by Cleo Coyle
For a few seconds, I didn’t move, and I questioned whether I’d heard her correctly. “You were pregnant?”
Ellie nodded.
“But you never said anything . . . not to me, and we were close back then. Or at least I thought we were.”
“We were. I didn’t tell anyone, not even Ric.”
“Why not?”
“I didn’t want Ric to stay in America and marry me just because of a baby. I wanted him to stay for me. I didn’t want to quit college and end up like—”
Her run of words abruptly halted. She met my eyes, her expression somewhere between disdain and pity.
“End up like me?” I finished for her.
“I’m sorry, Clare. You have to understand . . . I was young at the time, and I had very little resources. I wanted to finish my degree, and I just couldn’t do it alone with a baby. My family was in no position to help me financially. They barely had enough to cover their own debts, and they hated my coming to New York—”
She was talking very fast now, awkwardly trying to make up for her insult. I patted her shoulder. “It’s okay,” I said, but she kept going.
“My family would have demanded I move back to West Virginia to have the baby, you see? And I’m sure I would have had to start working at some menial job to support my child—”
“Yes, I understand.” Like managing a coffeehouse?
“And I just couldn’t see myself doing that.”
“No, no, of course not.”
“The only future I could see was if Ric had decided to stay and marry me because he loved me . . . or asked me to go back to Costa Gravas with him. But he did neither.”
“So you aborted your child?”
Ellie nodded. Now her eyes were wet. “It broke my heart, but I didn’t see any other way.”
“And did you ever tell Ric?”
Ellie nodded. “He was upset. He said I should have leveled with him back then. That he would have married me.”
“Do you believe him?”
“It doesn’t matter if I do or don’t. I was afraid he’d end up resenting the child and me, or he’d end up cheating just like—”
Once again, she cut herself off. So I finished for her. “Just like Matt did to me.”
Ellie closed her eyes. “I didn’t mean to imply . . .” Her voice trailed off, and once more I said, “It’s okay. The truth is, I felt the same way you did. I just felt it after I married Matt. I found evidence of his cheating one morning, and I considered walking out, but I was afraid of raising Joy on my own . . . so I stayed.”
“You’re happy now though?”
“Yes. Maybe one day I’ll finish my fine arts degree. Maybe not. My life’s good. I love my work, and I love my daughter. I don’t regret for one second what I gave up to have her. If you recall, Matt asked me to marry him. He didn’t run off to another country like Ric . . . and because he asked, and I loved him, I gave the marriage a try.”
“And now you’ve obviously forgiven Matt. You’ve gone into business with him.”
“Yes, I have. And now you’re Ric’s champion.”
Ellie looked away again. “I hadn’t thought of it as the same thing.”
“But it is. Time passes, and we forgive . . . don’t we?”
Ellie smiled but very weakly. “Sure.”
There was something about her smile that unsettled me. She was holding back again, and I wondered for a moment if Ellie was being totally honest . . . or playing me.
I hadn’t seen her in so many years, and she’d changed so much it was hard talking with her. But in the last two minutes what hit me the hardest was finally realizing why we were no longer friends.
I understood what Ellie had done, and why she’d done it. And I wasn’t about to judge her. But Ellie had judged me. That was clear to me now. She had no respect for me or my choices. Oh, she’d never stated it outright. Not ever. But somewhere along the line in those years past, she must have sent out the signals because I’d stopped caring whether we saw each other any more.
You’d think by now I would be a whiz at stumbling upon disturbing realities—like a pistol-whipped body in my back alley, for instance, or a homeless man’s frozen corpse. But chancing upon the truth about an old friendship was no less disturbing. I did my best to cover my reaction, but it shook me up.
I began to wonder what kind of person Ellie Shaw had become and what she was capable of. Was it possible she hadn’t forgiven Ric at all? Was she playing him now for some kind of latent revenge?
