Latte Trouble

Twenty-Three

“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.”

“My point exactly, babe,” he teased. “Twiggy don’t come with that cleavage.”

I nearly blushed as Esther, who’d been listening from behind the counter, wrinkled her brow. “Who’s Twiggy?”

Matt and I stared at her, then exchanged mournful glances.

“What? What did I say?” she asked defensively.

I waved my hand. “It’s an old person thing.”

Matt smiled and offered his arm. “Our horsepower and buggy await.”

I said goodnight to Esther and Gardner and eagerly took my ex-husband’s arm—less out of a desire to feel his prominent bicep than to make certain I didn’t fall on my face in front of my staff. With all my crazy running around this week, their respect for me was already waning, and I was still getting used to the heels.

We sauntered through the Blend and out to the waiting limousine, eyes following us, and I knew why: Matt and I made an attractive couple. Instantly, of course, I cursed my own powers of observation. Was I going mental? This outing with my ex is strictly business. All business. Totally business.

On the sidewalk, I noticed it had rained briefly while I’d been getting ready, and the wet streets were ablaze with reflected light. At the curb, a limousine driver stood waiting, and I was surprised to see that even our chauffeur was dressed in a formal black uniform, cap included.

Clearly, Matteo had bypassed the typical Queens-based, leisure-suited limo rentals and sprung for the Manhattan executive service. He’d spared no expense in his effort to put forth a sophisticated image to potential investors—though I recalled that the last time I’d seen him looking this polished he’d ended the evening by tumbling over the side of a yacht and into the Hudson River.

“This is nice,” I said, my hands running across the supple leather seats. I’d made the comment innocently. By the way Matteo took my hand and squeezed it, however, then smiled suggestively at my cleavage, I realized he’d taken it a whole other way.

“This is nice,” he replied and leaned toward me. His freshly shaved jawline was sweetened by the subtle scent of an expensive cologne.

I extracted my hand from his and pushed him gently away. “I have enough excitement on my plate tonight.”

“As I recall,” he said leaning close again, “you never had trouble juggling more than one thing on your plate.”

“Matt, please,” I said, pushing him back once more. “This isn’t a date. I’m only coming tonight to ask Breanne some questions about Lottie.”

He sat back, sank into the leather upholstery, and folded his arms. “You know, Clare, this Nancy Drew fantasy you’re living. Maybe it’s a sign of something.”

“Like what?”

“Like maybe you’re ready to see more of the world. Do more than just be a mother and a coffeehouse manager.”

I laughed. “What do you have in mind? Bungee jumping in Borneo? Surfing in Malaysia? A quickie with you and some beach bunny in Rio?”

“How about coming back with me to Ethiopia, to the plantation, and help us change the way the coffee business is done in that part of the world…hopefully for the better.”

I almost laughed again, but checked myself when I realized Matteo wasn’t kidding. I shook my head. “That isn’t going to happen.”

“Why not?”

“For one thing, I can’t trust you—”

He sat up. “What? That lipstick thing again. I told you, it was Joy—”

“Drop it, Matt. I’m no fool. Not anymore. In that respect I have changed. For the better.”

Matt frowned, acting wounded. He glanced out the window.

“Anyway, it’s not just the lipstick and you know it,” I said in a conciliatory tone. “If you were to let me down again, at least I know I can always run back to New Jersey with my tail between my legs. I did it once and survived—but things would be different in a place like Ethiopia. Where you go, in the wild parts, I’d have to trust you with my life.”

“You think I’d let anything happen to you, Clare? Christ, you’re the mother of my daughter. The woman I—”

“Let’s drop it, Matt,” I said quickly. “Now is not the time and this is not the place.”

Fortunately uptown traffic was surprisingly light considering Saturday night’s pre-theater crush, so before Matt could press his argument any further, we were already rolling up to the front door of the Pierre. Located on Fifth Avenue at Sixty-first Street, this grand hotel sat directly across from Central Park, one of the most expensive addresses on the face of planet Earth. The place was so pricey, in fact, Madame once told me that Dashiell Hammett, who had stayed there in 1932 while working on The Thin Man, couldn’t pay the massive bill he’d run up, so he’d thrown on a disguise and tiptoed out.

