Chapter 5 - THE WOMAN IN THE BLUE DRESS
Clara Whitmore was still wearing her diamond engagement ring when Detective Naomi Price found her in the Grandeur Hotel’s private sitting room.
She sat beside a cold fireplace, wrapped in a cream shawl, looking like the only person in New York who had just survived a tragedy without a strand of hair out of place.
When Victor entered carrying Isabella, Clara rose so quickly her glass tipped over.
“Oh, thank God.” She pressed a hand to her heart. “Bella, darling, come here.”
Isabella clung to Victor’s neck.
Clara’s smile trembled for only a second. “Sweetheart, you’re frightened. Of course you are.”
“Don’t touch me,” Isabella said.
Clara froze.
Victor set his daughter gently in the chair closest to Lena, who remained near the doorway. Dmitri took up position beside them. Naomi moved forward and displayed her badge.
“Miss Whitmore, I need you to answer some questions.”
Clara blinked. “I’ve answered dozens. I told the officers everything I saw.”
“Then one more conversation won’t hurt.” Naomi gestured toward the opposite chair. “Please sit.”
Clara looked at Victor as if waiting for him to defend her. He said nothing.
“Where were you at nine-thirteen tonight?” Naomi asked.
“At the reception, obviously.”
“Were you ever in the service corridor behind the ballroom?”
“No. Why would I be?”
“Did you speak to Leon Mercer before he fired at Mr. Romano?”
Clara’s gaze flickered toward Isabella. “We exchanged greetings. Leon is practically family.”
“Did you tell Isabella her father would choose his money over her?”
The color drained from Clara’s face, but she recovered quickly. “Of course not. Who would say something so cruel to a child?”
“I heard you,” Isabella whispered.
Clara’s composure shifted. “Darling, you must be confused. You’ve had a terrible scare.”
Lena moved instinctively closer to the little girl.
“She knows what she heard,” Lena said.
Clara looked at her properly for the first time. The contempt that crossed her face was immediate.
“You,” she said. “This entire disaster started because you attacked my fiancé.”
“Your fiancé is alive because she attacked him,” Naomi replied.
Clara’s jaw tightened.
Naomi's assistant came in carrying a narrow folder and asked permission to interrupt. A bartender had agreed to give a statement. He remembered Leon entering the service corridor with an empty tray and insisting on collecting Victor's champagne himself. He also remembered Lena questioning the unusual smell and the head server ordering her back to work. The bartender had been too frightened to challenge a man whose name opened every locked door in the hotel.
“Where is he now?” Lena asked.
“In a room with an investigator,” Naomi said. “He is making a formal statement. We are also collecting the glasses that remained on the tray.”
Lena stared at the carpet. She had spent the entire evening wondering whether anyone believed her. Now people were describing the same moments from different angles, turning one frightened maid's memory into a trail of evidence.
Clara watched the exchange with increasing irritation. “You cannot possibly know what every employee saw.”
“That's why we ask them,” Naomi replied. “That's what an investigation is.”
“People say whatever gets them attention.”
Lena looked up. “I didn't want attention. I wanted to finish my shift, take the subway home, and pay my electric bill on Friday.”
For the first time, the room seemed to understand how far her life had been dragged from its ordinary course. Victor heard the weariness beneath her words. He thought of all the people who had approached him with warnings, only to be dismissed by an assistant before he even knew their names.
Victor remained silent until Naomi asked about Hawthorne House. Then he saw the tiny movement Clara made with her right hand. Her thumb rubbed the diamond ring and spun it twice around her finger.
She had done the same thing during their first argument over the Romano Foundation accounts.
“What is Hawthorne House?” Victor asked.
Clara looked surprised. “An old property. Your foundation used it for temporary housing. Why?”
“You never mentioned it.”
“You own dozens of properties, Victor. I’m sure there are things even you’ve forgotten.”
“Did you send anyone there tonight?”
“Absolutely not.”
Naomi pulled a photograph from her folder. It showed Clara near a side entrance, a blue hem visible beneath her cream coat, speaking with Leon beside a service elevator. The image carried a timestamp: 9:13 P.M.
Clara stared at it.
“Security footage,” Naomi said. “One of the cameras Leon forgot to disconnect.”
“I was looking for the restroom.”
“In the staff loading corridor?”
“I got turned around.”
“And Mr. Mercer happened to be there?”
Clara raised her chin. “I have explained what happened. Am I under arrest?”
“Not yet.”
“Then I’m leaving.”
Victor spoke at last. “Sit down, Clara.”
