Decaffeinated Corpse

by Cleo Coyle

  Ric nodded, looked down into his cup again.

  Had I said too much? I wondered. Probably. The easygoing Ric looked suddenly more uncomfortable than usual. Or was there more than simple discomfort? It probably doesn’t matter, I decided. Not only was this stuff ancient history, it was off my interrogation subject.

  “So anyway . . .” I said, forcefully injecting some lightness to my tone, “where exactly is this illegal alien cutting you smuggled in?”

  “Upstairs.” He tipped his chin toward the ceiling. “In Matteo’s room.”

  “Great.”

  “Matt accepted the delivery, you see? Then I borrowed it for a short time to show to Ellie, but now it’s back with Matt. We both believe it’s quite necessary to show the cutting at Friday’s little gathering at the Beekman Hotel.”

  I didn’t argue. I knew there’d be international press there, trade journal writers, all in town to cover the ICGE. They’d want photos, and having the cutting there would add credibility to their stories.

  “Matt says it’s important we get the word out,” Ric continued. “And I agree. Once the photo and description of my cutting is in the press, theft will be much more obvious. A patent will give me the right to sue anyone who doesn’t license from me the right to grow my hybrid arabica.”

  “But why did you wait until now to announce it? Why didn’t you announce from Brazil?”

  “There were some issues that needed to be . . . resolved. Like the patent I mentioned.”

  “And is it resolved?”

  “Ellie is working all that out.”

  “Do you trust her?”

  Ric laughed. “Of course!”

  I wasn’t finished asking questions, but Ric was clearly done giving answers.

  “I must get dressed now. Matteo called earlier.” He stood and made a show of tapping his wristwatch. “We’ll be meeting in less than an hour. He is checking me into a new hotel, just to be on the safe side.”

  “But, Ric, who do you think is after the cutting?” I called as he headed out the kitchen door. “Who attacked you last night?”

  “I’m sorry, love,” he cooed with a shrug, “but I haven’t got a clue.”

  “Would you mind if I talked to Ellie then?” I called after him. “Ric?”

  There was no answer. I left the kitchen and went to the bottom of the short set of stairs, leading up to the bedrooms and bath. Ric had just crested the top. I could see the back of Matt’s white terrycloth bathrobe.

  “Ric!” I called again, rapidly climbing the stairs. “How do I get in touch with Ellie?”

  “You worry too much, love!” was Ric’s reply. “But thank you for the breakfast!” Then the door to Matt’s bedroom was firmly shut to me.

  NINE

  I wanted to strangle Matt.

  I also wanted to strangle Ric. That was a given. But I’d read Miss Manners years ago, and I was pretty sure subjecting guests in your home to death by choking was poor hospitality etiquette, no matter how infuriating they were.

  Ex-husbands, however, were another matter.

  Matt had made a deal with me. He’d promised to convince Ric to tell me everything in exchange for my keeping Quinn in the dark.

  True, I’d broken my part of the bargain, but Matt clearly had, too. Instead of instructing Ric to open up, he’d obviously warned the man about his “nose-hound” ex-wife.

  There was no doubt in my mind that I’d just been “handled,” given the big brush-off with the smallest amount of information. Ric’s indulgent smiles and lack of any real cooperation made me wonder how Mike Quinn got through his days without punching something. Not only had my talk with the man cleared up absolutely nothing, it left me with more questions.

  While Ric might see the details of his botanical breakthrough as his own private business, I didn’t. Matt was about to publicly link us with Ric as his exclusive distributor. My ex might trust the man because of their lifelong friendship, but I was determined to find out who had attacked Ric, what “problems” were being resolved with his product, and why exactly my ex-husband was eager to shut down my snooping.

  While Ric was dressing in Matt’s room, I followed the only real lead he’d given me. Leaving the apartment, I descended the stairwell to the Village Blend’s second floor, a genial space with a working fireplace, walls of exposed brick, and a bounty of overstuffed armchairs and sofas.

