled when we got the first proper look of the destruction.
The one-story building was only a shell of brick walls that were so blackened you couldn’t tell what the original color had been. The roof was gone, and there were gaping holes where the windows had been.
The bitter smell of burnt debris was overwhelming, making me cough. Water filled the street in large puddles, and the sidewalk outside the shop was littered with broken glass and heaps of what looked like burned, soggy dresses.
Tears sprang to my eyes, and Jackson gave my shoulder a consoling squeeze. “That’s the fire inspector. Let’s go talk to him.”
He was standing in front of one of the holes that had been a window, taking a preliminary survey of the place. Jackson showed him his P.I. ID. “Do you know how the fire started?”
The inspector shot him a suspicious look. “Why?”
“It could be connected to a case we’re working on.”
The inspector took off his helmet and wiped his brow with the back of his hand, leaving a black streak on it.
“I won’t know until I’ve conducted a proper investigation, but that has to wait until the place has cooled down. What kind of case are you working on?”
“Sabotage.” The answer came so smoothly Jackson had probably come up with it while we waited.
The inspector shot him a sharp look. “Is this connected with what happened at the photo studio the night before last? Because that was definitely an arson, and I haven’t even made a proper inspection yet.”
I had a sudden foreboding. There were plenty of photo studios in Brooklyn. It didn’t have to be the one hired for Tessa’s wedding. But I had to ask:
“Which one?”
“Katie’s Portrait Studio.”
Shit.
Return to topWe walked the half a block to the hospital, and then spent twenty minutes locating the correct wing and floor of the pediatric ward where Angela worked as a doctor. We were halted by a receptionist there, a kind-eyed woman in a pink nurse’s uniform.
“May I help you?”
“We’re looking for Angela Baldini.”
Her kind eyes narrowed. “Is this about a patient? Because families aren’t allowed to just waltz in and harass doctors.”
“That’s an excellent policy,” Jackson said warmly, thawing the woman. “We’re Angela’s family, and we have urgent news.”
The woman tensed. “Nothing’s happened to Tessa, has it?”
“No, she’s fine,” he assured her.
Looking relieved, the woman disappeared into the office behind her desk. A moment later, Angela emerged. She was thirty-two, with beautiful Italian features, long black hair she’d braided for work, and a curvy figure that was mostly hidden under a pink doctor’s coat.
Her eyes grew large when she saw us. “Has something happened?”
“Yes,” I sighed, then lifted my hands. “But not to Tessa or anyone in the family.”
She didn’t look relived. “What is it?”
There really was no way to make it sound less than it was. “The bridal shop and photo studio you’re using have burned down.”
She paled and leaned heavily against the reception desk. “Shit.” She glanced hastily around to see if any children had heard, but there weren’t any around. “Have you told Tessa?”
“No, we came to you first.”
“You know your sister,” she said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She frowned. “How is it possible that both were burned?”
“Fire inspector suspects arson.”
Her knees buckled and Jackson hastened to steady her by her elbow. “Is it because of our wedding?”
That hadn’t even occurred to me. “I’m sure it’s unrelated. Who would even know that you’re using these businesses besides us?”
“I’ve mentioned them in my Facebook posts. Some of my family members still follow me there. Maybe they’ve decided to ruin our wedding.”
Tears glistened in her eyes. It hurt her that her family opposed her marriage with such vehemence.
“Well, they won’t succeed,” I stated. “Melissa has everything in hand. Tessa will borrow her old wedding dress and she’s looking for a new one for you. And the photographer can use our cameras if needed.”
“Tracy and I will put our minds to solving this, and we’ll have it sorted out before the wedding,” Jackson added. “Nothing will go wrong.”
“But first, we’ll go tell Tessa.”
Angela smiled, and this time it warmed her eyes too. “Leave her to me. She doesn’t care about the dresses anyway.”
We were silent as Jackson drove us four miles north across Brooklyn to Williamsburg. Katie’s Portrait Studio had come highly recommended by Melissa’s art scene contacts, or we would never have found it.
The studio was—had been—in a narrow, one-story building by Grand Street, wedged between two similar buildings with dilapidated clapboard façades. The neighborhood around them had been given an expensive facelift in recent years and the three were pressed on both sides by tall, modern residential buildings that were so narrow they had clearly replaced similar small shops one by one.
“Do you think someone burned the place to make room for developers?” I asked Jackson as we exited the car. The rents in Williamsburg had skyrocketed in the past couple of years and were already twice what I made a month for a one-bedroom apartment.
His lips pressed tight as he studied the scene. “It is the most logical explanation, but wouldn’t they have burned all three buildings in that case?”
There had been a beauty parlor and a bar in the adjoining buildings at some point, but both were out of business. They had suffered some smoke and fire damage, but even I could tell that the portrait studio in the middle had been the real target. The damage to it was extensive.
“Maybe they didn’t want the fire to spread to these apartment buildings,” I suggested, and he nodded.
“You’re right. It’s enough to burn just the one in the middle to get all three razed.”
“So … it’s a coincidence that the two fires took place in wedding-related businesses?”
“Let’s keep our options open.”
We crossed the street to the burned shop. A woman in her fifties with long gray hair in a frizzled mess, ankle length skirt, and T-shirt was standing outside the studio, staring at it with unseeing eyes.
We approached her carefully. “Are you Katie?” I asked when we were standing next to her and she hadn’t even noticed us.
She turned, showing a pale and drawn face with streaks of tears visible. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry about your studio.”
Her lips wobbled, but she didn’t cry. “Had you booked an appointment?”
“My sister’s wedding on Saturday.”
She covered her eyes with a hand, her head pressed. “How am I ever going to handle that now…?”
I placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, and she leaned heavily on me, sobbing. I let her cry a while, before begging with my eyes for Jackson to do something. I wasn’t much of a hugger and a crying hug was more than I could easily handle.
“Were all your cameras inside?” Jackson asked. Katie pulled up and wiped her eyes. She nodded, then shook her head.
“All my studio cameras were, but the more portable equipment was at home. I shot a wedding on Saturday and hadn’t brought it back here yet.”
“All isn’t lost then,” he said warmly.
She heaved a sigh and didn’t look very cheered up.
“Did you own the building?” Jackson asked, and she shook her head. “Do you know who does?”
“Yes, I have the contact information…” She paused, stricken. “…inside.”
“That’s all right, we can find it,” I said. That roused her enough to give me a puzzled look.
“What do you want with that information?”
Jackson showed her his P.I. ID. “We’re private investigators. Jackson Dean and Tracy Hayes, from Jackson Dean Investigations.”
“Katie O’Neill,” she said automatically. Jackson shook her offered hand.
“Have you talked with the fire inspector yet?”
“No…?”
We exchanged grim looks. “He suspects this wasn’t an accidental fire,” I told her. A line appeared between her brows as she took in the meaning. Then she inhaled sharply.
“I didn’t burn my own studio!”
I lifted a calming hand. “We’re not suspecting you.” I had no idea if the inspector was, but after the second fire, probably not. “We were more wondering if any developers have been showing undue interest in this lot.”
Her brow cleared. “You mean, they would’ve taken matters into their own hands?”
“That’s one possibility,” I said, and her mouth pressed into a line.
“My landlord will know.” She shot me a sharp look. “What are the other possibilities?”
I hadn’t really given it a thought yet. “A disgruntled client?”
She tilted her head. “There’s always someone who doesn’t like how they look like in their photos, but would they torch the whole studio for it?”
I bit my lip. “It might be someone who has something against weddings.”
“I do other photography than weddings too, from pets and babies to graduations and family celebrations.”
“It may be that you’re not the only victim…”
“Oh?”
“Are you in any way connected with a bridal shop called By Suzanne?” Jackson asked. It wasn’t a famous place, or particularly fashionable, so I wasn’t surprised when Katie shook her head.
“Why?”
“It burned down last night,” he told her. “If that turns out to be arson too, it raises interesting questions.”
She blinked, baffled. “You mean someone was so unhappy with their wedding they’re now burning down every business that was involved? Isn’t that a bit farfetched?”
“It likely is,” Jackson admitted. “But people who resort to arson aren’t always thinking like we do. Who knows what might have triggered it.”
“Just in case, could we get your client records?” I asked, then startled, embarrassed for my lack of tack. “Or were they in the shop?”
“No, I had my laptop with me. And all the client photos are in a cloud service.” Remembering that revived her a little and she straightened her shoulders. “What do you need them for?”
“We’re looking into connections between your clients and those of the bridal shop.”
She still looked dubious, but since she had her laptop with her, she agreed to email the client list to us. “You’ll let me know if you find something?”
“Absolutely. But these things take time. If you don’t hear from us sooner, then we’ll see you on Saturday.”
Her face cleared. “At least I haven’t lost everything.”
“What’s next?” I asked when we returned to the car.
“We’d best head back to the bridal shop. The owner is likely there, so we can ask for their client list too. And then we’ll have to hunt down those developers. I still think they’re our best bet.”
He turned out to be right. A woman in her forties was standing outside the ruined façade of the bridal shop, leaning heavily against a portly man about the same age. They were staring at the destruction, she with tears falling down her face, her makeup running, he with grim anger.
I recognized her from our fitting sessions. “Are you the owner?” I hadn’t realized it at the time.
She turned to me and her face crumbled as she recognized me too. “I’m so sorry,” she sobbed. “I don’t know what happened. I must’ve left the iron on or something…”
The man glanced around, as if fearing the cops or someone from the insurance company would hear. “You never leave them on, you’re extremely careful about that.” Then he offered us his hand. “I’m Martin Barnes, Ann’s husband.”
I’d thought the woman’s name would be Suzanne, like the shop’s name.
“Jackson Dean and Tracy Hayes. We’re private investigators,” Jackson told him. “We ran into the fire inspector earlier. He suspects arson.”
That got their attention. Mrs. Barnes’ tears stopped falling. “What? Why?”
“We haven’t done anything criminal,” Mr. Barnes stated.
“Do you have competition that would’ve taken things too far?” I asked. Mrs. Barnes shook her head.
“Not that I know of. But the wedding business is brutally competitive.”
Jackson nodded. “Have any developers shown interest in your lot?”
“Are you suggesting that a developer would’ve expedited the matter with fire?” Mr. Barnes asked, getting the meaning of his question immediately.
“It’s one possibility we’re looking into,” Jackson admitted.
“Well, we don’t own the property, so you’ll have to ask the owner.”
“It could be personal too,” I said.
“Personal how?” Mrs. Barnes demanded. “My clients are happy with my services.”
I nodded. I’d been happy with her. “Another wedding related business, a photo studio, burned down over the weekend too, and we’re looking into a possibility that the arsonist is someone who is unhappy with their wedding.”
I wouldn’t entertain the notion that it was directed against Tessa and Angela. Angela’s family wouldn’t go that far.
Mr. Barnes furrowed his brows. “Have you been hired to investigate?”
“No, this is personal,” I told them. “My sister was a client of you and the studio, so this affects her wedding. We need to find out what’s happened. We’d like to see your client records, if possible. It would be helpful to compare them with the studio’s.”
“From how long a time?” he asked.
“A year, to start with,” Jackson told him.
Mr. Barnes nodded. “And if you find the fucker who did this, I’ll definitely pay for your services.” His wife inhaled sharply, and he amended: “Provided the insurance company won’t get difficult.”
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