Latte Trouble - By Cleo Coyle Page 0,37

herself that only she, Tad, and Rena were shareholders—with a tiny percentage going to Fen—because that’s the way she’d wanted it. Lottie had waited decades to be able to express herself through creative designs, and maintaining control of her own label meant more to her than money. So either Tad was lying, or he had managed to gain control of either a portion of Lottie’s shares, or all of Garcia’s stock.

Finally, Tad wrapped things up.

“After a short break, I’ll be introducing several clients of TB. These visionary entrepreneurs are here to personally offer potentially lucrative shares in their start-ups and to answer any questions you might have. This is a rare opportunity to get in on the ground floor of exciting new businesses—a soon-to-be hot restaurant, two new magazines, a theatrical production, a coffee bar franchise, two designer clothing labels, a shoe boutique’s expansion, and an independent film are among the dozens of opportunities about which you’re going to hear. Rarely are investors offered a chance to board a train before it even leaves the station, just before it takes off for the wild blue yonder—”

Madame sighed. “These mixed metaphors are annoying me.”

“Yes, Madame.” I whispered nervously, secretly glad Madame’s eyes had glazed over enough to have apparently missed Tad’s mention of a “coffee bar franchise” start-up.

“Meanwhile,” Tad continued. “I’m going to circulate among you. Please feel free to approach me at any time with questions, or offers….”

I huddled with Madame as we formulated a plan. A few minutes later, as Tad mingled with his potential clients, Madame strolled up to him.

“I so love Lottie Harmon’s designs,” she began. “I wonder…would it be possible to make a block purchase of that stock?”

Tad turned on the charm. “Of course, Miss…”

“Mrs. Dubois. And this is my friend, Margot Gray.”

“So delighted you’ve come,” he said, taking my hand. Behind my wig and tinted glasses, I held my breath, praying Tad wouldn’t recognize me. He didn’t. He simply turned and faced Madame. “Of course, the shares of Lottie Harmon are not cheap, Mrs. Dubois.”

Madame waved her hand. “Money isn’t a problem. But I don’t want to be selfish. I’m only interested in twenty or thirty percent….”

Tad Benedict nearly choked on his sparkling water.

“Of course, if the stock is reasonably priced, I might be convinced to purchase more.”

Tad set his water glass down and took Madame’s hand. “Please follow me, ladies,” he purred. “I’d like to handle the details regarding this transaction personally.”

FOURTEEN

WITH Madame on his arm, Tad Benedict led us across the packed ballroom. He threaded through the crowd so fast I had trouble keeping up. Fortunately, Clipboard Lady stopped him near the busy bar.

“Should I start the presentations?” she asked.

Tad looked around, nodded impatiently. “Yeah, let’s get the show on the road. Bring out one presenter at a time—and hold everyone to a five-minute limit. We’re due back at the pier in a little over an hour.”

Clipboard Lady’s brow wrinkled with concern. When she spoke, her whisper was loud enough to reach my ears. “There’s kind of an issue backstage about who gets to go on first. Two men are arguing…It’s getting out of hand.”

He waved the woman aside. “Do the job I pay you for.”

“But—”

“Send them out alphabetically, the way their names are printed on the roster. Who can argue with that?”

For a moment the pair huddled in conversation. I managed to pull Madame aside.

“This is so thrilling. What do we do next?” she asked.

“Press him,” I whispered. “We need to find out how many shares of Lottie Harmon stocks he’s willing to part with. If it’s more than the twenty-five percent I know he owns, then there’s something fishy going on.”

Suddenly the Clipboard Lady hurried away and Tad reached for Madame’s arm once more.

“I must apologize for the interruption. There’s just so much to do, and I only have a few associates here to take care of things.”

Tad said this over his shoulder as he hustled us through a door, and into a wood paneled hallway. We passed three other doors, one obviously a bulkhead that led outside to the deck. Tad opened a door at the end of the narrow hall. On the other side there was a small stateroom with a wall-sized window that offered a spectacular view of Manhattan’s towering lights, bordered by dark water and black sky.

Tad directed us to chairs, and when we were both settled he sat down across a narrow table from Madame and I. Behind him, a computer rested on a small desk.