Dress Her in Red

By Tina Appleton Bishop

Novelist Tina Appleton Bishop has again chosen Connecticut for the setting of her fourth book, Dress Her In Red. It is an incident-filled tale of young, talented Anastasia Greys search for success. Her rise from obscurity to celebrity is told against a background of romance, music, sudden and mysterious death and final triumph.


Ms. Bishop has done it again with this perceptive, cleverly crafted suspense. I dont know which I enjoyed more her colorful characters or her wit and understatement that provoked frequent outbursts of laughter. A fun read. Oh yes, there is a murder.
Joanne Dearcopp, co-author of The Nature of Joy

As Anna Gray remakes herself into the captivating Anastasia, she transforms the people around her as well. For better or worse, no one is untouched by the effects of Anastasias dynamic persona.
Kia Heavey, author of Night Machines

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462070824

Tina Appleton Bishop

After many years of magazine and newspaper work in Greenwich, Connecticut, Tina Appleton Bishop wrote her first novel at the age of 90. Her latest book, Dress Her in Red, is her fourth novel in four years. She was born into a family of writers, editors and publishers. Her two sons helped with the editing and design of her books.

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Copyright © 2011 by Tina Appleton Bishop

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4620-7081-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-7082-4 (e)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 11/28/2011

Contents

Author’s Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

To those who strive to meet their goals

Author’s Acknowledgements

In this, my fourth novel, I am indebted to a large number of friends and family who encouraged me to keep on striving, despite the limitations of age and distance. Fortunately, there was no research involved. A computer and a healthy imagination were all the tools needed.

Again I was assisted by my two sons, Peter and Erik Hendricks. The cover was designed by Peter, while Erik served again as editor. We worked together by computer and phone communications from Boston, Philadelphia and my home in Greenwich, Connecticut.

I am grateful also to the encouragement from fellow members of the Greenwich branch of the National League of American Pen Women.

Dress Her in Red

Chapter One

Anastasia was her name when she was born 28 years ago. With a last name of Gray, her mother had said, "We had to do something to put some zip into it."

Even with an exotic name there was no denying the blunt truth: the child was colorless. Behind her back her classmates sometimes chanted cruelly, Hey, hey, color her gray! Little did they guess that in later years they would boast, "I knew her when she was a nobody."

Anna, as she was then known, grew into a pleasant – but lackluster – young woman. Her mother had had plenty of zip – too much perhaps, for she died in a skiing accident in Vermont when Anastasia was just four years old, too young to have absorbed any of her mother’s electric personality.

Anna was hardly a beauty, with a sprinkle of freckles on her square-shaped face, but her classmates all agreed that she was friendly and above all, honest.

For years she had found it surprisingly easy to be truthful and still survive in a cynical world. Recently, however, she had for the first time in her life done something really dishonest. And she despised herself.

It had happened in Greenwich, Connecticut, in that town’s last remaining old-time department store, Jayson’s. Many wondered how such a place could survive against the competition of so many elegant specialty shops catering to the influx of newly rich customers. Those in the know simply said, Old Money. Jayson’s loyal, conservative clientele had kept the store afloat for more than a hundred years. For those older residents the store served as an anchor of stability in a fast changing world.

Anna Gray did not qualify in either class of customer – new or old rich. An ad about a sale of cashmere sweaters had caught her attention. For Anna the very word sale was like catnip to a cat. She hoped the half-price would hold in the children’s department as well. As a rule Anna did not bring Christmas presents to children in her piano classes, but Debby Littlefield was special. Not only was she a charming child, and full of promise, but her enthusiasm had brought many new students to Anna. Debby deserved something nice. And Anna found it in a pale blue cashmere cardigan, reduced to $45.

Oh, this will be perfect for my little student. She’s worked so hard with her piano, she really deserves it. Her smile made her face radiant.

Store charge or credit card? asked the stern-faced sales woman. Cash customers were indeed rare she thought as she watched Anna carefully doling out five ten-dollar bills from her wallet.

I guess I’ll look around while this gift gets wrapped. Do you still have that special showing of Christmas crystal and ceramics on the second floor? I remember it from last year. Really lovely things, but way out of my range, I’m afraid.