After the limousine halted, Matt emerged, then took my hand and helped me exit. Clearly, there were no hard feelings on his part, or maybe hard feelings wasn’t the best way to put it. While I was stupidly worried my rebuff had been too harsh, my ex was stealing yet another suggestive glance at my neckline. Obviously, he’d taken my rejection as a challenge. He offered me his arm again and grinned like a conquering victor when I took it. As we approached the glittering entrance, a doorman tipped his hat and we ventured inside, joining the leisurely flow of the high-toned crowd through the gilded, chandelier-draped lobby.

The Pierre, with its French décor and Old World charm, had been a hostelry for very rich since the 1930s when big band sounds were broadcast nationwide via the radio. In the forties, the place served as the home away from home for presidents and prime ministers, princes and kings displaced by war and revolution. Throughout the 1950s, right up to the present, the luxuriously appointed Cotillion Room has been the venue for New York’s most exclusive debutante balls.

The Rotunda, where we were now heading, was the hotel’s signature room. An extravagant and whimsical space with a domed ceiling, twin curved staircases and a floor-to-ceiling trompe I’oeil mural that covered the circular walls, it was a regular stop among the old money smart set who preferred their high tea and gourmet meals amid five-star surroundings.

Created in 1967, the Rotunda mural really was something to see. The artist, American painter Edward Melcarth, had chosen the three-dimensional trick-of-the-eye style of the Renaissance era but he’d decided to add a twentieth-century twist. The overall intent was to transform the restaurant space into a paradise, giving guests a sense that they were visiting with the gods. Not content with the deities of antiquity, however, Melcarth added to the Pantheon by painting in the cultural giants of his own era. Images of Venus and Neptune were intermingled with more modern figures—including, of all people, a life-sized portrait of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.

“You see, Clare, it’s good you didn’t try to look like you-know-who.” Matt said with a laugh as we passed the portrait. “She’s already here.”

“Ha, ha.”

The classic lines of the Rotunda were only marginally spoiled by the hasty hanging of Trend magazine banners off the spiral stairs. One of the banners included air-brushed faces of Breanne Summour wearing different expressions, apparently meant to convey her thoughtfulness, her intelligence, her taste.

“Don’t look now,” sniped a familiar male voice, “but Breanne’s taken this whole trompe l’oeil thing to the next level—she’s trying to fool us into thinking she has depth.”

I glanced into the crowd behind me as casually as I could and saw Lloyd Newhaven in mauve evening clothes and ascot, arm in arm with the strikingly tall, exotic-looking Violet Eyes. The twenty-something Asian woman was wearing royal purple again—a chic, shiny sheath. Her glossy, raven-black hair had been sculpted atop her regal head in high, ribbonlike arches worthy of a Cooper Union architect. I well remembered the last time I’d seen this pair—the night Ricky Flatt was murdered. Then Violet Eyes had turned up on board the Fortune.

I squeezed Matt’s arm. Hard.

“Ow.”

“Shhh, Matt, listen. I need your help—”

“Oh, no, not the conspiratorial whisper.”

“Just play along with me, okay?”

“But—”

I turned before Matt could protest further. “Lloyd? Lloyd Newhaven? Look, darling, it’s Lloyd.” I dragged Matt over, extending my hand.

Lloyd eyeballed me curiously as we daintily shook. For a moment, he looked confused, but then he seemed to remember he’d met me somewhere before. “I met you this week, didn’t I?” he asked cautiously.

“Of course! We had a lovely conversation about the stupidity of mandals. Going to Fen’s show tomorrow?”

“Wouldn’t miss,” he said, still looking uncomfortable, but clearly playing along.

I let an awkward moment of silence descend then craned my neck and presented my hand to the tall, exotic Violet Eyes. On the Fortune I’d been hiding behind a huge pair of Jackie O tinted glasses, so I doubted very much she’d be able to place me either. Matt was another story, given the trouble he’d gotten into on the yacht’s deck—and off it—but I was gambling the girl wouldn’t be able to place where or why she recognized him. And, frankly, given this week’s massive throng of well-dressed male models, Matt could easily be considered just another pretty face.

“I do believe we’ve met before,” I said, holding firmly to the young woman’s hand to keep her focus on me. “But, you know, there are so many new faces this week. Allow me to introduce myself again. I’m C.C.”

