by Клео Коул
Although this midtown space has been called Bryant Park since 1842, the area itself has endured a checkered history. In the 1970s, for instance, when Times Square was a haven of prostitution and pornography, Bryant Park was a blighted site of muggings and drug deals. But a decade-long effort begun in 1980 has totally transformed the space and redeemed its fallen reputation. A refuge of peace and calm, Bryant is a true urban park, full of historical monuments, gravel paths, green chairs, and even a jaunty carrousel.
Bordered by the Main Library to the east, the modern Verizon Building to the west, and a brace of skyscrapers north and south, this emerald rectangle—named after the poet William Cullen Bryant in honor of that man’s tireless efforts to create large garden parks in New York City—has, since its renovation, become a midtown mecca for nature-starved urban dwellers seeking sunshine, the feel of grass under their feet, the sounds of a free concert in spring and summer, or the glamour of Fall Fashion Week in early autumn.
I entered the park along a gravel path which paralleled one of the three flower beds bordering the shady north lawn. Along both the northern and southern sides of the park were twin promenades lined with tall London plane trees—the same species found at the Jardin des Tuileries in Paris. The long trunks and delicate leaves of these one-hundred to one-hundred and twenty foot trees lent the place a distinct European character—the illusion completed by the towering stone backdrop of the New York Public Library, standing in for the Louvre.
Because of Fashion Week, the entire south and west sides of the park were dominated by several huge white tents, the largest of which appeared sizeable enough to house an airliner. Along Fortieth Street, which had been closed to vehicular traffic for the duration of Fashion Week, large mobile homes lined the curbs, all of them brightly painted, and decked with signs and the logos of the designers who used them.
The sidewalks were crowded with people. Many were obvious fashionistas—designers, wardrobe specialists, makeup artists, and young apprentices—beautiful and vacuous-looking enough to be aspiring models themselves. They were easy enough to identify by their bright blue T-shirts with the Spring Fashion Week logos, and their identity badges hanging from yellow cords around their necks. As I passed a trailer marked Malibu Bitch Swimwear, a door opened and out came a poised thirty-something woman in a conservative business suit. She waved a clipboard and stepped onto the street. Like chicks following a mother hen, five tight-bodied models in the skimpiest of bikinis cat-walked across Fortieth Street behind her. They strolled through the park and into the largest tent.
With the warm Village Blend bags still in hand, I fumbled through my purse for the invitation. The location of Lottie’s display was “Plaza—Bryant Park, Sixth Avenue between Fortieth & Forty-second Streets.” I was here, but where was the “Plaza”?
I corralled one of the young women wearing a Fashion Week badge. “Is there a plaza around here?”
“There are three venues in Bryant Park,” she said by rote. “The largest tent is the Theater, the tent next to it is the Bryant. That round tent in the middle is the Plaza.”
“Thank you.”
A guard insisted I show my invitation at the door. He glanced at the card, smiled when I asked for directions.
“The Lottie Harmon exhibit is in the second wing. Go through the lobby, past the photo display, then make a right. There’s a sign at the door.”
The interior of the tent was as spotlessly white as the exterior—even the plywood interior sections that parceled out the space under the canvas were painted the same virginal color as the tent’s walls and ceiling. Massive fans circulated air, sending the canvas rippling. That movement, combined with the gentle rush of cool, fresh air, made the white tent feel as light and dreamy as the interior of a cloud.
The middle of the Plaza was dominated by a large display on portable standees—a photographic retrospective of past Fashion Week styles, divided by year. Though the tent was crowded, few of the guests were viewing the exhibits. Most were heading toward one of the four wings that radiated out from the central exhibit area, a security guard at each door.
I spied the familiar Lottie Harmon logo—the stretched L and H, tiny handwritten letters spelling out the rest of the brand name. The designer label was still using its original logo, created from Lottie’s own distinctive handwriting a quarter century ago. Inside the white-walled area, I spied Lottie herself, posed within a space filled with hundreds of photographs, large and small.
