Клео Коул - Latte Trouble

Lottie stood at the man’s right, her armed linked through his. At the man’s left was the pretty brunette. She stood gazing at him, her hand on one of his broad shoulders. There was something about the brunette’s look that told me she felt more than mere friendship for the handsome man, and I wondered who she was.

I began to read the old article, and in the first few paragraphs was startled to learn that “Lottie Harmon” wasn’t a single person. Three people originally had formed the Lottie Harmon label—Lottie Toratelli, Harriet Tasky, and Lottie’s younger sister Mona Lisa Toratelli. However, it was Lottie who became the public face of the company. I checked the photos out again, wondering if the pretty brunette at the handsome man’s side was Mona Lisa Toratelli or Harriet Tasky.

The article brought up more questions than answers. The biggest? If Lottie Toratelli had returned to New York to resurrect the Lottie Harmon label, then what had happened to Harriet Tasky and Lottie’s sister, Mona Lisa? What had happened to the three women’s original partnership?

I saved my search results, printed the Trend article and the two photographs from the EightiesNeverDied.com Web site, then returned to Google.

This time I typed in “Lottie Toratelli.” I received one hit. That same Trend article I’d just read. I couldn’t believe it. “Just like that, Lottie Toratelli is no more,” I murmured.

Clearly, Lottie had taken pains to make sure she was only identified as Lottie Harmon in any future articles or photo captions. I didn’t have time to search all the Lottie Harmon references, so I quickly attempted to find out what had happened to her old partners.

First I typed in “Mona Lisa Toratelli.” I received seven results. Six didn’t tell me anything remarkable, but the seventh held something shocking—Mona Lisa Toratelli’s obituary filed by the Reuters news service.

Apparently the young woman had perished in 1988 in a tragic accident. Mona Lisa was described only as a “designer” for Lottie Harmon who had been on a gem-buying expedition in Bangkok, Thailand, when tragedy befell her. Details about her death were sketchy. It seemed Mona Lisa fell from a hotel balcony, but it was easy to read between the lines and see that authorities thought she might have jumped. The obituary also mentioned she was survived by a six-year-old daughter, but there was no reference to the father’s name or his whereabouts.

Harriet Tasky was somewhat easier to trace. A Google search led me to a Web site for a vintage clothing business in London called “Tasky’s Closet” which was owned and operated by Ms. Tasky. There was no home address or phone number for Harriet Tasky anywhere on the site, however, and the “Contact us” button was addressed to “The Webmaster.”

So, I thought, Mona Lisa is dead and Harriet Tasky is living across the Atlantic on a business venture of her own. I wondered if the original Lottie Harmon partnership had been dissolved as a result of Mona Lisa’s death. I also wondered if Lottie and Harriet had parted as friends, or if there had been any acrimony.

Lottie had been living in London, too. If Harriet had some sort of vendetta against her former partner, it seemed to me she would have attempted something before now…unless she was jealous of Lottie’s resurrecting the label.

I considered e-mailing “The Webmaster” a set of questions for Ms. Tasky, pretending to be a journalist looking for answers. It was pretty much a long shot, but it was worth a try—unfortunately, it would have to wait until later. At the moment, I had to check in on my own business. I glanced at my watch and winced, realizing my “ten minutes” of research had ended up taking over forty-five.

Before I raced down to the Blend’s main floor again, I grabbed the pages I’d downloaded from the printer bin. Because of the way it printed out, the last page of the article lay on top of the pile. Only then did I notice the byline on that decades old Trend magazine article—Breanne Summour, the current grand dame editor-in-chief of that very magazine. I bit back a curse. Like it or not, I would have to have a talk with Ms. Summour.

I stepped quickly from my office and descended the spiral staircase to the main floor of the coffeehouse. Wan light from the setting sun shone through the tall windows. I spied Gardner behind the counter, Esther moving toward the front door. I headed her off.

“Where’s Matt?” I asked. “I need to talk to him.”

“He went upstairs after Gardner showed up. Said he had to go out tonight and wanted to get ready.”

I gripped Esther’s shoulder. “How do you feel about overtime?”

Esther made a pouty face. “Tonight?”

“Time and a half—and a fifty-dollar bonus.”

Esther stripped off her coat. “You’ve got a deal.”

“Great!” I raced for the back stairs.

Inside our duplex apartment, I knocked on Matt’s bedroom door and received no reply. Then I heard the sound of water running and I moved down the hall to the closed bathroom door.

“Matt? Are you there?”

The door flew open. My ex-husband stood in front of me, his sculpted chest bare, a towel wrapped around his lean hips, shaving cream lathered on his jawline.

“What?”

“I need to speak to Breanne.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

I showed him the article.

He scanned it, shrugged, and handed it back. “What’s the big deal?”

“Nobody, not even your mother, knew Lottie Harmon was three people. Breanne did. I need to find out what else she knows about these women. Are you going to see Breanne again?”

“I’m seeing her tonight,” he admitted, turning back to the mirror and picking up his razor. “I’ve been invited to the Trend magazine Fashion Week bash….”

“I’m going with you.”

Matt rolled his eyes and began to shave. The hot water ran as he dragged the razor down his jaw. Drag and rinse. Drag and rinse.

I folded my arms and waited.

Drag and rinse. Drag and rinse.

“Matt!”

“Fine,” he finally replied in a tone that told me it wasn’t. But he’d been married to me long enough to know arguing would be futile.

“Great,” I said.

“One condition,” he warned before I dashed off to change.

“What?”

“No dressing like Jackie O.”

“Clare, you look beautiful.”

At Matt’s unexpected compliment, I nearly tripped on my four-inch heels. “Thanks,” I replied, thinking he looked pretty good himself, leaning casually against the Blend’s coffee bar with his athletic form draped in a slate gray suit, an azure dress shirt worn fashionably open at the collar.

I teetered toward him across the Blend’s polished plank floor, trying earnestly to recapture my ability to balance on fashion forward stilts. When I reached the counter, I spread my hands.

“See, not a pillbox hat in sight.”

Matt seemed less interested in my lack of Jackie O hat than in my ample J.Lo cleavage, now displayed by the plunging neckline of a chic, aqua Prada wrap dress I’d bought on deep discount at the Chelsea Filene’s Basement. I’d worn it once, for Madame’s New Year’s Eve party last December. Matteo had been in Rio at the time—so, of course, he hadn’t seen it, or the striking Y necklace of translucent blue stones that had caught my eye at a local artisan’s fair.

“You’re going to be the hottest woman at the party,” said Matt with a smile.

“That’s sweet. But I needed a shoehorn to squeeze into this thing. And let’s get real. This party is a Fashion Week event. The women will be so willowy they’ll make Twiggy look like a rhinoceros.”