Violet Eyes looked down at me and shyly nodded. “Pleased to meet you…again,” she said, her words edged with a slight exotic accent.

I waited but Violet Eyes failed to give her name. Okay, a little encouragement. “Do you remember? We do have a mutual friend,” I said feigning delight. “Eduardo Lebreaux.”

She blinked her big purple ones. “Oh! You’re a friend of Eduardo?”

“We go way back, when he used to work for Pierre Dubois. But of course Pierre passed away and now Eduardo is spreading his wings. It’s absolutely fabulous, don’t you think?”

“Oh, yes! He’s a very impressive figure.”

“Very impressive!” I echoed.

Matt grunted. I elbowed him.

“But, my dear,” I said quickly, “I must confess, I’m not sure how to pronounce your name. May I be so bold to ask you to help me so that the next time I see Eduardo, I can mention I saw you.”

“Ratana Somsong,” said Violet Eyes slowly. “In Thai, Ratana means crystal.”

“Ratana,” I repeated. “How beautiful. So, tell me, where exactly did you meet Eduardo?”

“In Bangkok last year, when he first came to meet with my family about our teas. We’re very excited to be in business with Eduardo. He is so very kind. He was the one who advised me to hire Lloyd, the absolute best stylist in the world. Lloyd has been so kind to escort me to this week of fabulous shows and parties. What do you think of my outfit and hair—isn’t it spectacular? It’s all Lloyd!”

“Oh, yes,” I said. “It’s fabulous, isn’t it, darling?” I looked up to see Matt’s attention had strayed. I elbowed him a second time. “Fabulous, isn’t it!”

“Fabulous!” he echoed.

“Excuse me, so sorry, but I see some of my people,” said Lloyd, pulling Violet Eyes away. “Ciao!”

“Ciao, indeed,” I muttered.

“What was that all about?”

“Matt, are you not paying attention? Violet Eyes was at the party where Lottie was murdered—and she was on the Fortune. I wanted to know who she was and why she was with Eduardo.”

“Well, now you know. What does it mean?”

“It means Eduardo should definitely stay off the suspect list.”

“I don’t see why. The bastard’s capable of anything.”

“But Violet Eyes had a legitimate reason to be on the Fortune—Lebreaux is doing business with her family, importing their teas—and she was obviously at the Lottie Harmon party as Lloyd’s guest because she’s a lucrative client.”

“Lebreaux is still scum.”

“True. But that doesn’t necessarily make him a murderer. You shouldn’t let your emotions cloud your judgement—”

I was about to mention that Quinn had been the one to advise me of this, but by this time the milling crowd had moved up to the center of the room—which is where we found Breanne Summour, tall and blond and holding court. Her hair, upswept in an elegant twist, showed off her annoying swanlike neck. Her dress, a costly concoction of haute couture gauze, displayed her shapely legs in front while draping down in back until it trailed dramatically along the floor.

“My god,” I muttered, eyeballing the giant shiny rocks dripping from her ears, “those diamonds alone could have covered Dash Hammett’s tab.”

“What?” asked Matteo.

“Forget it.”

Surrounded by fashionistas and sycophants all clamoring for her attention, Breanne appeared to be the chief goddess of the Rotunda’s Olympus, appropriately aloof among her coutiers—until her glazed gaze spied my ex.

“Matteo!” the woman cried, breaking from the mob to extend her hand. “I’m delighted you could make it. Then she noticed me. “And I see you brought your—” the eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly—“business partner.”

Matteo caressed her hand and they air kissed. “You remember Clare,” he said smoothly and tossed me a wink—but his head was turned so far in my direction, I knew Breanne couldn’t have seen it.

I nodded at the woman. “Good evening.”

“Yes,” she said curtly.

Fine, I thought. I don’t like you much, either. But I knew this was my opening. I was about to ask her some questions about the Trend article she’d written over twenty years ago when she moved so quickly to link Matt’s arm with her own that she nearly shoved me off my heels.

“I have something special for you,” she burbled at Matt while I gave a pretty good imitation of Pisa’s leaning tower, and attempted to regain my balance. “In honor of your impending kiosk empire.” She signaled to someone waiting in the wings with a snap of her bejeweled fingers.

