Latte Trouble - By Cleo Coyle Page 0,68
repeated. “How beautiful. So, tell me, where exactly did you meet Eduardo?”
“In Bangkok last year, when he first came to meet with my family about our teas. We’re very excited to be in business with Eduardo. He is so very kind. He was the one who advised me to hire Lloyd, the absolute best stylist in the world. Lloyd has been so kind to escort me to this week of fabulous shows and parties. What do you think of my outfit and hair—isn’t it spectacular? It’s all Lloyd!”
“Oh, yes,” I said. “It’s fabulous, isn’t it, darling?” I looked up to see Matt’s attention had strayed. I elbowed him a second time. “Fabulous, isn’t it!”
“Fabulous!” he echoed.
“Excuse me, so sorry, but I see some of my people,” said Lloyd, pulling Violet Eyes away. “Ciao!”
“Ciao, indeed,” I muttered.
“What was that all about?”
“Matt, are you not paying attention? Violet Eyes was at the party where Lottie was murdered—and she was on the Fortune. I wanted to know who she was and why she was with Eduardo.”
“Well, now you know. What does it mean?”
“It means Eduardo should definitely stay off the suspect list.”
“I don’t see why. The bastard’s capable of anything.”
“But Violet Eyes had a legitimate reason to be on the Fortune—Lebreaux is doing business with her family, importing their teas—and she was obviously at the Lottie Harmon party as Lloyd’s guest because she’s a lucrative client.”
“Lebreaux is still scum.”
“True. But that doesn’t necessarily make him a murderer. You shouldn’t let your emotions cloud your judgement—”
I was about to mention that Quinn had been the one to advise me of this, but by this time the milling crowd had moved up to the center of the room—which is where we found Breanne Summour, tall and blond and holding court. Her hair, upswept in an elegant twist, showed off her annoying swanlike neck. Her dress, a costly concoction of haute couture gauze, displayed her shapely legs in front while draping down in back until it trailed dramatically along the floor.
“My god,” I muttered, eyeballing the giant shiny rocks dripping from her ears, “those diamonds alone could have covered Dash Hammett’s tab.”
“What?” asked Matteo.
“Forget it.”
Surrounded by fashionistas and sycophants all clamoring for her attention, Breanne appeared to be the chief goddess of the Rotunda’s Olympus, appropriately aloof among her coutiers—until her glazed gaze spied my ex.
“Matteo!” the woman cried, breaking from the mob to extend her hand. “I’m delighted you could make it. Then she noticed me. “And I see you brought your—” the eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly—“business partner.”
Matteo caressed her hand and they air kissed. “You remember Clare,” he said smoothly and tossed me a wink—but his head was turned so far in my direction, I knew Breanne couldn’t have seen it.
I nodded at the woman. “Good evening.”
“Yes,” she said curtly.
Fine, I thought. I don’t like you much, either. But I knew this was my opening. I was about to ask her some questions about the Trend article she’d written over twenty years ago when she moved so quickly to link Matt’s arm with her own that she nearly shoved me off my heels.
“I have something special for you,” she burbled at Matt while I gave a pretty good imitation of Pisa’s leaning tower, and attempted to regain my balance. “In honor of your impending kiosk empire.” She signaled to someone waiting in the wings with a snap of her bejeweled fingers.
There was a momentary ripple of anticipation, then I heard gasps of surprise. Trend magazine banners parted like curtains as a half dozen waiters appeared, all bearing sterling silver trays lined with flaming wine glasses. Amid the “ohs” and “ahs” I heard my husband’s eager-to-please response.
“Café Brulée! Fantastic, Breanne.”
“I brought my own chef back from my house in East Hampton and had him whip it up in honor of you.”
“I’m flattered, Breanne. Really,” Matteo said, glancing sheepishly in my direction.
Breanne touched his arm. “I’ll introduce you to Troy later on. He’s a protégé of Paul Bradley Mitchell, you know.”
I cringed. Paul Bradley Mitchell was the most overrated celebrity chef of the twenty-first century. Joy and I, curious to see what all the hype was about, had recently visited his famous Central Station restaurant. The service was supremely arrogant yet carelessly substandard, which was precisely how the food should have been described in the reviews. Not only didn’t we ask for a doggy bag, we took the express train right out of that “Station” and into the first Papaya King we saw on our way