I nodded. “With Lottie out of the way, you and Rena would become the sole owners of her label.”
Tad shocked me by laughing. “You are so wrong,” he said, shaking his head. “So off the mark…”
“Enlighten me then.”
Tad took a swallow of air, then a gulp of coffee. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet, guarded.
“Over a year ago, when the label was just getting launched, Lottie somehow got Fen on board. It was a real coup—a miracle, really. Fen dropped his long-standing relationship with Verona accessories to take Lottie on. Anyway, Rena had been working for months for practically no salary. Her savings were gone and she was borrowing from friends. There was no guarantee that Lottie’s label was going to catch on, and she was starting to get very nervous about her financial security. She was feeling desperate…
Tad gulped more coffee, black this time. “Anyway, Fen sent over patterns for some of his fall line, so Lottie could design the accessories….” He glanced at his watch, looked in the direction of the empty staircase. “Someone approached Rena pretending to be an international knockoff merchandiser. He offered her seventy-five thousand dollars for copies of Fen’s designs. Like I said, she was desperate, owed money. So Rena took the deal. She copied the designs and traded them for cash.” Tad snorted. “Turned out to be a set-up. Fen himself sent an employee to make the deal—”
“Wait a second,” I interrupted. “Let me get this straight. Fen stole his own designs?”
Tad nodded grimly. “The man Fen had sent to Rena made the exchange in some hotel room on Eighth Avenue. A private surveillance firm taped the whole thing. Then, about three weeks ago—around the time Rena and I became engaged—Fen approached Rena and told her the truth. He threatened to go to the police and expose the crime to Lottie. I think Rena was more concerned about what Lottie would think than any jail time she was facing. The two women had become close.”
“What were Fen’s demands?” I asked. “All blackmailers have demands…”.
“Rena’s shares in Lottie Harmon…and mine. After Fall Fashion Week is over and Lottie is finished with her major presentation, he wants us to trump up a reason to want out of the business, and tell Lottie that we’re selling him all of our shares. Fen wants to buy our shares and control Lottie’s business.”
“I don’t understand,” said Matt, who’d been pretty quiet up to now. “Why try to sell the Lottie Harmon shares at the seminar after Fen threatened you and demanded you sell the stock to him?”
“Rena and I don’t want to hurt Lottie,” explained Tad. “And we don’t want any trouble from Fen. We’re hoping if we divest fast, before the end of the week, Fen will have no hold on us. The shares he wanted will be dispersed among other investors, and Lottie will be safe—she’ll be able to retain the largest percentage of stock— and control of her business.” Tad met my stare. “Like I said before, Ms. Cosi. I was just trying to protect Lottie. I —”
The conversation had become so intense that we didn’t notice we were no longer alone until a shadow fell across the table. I looked up, stunned to see Detective Mike Quinn standing there, his sandy, windblown hair longer than usual. He had a five-o’clock shadow despite the fact that it was not even noon yet, and his face appeared gaunt, but his shoulders were as broad as ever. Only after his piercing blue eyes met mine did I notice Quinn was flanked by two policemen in uniform, neither of whom I recognized.
Quinn nodded silently in Matt’s direction, then faced me. The ice in his eyes momentarily warned. “Good to see you, Clare.”
“Hello Mike,” I said softly.
Matt glared, but Quinn didn’t seem to notice. His gaze smoothly shifted from me to Tad, turning glacial again as it focused on the paunchy man squirming in the overstuffed chair.
“Are you Tad Benedict?” Quinn asked.
“Yes, I’m Benedict.” Tad eyed him suspiciously. “What do you want?”
“I’m Detective Michael Quinn.” He flashed his badge. “I need to speak to you in private, Mr. Benedict.”
“No,” Tad shot back, defiant and worried at the same time. “We’ll talk right here. What’s this all about, anyway?”
“Do you know a Rena Garcia who resides at the Continental Arms Apartments?”
“Yeah. Sure. She’s my fiancée.”
I saw the uniformed cops exchange glances, and with a sick jolt of dread I sensed what was coming next.
“When was the last time you saw Ms. Garcia?” asked Quinn.
“Yesterday afternoon before my financial seminar…why?” Tad rose to his feet. “Listen, what’s going on here. Where’s Rena? Do I need to call my lawyer?”
Mike Quinn put his hand on Tad’s arm, squeezed it solicitously as he met the man’s gaze squarely. “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, Mr. Benedict—”
Tad froze. “Rena…has something happened to Rena?”
“I’m sorry to inform you that Ms. Garcia was found dead in her apartment early this morning.”
“No, no!” Tad cried. “It’s a mistake!”
Quinn shook his head, reached into his natty trenchcoat, pulled out a Polaroid photograph, and showed it to Tad. I could just make out the face of a woman, raven-dark hair splayed like a crown around her head, her flesh cartoon pink against a blue background that could have been either a carpet or a bedspread.
Tad choked, sagged. Quinn and a blue suit grabbed his arms to keep him from sinking to the floor. “What happened?” Tad groaned, his face pale.
“That’s what we’re trying to establish, Mr. Benedict,” said Quinn. “To do that, we need a statement from you.”
Tad’s lower lip trembled, his eyes misted.
“You are not a suspect, and you may have a lawyer present at any time,” Quinn continued. “Can you accompany us to the precinct right now?”
Tad grunted an unintelligible reply. Quinn nodded, then passed him to the other officers.
“Take him down to the car,” Quinn told the uniforms, who led Tad to the stairs.
I expected Quinn to follow them; instead, he turned to face me. I stood and walked over to him. I could see he wanted to say something on a personal level, but the situation was obviously awkward, especially with Matt’s eyes boring into my back.
“There was a homicide here the other night,” Quinn began. It was not a question.
I nodded. “Someone was poisoned…cyanide, they said.”
Quinn’s eyes held mine. “We believe Rena Garcia was poisoned, too.”
I found myself ringing my hands. “Look, Mike…something’s going on…I’m pretty sure—”
“Not now.”
My temper flared. “
“Later.”
“But I’ve got to tell you—”
Quinn raised his hand to stop me. “Listen, Clare. I trust your judgement, and I want to hear what you have to say. But I have to take care of this situation first. I’ll come back later, okay? We can speak in private?”
This time it was a question. His chin went up, indicating Matt behind me. I didn’t turn need to turn. I knew my ex-husband’s eyes were on us.
“I’ll be here until closing,” I said quietly.
Quinn nodded, then headed for the stairs. Matt moved to my side, curled his arm around my waist. Quinn looked back just then, saw the intimate gesture. He frowned and looked away.
“The cop’s not staying?” Matt said a little too loudly. “Didn’t Rosario’s deliver any donuts this morning?”
“Give it a rest, Matt,” I said and slipped out of his grasp.
The rest of the work day was long and busy. The younger customers never stopped coming. Even the usual lulls between rush hours were nonexistent. I’d told Esther Matt’s theory about the appeal of our so-called poisoned coffee and she began calling our patrons “Fugu thrill-seekers.”
At four o’clock Esther headed for home, and Moira agreed to stay on. She’d worked until nine the evening before, and agreed to work the extra hours again tonight. I told her how much I appreciated her help. “Don’t mention it,” she replied. “I want to help Tucker any way I can.”
When Gardner Evans arrived with some new jazz CDs from his collection, Moira finally departed. Not until ten