  As an extension of the ground floor coffee bar, this floor was essentially a living room for customers, as well as a rentable space for small community gatherings. (We’d hosted everything from book clubs, singles mixers, and string quartet jam sessions, to theatrical script read-throughs, and “brag ’n’ bitch” evenings for a group of professional illustrators.)

  This floor also held my private office. With a battered wooden desk, utilitarian chair, files, and a coat stand where I hung my apron, the tiny windowless cell wasn’t exactly Trump headquarters international. I didn’t care. My real office was downstairs, anyway, behind the espresso machine with my baristas, waiting on the eclectic community I loved.

  I sat at the desk and fired up my PC. Inside were Excel spreadsheets tracking inventory; daily, weekly, and monthly sales; and employee schedules. But I wasn’t interested in any of that. To follow my lead, I logged onto the Internet, went to a search engine, and typed in the name “Ellie Lassiter.”

  Three seconds later, the screen filled with hundreds of search results, and I began combing through the listings. The first dozen or so were a bust—Ellie Lassiter wasn’t a twelve year old Mighty Marigolds soccer player living in Indiana; a seventy-five year old nurse from New Zealand, traveling the world on a Norwegian cruise ship; or a twenty-two year old exotic dancer who made virtual house calls with her “easy-to-use Paypal account.” I scrolled down more Lassiters—Ralph, Jonah, Lassiter Electronics in Kentucky, and Lassiter Footwear in Toronto, Canada.

  Then I came to a blue hyperlink headlined “Curator’s Corner.” I hit the phrase. The screen dissolved and reformed with photos and text . . .

  BBG is truly a living museum where plants come to life. Each of the distinct gardens within the larger Garden is carefully and artfully maintained by a BBG curator. The curator is responsible for the distinctive look and presentation of each plant collection, helping to enhance the natural beauty, horticultural significance, and educational experience of the overall Garden.

  I surmised from the logo at the top of the page that BBG stood for Brooklyn Botanic Garden and this Curator’s Corner page was just one part of the larger BBG Web site.

  I scrolled down the page. It featured essays about the Garden’s staff of managers, referred to as “curators” as part of the overriding metaphor of the Botanic Garden as a living museum. Smiling pictures of men and women were tucked in beside each essay, their CVs listing impressive credentials in horticulture, landscape design, and gardening seminars attended abroad. Then halfway down the list, I stopped dead . . .

  “Ellie Lassiter,” I murmured. “Gotcha.”

  The years were there in the photo—crow’s feet and some added weight to her pale, oval face. I knew she would probably make the same judgment about me. Still, I could see the striking woman I remembered. Her glorious, hip-length strawberry blond hair was cut more practically now, into a short layered style. Her big hazel-green eyes weren’t quite as big or bright anymore, and some of those adorable freckles had faded.

  The sun seemed to be in her eyes, and she’d failed to smile. She looked severe and serious and a little bit sad, not the Ellie Shaw I remembered at all. The Ellie I’d known had laughed easily, smiled constantly, and loved fresh flowers, long velvet skirts, all things medieval, and my coffee. She’d lived in the Village back then and used to stop by the Blend every morning and evening for her fix, usually with a dog-eared paperback fantasy novel and an armload of college course work.

  We’d continued our friendship after she’d finished her studies. But once she moved to Brooklyn, her visits to the Blend were less frequent. Then I m
oved to New Jersey, and our contact was reduced to a note written in a yearly Christmas card.

  I remembered receiving an invitation to her wedding. She was marrying a corporate executive named Jerry Lassiter, at least fifteen years her senior. But I couldn’t attend the ceremony for some reason, probably one of my part-time jobs. I’d sent her a gift, received a nice thank you note, and that was about the last time we’d communicated.

  Now I clicked around the Botanic Garden Web site, looking for a contact phone number. When I called the administration offices, a woman connected me to another line. A young man assured me that Ellie was in today but was working on a special exhibit in the conservatory. Would I care to leave a message or call back later?

  “Leave a message,” I said, making an instant decision. “Please let Mrs. Lassiter know that Clare Cosi will be dropping in to say hello.”

