Клео Коул - Latte Trouble

“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 my way into the Theater right past the intern, who was now guarding the entrance. “Hey, lady, you can’t go in there!”

I ignored him, ran through the Theater to the backstage door. I heard frightened screams, saw models running back and forth in various states of undress.

Moira stood at the center of the chaos, a .38 police special clutched in one hand. She was pointing the shiny black weapon at Lottie Harmon—and at Fen, who stood at Lottie’s shoulder.

“Why aren’t you dead?” Moira screamed. “You should be dead! I ground up the aspirins myself…you’re allergic, you have to be, it runs in the family. I gave you the aspirin, that night when you came to the Blend to plan 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 monster and now it’s time for you to die!”

“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.

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.”