by Клео Коул
After eliminating the useless links, the most common of which was a widely reprinted Associated Press Hollywood glitz and glamour story featuring the passage “…Morgan Fairchild and Lottie Harmon accessories…” I ended up with only 295 entries. Realizing this might take longer than I thought, I began to look through them. I struck gold on the fifth entry, when I followed a link to a 1980s nostalgia Web site.
The homepage for EightiesNeverDied.com featured a montage of pop culture icons posed along the lines of the old album cover for the Beatles’ Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. There were television stars like Larry Hagman as Dallas heel J.R. Ewing; Candice Bergen as Murphy Brown; Don Johnson looking suave as Sonny Crockett on Miami Vice; Johnny Depp, Richard Grieco, and the rest of the cast from 21 Jump Street; Michael J. Fox; and Al Bundy.
Music was represented by Devo sporting their signature red plastic domes, Madonna looking anything but virginal, Billy Idol’s sneer, Boy George, Duran Duran, George Michael, and Michael Jackson. Featured movie stars came from the signature films of the era—Jennifer Beals in her oversized sweatshirt from Flashdance; Tom Cruise in his skivvies from Risky Business; Harrison Ford’s Indiana Jones; Arnold Schwarzenegger flexing pecs as Conan the Barbarian; Michael Douglas, hair slicked back as Gordon Gecko from Wall Street; and a knife-wielding Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction.
In the background, presiding over all, the twinkling eyes of President Ronald Wilson Reagan, The Gipper. Down either side of the page were plenty of links to various aspects of life in the 1980s, all with catchy titles like “Decade of Greed” for the business section (though it seemed to me there’d been as much or more greed and ruthless dishonesty during the dot bomb bubble of the 1990s), “We Are the Music,” “The Vices of Television,” “Cold War,” “Idol Worship,” “Go Goth,” and more of the same.
I followed the link dubbed “Shoulder-pads and Legwarmers” and found an eighties fashion page with a list of articles. Most of the features, I learned, had been culled from the fashion magazines of the day, the pages dutifully scanned and posted on the site by its webmaster—probably in violation of numerous copyright laws. There were articles about Michael Jackson’s lone glove, the fashion sense in Dallas and Miami Vice, male makeup. Finally I spied a link called “Spangles” and recalled that Lottie Harmon had invented the famous glittering tie-bar. I hit the link and it took me to a Trend magazine article from 1980 titled “Designing Women.”
The piece featured a captioned photo taken at New York, New York, one of the trendier Manhattan discotheques of that long-gone era. The scene was a crowded dance floor with three women in the foreground. The central figure appeared to be the scarlet-haired Lottie of over twenty years ago—in her early thirties. Below the photo the caption read “The rewards of working for Lottie…sushi, and an evening at a hot new club.” I looked at the two other women in the frame. Both appeared to be younger than Lottie. One was a very pretty brunette, the other had a plainer face, blond hair, and was very heavyset.
A second photo showed another scene in the same nightclub, apparently the same night because Lottie and the pretty brunette were wearing the same clothes. Between the two women was a good-looking man in a suit who was about Lottie’s age—no identification in the caption.
Lottie stood at the man’s right, her armed linked through his. At the man’s left was the pretty brunette. She stood gazing at him, her hand on one of his broad shoulders. There was something about the brunette’s look that told me she felt more than mere friendship for the handsome man, and I wondered who she was.
I began to read the old article, and in the first few paragraphs was startled to learn that “Lottie Harmon” wasn’t a single person. Three people originally had formed the Lottie Harmon label—Lottie Toratelli, Harriet Tasky, and Lottie’s younger sister Mona Lisa Toratelli. However, it was Lottie who became the public face of the company. I checked the photos out again, wondering if the pretty brunette at the handsome man’s side was Mona Lisa Toratelli or Harriet Tasky.
The article brought up more questions than answers. The biggest? If Lottie Toratelli had returned to New York to resurrect the Lottie Harmon label, then what had happened to Harriet Tasky and Lottie’s sister, Mona Lisa? What had happened to the three women’s original partnership?
I saved my search results, printed the Trend article and the two photographs from the EightiesNeverDied.com Web site, then returned to Google.
This time I typed in “Lottie Toratelli.” I received one hit. That same Trend article I’d just read. I couldn’t believe it. “Just like that, Lottie Toratelli is no more,” I murmured.
Clearly, Lottie had taken pains to make sure she was only identified as Lottie Harmon in any future articles or photo captions. I didn’t have time to search all the Lottie Harmon references, so I quickly attempted to find out what had happened to her old partners.
First I typed in “Mona Lisa Toratelli.” I received seven results. Six didn’t tell me anything remarkable, but the seventh held something shocking—Mona Lisa Toratelli’s obituary filed by the Reuters news service.