“Did you know that Ric was mugged behind the Village Blend?” I found myself asking, suddenly needing to see her reaction.
“What?” Ellie’s weak smile disappeared.
“Last night. Someone pistol-whipped him from behind.”
“Oh my goodness, Clare, why didn’t you say something earlier? Does he know who did it?”
I shook my head. “He says it’s no big deal. And he didn’t see the man’s face . . . of course it could have been a woman.”
“What do you mean it could have been a woman? Women don’t mug people on the street.”
“Whoever this was used a prerecorded message of commands. The detective I consulted thinks it means Ric would have recognized the mugger’s voice.”
“You consulted a detective already?” Ellie asked. She seemed upset by this.
I nodded. “What do you think?”
“What do I think of what?”
“Do you know anyone who might want to harm Ric or steal his cutting?”
“What cutting? What are you talking about, Clare?”
“He smuggled a cutting into the country to show to the press and the trade this Friday at the Beekman. He mailed it to Matt initially for safekeeping, but he said he had to borrow it to show to you.”
Ellie shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. He never showed me any cutting. He wouldn’t have to. I’m well acquainted with his hybrid. I’ve been flying down to Brazil off and on for over a year now.”
“You’re sure you didn’t need to see a cutting in the last few weeks?”
“I’m certain, Clare. I don’t know why Ric would tell you—”
A series of electronic tones interrupted her. Taken together, I realized they were cell phone ringtones playing a familiar melody—the Sting song “Roxanne.”
Ellie reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out her cell. “Excuse me,” she said and opened her phone. “Hello?”
She listened for a moment. “Yes,” she told the caller. “Yes . . . oh, okay. Right now then. Hold a minute.”
“I’m sorry, Clare, but I have to take this call, and then I have to get right back to work. It was good seeing you.” She held out her hand, and we shook. “I’m sure we’ll talk again at the end of the week.”
Before I could even bid her goodbye, she was turning to leave. I watched as she swiftly strode away toward the greenhouse that held her exhibit.
With a sigh, I rose from the patio table. Ellie had left her tray behind, a Cornish hen carcass on a half-eaten pile of brown rice. I bussed it to the garbage receptacle; then I bussed my own. I’d had more questions for her, but I let them go, mainly because my most pressing questions were for Ric.
“If Ellie didn’t need to see the cutting, then why did he ‘borrow’ it from Matt?” I mumbled to myself as I left the Terrace Café. “And why in heaven’s name did he lie about it to me?”
THIRTEEN
I didn’t have to search long to regroup with Matt’s mother. She was standing near the administration building between the two lotus-filled reflecting pools, gazing up at the Palm House where Ellie had held the reception for her perfect wedding.
“Ready to go, Madame?”
“You know, this little Crystal Palace would be an exquisite setting for the Theater League’s next fundraiser.”
“Think so?”
“It’s wheelchair accessible, the restrooms are clean and convenient, and the people at the Visitor’s Center told me the l
ocal caterers are quite good.”
“Really . . .”
“You know, thanks to our donors, five thousand inner-city schoolchildren were able to experience live theater for the first time last year. And this year, we hope to double that amount.”
“That’s nice . . .”
She took a closer look at me. “Are you all right, Clare? Did you have a pleasant visit with your old friend?”
“No.”
Madame’s eyebrows arched. “Why not?”
“Because, from what I just learned, I think Matt may have put us in a precarious position.”
“My goodness!” Madame’s hand flew to cover her mouth. “Does your friend know that Breanne Summour person?”
Oh, for pity’s sake. “No, Madame. Matt’s love life is not what’s putting us in a precarious position. His business deal is.”
“Which business deal? You’ll have to be more specific.”
“The Gostwick Estate Decaf deal. There are a lot of issues that Matt’s been keeping from me, and I think from you, too.”
“Is that so? Then you’d better enlighten me. That boy’s kept me in the dark so much, I swear chanterelles are growing out of my ears.”
“Now that’s a surreal image.”
