the early eighties did appear contemporary again.
I recalled a discussion Moira and Tucker had had one night at the coffee bar…Moira, a fashion student at Parsons, had explained that fashion style was cyclical because of two things: imitation and class distinctions. The rich emulated the fashion of the poor who in turn emulated the styles of the rich. This theory of fashion evolution explained why every decade or so the same fashion trends would tend to reemerge.
“Sounds crazy,” Tucker had said.
“My professor explained the theory using the example of that fashion trend from a few years back,” Moira had explained. “The hip-hop look, where guys sported baggy pants and shoes without laces. That look actually started among impoverished urban African-American youths in the late 1970s. The ill-fitting pants were hand-me-downs— even bell bottoms that had fallen out of fashion by then. The shoes without laces were the result of criminal behavior—they take your shoelaces away in jail so you don’t hang yourself or something. Soon the look became cool among urban kids, then gangster rappers. From there, the style moved to MTV, where it was mimicked by affluent rich kids, who were in turn emulated by the young in the middle classes. Voila, within a decade or so, everyone’s wearing baggy pants and shoes without laces.”
The memory of that conversation made me shiver. I wondered if Tucker had surrendered his laces before being sent to Rikers…or if he would become so depressed and desperate he really would do himself harm. I glanced at my watch, wondering if Tucker had been arraigned down at the courthouse yet. I decided to call the Blend and see if they’d heard any news—Matteo had promised he would keep me updated. I found a green park chair inside the billowing tent and used my cell. The phone rang nine times before it was answered.
“Yo, Village Blend,” said a harried voice.
“Esther. It’s me. I called to see—”
“Jeezus, Clare. When can you get back?”
I sat up. “Bad news? Is there a problem?”
“It’s a mob scene here. Must be some special event in the neighborhood because we’ve got double the lunch crowd than normal.”
Some noise erupted in the background, and Esther shouted a garbled reply.
“Gardner just stopped by to pick up his paycheck and I corralled him to work lunch. Hope that’s all right with you.”
“Sure, if you think it’s all that crowded.”
I heard voices, Esther calling something out in reply. Then she came back on the line. “Sorry, boss. Gotta go.”
“But—”
Too late. Esther had already hung up. But I guessed that if she’d heard something about Tucker’s plight, she would have told me. I chalked up her description of the lunchtime rush as typical Esther Best hyperbole, but decided I’d better get back as soon as possible anyway. I glanced at my watch, saw that forty minutes had passed, and decided to find Lottie and jot down her menu changes, talk to her about my worry that she had been the real target for last night’s poisoning, then say farewell and get back to the Blend.
When I returned to Lottie’s display room, I found her alone, sagging like a rag doll on her chair. She looked up as I approached. I nearly gasped when I saw her pale face. I hurried to the woman’s side.
“Lottie, are you all right?”
“I don’t know,” she stammered. “After the reporters left…I suddenly got weak. My ears started to ring, and I got dizzy. I…think I need to lie down.”
I looked for a place for Lottie to rest, but all I saw were two more chairs. I grabbed them and shoved them together, seat to seat, next to her chair so Lottie could stretch out across them. But as I reached to help her over to the makeshift cot, Lottie moaned. “Clare, I…”
Then she pitched forward and slumped to the floor.
Ten
“Lottie! Lottie!” I cried, falling to my knees at her side. I thought the woman had fainted, but Lottie opened her eyes again and focused them on me. I could see confusion there.
“God, Clare…I felt dizzy…lost my balance.”
“Here, let me help you up.”
I reached for the woman, but she shook me off and rose under her own power. “I feel sick…cramps. Probably nerves.”
My first thought was poison. Not cyanide or she’d be dead already. Perhaps a slower acting substance—
“We’d better get you to a doctor.”
But Lottie waved that idea aside. “I need to sit down, that’s all. I’m sure it’s just nerves…exhaustion. So much is riding on this rollout….”
But I was not convinced. “What are your symptoms, exactly?”
“I feel dizzy…my ears are ringing. There’s some nausea.”
“Maybe it was something you ate?”
Lottie laughed. “I probably haven’t eaten enough. Just that sandwich and salad that Tad and Rena brought me. I don’t think I had a decent meal last night, either.”
I plunked Lottie down on a chair, sat opposite her.
“I’m fine, Clare…really.”
“Well I’m not going anywhere until I’m sure you’re okay.”
Lottie touched my hand. “Thanks for caring. Last year I was a wreck for the rollout, but I survived—mostly because I was out of the business for so long I didn’t even
“You exaggerate, I’m sure. You’ve been in the fashion business before.”
“But so much has changed over the years. The rollouts are bigger, there’s more media, everything costs more. The stakes are much higher now that more people have brand awareness.”
“But not everything’s changed. You told me so yourself—said you’ve known Mr. Kazumi for decades.”
“Oh yes. Otomo is a good friend, and so is Olaf Caesara at the Caen department stores. And of course Fen. I don’t know what I would have done without Fen. He never forgot Lottie, even after two decades.”
Odd to hear Lottie call herself by her own name, I thought. But I guess that’s what happens when you and your business have the same name.
“Has this ever happened to you before?” I asked. “Getting sick like this…so suddenly?”
To my surprise, Lottie nodded. “Oh, when I was young, I used to get panic attacks. I was so afraid of everything. My knees would get weak, I would feel dizzy and sick to my stomach. And I did have these same symptoms a few weeks ago, the night we all sat down in your coffeehouse and planned the party.”
“Have you sought help?”
“I saw the doctor the next day and he couldn’t find anything wrong—said it was probably nerves. Asked me if I wanted to try Prozac.” She shook her head.
I recalled the evening, about a month ago, to which Lottie was referring—in fact, it had been the arrival of Lottie, Tad, and Rena that had sparked Tucker’s and Moria’s cyclical fashion discussion.
I’d taken Lottie and her partners to the coffeehouse’s second floor and we sat in overstuffed chairs around the fireplace, drinking lattes and eating pastries while we talked. Could Tad or Rena have tampered with Lottie’s food or drink that night? It was possible—there were trips to the rest rooms and I’d taken Lottie downstairs and back up again at one point to have her decide whether the ground floor’s tables should be taken out for the party.
“And you haven’t felt sick like this since then?”
Lottie shrugged. “No. Not until today.”
I wanted to ask Lottie many more questions. How often did she eat or drink with Rena and Tad? Had she narrowly avoided an accident of late, or had a close brush with death? But for the life of me, I just couldn’t think of a tactful way to do it.
