Latte Trouble - By Cleo Coyle Page 0,85

stormed into Mona’s hotel room and confronted her. Mona struck out and Lottie struck back. They began to struggle…Lottie pushed her own sister over the balcony, and it happened right in front of Mona’s young daughter.”

“Oh my god.”

Harriet paused. “That pretty little girl…I think she was only six years old at the time. I didn’t know her that well because Mona had hired a full-time nanny at home and brought her by the studio only once or twice. The daughter, what was her name? Maria or Maura, something like that. She must be in her early 20s by now. I just hope she’s forgotten what she saw, or made peace with it, anyway.”

“What happened after Mona’s death?”

“It was hushed up, I can tell you that. The little girl’s father was out of the picture so Mona’s daughter was sent to live with a relative in the northeast. Boston, I think.”

“And Lottie? What happened to her?”

“She got away with murder, that’s what happened to her. Mona’s death was quickly ruled a suicide. And Lottie returned to New York in time to debut the new season—but she didn’t. She dropped out, cancelled orders, shut down the company and went to Europe. Murdering her sister then covering it up, orphaning her niece, and losing Fen, too, it was too much for her. She just quit.”

“And Fen?”

“He moved along…to other design partners, and presumably other sexual ones. I moved to London to start a new life—I still had plenty of money, so I opened my own vintage clothing business. I lost the weight I’d carried my whole life, and things were going okay. Then I heard about Lottie…”

“What about Lottie?”

“Her drinking intensified. One day I got a phone call from a hospital in Paris, asking if I’d be willing to pick up a Lottie Toratelli. She’d given my name as next of kin. I later found out she’d burned through most of her money, and was now a full-blown alcoholic.”

“What did you do?”

“I took her back with me to London, put her in rehab, then made her a partner in my business. She didn’t have much cash to buy into it, so we agreed that she’d sign over some property to me, including the Village townhouse I’ve been living in for this past year. We were doing okay, Lottie and I, running the vintage business in London, until a stupid, senseless accident occurred that changed everything….”

Harriet paused. I gave her time to gather her thoughts.

“We had received a consignment of vintage clothing from a British estate in Cornwall—all vintage prewar top of the line fashions, perfectly sealed and preserved. Lottie and I began opening the plastic bags to conduct an inventory. Suddenly Lottie got sick, then she had a seizure. I called an ambulance and took her to a hospital. It was too late to help, and Lottie died the same day.”

I blinked in shock. “How?”

“The doctors said it was naphthalene poisoning, from the chemicals in the mothballs. Lottie was always allergic to aspirin. Turns out the adverse reaction to naphthalene is part of the same allergy, only much worse. After Lottie was gone, I saw to everything, including Lottie’s deathbed request that she be cremated as quietly as possible, without even her family being notified. I understood how she felt because during her long rehab, she confessed to me that she’d killed her sister.”

“So why did you resurrect Lottie Harmon? Did you need money?”

“It wasn’t the money I wanted.” Harriet sighed. “With the sisters dead, I had the sole claim on the label. I had been doing all that great work for all those years, laboring in obscurity…I wanted to know what it was like to be the one applauded, and featured in the magazines, the one invited to the parties…the genius, the star…”

I recalled David Mintzer’s comment about the poor little guys laboring away in the shadows who get ignored, or thrust aside—apparently Harriet Tasky had been one of them, just waiting for her chance to break out, to step into the limelight.

“It wasn’t an easy road,” Harriet continued. “When I first tried to get things going again, I called Fen, hoping to interest him in a partnership. I wasn’t happy about dealing with a snake like him, but I saw it as my only avenue back into the business.”

I could imagine what happened, and Harriet confirmed my suspicions. “The prick wouldn’t even take my call. After repeated tries, I called him again—but this time I told the receptionist I was Lottie