You got that right, lady, thought Laura Rice, the clerk. Her years of experience had sized up the young customer’s social and economic status. Imagine spending that much money on a gift for a piano student, she muttered to herself.

As she wandered through the store Anna noticed that there seemed to be no evidence of security guards during that busy Christmas shopping season. But she also noticed that there were a number of cameras hung from the ceiling to discourage shoplifting. She surmised that there probably were security personnel walking among the shoppers, but you couldn’t tell them from the real customers.

She spotted some discretely placed cards near the most expensive and fragile items: Handle with care. If you break it, you’ve bought it. Jayson’s annual Christmas display of imported Italian gifts had originally been situated on the ground floor, but the crowds there increased the risk of breakage and theft. There were surprisingly few customers in the gift area when Anna arrived on the second floor. Maybe the special sales below had drawn most of the shoppers.

Anna had inherited from her family a few good pieces of ceramic from Italy and she was particularly interested in a spectacular Christmas tableau that had been set up on a raised platform in a specially lighted section. The crystal pieces nearby were equally appealing, but they seemed cold compared to the lustrous colors of the ceramics.

Sighing, she admired one of the richly robed figures of one of the Magi in a nativity scene. Alas, it was much too big and pricey a set for her three-room apartment.

Leaning in more closely to inspect the expression on one of the black-bearded kneeling kings, her left elbow accidentally nudged one of the major figures at the end of the platform. Horrors! A large Madonna and Child figure toppled towards the bare floor. With a gasp Anna grabbed for it with both hands, just managing to grab it and save it from crashing to pieces on the floor. But in doing so, Anna did knock it against the edge of the wooden stage. After quickly righting it and restoring it to its proper place in the display Anna was too shaken to examine the piece for any damage. She looked around somewhat furtively and was greatly relieved to note that no one else was nearby. Feeling much better about the near disaster, she now felt comfortable enough to handle the piece to see if indeed it was in pristine condition.

Carefully picking up the piece and turning it around she felt an instant chill as she spied the little – almost imperceptible – chip on the edge of the Madonna’s blue gown. Dear God, she prayed, what did the price tag read? $450. Suddenly she realized that there was a camera in the corner of the ceiling with a little red light on it. Had it recorded the whole incident? That price – $450 – was more than she had in her bank account. With her stomach in knots, she quickly moved away from the display, wiping a bead of sweat from her face. For once in her life she regretted having no credit card. Buying something with a credit card had always seemed somehow dishonest to her, but at that moment it would have been her salvation.

Panic sent her rushing to the elevator. When she reached the ground floor she swept past the sales clerk, who called out, Wait, Miss, you forgot your package!

Must have forgotten to feed the meter, Laura said to a customer at the counter. Actually, the young woman did not look as if she could afford a car, but Laura was too kind to give voice to that thought.

******

After she arrived in her small apartment in nearby Stanton, Anna had been too upset to cook anything for her supper. Though quite aware that she had abandoned the gift at the shop, she had no intention of going back, even if it meant throwing forty-five dollars down the drain. She was uncomfortable, still felt that she was being followed. Perhaps there had been a store detective? If only she had had the courage (and the finances) to own up to her sin. The little white card on the counter still haunted her: "Handle with care. If you break it, you’ve bought it.

I know, she once told a friend, You’ll think me hopelessly out of sync and downright eccentric, but to me, using a credit card to buy things that I can’t pay for is simply dishonest. Underhanded and risky, too. My father drilled that into me while I was still in college. My mother had once gone over-the-top on credit card spending, you see, and he didn’t want it to happen to me.

Fat chance, Anna, her friend laughed. You’re as tight as paper on the wall.

Anna flinched. Since her father’s death two years ago and her move from his New York apartment she had lived alone – and frugally – in Connecticut. It was not ideal, but compared with Manhattan it was blissfully cheaper and less hectic. She seldom felt lonely. Making friends was never a problem. Her pleasant rosy-cheeked, open face and easy laugh were very engaging. What you saw was what you got – a true blue person, solid in shape and character. She was not adored, simply liked and trusted.

