by Cleo Coyle
“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 siz
e 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.”
TWENTY-FOUR
GOD almighty, I’m being kidnapped. My heart was racing, and I began to hyperventilate. Stay calm, Clare. Think.
I fumbled in my purse, then brandished my cell phone like a handgun. “Let me out right now or I’ll call 911!” I cried, my thumb already hitting the 9.
The driver’s eyes flashed angrily in the rearview mirror. He braked the vehicle so violently I had to throw out my arm to avoid being slammed up against the back of the driver’s seat. The cell phone flew out of my hand and bounced across the floor.
With a bump and a squeal of tires on pavement, the limo jerked to a halt. The momentum threw me to the carpet. I landed on my knees—convenient, since I wanted to find my cell. But as my fingers closed on my small silver savior, I heard the front passenger door open. A large body slid onto the seat. A strong hand grabbed my wrist and beefy fingers yanked the cell out of my hand.
“Hey, buster! Gimme that,” I hollered, pushing hair out of my face. Note to self. Next time you’re being kidnapped, don’t threaten to dial 911. Just dial it!
I lunged for my phone, but the giant wearing jeans and a black leather coat raised his big hands to fend me of easily. His pinky ring looked large enough for me to wear as a bracelet.
“Sit back and enjoy the ride,” the man warned in a low octave, hoisting me up on the seat beside him.
He stared at me with Basset Hound dark eyes over a smashed nose. His large round head was topped with short-cropped black hair. His ears stuck out and seemed to be askew. I met his intimidating gaze and raised balled fists.
“Give me my phone and let me out of this car!” I demanded.
As if on cue, the vehicle’s abrupt acceleration slammed me back into the leather seat and the limo raced away from the curb and hurled through midtown.
“You want out, lady?” The man reached across me to pop the door open. I gasped as he brutishly brushed my cleavage in the process. The hiss of tires on pavement filled the compartment. We swerved in and out of traffic and only his thick-muscled arm kept the door from flying open, and me pinned to the seat.
“Go on, go then,” the man said, laughing.
An electronic crackle sounded, then the voice of the driver, loud over the intercom. “Cut the crap, Tiny.”
The door slammed, the automatic lock clicked again and Tiny sat back. Without the weight of his arm crushing me, I could breathe again.
“Pull over!” I screamed.
Suddenly a finger as thick as a banana was under my nose. “Not another word out of you or I’ll stuff this phone in your mouth and hold it shut until we get where we’re going.”
The accent was South Brooklyn—which told me these men were tough customers, and most likely mobbed up. I could almost hear my dear old bookie dad’s advice—Cupcake, sometimes goin’ through a brick wall will only get your head broken. You gotta know when to just play along and see what comes.
My jaw immediately snapped shut, and I spoke no more.
“That’s better,” said Tiny. Then the man folded his massive arms and stared straight ahead.
I actually admired Tiny’s calm, considering the insane manner in which the driver was bobbing in and out of traffic, narrowly avoiding pedestrians and vehicles alike as he raced around corners and through yellow lights.
When I heard sirens and saw flashing red lights, I prayed a traffic cop had observed the man’s manic driving and was about to force us over. But the limo driver wasn’t the cause of the commotion, and he didn’t slow down, not even when a half dozen New York City police cars raced alongside us. I would have waved to the officers, signaled my plight, but I knew the limousine’s windows were tinted so darkly no one outside could see in—which is exactly why I hadn’t noticed the man in the passenger seat before I’d entered the limo at the Pierre.
As the police cars swerved onto Forty-second Street and sped away, Tiny chuckled. Clearly, the irony had amused him. A giant named Tiny amused at irony? Imagine that.
My heart still racing, I sat back and rifled through options. Despite Tiny’s order to stay quiet, I considered risking polite conversation—something that might yield a clue as to where I was going and why. But with one more glance at the man’s curled lip and glowering expression, I concluded he would not be keen on idle chitchat. And I certainly wasn’t keen on eating my own cell phone.
At Thirty-fourth Street, we headed west, turning downtown again at Ninth Avenue. When we hit Fourteenth, the limo slowed with the traffic. A few quick turns and we were near H
udson Street—not far, in fact, from the Village Blend. For an insanely hopeful moment, I thought these two men really did intend to give me a ride home, and I had a fantasy of tripping across the sidewalk and into the cozy, familiar sanctuary of the Blend’s interior. Instead we turned down a dark, cobblestone street lined with nineteenth-century industrial buildings fronted by glittering new eateries.
Years ago, when I’d been a young newlywed and first began to manage the Blend, I knew all about the Meatpacking District. By day, its streets were populated by coarse men in bloody aprons, who carried hacksaws, hog carcasses, or haunches of beef on their broad backs. They spoke with outer-boroughs accents and drank beer in the area’s dive bars at just about any hour of the day. At night, a different sort of trade ruled those sidewalks, and I was so young and naive it actually took me a little time to figure out why the painted women tottering on high heels were so tall and had such deep voices and sometimes even facial stubble. (Coming from an old Italian neighborhood in Pennsylvania, women and facial hair wasn’t all that big a deal, but I figured the Meatpacking deal out eventually.)
Just a few years after that, some of the slaughterhouses (or “abattoirs” as Madame had referred to them) had been replaced by bars and clubs that catered to the harder edged gay community—pardon the pun. Then, in the 1990s, the Meatpacking District was transformed by gentrification. Some excellent butchers could still be found here—like my buddy, Ron Gerson, famed for his prime rib—but for the most part, urban spaces that once held meat processing plants were transformed into chic restaurants and trendy clubs catering to all clientele. With retail gentrification came changes in housing, and many a loft that once quartered factory workers now housed co-ops for the wealthy.
The limousine continued to wend its way through Saturday-night traffic. Sidewalks teemed with laughing partygoers, illuminated by the garish fluorescence of the Hotel Gansevoort. We were moving quite slowly now, and I causally rested my arm on the door handle. As the limo slowed to a crawl, I tried once more to throw the door open, only to find its lock firm as ever. Once again, I heard Tiny’s annoying chuckle, a deep rumble.