She’d traded her chocolate brown evening wear for a champagne colored blouse and pants. The outfit was completed by an elegant tawny “maxi-jacket” with cream stitching that fell to her calves. Her bright scarlet hair was piled on top of her head and around her neck hung a glistening necklace of semiprecious stones polished to look like rich, darkly roasted coffee beans.
Lottie was speaking quietly with a Japanese man, whose wizened face was framed by iron-gray hair. The man looked prosperous, a fine pinstripe suit, of the kind tailor-made in London, hugging his compact form. His interest in Lottie’s words was obvious, and he respectfully bowed each time she answered a question. When I entered, Lottie waved to me, but did not excuse herself. A few moments later, the man bowed deeply, then strolled back to the lobby.
Lottie hurried forward to greet me.
“Clare, I’ve hardly had time to breathe, but I so wanted to call.”
No doubt to deliver bad news, I thought. There goes the Blend’s big runway catering gig.
“We still have so much planning to do for the big runway show Sunday. But I’m counting on the Village Blend to serve lattes to the crowd. After your troubles last night, I wanted to make sure you can still do it because, really, there’s just no better way for them to understand the inspiration for my Java Jewelry than if they’re sipping one of your fabulous coffee drinks!”
Lottie laughed just then. It was that high-pitched, forced laugh she sometimes used. I didn’t know if it was a tick to cover her nervousness or something else entirely, but it never failed to unsettle me.
I tried to summon a reassuring smile. “I’m very glad you still want us there, considering all that’s happened…”
Lottie frowned. “Oh, yes, it was terrible. At first, I thought the man was having a heart attack or something.”
“I was looking for you afterwards,” I replied. “I wanted to apologize for ruining your party, maybe hurting the reputation of your accessory line.”
Lottie waved her arm. “Don’t be silly, Clare. In the fashion business, any publicity is good publicity. Back in 1980…or was it ’81?…a well-known lead singer of a superstar band overdosed on stage during a concert. He was wearing one of my Spangle pieces—you could see it clearly in the photos of the man being rushed to the hospital. After that night, I couldn’t keep that piece in stock!”
“So you weren’t…troubled?”
“Last night? Not at all. After I spoke with the police, Tad and Rena whisked me away. No problem.”
Lottie gave that high-pitched laugh again. “Let’s go sit down,” she suggested, leading me to a pair of folding chairs set up in the corner. “I’m so tired, and I’ve been dreaming of one of your invigorating lattes.”
I held out the warm bag. “Dream no more. Still hot and fresh in a thermal mug—and I brought along some of those Ricciarelli you said you liked last night. The baker made this batch fresh this morning.”
Lottie clapped her hands, then opened the bag and sniffed the contents. “Clare Cosi, you’re a life saver! I didn’t have anything to eat for breakfast—nerves, you know?”
“Are Tad and Rena around by any chance? I was hoping to talk to them.”
Lottie sipped the latte and sighed contentedly. “Oh, you just missed them, dear. They brought me a watercress sandwich and some salad. I wolfed it down not ten minutes ago—right before Mr. Kazumi arrived. But I’m still so hungry.”
“Mr. Kazumi?”
“That man I was speaking with when you came in. Otomo Kazumi of the Kazum
i department store chain. His Tokyo store is a real marvel. Twenty stories, more lights than Broadway, more bells and whistles than a Las Vegas casino. Stores in Osaka, Singapore, and Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, too—probably the most upscale and expensive department store chain in the world. He’s been buying my accessories since my heyday in the 1980s. A wonderful man and a delight to see again after all these years.”
We chatted pleasantries while Lottie sipped her latte and nibbled on a Ricciarelli, licking the powdered sugar off her perfectly lined lips. As gently as I could, I steered the conversation toward Lottie’s business partners.
“So where has Tad gone? And Rena? Shouldn’t they be here helping out?”
