Harmon and was put right through. He took Lottie’s call, all right.”
“What happened then?”
“I thought I knew Lottie well enough to be able to play her. I had a whole spiel down and it worked pretty well. He thought he was talking to Lottie Toratelli, and I cut off the conversation before he became convinced otherwise. He begged to see me—that is, Lottie—but I put Fen off. When I hung up, I knew what I had to do.”
Harriet faced me, her tone defiant. “Maybe it was extreme, to most people, but I saw my next move as a rebirth. I’d already lost the weight, and was trim and toned. A nip and a tuck, a nose job, some work on the chin and cheeks, enhanced breasts, hair dye and a little liposuction—”
“And you were Lottie Harmon…a brand new Eveready Bunny.”
“I even changed my name—legally. And you know what? It worked,” Harriet insisted. “I’ve had to keep Fen at arm’s length—not hard since he frankly repulses me—but things had been going great. So many people have helped me, like Tad and poor Rena….” Lottie began to cry again.
I sat in silence for a moment. It was a lot to take in, a lot to process…I was about to tell Harriet about Fen, to see what, if anything, she knew of his scheming against her—when a Fashion Week intern appeared.
“Excuse me, ladies…we have to clear the Theater now. We’re going to start admitting the guests in the next half hour.”
“Goodness!” Harriet rose and wiped away the last of her tears. “I have a million things to do before the runway show.”
I rose too, and she grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “Okay, Clare, now you know. I told you the truth because you guessed and because you asked. I honestly don’t know how hearing about the past is going to help you solve your friend’s present problem. I hardly knew Ricky Flatt, but I have to ask you to keep my confidence.”
“But there’s more for us to discuss, Harriet—”
“Lottie, please. Call me Lottie. I told you I legally changed my name.”
“Yes, of course—”
“Hey, boss! You’re needed!” It was Esther Best, hollering from the front row.
“We have to talk more,” I told Lottie urgently. “Please, until we do, steer clear of Fen. I think he’s trying to harm you.”
“Sorry, my dear, but today of all days that’s quite impossible.” Lottie rushed backstage while I joined Esther.
“Lottie looks upset,” Esther observed.
“She’s still broken up about Rena Garcia’s death.”
“God, yes,” Esther said with a shudder. “You know, I think Moira and I were just about the last two people to see her alive.”
I froze. “What did you say?”
“I said I think Moira and I were the last people to see Rena alive….”
“How do you figure?”
Esther shrugged. “It was Thursday night and you were holed up in your office. Moira and I were waiting for Gardner to take over when Rena stopped by for coffee. I remember because Moira and Rena got to talking and they even shared a cab after that—”
“What time?”
Esther blinked at my urgent tone. “Close to nine, I guess.”
Moira McNeely. In her early twenties. From Boston. Allergic to aspirin. A student of fashion from Parson’s School of Design. A young, attractive straight girl who befriended the Blend’s gay barista, Tucker, right around the same time that Lottie Harmon started hanging out at the coffeehouse. A quiet person, laboring in the background, the sort of person one hardly notices. She was Mona Lisa Toratelli’s daughter. I knew it then. The little girl who’d witnessed her mother’s murder at the hands of her aunt—an aunt who’d gotten away with the crime.
“Oh my god,” I cried. “Where’s Moira now?”
“I left her at the coffee stand. The show’s about to start, you know.”
I took off in a run, Esther on my heels.
“What’s the problem, boss?” she cried. But I didn’t have time to answer. Instead I burst into the lobby, pushed my way through the gathering crowd to the coffee stand.
It had been abandoned. The only sign Moira had been there, her backpack—the one she refused to part with on our ride up. It was now unzipped and wide open, lying on the floor.
“I have to find Lottie! She’s in danger,” I cried.
Esther, panting, caught up to me just then. “What? Back to the theater?” she puffed.
“You wait here, and if you see Matteo, tell him Moira is the one who’s been poisoning people.”
“What? Clare, wait a minute!” yelled Esther. But I was already gone, pushing