All Dressed in White (2 page)

2

S
andra Pierce gazed out the window of Laurie Moran’s office. Sixteen floors below was the famous Rockefeller Center skating rink. At least, that’s what Sandra would always see, even now, in the middle of July, when smooth ice and swaying skaters were temporarily replaced with a summer garden and restaurant.

She pictured her own children skating hand-in-hand at that very spot more than twenty years earlier. Charlotte, the oldest, on one side; Henry, her younger brother, on the other. In the middle was their baby sister Amanda. Her siblings held on to her so tightly that if her skates left the ground, she would still be safely upright.

Sighing, Sandra turned away from the window and looked for something to keep her attention while she waited. She was surprised at the tidiness of the office. She had never been to a television studio but had been picturing one of those huge open floors with rows of desks like you see in the background of news shows. In contrast, Laurie Moran’s office felt more like a sleek yet comfortable living room.

Sandra noticed one framed photograph on Laurie’s desk. Seeing the office door still closed, she picked it up and studied it. It was Laurie with her husband, Greg, on a beach. She assumed that the little boy in front of them was their son. Sandra did not know the family personally, but she had seen photographs of both Laurie and Greg online. Sandra’s curiosity about
Under Suspicion
had
been sparked when the show first aired. But when she recently read an article mentioning the producer’s own background with an unsolved crime, Sandra knew she needed to come here to meet Laurie Moran in person.

She immediately felt guilty for the invasion of Laurie’s privacy. She knew she would not want a stranger looking at photographs of her, Walter, and Amanda. Sandra winced as she realized that the last time she’d been with her ex-husband and youngest daughter was five and a half years ago—the last family Christmas before Amanda’s wedding. Or what was
supposed
to be her wedding.

Will I ever get used to thinking of Walter as my ex-husband? she wondered. She met Walter her freshman year at the University of North Carolina. Because of her father’s military career, she had lived all over the world, but never in the South. She was having a hard time adjusting, as if the other students who had grown up there lived by an unwritten code she didn’t understand. Her roommate took her to the first football game of the season, promising that once she cheered on the Tar Heels, she’d be an authentic North Carolinian. Her roommate’s brother brought a friend along. He was a sophomore. His name was Walter, and he was a local boy. He spent more time talking to Sandra than watching the game. By the time they all sang the fight song in the final quarter—“I’m a Tar Heel born, I’m a Tar Heel bred, And when I die, I’m a Tar Heel dead”—Sandra thought to herself, I think I’ve met the man I’m going to marry. She was right. They were together from that time on. They raised their three children in Raleigh, just a half-hour drive from the stadium where they met.

She thought about how, in the first thirty-two years of their nearly thirty-five-year marriage, they had helped each other in their very different domains. Though Sandra never formally worked for Walter’s family company, she was always advising him on new product launches, advertising campaigns, and especially personnel issues
at work. Between the two of them, she was the one most attuned to people’s emotions and motivations. Walter returned the favor by pitching in whenever he could to help her with the church, school, and community projects she was always overseeing. She almost smiled remembering the sight of her big bear Walter numbering hundreds of tiny rubber duckies with a Sharpie for the annual rotary duck race on the Ol’ Bull River, reciting each number aloud as he added a new duck to the pile.

Walter used to tell her that they were partners in everything. Of course, she realized now that was never quite true. As hard as Walter tried, he struggled as a father. He would show up to recitals and baseball games, but the kids could tell that his mind was somewhere else. Usually, his thoughts were on work—a new product line, manufacturing flaws at one of the factories, a retailer insisting on further discounts. For Walter, his best contribution as a father was taking care of the business, creating a legacy and financial security for the family. That left Sandra to make up for his emotional detachment from their three children.

And then, two years ago, she had made a decision. She knew that she could no longer tolerate Walter’s extreme discomfort when she mentioned Amanda’s name. We had two ways of grieving, she thought, and there was too much grief for any house to hold under one roof.

She straightened the pin affixed to her lapel, Amanda’s
STILL MISSING
pin. She’d lost count of how many she’d had printed over the years. Oh, how Walter despised those pins in boxes all over their house. “I can’t stand looking at them,” he’d say. “I can’t have a single minute in my own home away from imagining what might have happened to Amanda.”

Had he really expected her to stop looking for their daughter? Impossible. Sandra remained devoted to her mission, and Walter went back to his regular life. No more partnership.

So now Walter was her “ex-husband,” as strange as the word still sounded to her. She had been in Seattle for nearly two years. She had moved there to be closer to Henry and his family. She now lived in a beautiful Dutch Colonial at the top of Queen Anne and her two grandchildren had their own bedrooms when they stayed overnight at Grandma’s house. Of course, Walter had remained in Raleigh. He’d said that he had to for the company’s sake, at least until he retired, which she knew he never would.