“Tell me the truth, Clare. Are you investigating something again? Because if you are—”
“I know. I know.”
“I want in.”
“That’s what I figured.”
I was about to spill everything, starting with the bizarre mugging with the prerecorded message, when I noticed an elderly couple strolling in our direction. “Come on,” I grabbed Madame’s elbow. “Let’s go to the car. I don’t think we should have this discussion in public . . .”
FIFTEEN minutes later, I was wrapping up the delightful tale of Ric’s mugging, the smuggled hybrid cutting, the plant certification issues, and possible biopiracy charges. I was just getting to Ellie’s secret pregnancy when I noticed the woman herself striding purposefully onto the parking lot’s asphalt.
“Look,” I said, pointing. “There’s Ellie now.”
Madame and I were sitting in my Honda. The doors were closed, the windows half open to keep the interior from getting too warm in the sun.
“What is she doing out here?” Madame asked. “Didn’t you just say she had to go back to work?”
“Yes . . .”
We both fell silent as we watched her unlock a green paneled van and disappear inside.
“Perhaps she’s retrieving something from that van,” Madame speculated. “Or maybe she’s going to drive somewhere for a meeting?”
“Maybe . . .” I expected the van to start up, but it never did. After about ten minutes, the van’s door opened again, and Ellie emerged.
“She’s changed!” Madame noted.
“Yes, I see . . .”
She’d dumped her forest ranger style uniform, replacing it with an outfit decidedly more feminine. Her loose slacks had been exchanged for a very short skirt; her boxy zipper jacket for a tight-fitting, cleavage-baring sweater. A dusty rose wrap was draped over her arm, and her manicured feet clicked across the parking lot on high-heeled sandals.
No longer the dignified Garden curator, Ellie was now Pretty in Pink.
Madame shook her head and murmured a series of regretful sounding tisk, tisk, tisks.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Strawberry blondes should never wear that color. What was she thinking?”
“I don’t know, maybe that it worked for Molly Ringwald twenty years ago.”
“Who?”
“Women pushing forty often have these jejune moments of fashion misjudgment, Madame. Take it from me, I know.”
“But why?” Madame asked.
“Crow’s feet, thickening thighs, those first threads of gray—”
“No, dear! Why did your friend change her clothes?”
“Oh, that? I have no idea.”
I’d already assumed, since Ellie hadn’t started up the van and driven away, that she was going to walk right back into the Garden. But she didn’t.
Madame pointed. “It appears she’s heading toward that Town Car.”
A dark four-door sedan sat idling near the parking lot gate, a type of vehicle that car services used.
Although yellow cabs constantly prowled the Manhattan streets, they were practically nonexistent in New York’s other four boroughs, so I wouldn’t have thought Ellie’s hiring a car service was particularly suspicious—except for the fact that Ellie already had her own set of wheels and wasn’t using them.
Ellie approached the Town Car and climbed inside, but the sedan didn’t take off right away. As it continued to idle, I noticed something else, or rather someone else. The Asian man, who’d barged into Ellie’s exhibit, was now swiftly crossing the parking lot.
“That’s funny,” I murmured. “Where’s he going in such a hurry?”
“Where’s who—”
“Do you see that man?” I pointed to the middle-aged Asian man in the silver-blue track suit.
“Yes, I see him,” Madame said.
We watched as the man climbed into a black SUV.
“What about him?” Madame pressed.
“I think it’s a little coincidental that he’s leaving at the exact same time as Ellie.”
“Why? Who is he?”
“I don’t know who he is,” I said, “but he blatantly ignored a ‘staff only’ sign to inspect Ellie’s Horticulture of Coffee exhibit while I was talking to her.”
“Didn’t she throw him out?”
“She politely asked him to leave. He ignored her. Or didn’t understand her. Frankly, I thought he was playing possum, but Ellie was worried he might be a Garden member, and she didn’t want to offend him, so she let him look around.”