There was a momentary ripple of anticipation, then I heard gasps of surprise. Trend magazine banners parted like curtains as a half dozen waiters appeared, all bearing sterling silver trays lined with flaming wine glasses. Amid the “ohs” and “ahs” I heard my husband’s eager-to-please response.

“Café Brulée! Fantastic, Breanne.”

“I brought my own chef back from my house in East Hampton and had him whip it up in honor of you.”

“I’m flattered, Breanne. Really,” Matteo said, glancing sheepishly in my direction.

Breanne touched his arm. “I’ll introduce you to Troy later on. He’s a protégé of Paul Bradley Mitchell, you know.”

I cringed. Paul Bradley Mitchell was the most overrated celebrity chef of the twenty-first century. Joy and I, curious to see what all the hype was about, had recently visited his famous Central Station restaurant. The service was supremely arrogant yet carelessly substandard, which was precisely how the food should have been described in the reviews. Not only didn’t we ask for a doggy bag, we took the express train right out of that “Station” and into the first Papaya King we saw on our way home, hastily banishing the horrific taste of the man’s horrific haute cuisine with a grilled hot dog accompanied by a fruit smoothie—and served to us by a smiling, polite short-order cook, thank you very much!

“Well he’s certainly done a superb job,” Matteo replied as he accepted his drink. Like a Greek chorus, Breanne’s courtiers enthusiastically concurred. The waiters moved among the partygoers, passing out the flaming drinks. And as Breanne led Matt across the room to meet “some people,” I felt a presence at my shoulder.

“Interesting.”

The voice was soft but strong. I turned to see the speaker was in his forties, with brown, wavy hair. He wasn’t unattractive but he wasn’t handsome either. His vaguely familiar face was oddly striking with wide-set, almost bulging dark eyes that seemed to be staring at me above a broad nose and pursed-lipped mouth. He stood an inch or two shorter than me, which meant we were probably about the same height in our stocking feet. He held the heated wine glass in one hand, at least ten inches away from his body—and with obvious discomfort. Tongues of flame still licked the rim.

“How do I consume this concoction without being immolated?” he asked, his bulbous eyes still intensely looking into mine.

I laughed politely. “You can blow it out like a birthday candle, or wait until the cognac burns itself out, which means most of it will be cooked away—a tragic waste, in my opinion.”

He sighed, raised the glass. “Make a wish.” Then he puffed once. When the flames vanished, he sipped the drink and made a medicine face. “What is this?” he asked, blinking.

“Café Brulée. Seven parts coffee and one part cognac poured into a heated wine glass rimmed with lemon juice and powdered sugar,” I informed him, then blew out the flame on my own drink and carefully sipped. I couldn’t hide my reaction, and was grateful Breanne had led Matteo away. The strange man noted my displeasure, however.

“Vile, isn’t it?” he remarked.

I sighed, nodded. “The cognac is too good to be cooked away, and the coffee…well, it tastes like Colombian, which is fine for a breakfast blend but far too flat and one-dimensional to compete with the cognac. It also tastes like a medium roast. This drink needs a dark roast. And the chef should have chosen a richer, more complex coffee. Something funky and unexpected, like a bean from Indonesia.”

The man stared at me in silence for a moment. Then, without smiling, he extended his hand. “I’m David,” he said.

“Clare Cosi.” I felt as if I should know this man, but I really couldn’t place the face or first name. Was he famous? Was it impolite to ask? Probably.

We shook. His hands were softer than mine—which had daily kitchen duties at the Blend, with no time for a manicure—but his grip was firm and assured.

“Breanne’s newest acquisition,” he remarked, gesturing toward Matt. “Tell me, did I overhear correctly? Is he your business partner?”

I nodded. “I’m the manager for the Village Blend coffeehouse. Matteo is the coffee buyer.”

“Nothing else between you,” he asked with a little smile and a skeptically raised eyebrow. “The way he looks at you…”

I smiled weakly. “Matt and I have a history—” I glanced across the room, where he and Breanne were laughing with a small group. “Ancient history.”

David laughed. “I see.” He took another sip of his drink, then set it down on a gilded, antique table and folded his arms, one hand stroking his chin in thought. “So what do you think of this Village Blend kiosk idea people are buzzing about?”