  In less than ten minutes, I’d exchanged my T-shirt for a more presentable pale yellow V-neck sweater, had put a belt through the loops of my khaki pants, and was standing downstairs with my jacket on, my handbag slung over my shoulders, and my car keys dangling between two fingers.

  The lunch rush hadn’t begun yet. Only nine or ten customers occupied the tables and two were waiting at the coffee bar, so I approached Dante. He said he’d be happy to continue working, and I told Tucker to hold the java fort through lunch. Then I hiked to a garage near the river where I kept my old Honda (and the annual cost for my parking space was more than the car’s blue book value).

  I started her up (and she actually did start up, thank goodness). Then I exited the garage, heading east. After a few blocks snaking through the narrow Village side streets, I heard my name being called.

  “Clare! Clare!”

  It was Matt’s mother.

  TEN

  MADAME Blanche Dreyfus Allegro Dubois had spotted me sitting at an intersection, waiting for a red light to go green. She strode up to the car and knocked on the passenger side window. I powered down the glass.

  “Clare! I was just coming to speak with you,” she said, somewhat breathlessly.

  The Blend’s elderly owner looked as elegant as ever in tweedy brown slacks and a burgundy wrap coat. Her hair, which had been dark brown in her youth, was rinsed a lovely silver, and she wore it down today in a simple pageboy.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “The Botanic Garden.”

  She stared at me blankly, the clear blue eyes in her gently creased face appearing to be digesting this incomprehensible destination.

  “The one in the Bronx?” she asked.

  “Brooklyn.”

  She glanced up at the cerulean October sky, then down at the stately old elms lining the cobblestone block. The sun was brilliant, the day warm, and the recent cold nights had begun painting the trees their distinctive golden yellow against black branches.

  “You know,” she said contemplatively, “it is a lovely day. And I’ve never been to the Brooklyn Garden. All right, I’m game.”

  “You’re game?” I repeated in confusion.

  She didn’t explain. She simply climbed into the front seat beside me and slammed the door.

  “Madame, I don’t think—”

  Beep! Beep!

  A line of cars had stacked up behind me.

  Madame pointed through the windshield. “The light’s changed, dear.”

  Beeeeeep!

  As my former mother-in-law strapped in, I gave the car juice and turned the corner. “Are you sure you want to go with me? I’m planning to meet up with an old friend . . .”

  “I’ll stay out of your way once we get there. Who are you meeting?”

  “Ellie Shaw.”

  Madame tapped her chin in thought. “Ellie Shaw . . . Ellie Shaw . . . refresh my memory?”

  “She was a loyal customer when I first managed the Blend for you. She was also madly in love with Federico Gostwick.”

  “Of course! I remember her. She was in the Blend day and night back then, and always so bubbly and happy. If memory serves, she had a gorgeous head of long, strawberry-blonde hair—”

  “She’s cut it. And she’s married. She’s Ellie Lassiter now.”

  “You and Matt went out with those two, didn’t you? A lot of double dates with Ric and Ellie?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Federico must be one of Matt’s oldest friends.”

  I nodded and considered blurting out what I’d just learned from Ric, but I knew the smuggled cutting alone wouldn’t have overly concerned Madame. She was an honest businesswoman, but she was a canny one, too. During her decades of running our Manhattan business, she’d dealt with corrupt inspectors, mobbed-up garbage haulers, and underhanded rivals. The letter of the law was one thing, survival was another, and the woman wasn’t going to blanch at a few sidesteps of regulations in sending a little ol’ coffee tree cutting from one country to another. At the most, she’d be amused, and probably quote me the long history of coffee plant smuggling that I already knew.

  Ric’s mugging, his stolen keycard, and the possibility of attempted murder, however, were something else. But I still held my tongue. Ellie Shaw wasn’t the only one who knew more than me about Federico Gostwick. Madame had known him for years, too, and I wanted her unbiased opinion.

  “When you say Ric is one of Matt’s oldest friends, you mean childhood, don’t you?” I asked. “Years ago, Matt mentioned to me that he and Ric used to play together?”

