by Cleo Coyle
“Oh, of course, Ms. Lassiter. If anyone deserves a break, you do. You work so hard.” Now he was gushing. “Is there anything else I can do for you? Maybe your guest would like a complimentary Botanic Garden tote bag? How about it, Ms. . . . ?”
The question was pointedly leading. Norbert wanted to know my name. Before I could answer, I felt Ellie’s hand on my back. She was gently pushing me toward the exit.
“Lovely thought,” she called to Norbert. “Just drop it by our table later, okay?”
“Of course, Ms. Lassiter.” He caught up to us, staying on our heels.
“And do me one last favor,” she said, over her shoulder.
“Anything.”
She lowered her voice. “There’s a gentleman who wandered into my exhibit, and . . .”
As her voice trailed off, she turned to look for the middle-aged Asian man. I turned too, but I could see the room was empty of human life. The man was gone.
“That’s funny,” I said, pointing. “Wasn’t he just over there?”
Ellie looked puzzled. “I guess he slipped out. Forget it then, Norbert, just make sure you lock the door after you bring in my marigo.”
“No problem. No problem at all. And I’m so sorry to have interrupted you.”
“It’s all right, Norbert.”
TWELVE
“NORBERT’S your assistant, I take it?”
“That’s right,” Ellie replied as we walked toward the Garden’s Terrace Café. “He’s working here as an intern while he’s finishing up his graduate degree.”
“What’s his field? Eddie Haskell Studies?”
Ellie’s laugh was spontaneous and very loud in the quiet courtyard, its echo bouncing off the surrounding glass buildings. It sounded like the old carefree Ellie I’d known. But when a few dignified heads turned with curious looks, she quickly stifled herself.
I slipped my jacket back on as we walked across the courtyard’s flat, gray interlocking stones. The Terrace Café was just ahead. We followed the delicious smell of grilling meat to an open kitchen housed under a glass pyramid. When we reached the cafe’s counter, I could see the menu was a cut above the typical fast food fare. I ordered the Virginia ham and brie sandwich. Ellie went with the Cornish hen and brown rice. Then she surprised me by ordering a decaffeinated coffee.
“Decaf?” I said. The Ellie I remembered had been a caffeine queen. “You’re kidding?”
Her response was a silent shrug.
We took our trays to the outdoor seating area, where a field of green canvas umbrellas sprouted above wire-meshed patio tables and chairs. Amid the tables were large ceramic urns containing plants as high as ten feet. Some displayed evergreen branches and bright red berries, others golden fall foliage. We chose a table on the fringes, away from the small crowd of Botanic Garden guests enjoying their lunch.
My sandwich was delicious—a crusty, fresh-baked baguette with sweet, smoky ham and buttery brie tucked inside. Still, my morning had been stressful, and after chewing and swallowing my first bite, I was desperate for a hit of caffeine. I frowned at the cup of large coffee I’d ordered, contemplating the age of the brew.
“The coffee here is actually pretty good,” Ellie assured me. “Give it a shot.”
“I have a better idea. I’ll give it a test.”
“A what?”
“A test. Watch. . . .” I took my small paper cup of cream and splashed a little into the coffee. “There it is. The bloom.”
“What bloom?” Ellie asked, looking at the potted plants around us.
“Not out there,” I said, and pointed to my cup. “In here. See how the cream blooms instantly to the top of my coffee?”
“Yes . . .”
“That means the coffee’s fresh. When coffee’s old, oils float to the top. That creates a kind of filmy barrier, so when you pour in the cream, the bloom doesn’t come right to the top of the cup. It takes a few seconds longer to get there.”
Ellie looked at me sideways. “You really do take coffee seriously, don’t you?”
“Would a top sushi chef eat old fish? Would a master baker eat stale bread? Would an eminent butcher sink his teeth into—”
Ellie held up her hand. “I get it.”
I pointed to her own cup and smiled. “And if decaf’s your thing now, don’t go to Italy. You may as well ask a Roman where to find the best topless bar in Vatican City as where to find a good decaffeinated espresso.”
