a talk with Ms. Summour.
I stepped quickly from my office and descended the spiral staircase to the main floor of the coffeehouse. Wan light from the setting sun shone through the tall windows. I spied Gardner behind the counter, Esther moving toward the front door. I headed her off.
“Where’s Matt?” I asked. “I need to talk to him.”
“He went upstairs after Gardner showed up. Said he had to go out tonight and wanted to get ready.”
I gripped Esther’s shoulder. “How do you feel about overtime?”
Esther made a pouty face. “Tonight?”
“Time and a half—and a fifty-dollar bonus.”
Esther stripped off her coat. “You’ve got a deal.”
“Great!” I raced for the back stairs.
Inside our duplex apartment, I knocked on Matt’s bedroom door and received no reply. Then I heard the sound of water running and I moved down the hall to the closed bathroom door.
“Matt? Are you there?”
The door flew open. My ex-husband stood in front of me, his sculpted chest bare, a towel wrapped around his lean hips, shaving cream lathered on his jawline.
“What?”
“I need to speak to Breanne.”
His eyes narrowed. “Why?”
I showed him the article.
He scanned it, shrugged, and handed it back. “What’s the big deal?”
“Nobody, not even your mother, knew Lottie Harmon was three people. Breanne did. I need to find out what else she knows about these women. Are you going to see Breanne again?”
“I’m seeing her tonight,” he admitted, turning back to the mirror and picking up his razor. “I’ve been invited to the Trend magazine Fashion Week bash….”
“I’m going with you.”
Matt rolled his eyes and began to shave. The hot water ran as he dragged the razor down his jaw. Drag and rinse. Drag and rinse.
I folded my arms and waited.
Drag and rinse. Drag and rinse.
“Matt!”
“Fine,” he finally replied in a tone that told me it wasn’t. But he’d been married to me long enough to know arguing would be futile.
“Great,” I said.
“One condition,” he warned before I dashed off to change.
“What?”
“No dressing like Jackie O.”
TWENTY-THREE
“CLARE, you look beautiful.”
At Matt’s unexpected compliment, I nearly tripped on my four-inch heels. “Thanks,” I replied, thinking he looked pretty good himself, leaning casually against the Blend’s coffee bar with his athletic form draped in a slate gray suit, an azure dress shirt worn fashionably open at the collar.
I teetered toward him across the Blend’s polished plank floor, trying earnestly to recapture my ability to balance on fashion forward stilts. When I reached the counter, I spread my hands.
“See, not a pillbox hat in sight.”
Matt seemed less interested in my lack of Jackie O hat than in my ample J.Lo cleavage, now displayed by the plunging neckline of a chic, aqua Prada wrap dress I’d bought on deep discount at the Chelsea Filene’s Basement. I’d worn it once, for Madame’s New Year’s Eve party last December. Matteo had been in Rio at the time—so, of course, he hadn’t seen it, or the striking Y necklace of translucent blue stones that had caught my eye at a local artisan’s fair.
“You’re going to be the hottest woman at the party,” said Matt with a smile.
“That’s sweet. But I needed a shoehorn to squeeze into this thing. And let’s get real. This party is a Fashion Week event. The women will be so willowy they’ll make Twiggy look like a rhinoceros.”
“My point exactly, babe,” he teased. “Twiggy don’t come with that cleavage.”
I nearly blushed as Esther, who’d been listening from behind the counter, wrinkled her brow. “Who’s Twiggy?”
Matt and I stared at her, then exchanged mournful glances.
“What? What did I say?” she asked defensively.
I waved my hand. “It’s an old person thing.”
Matt smiled and offered his arm. “Our horsepower and buggy await.”
I said goodnight to Esther and Gardner and eagerly took my ex-husband’s arm—less out of a desire to feel his prominent bicep than to make certain I didn’t fall on my face in front of my staff. With all my crazy running around this week, their respect for me was already waning, and I was still getting used to the heels.
We sauntered through the Blend and out to the waiting limousine, eyes following us, and I knew why: Matt and I made an attractive couple. Instantly, of course, I cursed my own powers of observation. Was I going mental? This outing with my ex is strictly business. All business. Totally business.
On the sidewalk, I noticed it had rained briefly while I’d been getting ready, and the wet streets were ablaze with reflected light. At the curb, a limousine driver stood waiting, and I