Chapter 9 - The Last Enemy Inside the Whitaker Family
The original navy dress was almost twenty years old.
The one I'd found in the clearance store was a reproduction.
That explained the unusual stitching.
Someone had copied the original design.
But where was the first garment?
Matthew searched the company's historical inventory.
The original dress had been part of Whitaker Atelier's final collection.
Only three prototypes existed.
Two had been destroyed in the fire.
The third had been transferred to a private collection.
The owner was listed as Richard Vale.
My stomach dropped.
"He has it."
Matthew nodded.
"Or he had it."
Sarah checked the records.
Richard had donated several vintage garments to a charity auction scheduled for Friday evening.
The navy dress was among them.
Friday.
Tomorrow.
I looked at Matthew.
"We have to get it."
He studied the auction listing.
"The event is invitation-only."
"You're Matthew Whitaker."
"That doesn't mean Richard wants me there."
"Then we find another way."
Matthew looked at me for a long moment.
Then smiled faintly.
"I have an idea."
The following evening, I stood inside a luxury hotel ballroom wearing a borrowed black dress.
Matthew stood beside me in a tailored tuxedo.
For once, I wasn't thinking about how much my clothes cost.
I was thinking about the evidence hidden inside a twenty-year-old garment.
The ballroom glittered with chandeliers.
Wealthy guests moved between display cases.
Security guards stood near every entrance.
Richard Vale was speaking with two board members when we arrived.
His smile disappeared.
"Matthew."
"Richard."
"I didn't expect you."
"I was invited."
Richard looked at me.
"And Miss Bennett?"
"My guest."
Richard's expression hardened.
"You're making a mistake."
Matthew smiled without warmth.
"I've made several. Trusting you was one."
We walked away before Richard could respond.
The navy dress stood inside a glass display case near the stage.
It looked almost identical to the one I'd examined in the store.
But the fabric was richer.
The pearl-colored beads were hand-sewn.
And beneath the right cuff, I could see the familiar stitching.
Three short.
One long.
Two short.
My mother's signature.
The auction began at eight.
Several items sold for thousands of dollars.
Then the navy dress appeared.
The auctioneer described it as a rare prototype from Whitaker Atelier's final collection.
Opening bid: $5,000.
Matthew raised his paddle.
"Ten thousand."
Richard turned sharply.
Another bidder offered twelve.
Matthew raised it to twenty.
Richard lifted his paddle.
"Thirty."
The room murmured.
Matthew didn't hesitate.
"Fifty thousand."
I stared at him.
"Matthew."
He leaned toward me.
"Trust me."
Richard's jaw tightened.
"Seventy-five."
Matthew raised his paddle again.
"One hundred thousand."
Silence.
The auctioneer looked stunned.
Richard stared across the room.
For several seconds, neither man moved.
Then Richard lowered his paddle.
"Sold."
The room applauded.
I could barely breathe.
Matthew had just paid one hundred thousand dollars for a dress I'd originally wanted because it cost $29.99.
But before the auction staff could deliver it, Richard approached.
"Enjoy your purchase."
Matthew studied him.
"I intend to."
Richard looked at me.
"You have no idea what you're getting involved in."
I met his gaze.
"My mother said the same thing about you."
His expression changed.
For one brief moment, I saw fear.
Then he smiled.
"Your mother has always had an imagination."
I stepped closer.
"She's alive, Richard."
His smile vanished.
"And she remembers everything."
He turned and walked away.
Twenty minutes later, the ballroom lights went out.
Screams erupted.
Someone shouted for security.
Matthew grabbed my hand.
"Stay close."
Emergency lights flickered.
A loud crash came from the display area.
When the lights returned, the glass case was broken.
The navy dress was gone.
My heart stopped.
"No."
Gabriel appeared beside us.
"Richard's leaving through the service entrance."
Matthew looked toward the doors.
"Go."
Gabriel ran.
I stared at the empty display case.
Everything we'd worked for had vanished.
Then I noticed something on the floor.
A tiny pearl-colored bead.
Beside it lay a torn strip of navy fabric.
I picked it up.
The lining had been ripped.
Someone had searched the dress.
But the stitching remained intact.
I examined the torn fabric carefully.
Then remembered my mother's words.
The truth is always inside.
Not beneath the lining.
Inside the construction.
I turned the strip over.
A narrow pocket had been sewn into the seam allowance.
My fingers trembled.
Inside was a folded piece of waxed paper.
I opened it.
A signed authorization.
Richard Vale's signature.
Dates.
Shipment numbers.
Bank accounts.
Everything.
Matthew stared at the document.
Then looked at me.
"You found it."
I began laughing through tears.
"She knew he'd search the lining."
My mother had hidden the evidence where only someone who understood her stitching would look.
Inside the seam.
May you like
Twenty years earlier, she'd trusted that one day, someone would notice.
And somehow, that person had been me.
