Latte Trouble

Twenty-Six

Sunday morning started far too early. I awoke at six with a parched mouth and the fringes of a hangover headache, courtesy of Fen’s atomic cocktail.

Matt was still sleeping in my bed and I silently thanked him for making sure the slight discomfort I was experiencing took the place of the blinding pain I would have surely endured without his help.

After showering and dressing like a George Romero zombie, I stumbled downstairs to find Gardner Evans chipper and wide awake despite the fact that he’d closed last night and had just opened this morning. He and two other evening employees would be serving the Blend’s regular customers here at the Village store while Esther, Moira, and I catered the Fen runway show in midtown, which was scheduled to go off in less than six hours.

Esther and Moira soon arrived and we all loaded up the van I’d rented days before and parked in the alley behind the Blend: two espresso machines and service for three hundred, including cream, milk, sugar, coffee, disposable cups, stirring sticks, and napkins and paper plates for the baked goods, which would be delivered on site at eight o’clock sharp. We even brought our own water—filtered fresh this morning (good-tasting water being an essential ingredient for a great cup of joe).

To get our hearts jump-started, I prepared a thermos of double-strength Breakfast Blend, a medium roasted mix of Arabicas with the highest caffeine content on our play list, which we all shared before heading out.

“You drive. I don’t think I’m up to it,” I told Esther, handing her the keys.

Under normal circumstances, I would have resisted turning over the keys—and my life—to a vehicular novice, but at seven on a Sunday morning, traffic in Manhattan was virtually nonexistent and my head pounded too much to care anyway.

I climbed into the van’s cab, then called to Moira. “Take off your backpack and you can squeeze into the front seat with Esther and me.”

“That’s all right, Ms. Cosi, I’ll just ride in back.”

Moira climbed into the back of the truck and settled in. We could hardly see her among all the stuff packed inside the van.

“God,” whispered Esther, roiling her eyes. “Why can’t she be sociable? You’d think that pack was glued to her spine.”

I shushed Esther and off we went.

By the time we came in sight of the lions in front of the Forty-second Street Library, the morning clouds had cleared and the sun was shining brightly for a late September morning—even though a brisk ocean wind swept across Manhattan from the east, providing a chilly glimpse of the winter to come.

I hadn’t been back to Bryant Park since my first visit with Lottie on Fashion Week’s opening day. The scene was even more chaotic now—cabs, vans, fashionista trailers, and plenty of people. We pulled up to the barricade on Fortieth Street.

The road was closed to regular traffic during the festivities, but we presented our pass to a uniformed New York City police officer and he waved us in. Esther managed to park our van crookedly between a Metro New York satellite truck and a tour bus emblazoned with the Fen logo.

“Okay,” Esther began. “I know Sunday is right in the middle of Fashion Week and the optimum time for a runway premiere, but why did Fen and Lottie schedule the damn thing before noon?”

“Lottie told me they were selling a spring collection, so Fen wanted his models to be brimming with energy. ‘Like the first budding of spring,’ is how she put it.”

“But what about the fashionistas?” Esther complained. “With all their late-night parties, won’t they fall asleep?”

“That’s why we didn’t bring decaf,” I replied. “And it seems to me that Fen was on to something.”

I pointed to the pack of journalists and buyers already circling the tents, most of whom seemed less than fully alert. Meanwhile the high-stepping models trotting about in gauzy spring fashions in the chilly autumn air seemed energized.

“They move like they’re powered by supercharged batteries,” I remarked.

“More likely cocaine,” quipped Esther.

I frowned, remembering Joy and hoping Matt would come through with his promise to speak with her. I’d spoken to Joy many times over the years about the dangers of illegal drugs. Now I knew she needed to hear the warnings from her larger-than-life father, the former addict—his words would carry a thousand times more weight than mine.

Stepping out of the van, I felt like a junkie myself, and shielded my hangover-sensitive eyes from the harsh stabbing agony of the sun. Suddenly I wished I’d held on to those Jackie Onassis tinted glasses of Madame’s.

I noticed Moira McNeely with a hand to her head, too.

“Moira, are you okay?”

She shook her head. “Headache. Massive.”

“Join the club.” I pulled a pillbox of aspirins out of the pocket of my jeans and handed it to her. “I’ve come prepared. Take two aspirins and have another cup of coffee.”

“No, I can’t,” she said handing the pillbox back to me with a look of panic. “I told you earlier in the week. I’m allergic.”

“Sorry,” I said, “I’m still fuzzy.”

“I have a cousin who can die from eating peanuts,” said Esther. “Can people die from aspirin allergies, too?”

As Esther and Moira continued to talk, I turned to open the van’s double doors and spied Bryan Goldin emerging from the Fen bus. Gone were the Billy Idol black leather duds and studded choker. His tattoos were even out of sight. Today, beneath his platinum blond crewcut, the younger Goldin wore a tailored Fen suit, cocoa brown, with a lavender shirt and tie.

As he stepped down from the bus, he paused to adjust his outfit. He glanced around—no doubt looking to see if he’d been noticed—but he didn’t spot me. After a moment, he checked his cuffs and headed across the park to the Theater tent. I saw no sign of Fen himself, but figured a man as reclusive—and frankly, reptilian—as Fen was would stay out of sight as long as possible.