Though I’d been ribbing her in fun, Ellie didn’t laugh. “I wish I could drink caffeinated again,” she said. “But not long ago, I developed Graves’ disease.”
Oh, damn. “That’s hyperthyroidism, isn’t it?”
“Yes, and I’m afraid my doctor’s made me swear off caffeine.”
“I’m sorry, Ellie. You know, I was just kidding about Italy—”
“I know, Clare. And I do miss the old stuff . . .”
“Well, it’s a good thing Ric made his breakthrough, huh? Just in time to give you a spectacular decaffeinated cup.”
Ellie nodded as she sipped the Terrace Café decaf.
“Or . . . did Ric really make the breakthrough?” I quietly asked. “I’m sorry for bringing this up again, but was it really you who made the discovery? You never really answered me.”
Ellie shook her head. “It wasn’t me. It was Ric. You know, back in college, he even talked about creating a hybrid decaffeinated plant. He had all sorts of theories, but it wasn’t until his family lost their lands that he committed himself to finishing his initial horticultural research.”
“In Brazil?”
“Yes, he finished the work in his relative’s nursery, but he actually began the research on Costa Gravas, using classical plant breeding techniques.”
“Classical?”
“Right, as opposed to, say, DNA manipulation. Classical plant breeding’s been around for thousands of years. Basically, it’s controlled crossbreeding, where traits from one species or variety are introduced into the genetic background of another.”
“Oh, crossbreeding!” I said. “Sure, I’m familiar with that. Coffee farmers have been doing it for centuries. Like that Maragogype your assistant, Norbert, mentioned. If memory serves, it’s an arabica mutation that grows leaves and fruit much larger than the typical variety. Am I right?”
“That’s right. It first appeared on a Brazilian plantation around the late Nineteenth Century.”
She didn’t have to quote me the rest of the history—that I knew, too. Farmers had planted Coffea arabica Maragogype like crazy during the Second World War. Because the marigo beans were twice the size of regular coffee beans, they produced a super-caffeinated cup of coffee utilized by soldiers and fighter pilots. Then the war ended, and the beans fell out of favor because the taste of the marigo was less than fabulous.
“The Maragogype is a great example of classical breeding,” Ellie went on. “Here’s another example: let’s say you have a Coffea plant that’s got a high fruit yield, but it’s susceptible to rust disease. You can cross that with a Coffea plant that’s resistant to the disease, even though it may have a low yield. The goal of the crossbreeding would be to create a Coffea plant resistant to rust disease that’s also high-yielding.”
“But you could also get a plant that’s low-yielding and susceptible to disease.”
“That’s why it takes time and patience. With diligence, progeny from a successful cross can be crossed back with a parent to strengthen the desirable trait—that’s backcrossing.”
“So that’s what Ric did?” I pressed.
“Yes. Ric crossbred and backcrossed different species of Coffea plants to produce his decaffeinated hybrid.”
“And is it viable?”
“Oh, yes. It’s hearty, resistant to disease, and high-yielding. I’ve been working with him for about a year now to help him properly document his work.”
“I see.”
“Look, I understand why you made the assumption you did. I know Ric doesn’t come off as an
y sort of scientific genius. But he is gifted when it comes to living things. He grew up around coffee plants, and he’s a naturalist at heart. Did you know when he was just a boy, he hiked almost every inch of his native island to see all the flora and fauna?”
“But he still needed your help to get his hybrid certified, right?”
“Ric never finished his degree because he’s not very good at paperwork. If he wants legal protection for his hybrid, he needs to jump through a lot of documentation hoops—and, frankly, jumping through hoops is something I learned how to do well over the last ten years, and in more ways than one.”
That was a loaded statement if ever I’d heard one, but I wanted to keep the focus on Ric. “So everything’s legit?” I pressed. “Ric made an authentic breakthrough and you’re helping him?”
“That’s right. There’s really nothing more to it.”
