THE DRESS SHOPPE welcomed Rath with the aroma he thought would have a name like Sandalwood or Beach Dunes. The jangle of the bell above the door brought three female clerks capering toward him in unison, as if performing a Broadway number for the easy mark: the husband in the doghouse or the boyfriend looking to get into his girlfriend’s pants, thinking the perfect ensemble would do the trick.
A woman in her forties, the oldest of the three, glided over to Rath, her canary yellow dress, splashed with vibrant daffodils, swishing at a hem, her white bangle bracelets clacking. She was tanned and fit. The tan did not have the orange tint of a spray. It was a glow he suspected came from time outdoors hiking or gardening, not splayed out on a beach towel, what was once thought of as a healthy tan. He imagined her calves and arms were sculpted from being active in the natural, physical world. Rath detected the faintest scent of lilac as the woman reached out a hand, her fingernails blunt, a hint of pale pink from an unassuming manicure.
Rath shook her hand to find her skin soft as a flower petal, her grip lingering for a split second.
“I’m Madeline,” she said with plucky ebullience. “May I help you?”
“A mother and a daughter were in here five days ago,” Rath said. “I’m helping the mother.” Rath handed the clerk Mandy’s photo, wishing he’d asked Doris for a “good” one.
“I don’t understand,” the clerk said.
“The girl seems to have disappeared.”
The clerk’s pupils bloomed with fear. “You’re the police?”
“I’m helping. Officially, the police can’t be involved for a couple days.”
“But by then—”
“That’s why I’m helping out.” Rath showed her his ID. “I want to find this girl as soon as possible.” He nodded at the photo of Mandy in the clerk’s hand.
The clerk seemed rightfully guarded and was about to shake her head no when recognition lit her face. “They were in here. Bought a few of the marked-down summer dresses were pushing.” She spread her palms over the dress she was wearing. “Thus my drastically out-of-season attire. I didn’t recognize her in the photo at first. It doesn’t do her justice. It’s like a photo of her ugly-duckling cousin.”
“So you assisted her miss?”
“Madeline. Come with me,” she said, her fingernails just grazing the inside of Rath’s wrist as she slid away. An electric warmth spread up Rath’s arm at the kiss of Madeline’s touch.
She led Rath to the back, through a curtained doorway and into a break room that consisted of a card table with mismatched folding chairs. On the table, an empty coffeepot sat ticking on a hot plate next to a microwave, electrical cords stretched to an outlet in the wall. The room smelled of burned coffee. OSHA’d love this setup. “How can I help?” Madeline said.
“Was there anything you sensed that was odd about her?”
The coffeepot ticked.
“No,” she said. “No strange vibe.”
“What was their vibe? In one word.”
“Alive. Whatever IT is, this girl had IT. For her mom, I’d say tickled. The girl went outside, and I brought the mom over to a just-the-most-perfect dress. When I glanced out, I saw the girl across the street. Just. Staring.”
“At what?”
“I don’t know.”
“No one was with her?” Rath said.
“Might have been, but not that I saw.”
“How did she seem when she came back in?”
“One word? Remote.”
“And the mother?”
“Bothered.”
Rath gave her his card and told her to call, day or night, if she recalled anything.
As he made to leave, Madeline said, “No dress for your wife?”
Rath brandished a ring finger that was not living up to its name.
Madeline’s ring finger was bare, too, a detail he’d have noted straight away in his earlier days. Since Laura’s murder, the closest Rath had come to dating were the days strolling Rachel in the park where local moms brought their kids. Flirting had consisted of asking about potty training techniques, when to bribe with stickers. If any of the mothers had hit on him, he’d been unaware in his fugue of sleeplessness and blind infatuation with Rachel. His depression had left him with barely enough energy to focus on work and Rachel, and none for chasing women, a pursuit that only sickened him now as he could not help but equate it with the death of Laura.
“Girlfriend?” Madeline said, raising an eyebrow.
Was she flirting? No. She was looking to sell a dress.
“I’m. In between,” Rath said.
“Good in between or bad in between?”
He felt the warmth wash through him as when her fingernails grazed his wrist.
“Good, I guess,” he said.
“So. No one in your life at all who could use a dress?”
“My daughter.”
“Oh. How old?”
“Seventeen.” A year older than Mandy. The thought chilled him. “I don’t know the last time I saw her wear a dress, though. I stopped buying her clothes years ago. I just hand over the money. I never got it right anyway.”
“Maybe I could help.”
“Maybe another time.” He slipped out through the curtain.