Apparently the young woman had perished in 1988 in a tragic accident. Mona Lisa was described only as a “designer” for Lottie Harmon who had been on a gem-buying expedition in Bangkok, Thailand, when tragedy befell her. Details about her death were sketchy. It seemed Mona Lisa fell from a hotel balcony, but it was easy to read between the lines and see that authorities thought she might have jumped. The obituary also mentioned she was survived by a six-year-old daughter, but there was no reference to the father’s name or his whereabouts.
Harriet Tasky was somewhat easier to trace. A Google search led me to a Web site for a vintage clothing business in London called “Tasky’s Closet” which was owned and operated by Ms. Tasky. There was no home address or phone number for Harriet Tasky anywhere on the site, however, and the “Contact us” button was addressed to “The Webmaster.”
So, I thought, Mona Lisa is dead and Harriet Tasky is living across the Atlantic on a business venture of her own. I wondered if the original Lottie Harmon partnership had been dissolved as a result of Mona Lisa’s death. I also wondered if Lottie and Harriet had parted as friends, or if there had been any acrimony.
Lottie had been living in London, too. If Harriet had some sort of vendetta against her former partner, it seemed to me she would have attempted something before now…unless she was jealous of Lottie’s resurrecting the label.
I considered e-mailing “The Webmaster” a set of questions for Ms. Tasky, pretending to be a journalist looking for answers. It was pretty much a long shot, but it was worth a try—unfortunately, it would have to wait until later. At the moment, I had to check in on my own business. I glanced at my watch and winced, realizing my “ten minutes” of research had ended up taking over forty-five.
Before I raced down to the Blend’s main floor again, I grabbed the pages I’d downloaded from the printer bin. Because of the way it printed out, the last page of the article lay on top of the pile. Only then did I notice the byline on that decades old Trend magazine article—Breanne Summour, the current grand dame editor-in-chief of that very magazine. I bit back a curse. Like it or not, I would have to have a talk with Ms. Summour.
I stepped quickly from my office and descended the spiral staircase to the main floor of the coffeehouse. Wan light from the setting sun shone through the tall windows. I spied Gardner behind the counter, Esther moving toward the front door. I headed her off.
“Where’s Matt?” I asked. “I need to talk to him.”
“He went upstairs after Gardner showed up. Said he had to go out tonight and wanted to get ready.”
I gripped Esther’s shoulder. “How do you feel about overtime?”
Esther made a pouty face. “Tonight?”
“Time and a half—and a fifty-dollar bonus.”
Esther stripped off her coat. “You’ve got a deal.”
“Great!” I raced for the back stairs.
Inside our d
uplex apartment, I knocked on Matt’s bedroom door and received no reply. Then I heard the sound of water running and I moved down the hall to the closed bathroom door.
“Matt? Are you there?”
The door flew open. My ex-husband stood in front of me, his sculpted chest bare, a towel wrapped around his lean hips, shaving cream lathered on his jawline.
“What?”
“I need to speak to Breanne.”
His eyes narrowed. “Why?”
I showed him the article.
He scanned it, shrugged, and handed it back. “What’s the big deal?”
“Nobody, not even your mother, knew Lottie Harmon was three people. Breanne did. I need to find out what else she knows about these women. Are you going to see Breanne again?”
“I’m seeing her tonight,” he admitted, turning back to the mirror and picking up his razor. “I’ve been invited to the Trend magazine Fashion Week bash….”
“I’m going with you.”
Matt rolled his eyes and began to shave. The hot water ran as he dragged the razor down his jaw. Drag and rinse. Drag and rinse.
I folded my arms and waited.
Drag and rinse. Drag and rinse.
“Matt!”
“Fine,” he finally replied in a tone that told me it wasn’t. But he’d been married to me long enough to know arguing would be futile.
“Great,” I said.
“One condition,” he warned before I dashed off to change.
“What?”
“No dressing like Jackie O.”
Twenty-Three
“Clare, you look beautiful.”
At Matt’s unexpected compliment, I nearly tripped on my four-inch heels. “Thanks,” I replied, thinking he looked pretty good himself, leaning casually against the Blend’s coffee bar with his athletic form draped in a slate gray suit, an azure dress shirt worn fashionably open at the collar.
I teetered toward him across the Blend’s polished plank floor, trying earnestly to recapture my ability to balance on fashion forward stilts. When I reached the counter, I spread my hands.
“See, not a pillbox hat in sight.”
Matt seemed less interested in my lack of Jackie O hat than in my ample J.Lo cleavage, now displayed by the plunging neckline of a chic, aqua Prada wrap dress I’d bought on deep discount at the Chelsea Filene’s Basement. I’d worn it once, for Madame’s New Year’s Eve party last December. Matteo had been in Rio at the time—so, of course, he hadn’t seen it, or the striking Y necklace of translucent blue stones that had caught my eye at a local artisan’s fair.
“You’re going to be the hottest woman at the party,” said Matt with a smile.
“That’s sweet. But I needed a shoehorn to squeeze into this thing. And let’s get real. This party is a Fashion Week event. The women will be so willowy they’ll make Twiggy look like a rhinoceros.”