“And yet . . . Ric seemed cagey with me when I asked why he didn’t file for protection in Brazil. You already told me Brazil is part of the international treaty to protect plant breeders’ rights, so what’s the truth?”
“The truth is . . . Ric doesn’t trust the officials in Brazil responsible for approving his protection certificate.”
“He’s worried about theft?”
“He’s worried they’ll charge him with theft.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Brazil’s government is very concerned about biopiracy.”
I’d heard the term before. I just didn’t see how it applied. “I’m not sure I understand . . .”
“Biopiracy is basically hijacking plants from their native country and patenting them for commercial exploitation in another country. In Brazil’s case, plants have been taken out of the Amazon and brought to other countries for experimentation, cultivation, and marketing.”
“But Ric’s growing his hybrid in Brazil. He’s not taking it out of the country.”
“That’s not the issue.”
“Then what is?”
Ellie shifted uncomfortably. “Matt knows this already, and you’re his partner, so I guess it’s okay to tell you, just so you’ll stop worrying.”
“Tell me what?”
Ellie’s voice dropped. “Ric discovered a plant growing wild on Costa Gravas—a naturally decaffeinated Coffea stenophylla plant.”
“Not arabica?”
“No.”
That surprised me. Notwithstanding my botanically inaccurate reference to the plant as a “tree,” I was fairly familiar with the basic aspects of coffee as a cash crop. I knew there were many species of the plant, some decorative and some used by native cultures for stimulant value. But as far as commercial importance to farmers, there were only two players: Coffea arabica (referred to simply as arabica in the trade) and Coffea canephora (referred to as robusta).
Arabica, which covered about 80 percent of the world’s coffee production, was the A-list star of the show. Grown at higher altitudes and considered high quality, arabica was the source for specialty coffees. Robusta was grown at lower altitudes and for years had been the source of cheaper blends and the basis for instant and canned coffees.
Within arabica, there were two “original” varieties, Coffea arabica arabica (or typica) and Coffea arabica bourbon, out of which many unique forms had emerged, either through deliberate breeding or accidental mutations in the fields. Two such spin-off hybrids popular with farmers were Coffea arabica cattura and Coffea arabica catuai, both of which grew much shorter than the original varieties, so they were easier to harvest. They were also more resistant to disease.
Coffea stenophylla, however, was new to me, and I asked Ellie to tell me more about it.
“Historically, stenophylla was considered to be better than arabica,” she explained. “The plant was hardier, it had a higher fruit yield, and the final product had a better flavor.”
“You’re kidding? What happened then? Why aren’t today’s farmers planting that?”
“The English took it out of West Africa in the late 1800s and grew it in their colonies—”
“That would include Jamaica then? And Ric’s old home—Costa Gravas?”
“Yes, exactly. But rust disease was a huge issue back then. It wiped out many of the plantations cultivating it. The farms had no time to recoup their losses fast, and stenophylla takes nine years to mature. Even though it produces a hardier plant with higher yields, it was abandoned in favor of the arabicas, which take only five to seven years to mature and bear fruit.”
“Okay, I follow, but where does that fit in with Ric’s breakthrough?”
“The key to Ric’s hybrid decaffeinated plant is what he and I believe is a mutation from a surviving stenophylla plant. The plant itself wouldn’t have been useful to a coffee farmer. It still took nine years to mature, its yield was low, and it produced a decaffeinated bean.”
“I follow you. A decaf bean wouldn’t have been an advantageous trait until lately, since decaf drinkers only recently became a larger percentage of the market.”
“That’s right. It wasn’t worth a farmer investing time and effort into breeding a decaffeinated plant. But Ric never felt that way. When his family was driven off their estate, he smuggled this mutated stenophylla’s seeds and cuttings into Brazil. For years, he continued his experiments in crossbreeding using Coffea arabica plants, and finally he made his breakthrough.”
“So you’re saying the key to Ric’s hybrid is a plant he smuggled out of Costa Gravas? And the authorities there might have an issue?”
