Latte Trouble

by Cleo Coyle

“Oh,” I said and rose to unlock the back door. I was surprised to find Theresa Rosario standing there, in jeans and a sweater, her long brown curls tied back. Next to her stood the regular delivery person, Joey, a good-looking Italian kid attired in his usual baggy jeans, backwards baseball cap, and Yankee jacket.

  Theresa was the youngest baker in her large Italian family. Like the Village Blend, the history of the Rosario Bakery stretched back over a century. A small storefront in Little Italy had led to a second shop on First Avenue in the East Village, then to two more on the Upper East and West sides of Manhattan.

  “I brought over more Ricciarelli,” Theresa told me as she and Joey carried in boxes of pastries and deposited them in our pantry area near the back door. “We had so many almonds on order, I just whipped up another big batch.”

  Joey had delivered the special order of pastries for Lottie’s bash the night before. The little diamond-shaped almond cookie with powdered sugar on top was a delicious rarity, so I wasn’t complaining to hear she’d included them in our standard daily delivery, too.

  “The guests practically inhaled them last night,” I told her. “And I’m sure my customers will love them today.”

  “Last night, right…you know, I heard something on news radio about your party,” she said. “Was there some kind of trouble?”

  I met Theresa’s intense, gossip-hungry brown eyes and suddenly realized why she’d shown up to help with deliveries, today of all days. “Oh! You know, I think I hear the first customers of the day knocking!” I cried. “I’ll tell you all about it later, okay? Gotta go!”

  Then I shooed Teresa and her delivery boy out the back door and darted off to open the front.

  NINE

  THE morning rush was typical of a weekday, a welcome surprise considering the Post’s headline. The bulk of my regular clientele hadn’t heard or read about the poisoning—not yet anyway. Or, at least, they didn’t mention it to my face.

  A few, however, were most definitely whispering about “that thing that happened here last night.” And one young businessman actually took a swig from his cup, then grabbed his throat like he was dying. His colleagues practically doubled over with laughter.

  “What a card,” I muttered.

  Meanwhile, I was waiting for a lull to duck out and have a talk with Lottie Harmon. I had to warn her that she might be in danger, though I wasn’t quite sure how I’d break that news to her—or if she’d even accept it. Fortunately, I knew exactly where to find her on this particular Wednesday morning. Weeks ago, she’d handed me a pass to view a special display showcasing her work from the vintage designs of the 1970s to her label’s current renaissance in the new century. The embossed invitation, sent to magazine editors, newspaper reporters, and wire service correspondents, stated that the designer herself would be on hand from 11:00 A.M. to 3:00 P.M. “to answer questions from the domestic and foreign press.” I’d kept the pass in my office, not really intending to use it. But after the murder last night I decided it was my ticket to paying Lottie Harmon a visit.

  It’s my personal philosophy that nothing says “I’m sorry” like a double-tall mocha latte—so when the Blend’s early morning rush slid into its usual mid-morning lull, I took off my apron, slathered on some lip gloss, and took extra care in whipping up the drink to present to Lottie. After I sealed my masterpiece in a Village Blend thermal mug, I spoke to Esther and Moira.

  “I’m going up to the Fashion Week tents to speak with Ms. Harmon. After last night, I need to find out if she still wants us to cater her runway show with Fen on Sunday—a long shot by any stretch.”

  “You’re bearing a caffeinated gift, I see,” Esther noted. “Good idea.”

  I held up the latte. “Yes, a frothy bribe. You and Moira hold the fort until I get back.”

  “Let me bag that up,” said Moira, taking the hot cup.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Well, if you’re trying to bribe her, why don’t you throw in a couple of those Ricciarelli the baker brought this morning?” said Esther. “Didn’t Tad say something last night about Lottie loving them?”

  “Good idea,” I noted and sighed with relief as I left to find my jacket on a hook in my second floor office. Esther had always been a reluctant worker, but she was really rising to the occasion now and I was grateful. A few minutes later, Moira handed me two paper bags, and I stepped out to a brisk fall day—not cold, but with a distinct chill in the air.

  The sky over Hudson Street, pristine and cerulean blue, offered a vista only possible near the ocean. Coupled with a cool breeze off the water a few blocks away, this particular autumn morning reminded New Yorkers of a fact they often forgot—that their fair city was also a port, and the salty waves of the Atlantic Ocean lapped at her shores.

  I caught a cab on Hudson and listened to Bollywood music on the cabbie’s sound system as the Sikh driver raced uptown. Traffic was light and I was soon climbing out of the cab in front of the New York Public Library’s flagship building on Forty-second Street. The pair of immense stone lions that guarded the cathedral-like front entrance stared impassively as I paid the fare and followed the wide sidewalk to the back of the massive structure, where a lovely patch of green sat nestled among the skyscrapers just one block east of Times Square’s blinding neon and crazy congestion.

  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 di
splay 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 Kazumi 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.”