“It isn’t any dress,” I added. “Audrey Hepburn wore it in the ball scene at the beginning of Roman Holiday. It’s the centerpiece for the exhibit celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of that movie. If it’s not in the show, your countrymen will be crushed.” I tried to appeal to his sense of national pride.
“But to disturb my mother,” John said, “that is a sacrilege.”
“It’ll be fast,” Denis said.
“She won’t even notice,” I added. “Besides, no woman wants to spend eternity in a dress that’s too tight.”
“Please, can you pick another outfit for her?” Denis said, ever the deal closer. “We’ll go see the mortician and make the arrangements.”
John’s eyes glittered with unshed tears. I felt like a heel for what we were asking him to do.
He nodded. “I suppose.”
I embraced him. “Thank you.”
Later that afternoon, John drove us to the Istituto di Moda, where we delivered the trunk full of costumes, with a note attached from me explaining that the last remaining gown from Roman Holiday would be dropped off shortly, and at that point I would be available to help them dress the mannequins for the show. Then we headed to the cemetery where John’s mother had been interred. It was built on the side of a hill. White marble vaults were stacked one on top of another, sometimes twenty high. It was like a high-rise condo building for corpses. In the side of the marble were carved names and epitaphs, glassed-in photos of the deceased, and built-in urns filled with artificial flowers.
Mr. Delani, the mortician, had arranged for the vault to be opened, the casket to be removed and then taken to a private area where Mrs. Savoy’s clothes could be changed. The family priest was with the body. He was there to repeat the required prayers when the remains were reconsigned to the mausoleum.
“Here,” John said, handing the mortician a shopping bag containing a powder-pink silk suit. “She wore this to my sister Caroline’s wedding. It holds happy memories.”
Mr. Delani, a tall man with enormous pockets under his eyes, excused himself in order to make the switch. Forty minutes later, he emerged with the shopping bag that now held the priceless gown. Words cannot describe the relief I felt. But let me try. It was as though I had been carrying the weight of the Tiffany Star cruise ship on my shoulders and I could finally let it go. Now all I had to do was find a spool of matching thread from the 1950s (which I doubted Paramount had kept in its costume archives), repair the dress, and deliver it to the Istituto.
My biggest concern was maintaining the value of the piece. If it became known that the dress had suffered a serious breach and was restored, its worth could plummet dramatically. On the other hand, if I lined the seams up and hand stitched them together in the original holes made by the studio’s seamstresses using vintage thread (if I couldn’t locate the actual spool), the repair might not affect the gown’s value.
“Here,” Mr. Delani said, bringing me the bag. “I am sorry for the confusion.”
“It’s not your fault,” John said. “I forgot to tell you to change her clothes.”
“Yes, but when you asked me to remove her false teeth, I should have inquired if there was more,” Mr. Delani said.
“You remembered to ask for her dentures, but not the dress?” Denis asked.
“Her sister, my aunt, is in need of a new set, and in my grief—” John started.
As soon as I grasped the bag, I knew there was a problem. It was too light. “Oh, my God,” I shrieked, looking inside. Instead of the Roman Holiday gown, it contained a polyester dusty-pink nightie, nothing more.
With a Little Bit o’ Luck
THIS IS NOT THE dress you wanted?” Mr. Delani said.
“No,” I screamed. “It’s a cheap piece of yecch.”
Mr. Delani pulled the nightgown out of the shopping bag. “I gave my wife something just like it for her birthday.”
“Oh. Sorry. But this isn’t the dress your mother wore at her viewing, right, John?”
“No, it isn’t,” he said, his brow puckered with worry.
“Someone pulled a switch,” Denis said. “Who had access to the body after the service, before she was buried?”
“Only my son,” Mr. Delani said. “But he is honest as the day is strong, like me. And what would he want with a fancy gown?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe he’s a cross-dresser.”
Denis kicked my foot, to shut me up, I suppose. “Where is he? Can we speak to him?” he said calmly.
The man shrugged. “He is back at the camera ardente.
“Where?” I said.
“The mortuary,” John explained.
I looked up to heaven. “Why is this happening? Why?”
“It’s challenging, I’ll admit,” Denis said. “But doesn’t that make it more interesting? C’mon.”
After a ten-minute nail-biting ride from the cemetery to the mortuary, I collapsed on a wooden bench outside the office as we waited for Mr. Delani to find his son. “My luck, the kid sold it on the black market.”
“Or put it on eBay,” John added.
“That would be better,” Denis said. “Then we could bid on it ourselves.”
“Not so fast,” I said. “The sleeveless black satin Givenchy that Audrey wore in Breakfast at Tiffany’s sold at auction for a million dollars after commissions. This could be worth as much. We couldn’t afford to bid on it.”
“Speak for yourself, woman,” Denis teased.
“Oh, so you’d buy it back for me? Aren’t you the generous one,” I kidded (sort of).
Denis checked his watch. “It’s only been gone a few hours. If he took it, there’s a good chance we’ll get it back.”
Mr. Delani marched back into the room, holding a contrite-looking green-eyed, black-haired Adonis by the collar of his dress shirt.
“This is my son, Mario. He has a confession.” He jerked the boy twice.
“I—I took the dress. I couldn’t stand for something so breathtaking to be hidden in a vault for eternity. It wasn’t right. I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
Thank God! I