In New York she had made an adequate living as a piano teacher. Her musical talents were nothing special, but she still had plenty of students whom she taught in their homes. People simply trusted their children (and possessions) in her care. A former high school friend who had married a man from Stanton had persuaded her to move there, where she assured her she would have plenty of work. Never mind if she had talent or not, said her friend, with so many absentee parents these days they’re desperate to find a person with integrity – and that’s you, Anna. You’ll do beautifully here. And she was right.

Yes, Anna ruefully acknowledged, she was only a fair pianist, a would-be concert artist, Julliard schooled, who had settled for a comfortable, safe life as a teacher of rich, talentless children. It was not exciting, but let’s face it, neither was she. But at least she was honest, she told herself, and now she was not even that. Her shame was deep.

Desperate was her need to talk to somebody. In her volunteer work with Catholic Charities she had become friends with Father Barry O’Brien. Anna rarely went to confession, but in the privacy of the confessional box she might have the courage to tell him about her moral dilemma. Perhaps he could counsel her.

******

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It is six months since my last confession. She practiced saying it to herself as she entered the confessional box at St. Joseph’s church.

Nervously, she waited in the dark for the sound of the priest’s little window being shoved open.

Dimly, she could see Father O’Brien’s snub nose and gray, curly hair, one ear pressed against the screen. No word from him. He was a listener.

Father, I don’t have much to say.

Anna always felt apologetic in the confessional. There was so pathetically little to confess. She was not an adulteress or a junkie or a thief. She did not think evil or even look at evil, she rarely skipped Mass and her occasional swear words were too feeble to mention.

"I have a very special student, Father. Like me, she lost her mother as a child. Like me, she’d been living with her father – a rather nasty piece of business, if you’ll forgive me for saying so. I was so anxious to give her something to show my real affection for her. A friend had suggested Jayson’s. It was a happy choice. Jayson’s is a comfortable, old-fashioned store and I found the perfect gift for my little student. Now for the bad part of my story. Later, while I waited for the present to be wrapped, I was browsing through the store’s collection of Italian ceramics when something terrible happened. My elbow accidentally knocked over a beautiful Madonna and Child figure. I tried to catch it before it shattered and I was mostly successful, but a little chip broke off.

She swallowed before continuing. She told him about the store’s policy on breakage.

I ran off, too chicken to admit what I had done. The problem is, my conscience tells me to own up, but my bank account tells me I can’t possibly come up with $450. To make matters worse, the present I’d bought and paid for got left in the store and I haven’t the guts to return for it.

The priest was silent for a few moments.

Tell you what – I know you to be an exceptionally honest young woman. Rare, these days. You have a strong moral sense, which right now is torturing you. Let’s take it one step at a time: first, you want to get that present to your student. Okay, how about asking a friend to pick it up at the store up for you?

He cleared his throat before continuing. In the store they might not notice the damage for some time, and they won’t know who did it. Your guilt will eat at you and make you miserable, however, until your sense of honor forces you to fess up. Sorry, Anna, but until you can pay the price there’ll be no peace for you. It may take some time before you can come up with that kind of money, but above all don’t go back to the store until you come in with full restitution in your hand. ‘Fraid this is not the kind of advice you were hoping for, but you can do this, dear, I know you can. He closed the window.

So that was that. Not even a God bless you or, as penance, a few Hail Marys to say in the pew before leaving. Guess he didn’t think I’d sinned, but that I might sin if I didn’t follow his advice.

******

Retrieving the present from the store had been far easier than Anna had imagined. She had simply asked her Stanton friend, Sylvia Ashton, to pick up the purchase, that my friend Anna had left behind last Thursday afternoon.

Handing over the elegantly wrapped box to Sylvia, Laura said, Oh, dear, I hope she wasn’t ill?

She still wondered why the young woman had left the store in such haste, and Sylvia wondered why Anna had been so anxious to avoid returning to Jayson’s. Could something unpleasant have taken place there? Neither woman would ever know the answer. Sylvia had learned that with Anna you did not ask too many questions.

