All Dressed in White

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In memory of

Joan Nye

Dear friend since our days at Villa Maria Academy

With love

—MARY

For Richard and Jon

—ALAFAIR

Acknowledgments

We now know who did it! Others in this tale are no longer “under suspicion.”

Once again it has been my joy to cowrite with my fellow novelist, Alafair Burke. When we put our creative brains together we have a lot of fun.

Marysue Rucci, editor-in-chief of Simon & Schuster, is again our mentor on this journey. A thousand thanks for all the help.

Thank you to Dr. Frederick Jaccarino for his helpful expertise on a medical issue in this story.

“
Root, root, root” for the home team.
In my case it is “my spouse extraordinaire,” John Conheeney; my children; and my right-hand assistant, Nadine Petry. They are always with me with words of encouragement and solid advice.
Thank you, merci, gracias, etc. etc. etc.

And you, my dear readers. You are always in my thoughts as I write. If you choose to read my books, I want you to feel as though you have spent your time well.

Cheers and Blessings,

Mary

Here comes the bride dressed all in light

Radiant and lovely she shines in his sight

Prologue

I
t
was Thursday evening in mid-April at the Grand Victoria Hotel in Palm Beach.

Amanda Pierce, the bride-to-be, was trying on her wedding gown with the help of her longtime friend Kate.

“Pray God it fits,” she said, but then the zipper finally glided past that tricky spot above her waistline.

“I can’t believe you were the least bit concerned that it wouldn’t fit,” Kate said matter-of-factly.

“Well, after all the weight loss last year, I was afraid I might have put on just enough to strain at the waistline. I thought better to know now than Saturday. Can’t you just see us struggling with the zipper as I’m about to walk down the aisle?”

“We won’t,” Kate declared emphatically. “I don’t know why you were so nervous about it. Look in the mirror. You’re gorgeous.”

Amanda gazed at her reflection. “It is lovely, isn’t it?” She thought of how she had tried on more than a hundred gowns, checking out Manhattan’s finest bridal shops, before spotting this one at a tiny store in Brooklyn Heights. Off-white silk with an empire waist and handmade lace overlay for the bodice—it was everything she had pictured. In forty-three hours, she would be wearing it down the aisle.

“More than lovely,” Kate declared. “So why do you look so sad?”

Amanda looked again in the mirror. Blond with a heart-shaped
face, wide blue eyes, long lashes, and naturally raspberry-colored lips, she knew she had been blessed with good features. But Kate was right. She did look sad. Not sad, exactly, but worried. The dress fits perfectly, she reminded herself. That must be a sign, right? She forced herself to smile. “I was just wondering how much I could eat tonight and still fit in this on Saturday.”

Kate laughed and patted her own, slightly round belly. “Don’t talk that way around me, of all people. Seriously, Amanda, are you okay? Are you still thinking about our conversation yesterday?”

Amanda waved a hand. “Not a second thought,” she answered, knowing she was not being truthful. “Now, help me get out of this thing. The others must be ready to go down to dinner.”

•  •  •

Ten minutes later, alone in her bedroom, now wearing a light blue linen dress, Amanda slipped on an earring and took a final glance at the wedding gown, now carefully spread on the bed. Then she noticed a makeup smear on the lace right beneath the neckline. She had been so cautious, and still the faint smudge was staring back at her. She knew it would come out, but was this perhaps the sign she was waiting for?

She had spent nearly the last two days as an outsider at her own destination wedding, searching for clues to tell her whether this wedding was meant to be. Looking at that spot on her gown, she made a vow, not to her groom, but to herself: we only get one life in this world, and mine will be happy. If I still have a single lingering doubt, I will not be getting married on Saturday.

I’ll know soon enough, she told herself.

In that moment, she found a sense of complete control. She had no foreshadowing of the fact that by tomorrow morning, she would have vanished without a trace.

1

L
aurie Moran listened as the teenager in front of her practiced her high school French. She was on line at Bouchon, the newly opened French bakery that was around the corner from her Rockefeller Center office.

“Jay voo-dray un pan chocolate. Make that deux.”

The cashier smiled patiently as she waited for the young woman to string together her next request. Clearly she was accustomed to these clumsy attempts by customers to practice their French, even though the bakery was in the heart of New York City.

Laurie wasn’t feeling quite as patient. She was meeting with her boss, Brett Young, later this morning and still hadn’t decided which story to pitch first for her show’s next special. She needed as much time as possible to prepare.

After a final “mare sea,” the girl left, a box of pastries in hand.

Laurie was next. “I’ll be ordering in
anglais, s’il vous plaît
.”

“
Merci
,” the woman said fervently.

It had become a tradition that on Friday mornings she would stop at the bakery and bring in special treats for her staff—her assistant, Grace Garcia, and her assistant producer, Jerry Klein. They were grateful for the selection of tarts, croissants, and breads. After she placed the order, the cashier asked if she cared for anything
else. The
macarons
looked delicious. Maybe just a few for Dad and Timmy after dinner, she promised herself, and as a treat for me if today’s meeting with Brett goes well.

•  •  •

As she stepped from the elevator on the sixteenth floor of 15 Rockefeller Center, she realized how the layout of the Fisher Blake Studios offices reflected the success of her work this past year. She used to be in a small windowless office, sharing an assistant with two other producers, but since she had created a true crime–based “news special” focusing on cold cases, Laurie’s career had taken off. Now she had a long row of windows in a spacious office filled with sleek, modern furnishings. Jerry had been promoted to assistant producer and occupied a smaller office next door. And Grace kept more than busy in a large open space just outside. The three of them now worked full-time on their show,
Under Suspicion
, freeing them from other run-of-the-mill news programming.

Grace had recently turned twenty-seven but looked even younger. Laurie had been tempted more than once to tell Grace she didn’t need to wear all of the makeup she meticulously applied every day, but clearly Grace preferred a personal style quite different from Laurie’s classic tastes. Today, she wore a multicolored silk tunic over impossibly slim leggings, with five-inch platform boots. Her long black hair was pulled into an
I Dream of Jeannie
topknot, teased into a perfect fountain.

Usually Grace lunged for the bakery bag, but today she did not. “Laurie,” she began slowly.

“Something wrong, Grace?” Laurie knew her assistant well enough to recognize when she was upset.

Just as Grace was about to explain, Jerry stepped out of his office. Standing between Jerry’s long, lanky frame and Grace in her
sky-high heels always made Laurie feel short, even though she was a slender five-foot-seven.

Jerry held up both palms. “There’s a lady sitting in your office. She just showed up. I told Grace to schedule an appointment for her at some other time. For the record, I had nothing to do with this.”