“Not just there. Brazilian officials are pushing for world sanctions on biopiracy in their own rain forests. They’d look like hypocrites if they granted protection to Ric, since Costa Gravas might very well charge him with biopiracy once the word gets out.”
“And that’s why you’re helping him file for protection outside of both countries?”
“Exactly. There won’t be any issues here in the United States. Ric’s horticultural work is real and visionary, and I can attest to its value and validity. He deserves the protection.”
“You’re his champion then?”
“Yes, I am.”
I was about to ask Ellie another question when a startled look suddenly crossed her face. “Oh,” she said. “Norbert, where did you come from?”
I turned to see Norbert standing near a potted plant, next to our table. Ellie and I had been conversing so intensely, we hadn’t noticed his arrival.
“I’m sorry,” he said, tilting his curly head. “I wasn’t sure how to interrupt you without appearing rude, but I wanted to drop off that little parting gift for your friend.” He held out a canvas tote bag with the words Brooklyn Botanic Garden embroidered on the side in forest green.
“Thank you.” I took it from him. “It’s very nice.”
“Anything else, Ms. Lassiter?” Norbert asked, rolling forward onto his toes a bit. “Anything at all?”
Ellie’s eyes met mine for a second and I could tell she was recalling my Eddie Haskell joke. I could also tell she was suppressing another laugh.
“No, Norbert. That’s all. Why don’t you take your lunch now, and I’ll see you in an hour.”
“Certainly, Ms. Lassiter. I’ll see you later. And goodbye, Ms. . . .”
“Goodbye,” I said quickly.
Norbert nodded, giving me a forced smile, then turned and departed. I watched him like a hawk until he was well out of earshot.
“Ellie, what’s the story on your assistant?”
“What do you mean?”
“What’s his last name?”
“Usher, why?”
“How long has he been working for you?”
Ellie looked to the sky, calculating. “About nine or ten months. He came on before this year’s spring season.” She sighed. “I know I’m a bit short and cold with him, but he’s got a bit of a crush on me, and I’m trying to discourage it.”
I raised an eyebrow. “How deep a crush?”
She waved her hand. “He asked me out a few t
imes over the summer. Not directly, just dropping hints that I might like to go here or there with him—an outdoor movie in Bryant Park, a Sunday drive with him to Cape May.”
“Doesn’t he know you’re married?”
“He knows. He also knows about Ric, unfortunately. You’ve seen how quiet he can be. He snuck up on us a few times out in the Garden. I thought we were well hidden, but he saw us . . . all we were doing was embracing, but . . .”
“But what exactly?”
Ellie shifted uncomfortably. “It’s hard to explain, but when I’m with Ric . . . I’m a different person. He does something to me, Clare . . . he changes me . . .”
Oh, boy, did that sound familiar. “He’s a drug?”
“Yes. He is.”
“And you’re addicted?”
“Yes. I am.”
The years seemed to melt off Ellie when she talked about Ric. Her expression was animated, her complexion more vibrant, her hazel-green eyes bright.
My gaze fell to the gold wedding band on her finger, and I wondered how far things had gone with her old beau. She said they’d just embraced, but was that really all? Was it just a mutual admiration society? Or was it a full blown affair?
“You know, Ellie,” I said, blatantly fishing, “I was always sorry that I missed your wedding. You had it here, didn’t you?”
Ellie looked away—toward two reflecting pools standing in front of a beautiful glass structure that resembled London’s famous Crystal Palace.
“Jerry and I took our vows on Daffodil Hill, in early April—the optimum time to see the blooms. The Garden staff was there, and Jerry’s entire lab came. We had our reception in the Palm House, and, of course, there was a Times listing. It was a perfect wedding.”
The words painted a lovely memory, but Ellie’s voice was a monotone. Her buoyant expression had gone blank.
“And how’s the marriage?” I asked carefully. “Every-thing still perfect?”
“You’re asking because of Ric?”
“You loved him so much years ago. You were devastated when he left without proposing. I remember how badly you cried.”
“I cried so much because . . .” Ellie glanced down. She looked pained. “I was pregnant, Clare.”
