Latte Trouble - By Cleo Coyle Page 0,62

wouldn’t he have waited for a more public affair to poison someone with a Village Blend drink?”

“Like tomorrow’s runway show,” I automatically replied, and then cringed at the thought that the murderer might indeed be striking again at that very event, which meant I had less than twenty-four hours. I massaged my temples, feeling a headache coming on. “I have to solve this, Madame.”

“Yes, my dear, but how?”

I leaned back in the car seat and gazed at the passing shops and restaurants, the crowded sidewalks. I tried to remember some of the cases Quinn had discussed with me while he was drinking latte after latte at my coffee bar over the last few months.

Okay, Mike, how would you think through all this?

Think out loud, Clare, I could almost hear him advise me. Take it step by step. First, tell me what you know….

“The murderer’s first target wasn’t random, and it wasn’t Ricky or Jeff. It was Lottie. I’m sure of it. And since we know Rena was the second target, what does that tell us? Who would want Lottie and Rena dead?”

“Tad Benedict?” offered Madame.

“Detective Quinn ruled him out and for now I have to agree. But, according to Tad, Fen was blackmailing Rena for control of the label.”

Madame’s eyes widened. “So Fen is the guilty party!” she cried. Then her face fell and she shook her head, looking down at her lovely pecan-colored, fur-trimmed Fen coat. “Oh, what a shame. Such a talented designer.”

“Yet…it still doesn’t quite fit,” I said, tapping my chin. “I mean, Fen killing Rena makes sense. He tried to blackmail her. Maybe he found out about her and Tad’s plans to cut and run by selling their shares to other investors. He might have become angry and killed her—or had her killed. But why would Fen have tried to kill Lottie herself? She’s the sole creative talent behind her label, so killing her means killing the label too.”

“It sounds to me like Fen wants to control Lottie Harmon, not kill her,” noted Madame. “And there may be more than one motive for that.”

“What do you mean, more than one motive?”

Madame smiled enigmatically. “Fen and Lottie were an item years ago.”

“An item?”

“Lovers.”

“Lovers?” I echoed. “But I’ve known Lottie for over a year, and I’ve never even seen her in the company of Fen. There’s nothing about them in the gossip columns or paparazzi photos that I can recall either.”

“These days, Lottie is only interested in Fen in terms of the business. Nothing else. I was curious about it, of course, and I asked her about him a few times, but she said she has absolutely no interest in her old flame as anything but a business associate and that’s the way she wants it.”

Sounds like Matteo and me, I thought. Or at least it did until I screwed up and slept with him. But I didn’t share that particular thought with Madame. Instead, I said, “So you think there might be a sexual dimension to all this? That Fen is trying to possess more than Lottie’s label?”

Madame’s eyebrow rose. “It certainly explains his going to such extreme lengths to obtain the stock. When passion is the motivation, better judgement tends to go out the window.”

“Didn’t you say something else about Lottie earlier today? You thought the years had changed her?”

“Yes, that’s right. Less comfortable in her own skin. You know, more than once, I asked her why she quit the business, asked her to fill in the blanks about her years living abroad, but she always glossed over the answers, turned the subject to another topic—and always with that strained, high-pitched laugh.”

“She did that to me, too. She’s very guarded about her past.”

I met Madame’s eyes and we both nodded, obviously thinking the same thing. Lottie’s past was sure to hold some valuable answers. Just then, Mr. Raj pulled up to the coffeehouse. I kissed Madame good-bye and thanked her for her help.

“Do let me know what you discover, my dear,” said Madame, her eyes once again bright with obvious curiosity.

“Of course.”

As I stepped out of the car, I could see that the “Fugu thrill-seekers” were still out in full force. The East Village crowd—with tattoos and multiple body piercings—loitered on the sidewalk around the Blend’s old wrought iron front bench. No doubt they were waiting for one of their numbers to drop dead from a poisoned take-out. As I passed through an odd-smelling cloud, I sensed not everyone was smoking tobacco.

Entering, I saw Esther servicing