Latte Trouble - By Cleo Coyle Page 0,70
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