  “Oh, yes. Matt’s father was good friends with Ric’s father, and he often took Matt with him on trips to the Gostwick plantation on Costa Gravas. I went with them many times.”

  “What did you think of Ric’s birthplace?”

  Madame smiled. “Paradise.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yes. You know, Matt’s father was a true romantic. On our trips to Costa Gravas, he’d always arrange for Matt to stay with the Gostwicks for a day or two so he and I could share some time alone on the island.” Leaning back against the car seat, she closed her eyes. “I can still see Antonio on that beach in his swim trunks, all that white sugar sand, the clear aquamarine bay stretching out behind him . . .” She sighed again. “Matt’s father was such a handsome, passionate man . . . even after all these years, after marrying and losing Pierre, I still miss him.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “Sometimes my years with Antonio feel like a dream . . . but then I see my son, and I know they weren’t.” Madame opened her eyes. “Matt’s the evidence, you see, Clare? The evidence of those years of love.”

  I shifted uncomfortably behind the steering wheel and cracked my window. Not only was the bright sun overheating the car, Madame’s voice seemed irritatingly vested with meaning for me, but I wasn’t catching what she was throwing, so I cleared my throat and politely posed my next question.

  “I’m not really that familiar with Costa Gravas . . . if there were beaches on the island, then how flat was the land? Where did Ric’s family grow coffee?”

  “In the mountains, of course,” she said. “The island had a range like Jamaica’s, between four- and five-thousand feet—a splendid altitude for cultivating arabica . . .”

  Madame was right, of course. Arabica coffee plants grew best at elevations between three and six thousand feet. “High-grown, high quality” was how some put it in the trade.

  She closed her eyes again. “What a paradise that island was . . .”

  By now, we were driving east on Houston (pronounced “How-stun” on pain of being corrected by snippy carpet-baggers eager to prove their New York savvy). And I’d changed my resistant attitude about Madame coming with me to Brooklyn. She was clearly going to be a help as far as info on Ric.

  “About the Gostwick family,” I said, “I was wondering if you could tell me something . . .”

  Madame opened her eyes again. “What would you like to know?”

  “If life on Costa Gravas was so wonderful, then why did Ric’s family relocate to Brazil?”

&n
bsp; Madame stared at me as if I’d just suggested we replace our thirty-five dollar-a-pound, single-origin Jamaica Blue Mountain with Folgers instant crystals.

  “You don’t know?”

  “No.”

  “Matt didn’t share that with you?”

  “Matt and I were divorced then. The last thing I remember about Ric was his over-staying his education visa for Ellie, then returning to Costa Gravas anyway—and without proposing, which I also remember had absolutely devastated her.”

  Madame nodded. “Then you never heard the story.”

  “What story?”

  “Ric’s family didn’t move out of Costa Gravas voluntarily. The government turned into a socialist dictatorship practically overnight, and all private farms and companies were seized.”

  “You mean like Cuba, in Godfather II?”

  “I mean like Cuba in reality, dear. Federico’s father had been an outspoken opponent of Victor Hernandez, who had close ties to Castro. The man’s military swept over Costa Gravas. So the family fled to Brazil. It’s a good thing too. Hernandez could have imprisoned Ric’s father . . . or worse.”

  Now I felt like a geopolitical idiot.

  I could only say, in defense of my ignorance, that I was overwhelmed those years with concerns closer to home (e.g. raising my daughter, keeping food on the table, paying New Jersey Power and Lighting somewhere close to on time). Regardless of Costa Gravas’ political history, however, I knew one thing—quality coffee no longer came off that little island.

  Farming coffee was an art as exacting as any. Years ago, the trade journals had downgraded the quality of Costa Gravas cherries as well as their crop yields. I’d never researched why. I’d simply focused on other regions and coffee crops.

  “Why exactly did Ric’s family end up in Brazil?”

  “A relative down there had some lands, and he gave them a section of it to farm.”

  “So that’s why . . .” I murmured, turning south onto Broadway.

  “What?” Madame asked. “That’s why what?”

  “That’s why Ric buckled down . . . I mean, his botanical breakthrough came after his family lost their farm on Costa Gravas.”