by Клео Коул
He nodded.
“What is it?” I asked.
The man shrugged. “A ten-minute retrospective of some kind. It’s scheduled to run before the show starts.”
“Could you please play it again?”
The man shrugged and hit the play button. The clip I’d heard was from a television interview for the Italian network RAI. A scroll at the bottom of the screen indicated it had been taped during the Milan fashion show of 1984. The interview was conducted in English, with Italian subtitles running at the bottom of the screen.
Lottie Harmon, nee Toratelli, sat in a deck chair, her signature scarlet hair lifting lightly on the Mediterranean breeze; her sundress was bright yellow, her long, tanned legs tucked under her. On a chair beside Lottie, her sister Mona Lisa wore a pale green dress. The resemblance between the two women was all the more striking in a moving image.
Also striking was the difference in their manner—Lottie was loud, extroverted, and flamboyant. Mona Lisa seemed serious, quiet, restrained. Almost invisible behind the glamorous pair, the heavyset Harriet Tasky stood in a black pantsuit, her dirty blond hair stirring a bit in the sea air.
It was Mona Lisa who spoke of Milan being her favorite show, of her love of the food and wine. It was Lottie Harmon who leaned into the camera and added the comment about “those delicious Italian men.” But it was Harriet Tasky who laughed that distinctive, strained, high-pitched laugh.
The tape ended abruptly in a shower of crackling static. The man at my side cursed and began to play with the wires. Still in a state of confused shock, I turned. Standing right behind me was the woman who had, for the past year, called herself Lottie Harmon. She was staring in horror at the snowy screen.
“You,” I rasped. “You’re not Lottie Harmon. You’re Harriet Tasky!”
Twenty-Seven
Without a word, Harriet took me by the arm and pulled me to a seat in the back row of the empty theater, far from prying eyes and ears.
“I was Harriet Tasky,” she admitted in a whispered hiss after sitting beside me. “Now I’m Lottie Harmon. What does it matter to you?”
“It matters because my friend is sitting in a jail cell and the only way I know how to get him out is to find out what the hell is going on around here!”
“Shhh, lower your voice,” Harriet insisted. Then the woman’s shoulders sagged. “This week has been hell. First the poisoning at the party, then Rena’s death…” She paused to choke back sudden tears, then just began shaking her head and broke down completely.
“I’m sorry about Rena,” I said. “I really am. But I need to know what’s going on. The truth. Why are you posing as Lottie Harmon?”
“Why do you think?” she said after composing herself and wiping her tears. “Harriet was a nobody in this world. Overweight, shy, unglamorous. Never mind that I created half the pieces that sent the Lottie Harmon label to the top of the fashion world in its heyday. Poor Mona, of course, created the other half.”
“And Lottie Toratelli?”
“She was the professional party girl. The very public, very pretty, flamboyant, well-spoken face of Lottie Harmon. I don’t deny she was vital. She made the connections, the front and back end deals. She put the label and its designs in the papers—by making the scene, showing off the jewelry and accessories, bringing in just the right clientele—”
“The Eveready Bunny,” I murmured.
“Who kept going and going.” Harriet said this with such irony I tried to read between the lines.
“Do you mean drugs?”
Lottie shook her head. “Not drugs. Both Lottie and Mona Lisa had some kind of weird, hereditary allergies. But booze, music, and sex with multiple partners—that was what kept Lottie going.”
“But not you and Mona?”
Harriet waved her hand. “Oh, Mona went clubbing a lot at first, but then she got pregnant by some one-night stand and decided to have the baby. She settled down and became the more responsible sister. I tried the club scene for awhile, but the way I looked…well, let’s just say I got tired of buying drinks and drugs for guys who treated me like crap.”
I let the words hang for a moment. “I guess it was tough for you and Mona—working hard and never getting the credit you deserved for your design work.”
Harriet shrugged. “It didn’t matter, really. We were all getting rich. That had been the plan—and the deal—all along. Things were going great, until that bastard Stephen Goldin started playing his games.”
“Fen?”
She glanced away, her eyes glazing a bit. “Stephen was really something back then—brilliant, cocksure—a straight young clothing designer in a business saturated with gay men. Lottie was drawn to him immediately; Mona soon after that. Moths to a flame, as it turned out.”
“So he encouraged both women’s affections?”
“Encouraged? He reveled in it. For years, he played a twisted cat and mouse game with both women—flaunting his relationship with Lottie, while daring Mona to reveal her own affair with him to her wild, possessive sister. Fen was playing a dangerous game, but no one knew how dangerous until it was too late…”.
Her voice trailed off, but I knew where she was going. “Harriet,” I said softly, “I know Mona died in Bangkok.”
Lottie nodded, closed her eyes. “I saw most of the crap come down in that sick menage a tois, but I managed to miss Armageddon Day, which finally occurred in 1988.”
