Latte Trouble - By Cleo Coyle Page 0,83

before he let me slip into the milling chaos that was the dressing area.

I knew at once what was distracting the guard—a harem of partially-clad young models traipsed around the room or sat in makeup chairs before wall-sized mirrors. Some wore robes or street clothes, but most were clad in the skimpiest lingerie. One woman—a towering Slavic Amazon—sauntered past the sweating guard wearing high heels and little else, her blond hair down to her waist, her arms casually folded across her breasts.

Among the ranks of nubile women were plenty of familiar faces—supermodels whose names I didn’t actually know, but whose faces graced magazine covers every month. Sitting near a makeup table, I spied Ranata Somsong—Violet Eyes—was as striking as ever in a belted mauve minidress. She appeared to be a spectator here, however, observing the backstage preparations with naked delight. Next to her, blow-drying and teasing a model with the biggest hair I’d seen this side of a beehive, was Lloyd Newhaven.

Bryan Goldin was already here. Fen would probably arrive at any moment. Now Lloyd Newhaven and Violet Eyes. The whole gang was here. Were they working together? Separately?

Though I didn’t yet have all the pieces of the puzzle, I still felt Fen was the mastermind and the man to watch today. Last night, he’d given me an interesting song-and-dance about how he had nothing to do with the poisonings, but that grain alcohol in my plum wine proved he was capable of tainting a drink to achieve his goals.

I also remembered what Madame had told me on the phone last night. Was Lottie really the one in danger? Or was she herself the one I should be watching?

I passed through the large dressing area twice, but saw no sign of the accessories designer. Then I heard an amplified voice echoing from the theater.

“…Milan is my favorite show,” a woman’s voice boomed. “The food, the wine—”

Another loud voice interrupted. “And the men! Don’t forget those delicious Italian men…”.

The comment was followed by a peel of strained, high-pitched laughter I instantly recognized as Lottie Harmon’s. I hurried through the door, expecting to find Lottie on the runway, microphone in hand. Instead I saw one of the technicians standing next to a video player. I glanced up at the large screens and saw a rewinding image of three women sitting on a veranda somewhere on a Mediterranean shore.

I ran up to the technician. “Did you just play that tape?”

He nodded.

“What is it?” I asked.

The man shrugged. “A ten-minute retrospective of some kind. It’s scheduled to run before the show starts.”

“Could you please play it again?”

The man shrugged and hit the play button. The clip I’d heard was from a television interview for the Italian network RAI. A scroll at the bottom of the screen indicated it had been taped during the Milan fashion show of 1984. The interview was conducted in English, with Italian subtitles running at the bottom of the screen.

Lottie Harmon, nee Toratelli, sat in a deck chair, her signature scarlet hair lifting lightly on the Mediterranean breeze; her sundress was bright yellow, her long, tanned legs tucked under her. On a chair beside Lottie, her sister Mona Lisa wore a pale green dress. The resemblance between the two women was all the more striking in a moving image.

Also striking was the difference in their manner—Lottie was loud, extroverted, and flamboyant. Mona Lisa seemed serious, quiet, restrained. Almost invisible behind the glamorous pair, the heavyset Harriet Tasky stood in a black pantsuit, her dirty blond hair stirring a bit in the sea air.

It was Mona Lisa who spoke of Milan being her favorite show, of her love of the food and wine. It was Lottie Harmon who leaned into the camera and added the comment about “those delicious Italian men.” But it was Harriet Tasky who laughed that distinctive, strained, high-pitched laugh.

The tape ended abruptly in a shower of crackling static. The man at my side cursed and began to play with the wires. Still in a state of confused shock, I turned. Standing right behind me was the woman who had, for the past year, called herself Lottie Harmon. She was staring in horror at the snowy screen.

“You,” I rasped. “You’re not Lottie Harmon. You’re Harriet Tasky!”

TWENTY-SEVEN

WITHOUT a word, Harriet took me by the arm and pulled me to a seat in the back row of the empty theater, far from prying eyes and ears.

“I was Harriet Tasky,” she admitted in a whispered hiss after sitting beside me. “Now