“Oh, they said they had some last minute arrangements to make before the show.” Lottie arched an eyebrow—as if she suspected them of something.
“So where are they then?”
She waved a hand and shook her head. Again the strained, high-pitched laugh. When she didn’t offer any other theories, I started fishing. “You know I still remember the day when you three first met,” I said. “I never asked you. What exactly was the business arrangement you all worked out?”
“Oh, Tad and Rena each own twenty-five percent of the label. Fen has a few points, too.”
“So, you’re the single largest stakeholder, but if you put all their stakes together, they actually own over fifty percent?”
“That’s right. But it’s not as if they’re going to use that against me.” Once more, Lottie laughed nervously. “We’re all friends. And I’m not only the head designer, I’m the only designer. They can’t get a thing done without me.”
Just then, two young men appeared in the doorway. One was laden with photographic gear, the other carried a clipboard and an over-the-shoulder tape recorder.
“Oh, the folks from Paris Match are here and I promised them an interview. I have to go now, but we do need to discuss some of the changes I made to the show, which will mean some changes to the coffee menu. Can you stay for a while?”
“Of course,” I replied. “I’ll wander around and we can talk in a half-hour or so.”
While Lottie chatted with the French journalist—the photographer circling the pair and snapping pictures the whole time—I perused the fashion designer’s photographic retrospective. It was easy to see why Lottie’s accessories had returned to the forefront of fashion. Some of those clothing designs, hair, and makeup styles from the early eighties did appear contemporary again.
I recalled a discussion Moira and Tucker had had one night at the coffee bar…Moira, a fashion student at Parsons, had explained that fashion style was cyclical because of two things: imitation and class distinctions. The rich emulated the fashion of the poor who in turn emulated the styles of the rich. This theory of fashion evolution explained why every decade or so the same fashion trends would tend to reemerge.
“Sounds crazy,” Tucker had said.
“My professor explained the theory using the example of that fashion trend from a few years back,” Moira had explained. “The hip-hop look, where guys sported baggy pants and shoes without laces. That look actually started among impoverished urban African-American youths in the late 1970s. The ill-fitting pants were hand-me-downs—even bell bottoms that had fallen out of fashion by then. The shoes without laces were the result of criminal behavior—they take your shoelaces away in jail so you don’t hang yourself or something. Soon the look became cool among urban kids, then gangster rappers. From there, the style moved to MTV, where it was mimicked by affluent rich kids, who were in turn emulated by the young in the middle classes. Voila, within a decade or so, everyone’s wearing baggy pants and shoes without laces.”
The memory of that conversation made me shiver. I wondered if Tucker had surrendered his laces before being sent to Rikers…or if he would become so depressed and desperate he really would do himself harm. I glanced at my watch, wondering if Tucker had been arraigned down at the courthouse yet. I decided to call the Blend and see if they’d heard any news—Matteo had promised he would keep me updated. I found a green park chair inside the billowing tent and used my cell. The phone rang nine times before it was answered.
“Yo, Village Blend,” said a harried voice.
“Esther. It’s me. I called to see—”
“Jeezus, Clare. When can you get back?”
I sat up. “Bad news? Is there a problem?”
“It’s a mob scene here. Must be some special event in the neighborhood because we’ve got double the lunch crowd than normal.”
Some noise erupted in the background, and Esther shouted a garbled reply.
“Gardner just stopped by to pick up his paycheck and I corralled him to work lunch. Hope that’s all right with you.”
“Sure, if you think it’s all that crowded.”
I heard voices, Esther calling something out in reply. Then she came back on the line. “Sorry, boss. Gotta go.”
“But—”
Too late. Esther had already hung up. But I guessed that if she’d heard something about Tucker’s plight, she would have told me. I chalked up her description of the lunchtime rush as typical Esther Best hyperbole, but decided I’d better get back as soon as possible anyway. I glanced at my watch, saw that forty minutes had passed, and decided to find Lottie and jot down her menu changes, talk to her about my worry that she had been the real target for last night’s poisoning, then say farewell and get back to the Blend.
