Клео Коул - Latte Trouble

“Here, let me help you up.”

I reached for the woman, but she shook me off and rose under her own power. “I feel sick…cramps. Probably nerves.”

My first thought was poison. Not cyanide or she’d be dead already. Perhaps a slower acting substance—

“We’d better get you to a doctor.”

But Lottie waved that idea aside. “I need to sit down, that’s all. I’m sure it’s just nerves…exhaustion. So much is riding on this rollout….”

But I was not convinced. “What are your symptoms, exactly?”

“I feel dizzy…my ears are ringing. There’s some nausea.”

“Maybe it was something you ate?”

Lottie laughed. “I probably haven’t eaten enough. Just that sandwich and salad that Tad and Rena brought me. I don’t think I had a decent meal last night, either.”

I plunked Lottie down on a chair, sat opposite her.

“I’m fine, Clare…really.”

“Well I’m not going anywhere until I’m sure you’re okay.”

Lottie touched my hand. “Thanks for caring. Last year I was a wreck for the rollout, but I survived—mostly because I was out of the business for so long I didn’t even know half the things that could go wrong.”

“You exaggerate, I’m sure. You’ve been in the fashion business before.”

“But so much has changed over the years. The rollouts are bigger, there’s more media, everything costs more. The stakes are much higher now that more people have brand awareness.”

“But not everything’s changed. You told me so yourself—said you’ve known Mr. Kazumi for decades.”

“Oh yes. Otomo is a good friend, and so is Olaf Caesara at the Caen department stores. And of course Fen. I don’t know what I would have done without Fen. He never forgot Lottie, even after two decades.”

Odd to hear Lottie call herself by her own name, I thought. But I guess that’s what happens when you and your business have the same name.

“Has this ever happened to you before?” I asked. “Getting sick like this…so suddenly?”

To my surprise, Lottie nodded. “Oh, when I was young, I used to get panic attacks. I was so afraid of everything. My knees would get weak, I would feel dizzy and sick to my stomach. And I did have these same symptoms a few weeks ago, the night we all sat down in your coffeehouse and planned the party.”

“Have you sought help?”

“I saw the doctor the next day and he couldn’t find anything wrong—said it was probably nerves. Asked me if I wanted to try Prozac.” She shook her head.

I recalled the evening, about a month ago, to which Lottie was referring—in fact, it had been the arrival of Lottie, Tad, and Rena that had sparked Tucker’s and Moria’s cyclical fashion discussion.

I’d taken Lottie and her partners to the coffeehouse’s second floor and we sat in overstuffed chairs around the fireplace, drinking lattes and eating pastries while we talked. Could Tad or Rena have tampered with Lottie’s food or drink that night? It was possible—there were trips to the rest rooms and I’d taken Lottie downstairs and back up again at one point to have her decide whether the ground floor’s tables should be taken out for the party.

“And you haven’t felt sick like this since then?”

Lottie shrugged. “No. Not until today.”

I wanted to ask Lottie many more questions. How often did she eat or drink with Rena and Tad? Had she narrowly avoided an accident of late, or had a close brush with death? But for the life of me, I just couldn’t think of a tactful way to do it.

“You do know all the details about what happened in my coffeehouse last night?” I asked. “Someone was poisoned. Died. My barista was arrested for the crime. I believe he’ll be charged today with murder.”

Lottie frowned. “It’s so terrible. You must feel awful.”

I met Lottie’s gaze. “Tucker, my barista, said something before the police arrested him. He told me that the latte he had on that tray was supposed to be for you.”

Lottie seemed genuinely surprised. “Are…are you sure?”

“Tucker told me Tad asked him to make one for you, specifically. The victim snatched the cup off the tray while Tucker was carrying it to you.”

Lottie’s expression darkened. She brushed an errant strand of scarlet hair away from her face and stared at me. “Are you saying someone tried to kill me?”

“I can’t say that,” I replied. “Not honestly. The poisoning could have been random. Or—”

“Or your barista could be lying. Trying to hide the fact that he’s guilty.”

I shook my head. “That’s not possible.”

Lottie reddened. “No, you’re right. I shouldn’t have said that, Clare, and I’m sorry. But really, think about it. Who would want to get rid of me?”

I shrugged, not wanting to reveal my suspicions just yet because they could possibly hurt Lottie in the same way her remark about Tucker wounded me. In any case, accusing Lottie’s business partners of trying to murder her without a shred of evidence to prove it would not convince her—I wasn’t even sure I was convinced myself.

“Maybe a business rival?” I suggested after a pause.

Lottie tossed her head back and laughed that strained laugh of hers. “I’ve been out of the fashion scene for twenty years, Clare, and only back into the muck for a year. Believe me, it takes a little longer for your rivals to want to kill you in this business—though not much longer, I grant you that.”

“Maybe a crazy stalker? Or someone from your past?”

Lottie smiled sympathetically. “Look, Clare. I understand why you’re searching for answers, for someone to blame. Something terrible happened in your coffeehouse, and one of your employees was arrested. I can see why you’d want to get to the truth, and you probably will, eventually. But I can’t think of anyone who would want me out of the picture for any reason.”

Then Lottie grinned, rose, and pulled herself together.

“I feel much better now,” she said. “The cramps have subsided and my ears aren’t ringing anymore. I’m sure this episode was just a bout of nervous tension, just like my doctor told me.”

After saying goodbye to Lottie, I hopped into a cab going west on Forty-second Street. Traffic was not as light as it had been on my way up and it took nearly forty minutes to drive less than two miles.

As I exited the cab one block from the Blend, I noticed two things. The first was a television crew doing a live interview on Hudson. The subject was a twenty-something woman with so many tattoos and pierced body parts that her round, pretty face resembled a pin cushion, her neck a brightly colored tapestry. In her hand, she clutched a Village Blend take-out cup. The interviewer’s earnest face and photogenic smile looked vaguely familiar and I assumed it was because I’d seen her on one of the local channels.

The second thing I noticed was a crowd loitering on the sidewalk in front of my coffeehouse, and I simply assumed Esther’s guess had been correct, when we’d spoken on the phone earlier, that some special event was taking place in the neighborhood.

I jostled my way through groups of people and clouds of tobacco smoke to the front door of the Blend. Inside, customers packed the main floor. It was so crowded, in fact, that some of the people had taken it upon themselves to open a few of our French doors for air and space, and they were flung wide despite the autumn chill.

At the bar alone, a line of at least twenty men and women were waiting for coffee drinks. As I threaded my way to the counter, Esther spied me, relief evident on her tired face.

Moira was behind the counter, too, along with Matteo. With his sleeves rolled up to reveal muscled forearms, he looked to be pulling espressos as fast as the Blend’s exacting standards would allow (because, if you pull an espresso too fast, i.e., if the liquid does not flow slowly out of the spout like syrup, what you’ve made isn’t espresso but brewed coffee).