For the next hour Moira, Esther, and I moved the espresso machines into the Theater tent and set them up in the spacious main lobby, with the help of a hunky young member of the Fashion Week organizing staff named Chad.

Esther’s face lit up and she turned on the charm when he greeted us, and surprisingly, Chad, who looked to be a corn-fed midwestern transplant, did not seem put off by the girl’s antifashion braids, oversized sweatshirt, and black-rimmed glasses. In fact, he smiled so warmly at Esther, I suspected she probably resembled one of his old friends back home on the farm.

Moira, however, was all business as she tested the espresso machines, and the three of them worked so efficiently together they hardly required my presence.

“Watch for the pastry delivery. It should be here any minute,” I told Esther. “I’m going backstage to have a word with Lottie.”

“Have a blast, boss,” she replied, clearly distracted by the rippling muscles under Chad’s Fashion Week T-shirt.

The public was not yet allowed into the Theater tent, so I crossed an empty lobby and entered the virgin-white runway area. The vast space seemed hollow without spectators, and I heard only the ghostly rush of ventilation fans as I walked past the rows and rows of seats to the front of the room. The white canvas walls were pristine save for carefully mounted banks of stage lights, and the smooth, polished runway was desolate.

The door on stage was bracketed by two mammoth flat screen televisions, each crowned with huge placards bearing the Fen logo. The screens crackled with silent static, and two men in Fashion Week tees were frantically working on the video system, trying to troubleshoot an obvious malfunction.

I wasn’t sure where to search for Lottie, but I spotted a small door leading backstage and thought it logical to try there first. At the door, a young, beefy security guard gave my badge only a cursory glance before he let me slip into the milling chaos that was the dressing area.

I knew at once what was distracting the guard—a harem of partially-clad young models traipsed around the room or sat in makeup chairs before wall-sized mirrors. Some wore robes or street clothes, but most were clad in the skimpiest lingerie. One woman—a towering Slavic Amazon—sauntered past the sweating guard wearing high heels and little else, her blond hair down to her waist, her arms casually folded across her breasts.

Among the ranks of nubile women were plenty of familiar faces—supermodels whose names I didn’t actually know, but whose faces graced magazine covers every month. Sitting near a makeup table, I spied Ranata Somsong—Violet Eyes—was as striking as ever in a belted mauve minidress. She appeared to be a spectator here, however, observing the backstage preparations with naked delight. Next to her, blow-drying and teasing a model with the biggest hair I’d seen this side of a beehive, was Lloyd Newhaven.

Bryan Goldin was already here. Fen would probably arrive at any moment. Now Lloyd Newhaven and Violet Eyes. The whole gang was here. Were they working together? Separately?

Though I didn’t yet have all the pieces of the puzzle, I still felt Fen was the mastermind and the man to watch today. Last night, he’d given me an interesting song-and-dance about how he had nothing to do with the poisonings, but that grain alcohol in my plum wine proved he was capable of tainting a drink to achieve his goals.

I also remembered what Madame had told me on the phone last night. Was Lottie really the one in danger? Or was she herself the one I should be watching?

I passed through the large dressing area twice, but saw no sign of the accessories designer. Then I heard an amplified voice echoing from the theater.

“…Milan is my favorite show,” a woman’s voice boomed. “The food, the wine—”

Another loud voice interrupted. “And the men! Don’t forget those delicious Italian men…”.

The comment was followed by a peel of strained, high-pitched laughter I instantly recognized as Lottie Harmon’s. I hurried through the door, expecting to find Lottie on the runway, microphone in hand. Instead I saw one of the technicians standing next to a video player. I glanced up at the large screens and saw a rewinding image of three women sitting on a veranda somewhere on a Mediterranean shore.

I ran up to the technician. “Did you just play that tape?”

He nodded.

“What is it?” I asked.

The man shrugged. “A ten-minute retrospective of some kind. It’s scheduled to run before the show starts.”

“Could you please play it again?”

The man shrugged and hit the play button. The clip I’d heard was from a television interview for the Italian network RAI. A scroll at the bottom of the screen indicated it had been taped during the Milan fashion show of 1984. The interview was conducted in English, with Italian subtitles running at the bottom of the screen.

Lottie Harmon, nee Toratelli, sat in a deck chair, her signature scarlet hair lifting lightly on the Mediterranean breeze; her sundress was bright yellow, her long, tanned legs tucked under her. On a chair beside Lottie, her sister Mona Lisa wore a pale green dress. The resemblance between the two women was all the more striking in a moving image.

Also striking was the difference in their manner—Lottie was loud, extroverted, and flamboyant. Mona Lisa seemed serious, quiet, restrained. Almost invisible behind the glamorous pair, the heavyset Harriet Tasky stood in a black pantsuit, her dirty blond hair stirring a bit in the sea air.

It was Mona Lisa who spoke of Milan being her favorite show, of her love of the food and wine. It was Lottie Harmon who leaned into the camera and added the comment about “those delicious Italian men.” But it was Harriet Tasky who laughed that distinctive, strained, high-pitched laugh.

The tape ended abruptly in a shower of crackling static. The man at my side cursed and began to play with the wires. Still in a state of confused shock, I turned. Standing right behind me was the woman who had, for the past year, called herself Lottie Harmon. She was staring in horror at the snowy screen.

“You,” I rasped. “You’re not Lottie Harmon. You’re Harriet Tasky!”