“My point exactly, babe,” he teased. “Twiggy don’t come with that cleavage.”
I nearly blushed as Esther, who’d been listening from behind the counter, wrinkled her brow. “Who’s Twiggy?”
Matt and I stared at her, then exchanged mournful glances.
“What? What did I say?” she asked defensively.
I waved my hand. “It’s an old person thing.”
Matt smiled and offered his arm. “Our horsepower and buggy await.”
I said goodnight to Esther and Gardner and eagerly took my ex-husband’s arm—less out of a desire to feel his prominent bicep than to make certain I didn’t fall on my face in front of my staff. With all my crazy running around this week, their respect for me was already waning, and I was still getting used to the heels.
We sauntered through the Blend and out to the waiting limousine, eyes following us, and I knew why: Matt and I made an attractive couple. Instantly, of course, I cursed my own powers of observation. Was I going mental? This outing with my ex is strictly business. All business. Totally business.
On the sidewalk, I noticed it had rained briefly while I’d been getting ready, and the wet streets were ablaze with reflected light. At the curb, a limousine driver stood waiting, and I was surprised to see that even our chauffeur was dressed in a formal black uniform, cap included.
Clearly, Matteo had bypassed the typical Queens-based, leisure-suited limo rentals and sprung for the Manhattan executive service. He’d spared no expense in his effort to put forth a sophisticated image to potential investors—though I recalled that the last time I’d seen him looking this polished he’d ended the evening by tumbling over the side of a yacht and into the Hudson River.
“This is nice,” I said, my hands running across the supple leather seats. I’d made the comment innocently. By the way Matteo took my hand and squeezed it, however, then smiled suggestively at my cleavage, I realized he’d taken it a whole other way.
“This is nice,” he replied and leaned toward me. His freshly shaved jawline was sweetened by the subtle scent of an expensive cologne.
I extracted my hand from his and pushed him gently away. “I have enough excitement on my plate tonight.”
“As I recall,” he said leaning close again, “you never had trouble juggling more than one thing on your plate.”
“Matt, please,” I said, pushing him back once more. “This isn’t a date. I’m only coming tonight to ask Breanne some questions about Lottie.”
He sat back, sank into the leather upholstery, and folded his arms. “You know, Clare, this Nancy Drew fantasy you’re living. Maybe it’s a sign of something.”
“Like what?”
“Like maybe you’re ready to see more of the world. Do more than just be a mother and a coffeehouse manager.”
I laughed. “What do you have in mind? Bungee jumping in Borneo? Surfing in Malaysia? A quickie with you and some beach bunny in Rio?”
“How about coming back with me to Ethiopia, to the plantation, and help us change the way the coffee business is done in that part of the world…hopefully for the better.”
I almost laughed again, but checked myself when I realized Matteo wasn’t kidding. I shook my head. “That isn’t going to happen.”
“Why not?”
“For one thing, I can’t trust you—”
He sat up. “What? That lipstick thing again. I told you, it was Joy—”
“Drop it, Matt. I’m no fool. Not anymore. In that respect I have changed. For the better.”
Matt frowned, acting wounded. He glanced out the window.
“Anyway, it’s not just the lipstick and you know it,” I said in a conciliatory tone. “If you were to let me down again, at least I know I can always run back to New Jersey with my tail between my legs. I did it once and survived—but things would be different in a place like Ethiopia. Where you go, in the wild parts, I’d have to trust you with my life.”
“You think I’d let anything happen to you, Clare? Christ, you’re the mother of my daughter. The woman I—”
“Let’s drop it, Matt,” I said quickly. “Now is not the time and this is not the place.”
Fortunately uptown traffic was surprisingly light considering Saturday night’s pre-theater crush, so before Matt could press his argument any further, we were already rolling up to the front door of the Pierre. Located on Fifth Avenue at Sixty-first Street, this grand hotel sat directly across from Central Park, one of the most expensive addresses on the face of planet Earth. The place was so pricey, in fact, Madame once told me that Dashiell Hammett, who had stayed there in 1932 while working on The Thin Man, couldn’t pay the massive bill he’d run up, so he’d thrown on a disguise and tiptoed out.
After the limousine halted, Matt emerged, then took my hand and helped me exit. Clearly, there were no hard feelings on his part, or maybe hard feelings wasn’t the best way to put it. While I was stupidly worried my rebuff had been too harsh, my ex was stealing yet another suggestive glance at my neckline. Obviously, he’d taken my rejection as a challenge. He offered me his arm again and grinned like a conquering vict
or when I took it. As we approached the glittering entrance, a doorman tipped his hat and we ventured inside, joining the leisurely flow of the high-toned crowd through the gilded, chandelier-draped lobby.
The Pierre, with its French décor and Old World charm, had been a hostelry for very rich since the 1930s when big band sounds were broadcast nationwide via the radio. In the forties, the place served as the home away from home for presidents and prime ministers, princes and kings displaced by war and revolution. Throughout the 1950s, right up to the present, the luxuriously appointed Cotillion 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.