“What happened?”
She sighed, opened her eyes. “Fen took both sisters to Thailand on phony passports. He had one too. They were planning to smuggle gems out of the country and avoid duties and customs. But with his libido, Fen was probably planning to sample Thailand’s notorious sex industry, as well. Anyway, Mona took her little daughter on the trip, maybe to use her as a decoy, so the authorities wouldn’t suspect them of being smugglers. It was all a stupid, tragic mistake. I didn’t find out the truth about Mona’s death until years later. Lottie confessed it all to me herself, at the end…”.
“The only news item I found on Mona’s death said she fell off a balcony—”
“She was pushed,” Harriet corrected, shaking her head.
“Did Fen do it?”
“Fen and Lottie had been bickering—badly. By this time, they were on the verge of splitting for good. The break finally came in Bangkok, but before Fen stormed off and flew back to New York without them, he threw his affair with Mona in Lottie’s face. Lottie had always been impulsive and, at times, short-tempered. The lifestyle she’d been leading—all the alcohol she consumed daily—had made her downright dangerous. She stormed into Mona’s hotel room and confronted her. Mona struck out and Lottie struck back. They began to struggle…Lottie pushed her own sister over the balcony, and it happened right in front of Mona’s young daughter.”
“Oh my god.”
Harriet paused. “That pretty little girl…I think she was only six years old at the time. I didn’t know her that well because Mona had hired a full-time nanny at home and brought her by the studio only once or twice. The daughter, what was her name? Maria or Maura, something like that. She must be in her early 20s by now. I just hope she’s forgotten what she saw, or made peace with it, anyway.”
“What happened after Mona’s death?”
“It was hushed up, I can tell you that. The little girl’s father was out of the picture so Mona’s daughter was sent to live with a relative in the northeast. Boston, I think.”
“And Lottie? What happened to her?”
“She got away with murder, that’s what happened to her. Mona’s death was quickly ruled a suicide. And Lottie returned to New York in time to debut the new season—but she didn’t. She dropped out, cancelled orders, shut down the company and went to Europe. Murdering her sister then covering it up, orphaning her niece, and losing Fen, too, it was too much for her. She just quit.”
“And Fen?”
“He moved along…to other design partners, and presumably other sexual ones. I moved to L
ondon to start a new life—I still had plenty of money, so I opened my own vintage clothing business. I lost the weight I’d carried my whole life, and things were going okay. Then I heard about Lottie…”
“What about Lottie?”
“Her drinking intensified. One day I got a phone call from a hospital in Paris, asking if I’d be willing to pick up a Lottie Toratelli. She’d given my name as next of kin. I later found out she’d burned through most of her money, and was now a full-blown alcoholic.”
“What did you do?”
“I took her back with me to London, put her in rehab, then made her a partner in my business. She didn’t have much cash to buy into it, so we agreed that she’d sign over some property to me, including the Village townhouse I’ve been living in for this past year. We were doing okay, Lottie and I, running the vintage business in London, until a stupid, senseless accident occurred that changed everything….”
Harriet paused. I gave her time to gather her thoughts.
“We had received a consignment of vintage clothing from a British estate in Cornwall—all vintage prewar top of the line fashions, perfectly sealed and preserved. Lottie and I began opening the plastic bags to conduct an inventory. Suddenly Lottie got sick, then she had a seizure. I called an ambulance and took her to a hospital. It was too late to help, and Lottie died the same day.”
I blinked in shock. “How?”
“The doctors said it was naphthalene poisoning, from the chemicals in the mothballs. Lottie was always allergic to aspirin. Turns out the adverse reaction to naphthalene is part of the same allergy, only much worse. After Lottie was gone, I saw to everything, including Lottie’s deathbed request that she be cremated as quietly as possible, without even her family being notified. I understood how she felt because during her long rehab, she confessed to me that she’d killed her sister.”
“So why did you resurrect Lottie Harmon? Did you need money?”
“It wasn’t the money I wanted.” Harriet sighed. “With the sisters dead, I had the sole claim on the label. I had been doing all that great work for all those years, laboring in obscurity…I wanted to know what it was like to be the one applauded, and featured in the magazines, the one invited to the parties…the genius, the star…”
I recalled David Mintzer’s comment about the poor little guys laboring away in the shadows who get ignored, or thrust aside—apparently Harriet Tasky had been one of them, just waiting for her chance to break out, to step into the limelight.
“It wasn’t an easy road,” Harriet continued. “When I first tried to get things going again, I called Fen, hoping to interest him in a partnership. I wasn’t happy about dealing with a snake like him, but I saw it as my only avenue back into the business.”
I could imagine what happened, and Harriet confirmed my suspicions. “The prick wouldn’t even take my call. After repeated tries, I called him again—but this time I told the receptionist I was Lottie 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 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 d
ead?” 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.
