Latte Trouble - By Cleo Coyle Page 0,67

Room has been the venue for New York’s most exclusive debutante balls.

The Rotunda, where we were now heading, was the hotel’s signature room. An extravagant and whimsical space with a domed ceiling, twin curved staircases and a floor-to-ceiling trompe I’oeil mural that covered the circular walls, it was a regular stop among the old money smart set who preferred their high tea and gourmet meals amid five-star surroundings.

Created in 1967, the Rotunda mural really was something to see. The artist, American painter Edward Melcarth, had chosen the three-dimensional trick-of-the-eye style of the Renaissance era but he’d decided to add a twentieth-century twist. The overall intent was to transform the restaurant space into a paradise, giving guests a sense that they were visiting with the gods. Not content with the deities of antiquity, however, Melcarth added to the Pantheon by painting in the cultural giants of his own era. Images of Venus and Neptune were intermingled with more modern figures—including, of all people, a life-sized portrait of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.

“You see, Clare, it’s good you didn’t try to look like you-know-who.” Matt said with a laugh as we passed the portrait. “She’s already here.”

“Ha, ha.”

The classic lines of the Rotunda were only marginally spoiled by the hasty hanging of Trend magazine banners off the spiral stairs. One of the banners included air-brushed faces of Breanne Summour wearing different expressions, apparently meant to convey her thoughtfulness, her intelligence, her taste.

“Don’t look now,” sniped a familiar male voice, “but Breanne’s taken this whole trompe l’oeil thing to the next level—she’s trying to fool us into thinking she has depth.”

I glanced into the crowd behind me as casually as I could and saw Lloyd Newhaven in mauve evening clothes and ascot, arm in arm with the strikingly tall, exotic-looking Violet Eyes. The twenty-something Asian woman was wearing royal purple again—a chic, shiny sheath. Her glossy, raven-black hair had been sculpted atop her regal head in high, ribbonlike arches worthy of a Cooper Union architect. I well remembered the last time I’d seen this pair—the night Ricky Flatt was murdered. Then Violet Eyes had turned up on board the Fortune.

I squeezed Matt’s arm. Hard.

“Ow.”

“Shhh, Matt, listen. I need your help—”

“Oh, no, not the conspiratorial whisper.”

“Just play along with me, okay?”

“But—”

I turned before Matt could protest further. “Lloyd? Lloyd Newhaven? Look, darling, it’s Lloyd.” I dragged Matt over, extending my hand.

Lloyd eyeballed me curiously as we daintily shook. For a moment, he looked confused, but then he seemed to remember he’d met me somewhere before. “I met you this week, didn’t I?” he asked cautiously.

“Of course! We had a lovely conversation about the stupidity of mandals. Going to Fen’s show tomorrow?”

“Wouldn’t miss,” he said, still looking uncomfortable, but clearly playing along.

I let an awkward moment of silence descend then craned my neck and presented my hand to the tall, exotic Violet Eyes. On the Fortune I’d been hiding behind a huge pair of Jackie O tinted glasses, so I doubted very much she’d be able to place me either. Matt was another story, given the trouble he’d gotten into on the yacht’s deck—and off it—but I was gambling the girl wouldn’t be able to place where or why she recognized him. And, frankly, given this week’s massive throng of well-dressed male models, Matt could easily be considered just another pretty face.

“I do believe we’ve met before,” I said, holding firmly to the young woman’s hand to keep her focus on me. “But, you know, there are so many new faces this week. Allow me to introduce myself again. I’m C.C.”

Violet Eyes looked down at me and shyly nodded. “Pleased to meet you…again,” she said, her words edged with a slight exotic accent.

I waited but Violet Eyes failed to give her name. Okay, a little encouragement. “Do you remember? We do have a mutual friend,” I said feigning delight. “Eduardo Lebreaux.”

She blinked her big purple ones. “Oh! You’re a friend of Eduardo?”

“We go way back, when he used to work for Pierre Dubois. But of course Pierre passed away and now Eduardo is spreading his wings. It’s absolutely fabulous, don’t you think?”

“Oh, yes! He’s a very impressive figure.”

“Very impressive!” I echoed.

Matt grunted. I elbowed him.

“But, my dear,” I said quickly, “I must confess, I’m not sure how to pronounce your name. May I be so bold to ask you to help me so that the next time I see Eduardo, I can mention I saw you.”

“Ratana Somsong,” said Violet Eyes slowly. “In Thai, Ratana means crystal.”

“Ratana,” I