Latte Trouble (18 page)

“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.”