Free Latte Trouble by Cleo Coyle Page B

baker in her large Italian family. Like the Village Blend, the history of the Rosario Bakery stretched back over a century. A small storefront in Little Italy had led to a second shop on First Avenue in the East Village, then to two more on the Upper East and West sides of Manhattan.
    “I brought over more Ricciarelli,” Theresa told me as she and Joey carried in boxes of pastries and deposited them in our pantry area near the back door. “We had so many almonds on order, I just whipped up another big batch.”
    Joey had delivered the special order of pastries for Lottie’s bash the night before. The little diamond-shaped almond cookie with powdered sugar on top was a delicious rarity, so I wasn’t complaining to hear she’d included them in our standard daily delivery, too.
    “The guests practically inhaled them last night,” I told her. “And I’m sure my customers will love them today.”
    “Last night, right…you know, I heard something on news radio about your party,” she said. “Was there some kind of trouble?”
    I met Theresa’s intense, gossip-hungry brown eyes and suddenly realized why she’d shown up to help with deliveries, today of all days. “Oh! You know, I think I hear the first customers of the day knocking!” I cried. “I’ll tell you all about it later, okay? Gotta go!”
    Then I shooed Teresa and her delivery boy out the back door and darted off to open the front.

N INE
    T HE morning rush was typical of a weekday, a welcome surprise considering the Post ’s headline. The bulk of my regular clientele hadn’t heard or read about the poisoning—not yet anyway. Or, at least, they didn’t mention it to my face.
    A few, however, were most definitely whispering about “that thing that happened here last night.” And one young businessman actually took a swig from his cup, then grabbed his throat like he was dying. His colleagues practically doubled over with laughter.
    “What a card,” I muttered.
    Meanwhile, I was waiting for a lull to duck out and have a talk with Lottie Harmon. I had to warn her that she might be in danger, though I wasn’t quite sure how I’d break that news to her—or if she’d even accept it. Fortunately, I knew exactly where to find her on this particular Wednesday morning. Weeks ago, she’d handed me a pass to view a special display showcasing her work from the vintage designs of the 1970s to her label’s current renaissance in the new century. The embossed invitation, sent to magazine editors, newspaper reporters, and wire service correspondents, stated that the designer herself would be on hand from 11:00 A.M . to 3:00 P.M . “to answer questions from the domestic and foreign press.” I’d kept the pass in my office, not really intending to use it. But after the murder last night I decided it was my ticket to paying Lottie Harmon a visit.
    It’s my personal philosophy that nothing says “I’m sorry” like a double-tall mocha latte—so when the Blend’s early morning rush slid into its usual mid-morning lull, I took off my apron, slathered on some lip gloss, and took extra care in whipping up the drink to present to Lottie. After I sealed my masterpiece in a Village Blend thermal mug, I spoke to Esther and Moira.
    “I’m going up to the Fashion Week tents to speak with Ms. Harmon. After last night, I need to find out if she still wants us to cater her runway show with Fen on Sunday—a long shot by any stretch.”
    “You’re bearing a caffeinated gift, I see,” Esther noted. “Good idea.”
    I held up the latte. “Yes, a frothy bribe. You and Moira hold the fort until I get back.”
    “Let me bag that up,” said Moira, taking the hot cup.
    “Thanks,” I said.
    “Well, if you’re trying to bribe her, why don’t you throw in a couple of those Ricciarelli the baker brought this morning?” said Esther. “Didn’t Tad say something last night about Lottie loving them?”
    “Good idea,” I noted and sighed with relief as I left to