Sandra heard voices outside the office door, and quickly resumed her seat on the long, white leather sofa beneath the windows. Please, Laurie Moran, please be the one I’ve been praying for.

3

W
hen Laurie walked into her office, the woman waiting for her immediately rose from the sofa to extend her hand.

“Ms. Moran, thank you so much for seeing me. My name is Sandra Pierce.” The handshake was firm, and was accompanied by direct eye contact, but Laurie could see that the woman was nervous. Her words sounded rehearsed, and her voice quivered when she spoke.

“Your assistant was very kind to let me wait here. I’m afraid I had a bit of a meltdown. I hope she’s not in trouble. She was very kind to me.”

Laurie placed one hand gently on the woman’s elbow. “Please, Grace already explained that you were quite upset. Is everything okay?”

In a quick scan of her office, Laurie was certain that the picture frame on her desk was at a slightly different angle. She wouldn’t have noticed the subtle movement of any other item, but that particular possession was especially important. For five years, her office had been devoid of any family photographs. She didn’t want her coworkers at the studio to be faced with a constant reminder that her husband had been murdered, and that the crime was still unsolved. But once the police had identified Greg’s killer, she had framed this picture—the last one she, Timmy, and Greg had taken as a family—and kept it on her desk.

The woman nodded, but still seemed as though she might break down at the slightest provocation. Laurie led her back to the sofa, where she might be able to calm down.

“I’m sorry, I’m not usually such a nervous person,” Sandra Pierce began. She folded her hands on her lap to keep them from shaking. “It’s just, I feel sometimes as though I’m running out of options. The local police, the state police, prosecutors, the FBI. I’ve lost track of the number of private investigators. I even hired a psychic. He told me Amanda would be reincarnated in South America in the near future. I never tried that again.”

The words were flowing so quickly that Laurie was having a hard time following, but she only needed to hear so much to know that Sandra Pierce was yet another person who thought that
Under Suspicion
could solve her problems. Now that the show was a hit, it seemed there was no limit to the number of people who were certain that a reality-based television show could fix every injustice. Every day, the show’s Facebook page was filled with intricate tales of woe, each of them claiming to be more tragic than the last—stolen cars, cheating husbands, nightmare landlords. There was no question that some of the people asking for help truly needed it, but few of them seemed to understand that
Under Suspicion
investigated unsolved major crimes, not minor offenses. Even when legitimate crime victims or their families contacted her, Laurie had been forced to turn cases down. She could only produce so many specials.

“Please, Mrs. Pierce, there’s no need to rush,” Laurie said, even though she was feeling the time before her meeting with Brett ticking away. She went to the door and asked Grace to bring them two coffees. She had been upset with Grace for allowing a random person into her office, but now she understood why she had. There was something about this woman that called for compassion.

When she turned to face Sandra Pierce again, she noticed that the woman was quite attractive. She had a long, narrow face and
shoulder-length, ash-blonde hair. Her eyes were clear blue. Laurie might have guessed Sandra was not much older than her own thirty-six years if not for some telltale wrinkles on her neck.

“Grace said you’re from Seattle?” Laurie asked.

“Yes. I thought about writing or calling, but realized you hear from hundreds of people every day. I know it probably seems crazy to you to fly across the country uninvited and unannounced, but I had to do it this way. I had to make sure I didn’t waste the opportunity. I think you’re the one I’ve been waiting for—not you, I’m not a stalker or anything, but your show.”

Laurie was starting to regret the decision to hear this woman out. She needed time to finalize her presentation to Brett. What was it about Sandra Pierce that caused her to drop her guard and listen to her? She was on the verge of explaining she needed to prepare for a meeting when she noticed the button pinned to Sandra’s blazer.

On the button was a photograph of an absolutely beautiful young woman. Her resemblance to Sandra was uncanny. A graphic of a yellow ribbon appeared just beneath the girl’s face. Something about the photograph seemed familiar.

“You’re here about her?” Laurie said, gesturing to the pin.

Sandra glanced down and, as if reminded, sunk a hand into her jacket pocket and retrieved a matching pin. She handed it to Laurie. “Yes, it’s my daughter. I’ve never stopped looking.”

Now that Laurie had a closer look, the girl’s smile tugged at a distant memory. She hadn’t seen this particular photograph, but she recognized the smile. “You said your last name’s Pierce.” She hoped that saying it aloud would help her remember.

“Yes, Sandra. And my daughter is Amanda Pierce. My daughter is the person the media calls ‘the Runaway Bride.’ ”

4

T
he Runaway Bride.
Laurie remembered the case immediately once she heard that phrase. Amanda Pierce was a beautiful blonde bride, about to marry a handsome lawyer she first met in college. All of the plans were made for a luxury destination wedding in Palm Beach, Florida. And then the morning before the big day, she simply disappeared.