Клео Коул - Latte Trouble

“Last night? Not at all. After I spoke with the police, Tad and Rena whisked me away. No problem.”

Lottie gave that high-pitched laugh again. “Let’s go sit down,” she suggested, leading me to a pair of folding chairs set up in the corner. “I’m so tired, and I’ve been dreaming of one of your invigorating lattes.”

I held out the warm bag. “Dream no more. Still hot and fresh in a thermal mug—and I brought along some of those Ricciarelli you said you liked last night. The baker made this batch fresh this morning.”

Lottie clapped her hands, then opened the bag and sniffed the contents. “Clare Cosi, you’re a life saver! I didn’t have anything to eat for breakfast—nerves, you know?”

“Are Tad and Rena around by any chance? I was hoping to talk to them.”

Lottie sipped the latte and sighed contentedly. “Oh, you just missed them, dear. They brought me a watercress sandwich and some salad. I wolfed it down not ten minutes ago—right before Mr. Kazumi arrived. But I’m still so hungry.”

“Mr. Kazumi?”

“That man I was speaking with when you came in. Otomo Kazumi of the Kazumi department store chain. His Tokyo store is a real marvel. Twenty stories, more lights than Broadway, more bells and whistles than a Las Vegas casino. Stores in Osaka, Singapore, and Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, too—probably the most upscale and expensive department store chain in the world. He’s been buying my accessories since my heyday in the 1980s. A wonderful man and a delight to see again after all these years.”

We chatted pleasantries while Lottie sipped her latte and nibbled on a Ricciarelli, licking the powdered sugar off her perfectly lined lips. As gently as I could, I steered the conversation toward Lottie’s business partners.

“So where has Tad gone? And Rena? Shouldn’t they be here helping out?”

“Oh, they said they had some last minute arrangements to make before the show.” Lottie arched an eyebrow—as if she suspected them of something.

“So where are they then?”

She waved a hand and shook her head. Again the strained, high-pitched laugh. When she didn’t offer any other theories, I started fishing. “You know I still remember the day when you three first met,” I said. “I never asked you. What exactly was the business arrangement you all worked out?”

“Oh, Tad and Rena each own twenty-five percent of the label. Fen has a few points, too.”

“So, you’re the single largest stakeholder, but if you put all their stakes together, they actually own over fifty percent?”

“That’s right. But it’s not as if they’re going to use that against me.” Once more, Lottie laughed nervously. “We’re all friends. And I’m not only the head designer, I’m the only designer. They can’t get a thing done without me.”

Just then, two young men appeared in the doorway. One was laden with photographic gear, the other carried a clipboard and an over-the-shoulder tape recorder.

“Oh, the folks from Paris Match are here and I promised them an interview. I have to go now, but we do need to discuss some of the changes I made to the show, which will mean some changes to the coffee menu. Can you stay for a while?”

“Of course,” I replied. “I’ll wander around and we can talk in a half-hour or so.”

While Lottie chatted with the French journalist—the photographer circling the pair and snapping pictures the whole time—I perused the fashion designer’s photographic retrospective. It was easy to see why Lottie’s accessories had returned to the forefront of fashion. Some of those clothing designs, hair, and makeup styles from the early eighties did appear contemporary again.

I recalled a discussion Moira and Tucker had had one night at the coffee bar…Moira, a fashion student at Parsons, had explained that fashion style was cyclical because of two things: imitation and class distinctions. The rich emulated the fashion of the poor who in turn emulated the styles of the rich. This theory of fashion evolution explained why every decade or so the same fashion trends would tend to reemerge.

“Sounds crazy,” Tucker had said.

“My professor explained the theory using the example of that fashion trend from a few years back,” Moira had explained. “The hip-hop look, where guys sported baggy pants and shoes without laces. That look actually started among impoverished urban African-American youths in the late 1970s. The ill-fitting pants were hand-me-downs—even bell bottoms that had fallen out of fashion by then. The shoes without laces were the result of criminal behavior—they take your shoelaces away in jail so you don’t hang yourself or something. Soon the look became cool among urban kids, then gangster rappers. From there, the style moved to MTV, where it was mimicked by affluent rich kids, who were in turn emulated by the young in the middle classes. Voila, within a decade or so, everyone’s wearing baggy pants and shoes without laces.”

The memory of that conversation made me shiver. I wondered if Tucker had surrendered his laces before being sent to Rikers…or if he would become so depressed and desperate he really would do himself harm. I glanced at my watch, wondering if Tucker had been arraigned down at the courthouse yet. I decided to call the Blend and see if they’d heard any news—Matteo had promised he would keep me updated. I found a green park chair inside the billowing tent and used my cell. The phone rang nine times before it was answered.

“Yo, Village Blend,” said a harried voice.

“Esther. It’s me. I called to see—”

“Jeezus, Clare. When can you get back?”

I sat up. “Bad news? Is there a problem?”

“It’s a mob scene here. Must be some special event in the neighborhood because we’ve got double the lunch crowd than normal.”

Some noise erupted in the background, and Esther shouted a garbled reply.

“Gardner just stopped by to pick up his paycheck and I corralled him to work lunch. Hope that’s all right with you.”

“Sure, if you think it’s all that crowded.”

I heard voices, Esther calling something out in reply. Then she came back on the line. “Sorry, boss. Gotta go.”

“But—”

Too late. Esther had already hung up. But I guessed that if she’d heard something about Tucker’s plight, she would have told me. I chalked up her description of the lunchtime rush as typical Esther Best hyperbole, but decided I’d better get back as soon as possible anyway. I glanced at my watch, saw that forty minutes had passed, and decided to find Lottie and jot down her menu changes, talk to her about my worry that she had been the real target for last night’s poisoning, then say farewell and get back to the Blend.

When I returned to Lottie’s display room, I found her alone, sagging like a rag doll on her chair. She looked up as I approached. I nearly gasped when I saw her pale face. I hurried to the woman’s side.

“Lottie, are you all right?”

“I don’t know,” she stammered. “After the reporters left…I suddenly got weak. My ears started to ring, and I got dizzy. I…think I need to lie down.”

I looked for a place for Lottie to rest, but all I saw were two more chairs. I grabbed them and shoved them together, seat to seat, next to her chair so Lottie could stretch out across them. But as I reached to help her over to the makeshift cot, Lottie moaned. “Clare, I…”

Then she pitched forward and slumped to the floor.

“Lottie! Lottie!” I cried, falling to my knees at her side. I thought the woman had fainted, but Lottie opened her eyes again and focused them on me. I could see confusion there.

“God, Clare…I felt dizzy…lost my balance.”