Клео Коул - Latte Trouble

When Matt was gone, Breanne met my stare with her own. “I’m sure I know nothing about Ricky Flatt or why he met his demise. And I don’t see how an article I wrote two decades ago has any bearing on his murder.”

“Forget about Flatt. I want to know more about Lottie Harmon. You interviewed her for this piece, didn’t you?”

“I interviewed Lottie,” she replied. “But ‘Lottie Harmon’ per se is Tony the Tiger, the Eveready Bunny…she’s a construct, Ms. Cosi, nothing more than the public face of the designer label called Lottie Harmon. The label was formed by two sisters and their lifelong friend. Lottie Toratelli became Lottie Harmon, the public face of the company, and after this article was written she insisted her name be forever after printed as Lottie Harmon. If memory serves, the last name of the label itself is a combination of Har from Harriet Tasky and Mon from Lottie’s sister, whose name escapes me at the moment.”

I already knew some of this, of course—except the part about where the “Harmon” name had come from, which was interesting but hardly earth-shattering. I tapped the photograph on top of the article. “Can you identify these people?”

“Well, that’s Lottie right there,” Breanne said, indicating the laughing woman with the long, bold scarlet hair. Then she sighed and reached into her bag. A moment later she balanced a delicate pair of reading glasses on her patrician nose and examined the photograph more closely.

“The man next to Lottie is Fen. Only he was just plain Stephen Goldin back then. The two were lovers at that time, hot and heavy.”

“Goldin,” I repeated. “Stephen Goldin ? Is Fen any relation to Bryan Goldin, the male model?”

Breanne shot me a look that said duh . “Bryan is Fen’s nephew. That’s how the kid got in the business.”

Alarms went off in my head, of course. If Bryan Goldin was Fen’s nephew, then Fen most definitely had a surrogate at Lottie’s party—as well as on board the Fortune , where Tad and Rena had been trying to out-fox Fen. And Rena Garcia might have easily accepted a cup of coffee from Bryan if he’d dropped by to see her Thursday night—say, to talk about the runway show on Sunday.

“What about this other woman,” I asked, pointing to the very pretty brunette, looking at Fen with big, admiring eyes.

“That’s Lottie’s sister,” said Breanne, tapping her cheek. “God…what was her name? She was pretty but such a shy, little nonentity, like the other partner, Harriet. Some famous painting, maybe? Why am I thinking of that bestselling book with a famous painter in the title?”

“You mean The Da Vinci Code ?”

“That’s it! Her name was Mona Lisa.” She picked up the printout and stared at the faces in the photograph. “Fen must have dragged her out to the clubs the night this photo was taken. It was Lottie and Fen who did all the networking back then—and believe me Lottie insisted it be that way.”

Matteo returned with three chilled champagne flutes bubbling with Proseco and Breanne set the article on the table again. I sipped the alcohol and picked up the printout.

“I see the resemblance now,” I murmured, staring at Lottie and Mona Lisa, Fen sandwiched between them. “The noses and chins. Yes, they look like sisters.”

“Fen thought so, too,” Breanne said with a suggestive tone.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Buzz was he slept with both of the sisters at the same time.”

Matteo seemed suddenly interested. “Slept with both women at the same time?”

“No, no,” laughed Breanne. “Fen was in love with Lottie, but he had an affair with Mona. Separately.” Then she touched Matt’s hand. “But I like the way you think, tiger!”

I looked away in disgust, noticed Lloyd Newhaven was urgently gabbing on a purple cell phone. When I glanced back, I found Breanne finally scanning her own article.

“What do you know about the other partner?” I asked. “Harriet Tasky?”

Breanne shrugged. “Not much. She wasn’t the big club hopper. Nose to the grindstone type; shy, like Mona, and not very glamorous. Harriet was heavy, too—a big girl, you know.” She pointed to the picture of the large blond woman on the dance floor. “That’s her, of course, not very photogenic, which is probably why we didn’t mention her in the caption. Remember, the eighties was the age of physical fitness. Then again, thin has always been in.”

“Marilyn Monroe was a size fourteen,” I pointed out. “Or is that piece of fashion history too ancient?”

Breanne made a little moue and squinted. “Whatever.”

“Speaking of whatever…whatever happened to Mona and Harriet? Do you know?”

I already knew, of course. Mona was dead. And Harriet had opened a vintage clothing business in London. I simply wanted to see how widely known those facts were.

“No idea,” said Breanne. “And, frankly, after Lottie Harmon shut down her label in the late eighties, no one cared. There were other designers to spotlight, other fashion forward folk to follow. Maybe those two women are still around, slaving away in Lottie’s studio. That’s the way she wanted it back then. They created the jewelry, she sold it. Nothing new in the big, bad, big leagues, my dear.”

Clearly bored with the topic, Breanne rose, her manicured fingers firmly curling around the finely tailored fabric covering Matteo’s chiseled bicep.

To my surprise, Matt actually looked uncomfortable with her possessive touch. He cast an anxious glance in my direction, as if to ask, “Do you really want me to go off with her? Don’t you want me for yourself?”

I sat back in my chair and waved my hand. “Go,” I silently mouthed. My look said it all: If it wasn’t her, it would be some other woman.

“Come, Matt, I have more people for you to meet.”

A moment later, they were gone. I rose, folded up the article, stuffed it back into my evening clutch, then headed for the exit. In the Pierre’s lobby, I tried to reach Quinn on my cell phone. I got his voicemail, so I left a message, asking him to call me when he got the message—no matter how late or early it was.

I was now more convinced than ever that the designer Fen was in the middle of this mystery, and I wanted to know what Mike had learned during his questioning of the elusive fashion king.

Outside, the early autumn night was cool and crisp. I didn’t see the limousine Matteo and I had arrived in, so I asked the doorman to call me a cab. He’d barely raised his hand when one of the line of black limos with darkly tinted windows that had been waiting across the street veered into traffic and screeched to a halt right in front of me.

Matt was obviously going to be staying at the Trend party for the duration, and I assumed there’d be plenty of time for me to borrow his limo for a quick trip down to the Blend. Once I got there, I’d send it right back to the Pierre—no harm done. So when the doorman opened the car door, I slipped inside.

The lock clicked as I settled back into the comfortable leather seat, but when I looked up, I realized the man in the driver’s seat wasn’t the same chauffeur we’d had on the trip up—and there was a second man up front, in the passenger seat.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m in the wrong car.” I yanked the door handle, but the door was locked and I didn’t see any way to unlock it myself. “Can you unlock the door, please?” I asked.

Instead of letting me out, the driver gunned the engine and pulled away from the hotel, into Fifth Avenue’s downtown flow.

“Hey!” I cried. “I know you heard me. Let me out!”

I leaned forward to grab his arm, but almost lost my hand when a glass partition quickly rolled up between the front seat and the back. My fist hit the window and I yelled something unintelligible. Then I heard an electronic crackle as a speaker sprang to life somewhere in the back seat compartment.