AUGUST 1952
In civvies, the kid looked even younger. Harry had suggested the Liddle boy—and boy howdy, he bet the kid would hate to hear that—meet him at his office, but Jack was worried someone might notice and word would come back to his bosses at the state troopers’ barracks. Harry didn’t blame him, really. Millers Kill was a small town in a county full—or not full—of small towns, and if everybody didn’t know everybody else’s business, it wasn’t from lack of trying.
Which is why he was sitting on a wooden bench near the fence of the draft horses’ ring, watching farmers compete their teams in pulling contests. They were mostly for show nowadays, harnessed up for hay rides and sleigh rides, their tails and manes brushed and braided by little 4-H girls. The Washington County Fair was the only place they could show what they were meant to do: haul the immensely heavy loads no lighter horse could have managed. Harry remembered helping his father log out their forested land back in the twenties, Gil and Gay maneuvering four or five cut trees at a time through the woods as neatly as you’d please. Can’t get a machine to do that.
“Chief McNeil?”
He could hear the kid before he saw him, and then Jack emerged from around a cluster of youngsters and crossed to the bench. He was in light pants cinched up with suspenders, tie knot halfway down his open-necked shirt, jacket over his arm, and what looked like his daddy’s hat on his head.
Jack snatched it off and fanned himself with it as he plopped down next to Harry. “Oh, gosh, this shade feels good. I can’t believe the heat today.”
“It’s a scorcher, all right. I’ll be glad to see September.” Harry reached for the bag Jack had set at his feet. “Is this it?”
The kid nudged it toward Harry. “Yeah. One of the secretaries likes me. She slipped me the third carbon.”
Harry opened the bag, and the faint scent of ink drifted into the air and was gone, washed into the odors of sweat and horseflesh and popcorn. He pulled out the onionskin papers: detective’s report, coroner’s report, Jack’s report, and best of all, pictures. Harry shuffled through photos of the dead girl, in situ on McEachron Hill Road and in the morgue, a close-up of her face, and one of her dress, showing the design and the label at the neck. “You didn’t get these from a secretary.”
“I swapped a favor with the guy who does the developing.”
“Must have been some favor.” Making unauthorized copies of crime scene photos could get a chemist fired, mostly to discourage them from getting a second paycheck from the scandal sheets.
“You don’t want to know.” Jack grinned. With his shirt undone and his yellow hair flopping to one side, he looked like a Dutch pirate.
Harry sighed. “Tell me about this one.” He held up the photo of the dress.
“That was my idea. I mean, I suggested it to the guy who took the morgue shots. I thought it looked expensive, like something that might have come from a fancy store.” Jack pointed at the label. “You can’t see it too well without a magnifying glass, but that says ‘Celeste of Paris.’”
“Yeah, that sounds fancy. Good thought, there, getting the photo.” Jack’s cheeks pinked up. Harry slid the photos and papers into the bag and stood up. “C’mon, let’s go.”
“Where?”
“There’s an expensive ladies’ shop in Glens Falls. They might be able to give us an idea where Celeste of Paris is sold. If not, I’ve got a friend in New York City, but that would take some time.”
“What if it comes from France?”
Harry tried to bite down on his grin. “In my experience, son, the more a ladies’ hat or bag or shoes tries to sound French, the more likely it is they come from a factory in Hackensack.”
You would have thought storekeepers were giving the goods away, there were so many autos on the streets. Harry was driving his own car, which meant he couldn’t just wedge it in an official-vehicle-only spot and be done with it. He finally found space to park a couple blocks away. It was even hotter on the city sidewalk than it had been at the fair, but Jack dutifully put on his jacket.
The kid jerked his head toward a pair of ladies crossing the street in broad-brimmed sunhats and airy, cap-sleeved dresses. “It’s the only time of the year I wish I was a woman.”
Harry, sliding the photos from the bag into a manila folder, laughed. “C’mon, Jacqueline.” He slammed the door shut.
“It’d probably be Joan,” the kid said as they started toward Broadway. “My Christian name’s John. I started calling myself Jack right after I started school.”
“Your father’s a John, too?”
“Oh, no, he’s Matthew.” Jack made a face. “But can you imagine what it’s like when you’re six years old and the teacher says ‘Liddle, John’ at roll call? It took me years to get past the Robin Hood jokes.”
Harry laughed.
When they reached La Belle Dame—Harry pointed out the French name and nodded—it was empty of customers. He could understand why; even with the casement windows cranked and fans whirring, it was uncomfortably warm, and every rack near the door was filled with plaid and tweed meant for much colder weather than they’d been having this August. A saleswoman came out from the back, drawn by the tinkle of the doorbell. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”
Harry pulled out his badge and flapped it. “I’m Harry McNeil, of the Millers Kill Police Department. I’d like to see if you can identify a dress for me.”
Her eyebrows went up, but to her credit, the saleswoman didn’t lose her poise. “Do you have it with you?”
Harry placed the manila folder on the glass-topped counter and opened it. “Just a picture, I’m afraid.”
She frowned. “I can tell you right now, it didn’t come from here.”
“We thought it looked like an expensive dress,” Jack said. “We thought it might be a name you recognize. The label says ‘Celeste of Paris.’”
“Hmm.” The saleswoman retrieved a delicate magnifying glass from a shelf holding measuring tapes, pin puffs, chalk, and ribbon. She bent over the photograph. “It’s not a knockoff. That’s a genuine Celeste label. You can see the double stitching around the capital letters.”
“You mean there are counterfeit dresses?” Jack sounded astounded.
“Oh, yes. Fashion is a cutthroat business.” The woman tapped at the picture with a lacquered nail. “Can you tell me what color it was?”
“I only saw it the one time,” Harry said. “It was green.”
“Um … this main part was kind of a light green?” Jack pointed to the bodice. “And these lines here—”
“Cording,” the woman said.
“The cording was a darker green. You can sort of see in the picture, the fabric was shiny. But not silk shiny.”
The saleswoman stepped away from the counter toward a rack of clothing. She pulled out a brown dress. “Like this?”
“Yes, that’s it.”
“Polished cotton. Hang on a second.” She walked to the back and returned with a couple of summer dresses with SALE tags dangling from the hangers. “Was the dress more this shade of green? Or this one?”
Jack pointed to the one in her left hand. “More like that.”
“Good.” She returned the dresses to the back of the store and then joined them at the counter. “Celeste of Paris has two lines with the same tags, one of which is aimed at the more mature lady, and the other, a bit less expensive, for the younger woman. Your piece here comes from this spring’s Celeste junior line. That shade of ice green was shown at the Paris shows last year, and was everywhere in the American manufacturers’ mid-priced clothes this year.”
“What does it mean if Celeste of Paris is mid-priced?” Harry asked.
“They generally retail for between fifty to a hundred dollars.”
Jack’s mouth dropped. “A hundred bucks? For a dress? What the heck do the top-priced ones go for?”
The saleswoman laughed. “I take it you’re not married, Detective.”
“No, I’m not. But if I was, my wife would make her own dresses, like my mom does.”
“Mmm. We’ll see.”
“How about where the dress was sold?” Harry said. “Is there someplace local we could try?”
She shook her head. “I know exactly where that dress was sold, but I’m afraid it’s not local. Celeste of Paris is one of Bonwit-Teller’s exclusive labels. The only place you can buy it is in New York City.”