******

Despite the delay there was still time enough to give the present to Debby Littlefield before Christmas. Anna looked forward to the family’s holiday party as she headed north. A light snow had powdered the landscape that week, but not enough for driving problems. Anastasia knew the area well, but never had she seen the rolling hills of the Stanton backcountry look so Christmas-card perfect. In her imagination she pictured a Dickensian scene: a top-heavy coach-and-four lumbering over the snowy landscape. By the time she reached the Littlefield estate, her mind had stirred up images of Tiny Tim on crutches, and in the kitchen, steaming hot, a plump goose, ready for carving.

The Littlefields’ invitation was specific: Come to the Littlefields for Cocoa, Cookies and Carols. Harold Littlefield was an ad man. Alliteration was food and drink to him and he took his Christmas traditions seriously. Each year he added more elaborate touches to the holiday decorations. Fortunately, the twelve-room Tudor style house was large enough to accommodate them.

A maid removed Anna’s coat before she entered what the real estate crowd called The Great Hall. In the center an enormous Christmas tree, a live one of course, was almost collapsing under the weight of its burden: miniature toys, crystal balls, candy canes, popcorn garlands, tiny wooden houses, and enough lights for a Broadway marquee. Underneath the tree a miniature train ran ‘round and ‘round.

Harold, a tall man with an over-hearty voice, was not drinking cocoa, Anna noticed. He smiled at her as he walked towards her. I’ve had my cocoa. Now it’s time for some serious drinking. I’d offer you a Martini, but I think in front of your student, you’d best stick to cocoa. He did not introduce her to the others present.

As usual he was making it clear that Anna was not a guest, just a babysitter for his little girl. One notch above a servant.

Anna gave him a frozen smile. "Where is Debby, by the way?"

Oh, you’ll find her in the music room. The kid’s been at the piano all day, practicing. She has a surprise for you.

The music room had been carefully planned to be situated well out of earshot of the Littlefields. It was a barren place, no festive Christmas decorations there, just the basics: an upright piano, a bench, four cheap wooden chairs, and in one corner, the remnants of a drum set, once played by Debby’s college-aged brother. Neither Harold nor his new wife, Angela, cared for music, but in their circles piano lessons were considered an important part of social status. Ironically, little Debby actually was beginning to show signs of real musical ability. Not only that, but with her short, dark hair and dimples she was a charming child, whom Anna adored. At Anna’s approach she jumped off the piano bench and hugged her.

Oh, Miss Gray, I was afraid you wouldn’t come. Sit here with me while I play you your Christmas song. I made it just for you.

Made, mused Anna. Of course the little girl was far too young to write music. Teary-eyed, she listened to the short tune.

Why are you crying, Miss Gray? I worked all day on it. Didn’t you like it?

Darling, it was beautiful. I have a present for you, too.

She eagerly watched the child’s expression as she tore off the fancy wrapping and saw the cashmere sweater. It was worth the price to see the glow of Debby’s smile.

Oh, I wanted a beautiful one just like this, but Angela wouldn’t buy it for me. She said I was too spoiled. Do you think I’m spoiled, Miss Gray?

In answer, Anna took the little girl’s face between her hands. Honey, of course you’re not spoiled. Now, let’s hear your lovely piece over again.

It was that fox-faced Angela who was spoiled, not poor Debby, thought Anna. ‘Angela’ what a ridiculous name for such an uptight, selfish woman. Nobody in his right mind would ever confuse her with an angel. (Anna had never had a stepmother and was grateful for it.)

As she half listened to Debby’s effort on the piano she could not rid her mind of the unfortunate incident in Jayson’s. How could she possibly pay the penalty for her carelessness? To those in the Littlefield’s world $450 was pocket change. To her it was financial disaster.

If only Debby’s parents were more generous, nicer people, it might have been possible to ask for help from them. What to do? She hesitated to suggest to them that Debby’s talent deserved more lessons. It would take more than a few extra teaching hours to reach Anna’s $450 goal. At $30 for each half hour session it would mean 15 additional lessons at the Littlefields.

She could imagine Angela’s response. "Fifteen more lessons for Debby! I can’t see how we could possibly