When I returned to Lottie’s display room, I found her alone, sagging like a rag doll on her chair. She looked up as I approached. I nearly gasped when I saw her pale face. I hurried to the woman’s side.
“Lottie, are you all right?”
“I don’t know,” she stammered. “After the reporters left…I suddenly got weak. My ears started to ring, and I got dizzy. I…think I need to lie down.”
I looked for a place for Lottie to rest, but all I saw were two more chairs. I grabbed them and shoved them together, seat to seat, next to her chair so Lottie could stretch out across them. But as I reached to help her over to the makeshift cot, Lottie moaned. “Clare, I…”
Then she pitched forward and slumped to the floor.
Ten
“Lottie! Lottie!” I cried, falling to my knees at her side. I thought the woman had fainted, but Lottie opened her eyes again and focused them on me. I could see confusion there.
“God, Clare…I felt dizzy…lost my balance.”
“Here, let me help you up.”
I reached for the woman, but she shook me off and rose under her own power. “I feel sick…cramps. Probably nerves.”
My first thought was poison. Not cyanide or she’d be dead already. Perhaps a slower acting substance—
“We’d better get you to a doctor.”
But Lottie waved that idea aside. “I need to sit down, that’s all. I’m sure it’s just nerves…exhaustion. So much is riding on this rollout….”
But I was not convinced. “What are your symptoms, exactly?”
“I feel dizzy…my ears are ringing. There’s some nausea.”
“Maybe it was something you ate?”
Lottie laughed. “I probably haven’t eaten enough. Just that sandwich and salad that Tad and Rena brought me. I don’t think I had a decent meal last night, either.”
I plunked Lottie down on a chair, sat opposite her.
“I’m fine, Clare…really.”
“Well I’m not going anywhere until I’m sure you’re okay.”
Lottie touched my hand. “Thanks for caring. Last year I was a wreck for the rollout, but I survived—mostly because I was out of the business for so long I didn’t even know half the things that could go wrong.”
“You exaggerate, I’m sure. You’ve been in the fashion business before.”
“But so much has changed over the years. The rollouts are bigger, there’s more media, everything costs more. The stakes are much higher now that more people have brand awareness.”
“But not every
thing’s changed. You told me so yourself—said you’ve known Mr. Kazumi for decades.”
“Oh yes. Otomo is a good friend, and so is Olaf Caesara at the Caen department stores. And of course Fen. I don’t know what I would have done without Fen. He never forgot Lottie, even after two decades.”
Odd to hear Lottie call herself by her own name, I thought. But I guess that’s what happens when you and your business have the same name.
“Has this ever happened to you before?” I asked. “Getting sick like this…so suddenly?”
To my surprise, Lottie nodded. “Oh, when I was young, I used to get panic attacks. I was so afraid of everything. My knees would get weak, I would feel dizzy and sick to my stomach. And I did have these same symptoms a few weeks ago, the night we all sat down in your coffeehouse and planned the party.”
“Have you sought help?”
“I saw the doctor the next day and he couldn’t find anything wrong—said it was probably nerves. Asked me if I wanted to try Prozac.” She shook her head.
I recalled the evening, about a month ago, to which Lottie was referring—in fact, it had been the arrival of Lottie, Tad, and Rena that had sparked Tucker’s and Moria’s cyclical fashion discussion.
I’d taken Lottie and her partners to the coffeehouse’s second floor and we sat in overstuffed chairs around the fireplace, drinking lattes and eating pastries while we talked. Could Tad or Rena have tampered with Lottie’s food or drink that night? It was possible—there were trips to the rest rooms and I’d taken Lottie downstairs and back up again at one point to have her decide whether the ground floor’s tables should be taken out for the party.
“And you haven’t felt sick like this since then?”
Lottie shrugged. “No. Not until today.”
