your party. But nothing happened…so I tried cyanide, at the big party, but that poor man drank the coffee instead…”.
Moira sobbed and the gun wavered. Then she bit back her tears and straightened the weapon.
“I even tried aspirins again, ground up on those fancy Italian cookies Ms. Cosi brought you the other day…but you’re still alive. It’s like I can’t kill the monster…so I killed Rena, just to show you what it’s like…what it’s like to lose someone you love…and how dare you…how dare you treat Rena like a daughter, buying her an apartment, taking her into your business as a partner…while all along you conveniently forgot about your own sister’s daughter…”.
Moira clutched her head with one hand, the other still gripped the handgun. A security guard pushed past me and ran out of the room. Since he was unarmed, I assumed (and hoped) he was running for help and not fleeing the scene.
As Lottie/Harriet watched the hysterical girl, realization naturally dawned. “You’re Mona Toratelli’s daughter…” she murmured, stunned.
“Don’t speak my mother’s name!” Moira shrieked. “You murdered my mother, you bitch. Your own sister…I saw you push her over the balcony…I see it every night in my dreams…how could you kill her like that…and then run away? You just left me! You’re a
“No, Moira!” I cried.
Moira closed her mouth and her eyes shot in my direction—she looked crazy, maddened by grief and the insane need for revenge.
“You’re going after the wrong person,” I quickly explained. “The woman you see in front of you isn’t your aunt. She’s not even related—”
“Shut up! I know who she is,” Moira cried. “I told you! I saw her kill my mother. My mother came to me. She told me in my head what I had to do to make the nightmares go away. Lottie has to die.”
Standing beside Harriet, Fen didn’t appear to be listening to Moria—but intensely watching her instead. The moment he noticed her hand waver again, he lunged for the weapon.
“No!” I cried. Too late. The shot sounded like an exploding canon, and Fen, struck in the chest, folded around Moira’s arm. With the last of his strength, he yanked the gun away from her. A moment later, he collapsed, the gun clattering to the floor.
Byran Goldin immediately jumped on top of Moira while Lloyd Newhaven scooped up the gun. Amid the screams of half-dressed models, cowering amid the clothing racks, Harriet dropped to her knees at Fen’s side.
Soaked in blood, he stared up at her. All of Fen’s swagger, his arrogance was gone, and I saw only sad, desperate affection behind his dying eyes.
“Lottie…I…”
“Quiet,” Harriet whispered, covering his lips with her fingers.
“Forget the pain…the bad things…” Fen gasped. “Forgive me for those…remember only the ecstasy…we shared…”.
Fen’s eyes went wide, and then the light left them. Harriet Tasky, now and forever Lottie Harmon, held him in her arms until the paramedics arrived and pronounced him dead.
Epilogue
I slept fourteen hours that night. No dreams and no nightmares. Just dark, healing rest.
Believe it or not, Fen and Lottie’s runway show had gone off without a hitch. In one short hour, Moira McNeely had been taken into custody, Fen’s body had been taken to the morgue, and the pre-show activity resumed. Guests arrived, took their seats, and Bryan Goldin himself delivered a tearful, touching eulogy to his uncle at the start of the runway show.
Lottie helped the young man through it all, and by the end of the day, the two appeared to have forged a solid bond. Bryan, it seemed, was the sole heir to the Fen house of fashion, and because of his need for an experienced hand, he asked Lottie to become a full partner.
Fen’s death had made headlines all over the world. Consequently, the orders for his spring collection—and Lottie’s java jewelry—were huge.
A week later, Quinn was sitting at my coffee bar again.
“Here you go, Mike.”
“Thanks, Clare.”
I’d steamed up a latte for him and an espresso for myself. As I added a bit of sugar to my demitasse, I watched Quinn sip his hot drink, make his usual deep sound of satisfaction, and wipe the foam from his upper lip with two fingers.
“Well,” I said, “are you ready to spill?”
He lifted the tall glass mug. “It’s too good to spill.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Bad joke,” he said with slight twitch of his lips. “Okay, what first?”
“Mona Lisa Toratelli.”
“Bangkok authorities filed a report in ’88. It all checks out. The little girl’s statement was taken, but the authorities claimed there were no other witnesses to corroborate that her aunt had been at the hotel so they quickly swept the mess under the rug, concluding the little girl simply made up the story to cope with her mother’s suicide. That’s how Moira was treated ever since—as if her memories were some delusion. But clearly, Moira Toratelli McNeely had witnessed her mother’s murder at the hands of her aunt—and she never forgot.”
I shuddered. “The thought that one sister would kill another over a man…especially one like Fen…it’s so sad. And so brutal. It’s difficult to comprehend.”
“Precisely. Imagine how Moira felt.”
I eyeballed Quinn in surprise. “Sentimental? For a murderer’s point of view?”
He shook his head. “Empathetic. You better understand your perpetrator if you want to catch him.”
“Or her.”
“Or her.”
I sipped my espresso in silence. Quinn sipped his latte.
“So what will happen to Moira now?” I asked.
“Best guess—she’ll plead guilty. Her lawyer will claim criminally insane, and she’ll end up in a hospital for twenty-five years of treatment.”
“That poor girl…and the people she poisoned…Rena Garcia and Jeff Lugar and Ricky Flatt…and Tad losing his fiancée, poor Tad…” I shook my head at the tragic waste, the heartache. “How do you do it, Mike? How do you get over all the bad stuff?”
“You don’t.”
“Clare?” Matt was calling me from the back stairs.
“I’ll be right back,” I told Quinn softly, then headed for the Blend’s back door. Matt was descending the steps with his baggage. He’d packed with his usual efficiency: one large black pulley suitcase, a black garment bag, and a black leather carry-on. He’d already shipped some of the Special Reserve Ethiopian beans to Tokyo via DHL.
“My car service is here,” he said.
I nodded. “Have a good trip.”
“Sure I can’t change your mind?”
A question like that at a time like this was usually rhetorical. But my ex-husband’s eyes looked almost hopeful, proud but edged with enough pleading to make me feel guilty—but only slightly.
“You’ll have company,” I told him with a small smile.
He sighed. “Clare—”
Three days before, Breanne had left a lengthy message on our answering machine, telling Matt that she had business in Tokyo, too. (Matt was traveling to Japan for a major presentation on his kiosk plan—one arranged by David Mintzer, who, after his conversation with me at the