She stopped.
He had never used that tone with her. He usually avoided confrontation, which Clara mistook for weakness. But the man before her had spent an hour believing his daughter might be dead.
“You knew Leon was taking Bella,” Victor said.
“No.”
“Look at me and say it.”
Clara met his eyes. “I did not know he intended to take her.”
The distinction was too careful.
Naomi heard it too. “What did you know he intended to do?”
Clara’s lips parted, then closed.
Dmitri’s phone buzzed. He checked the screen and leaned toward Naomi. “Hotel security says the suspect who fled the laundry wing left a coat behind. Red-faced watch, dark gloves. They recovered a keycard registered to the Hawthorne property.”
Clara rose again. “This is absurd. You’re treating me like a criminal while Leon is still free.”
“Then help us find him,” Victor said.
Something faltered in her expression. For a moment, Lena saw fear beneath the expensive makeup.
“Victor, listen to me. There are things you don’t understand about Leon.”
“Tell me.”
“He has files. About your companies. Your father’s companies. Documents that could destroy everything you built.”
“Did he threaten you?”
Clara gave a sharp, humorless laugh. “He threatened everyone.”
Naomi studied her. “Including you?”
Clara stared into the fireplace. “I made a mistake with the foundation accounts. I thought I was moving money into an investment vehicle. Leon told me it was temporary.”
“How much?” Victor asked.
“Four million.”
“Four?” Victor repeated, remembering the forty-six million missing from the latest audit.
Clara looked away.
Naomi’s voice hardened. “You understand this is no longer a conversation between family members. A child was abducted. Shots were fired. A potential poisoning occurred. If you have information, now is the time.”
Clara folded the shawl tighter around herself.
“He told me the champagne wouldn’t kill you,” she whispered.
No one moved.
Victor stared at her.
“He said it would make you collapse. He said you’d be unconscious for a few hours, and then a doctor he controlled would certify you unfit to oversee the foundation. I thought—”
“You thought what?” Victor asked.
“I thought it would give us time to fix the books.”
Lena felt nausea rise in her throat. This woman had sat across from Victor at dinner, watched him smile at his daughter in photographs, and believed drugging him into helplessness was an acceptable administrative solution.
“Did you know it was poison?” Naomi asked.
“No.”
“Do you know what substance was in the glass?”
“No. Leon handled it. I never touched it.”
Victor’s face remained unreadable. “What about Evelyn?”
Clara flinched.
“Bella says you know who took her mother away.”
“Children say strange things.”
“Answer me.”
Clara’s voice sharpened. “Your wife died in a highway accident. That was years before I met you.”
“Then why are you frightened of her name?”
“Because you never stopped living with her ghost!” Clara snapped. “Every room in your house has her picture. Every charity speech includes her memory. I was going to marry a man who would never let me be the most important woman in his life.”
“Bella was always going to be the most important person in my life.”
Clara looked toward the little girl, and a terrible truth appeared in the silence between them.
She knew that. She had always known it. And she resented an eight-year-old child for it.
Naomi stood. “Miss Whitmore, I’m placing you under arrest on suspicion of conspiracy and involvement in the attempted poisoning. You have the right to remain silent.”
Clara’s face went blank as an officer stepped forward.
“Victor,” she whispered. “Please.”
He didn’t move.
When the officer reached for her wrist, Clara caught Victor’s sleeve. “You don’t know what happens at midnight.”
Naomi paused. “What happens?”
Clara looked wildly around the room.
“If Leon thinks I’ve talked, he’ll activate the release.”
“What release?”
“The papers. The videos. Everything.”
Victor pulled his sleeve free. “What papers?”
Clara’s eyes filled with tears that were finally genuine. “The ones that say you ordered Evelyn’s death.”
Isabella made a small frightened sound.
Victor looked as though the floor had disappeared beneath him.
“I never—”
“I know,” Clara interrupted. “I know you didn’t. But Leon made it look like you did.”
Her gaze shifted to Lena.
“And that maid has already made you famous. By morning, everyone in America will know you were poisoned by your own inner circle. Then they’ll see a file claiming you murdered your wife.”
Naomi’s phone vibrated with an incoming message from an unknown source. A video preview filled the screen: Victor at a desk, three years younger, speaking words Naomi could not yet hear.
Above it was a caption.
THE ROMANO WIDOWER CONFESSES.
She pressed play.
May you like
Victor’s own voice said, clearly and coldly, “Evelyn is a problem. Make sure she never comes home.”
And somewhere in the hotel, a clock began striking eleven.