Nice work, Matt. “People are already ‘buzzing’ about it, are they?”

He nodded. “It’s certainly a viable economic model.”

“Is it?”

He laughed again. “You’re in business with the man—and you don’t approve?”

Stupid, Clare. “Of course, I approve.”

After a moment of silence, he spoke again. “Franchising in some way makes sense, don’t you think? I mean, for a century, your small Village Blend has worked to maintain high standards and a coffee brewing tradition, yet in just fifteen short years, a monolithic multinational chain has swept over the entire marketplace.”

“Ah, but I see the mug as half full,” I replied, flattered by his compliment of the Blend. “The way I look at it, coffee can be gulped like water or savored like wine. That multinational chain has generally uplifted the coffee drinking experience—made a larger population aware of smaller, specialty growers in Third World countries. More people than ever understand what the Europeans have forever.”

“Which is?”

“If you’re going to pay eight dollars for a good glass of wine or five dollars for a good beer or hand-rolled cigar, then it’s worth ponying up the dough for a really good cup of java. Believe it or not, the Wall Street Journal did a study last year and found that wherever there’s a chain store, a mom-and-pop store does a higher volume of business. Sort of like two gas stations are better than one for attracting business to any given street corner.”

“I see…anything that boosts the consumption of specialty coffee helps your store?”

“Yes, of course. Besides, our coffeehouse has a long and distinguished history and a loyal customer base. The Blend isn’t going anywhere. That big company does its thing. We do ours.”

“But don’t you think it’s sometimes the little person who gets ignored, or thrust aside—trampled even—if he or she does not find a way to emerge from the shadows?”

I met David’s level gaze, went fishing. “Sounds like you’re talking from personal experience…”.

He looked away, casually scanning the crowd. “I’ve been to your Village Blend,” he replied. “I’m not so sure you’ll be able to maintain such high standards with a franchise—even a high-end franchise such as the one your partner is proposing.”

A challenge, eh? My spine stiffened. “You might be surprised. Matteo certainly surprised me with his planning and dedication.”

“But it’s not the direction you would have taken the Blend, is it?”

“No,” I admitted. “But as you pointed out, it’s a different world now. Next to the corporate giants, we are the little people, so perhaps the Village Blend will have to expand to survive.”

David seemed satisfied with my answer. Strangely enough, so did I. In one brief conversation, I’d actually convinced myself Matteo Allegro was on the right track.

“Well it was very nice to meet you, Clare Cosi. I’m sure we’ll speak again.”

“You are?” I asked, but the mysterious David provided no other explanation. He simply grinned at me as if he were some kind of academic screener and I’d just passed his rigorous exam, then he sauntered off and disappeared into the crowd.

Immediately, I searched the room for Matteo and Breanne. They’d taken a table under the watchful eye of the trompe I’oeil Zeus. Guests were clustered around Breanne like an overdressed fortress, but I strode right through the wall of organza and raw silk.

Breanne saw me coming and her expression darkened. Matteo looked up and nodded when I appeared at his shoulder. Clearly, he was expecting me.

“Excuse me, Ms. Summour, but I’d like to ask you some questions about an article you wrote.” I drew the folded print out from my purse and set it on the table in front of the fashion editor. She barely glanced at the paper.

“What’s this about?” she asked, annoyed. “Matt mentioned you had some questions for me?”

I lowered my voice to a whisper. “It’s about what happened at the Village Blend the other night.”

Some of Breanne’s hangers-on quite literally craned their necks to hear what I was saying. She noticed the indiscretion and waved them off. I also noticed Lloyd Newhaven and Violet Eyes nearby. They sipped champagne and stared into the crowd, but I was sure they were trying to eavesdrop, too.

“You’re speaking of Ricky Flatt,” Breanne said. “He never worked for me.”

Matteo rose suddenly, and offered me his seat. “I’m going to the bar. Can I bring you two anything?”

I shook my head, but Breanne nodded and handed Matt her unfinished Café Brulée. “Proseco, please. This drink is rather…monstrous.”

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.

“Just relax and cooperate, Ms. Cosi,” a male voice commanded. “And your ride will be a short one.”