“Well, maybe he is a member, dear. Maybe it’s just a coincidence that he’s leaving at the same time she is.”
“Let’s find out.”
The Asian man started up his SUV and pulled out of his parking space. As he drove it toward the parking lot exit, I started my own car and followed.
By now, Ellie’s Town Car was taking off. The sedan turned left onto Washington Avenue. The Asian man’s black SUV turned left, too. So that’s what I did.
“Can you see Ellie’s hired car?” Madame asked, her voice a little impatient.
“Not around that big SUV, I can’t.”
“Darn these ubiquitous all-terrain rollover hazards!” Madame wailed. “Monstrosities like this one have been crowding the New York streets for years now, and I can’t for the life of me understand why—”
“A lot of people like the—”
“I’ve trekked Central America in my prime. I’ve visited high altitude farms in North Africa and Indonesia. I’ve ascended Machu Picchu. Those perilous, backwater, mud road topographies were what these four-wheel drive vehicles were invented for—not Park and Madison avenues!”
“Yes, I know, but—”
“What’s the most challenging terrain these gas-guzzlers encounter? Tell me that? A slippery bridge surface followed by a pothole?!”
“Take it easy. We’re just taking a little drive. No need to get stressed.”
“But behind this man’s big SUV, you can’t even see Ellie’s Town Car. And I believe you’re following the wrong vehicle. I think you need to get around this man’s and tail Ellie’s hired car.”
“Tell you what . . . if Ellie’s driver turns one way and this man’s SUV turns the other, then we’ll go with Ellie, okay?”
“Will you even notice a turn like that?” Madame asked. “I thought the traffic was quite heavy on Flatbush Avenue coming in.”
“Then why don’t you keep your eyes open, too. Between us, we should be able to figure this out and not lose her.”
With Madame so skeptical about the Asian man in the SUV, I decided that she was probably right. Any moment now, I expected him to peel off and head in a different direction than Ellie’s car. But he never d
id. When Ellie’s Town Car made a left, so did the black SUV.
Ahead of us now was the majestic Brooklyn Art Museum, rising like a beaux arts sentry over the congested traffic of Eastern Parkway. The Museum, designed by Stanford White, was part of a complex of nineteenth-century parks and gardens that included the Botanic Gardens we’d just left as well as nearby Prospect Park—a 500 acre area of land, sculpted into fields, woods, lakes, and trails by the landscape designers Olmsted and Vaux, the same ingenious pair who’d created Manhattan’s world-renowned Central Park.
Eastern Parkway flowed us into Grand Army Plaza, a busy traffic circle dominated by the central branch building of Brooklyn’s Public Library (one of the first libraries that allowed readers to browse). I remember one of my old professors calling the architecture a triumph of context. The smooth, towering facade was created to resemble an open book, with the spine on the Plaza and the building’s two wings spreading like pages onto Eastern Parkway and Flatbush Avenue, two of the three spokes of Grand Army’s wheel. Prospect Park West was the third spoke, but I didn’t know which direction the vehicles in front of me were going to turn.
Sweat broke out on my palms as I followed the SUV around the whooshing spin-cycle of vehicles. While I was living in New Jersey, I’d driven every day. Now that I was a fulltime Manhattan resident again, my car sat in a garage while I mainly got around by subway, bus, or taxi, so I was pretty well out of practice putting pedal to the metal. On the other hand, I’d never liked traffic circles. I’d always end up going around and around, as if I were trapped on some out-of-control carousel, and I had to gather the nerve to jump off.
At the moment, I didn’t have the luxury of going around more than once or I’d lose my quarry. Vans, trucks, buses, and cars were zooming by in lanes on my left and right. Signs announced the upcoming turnoffs, and it was difficult to keep my eye on the Town Car, the SUV, and the rest of the traffic.
“Madame!”
“Yes?”
“Make sure you watch for any sign of Ellie’s Town Car peeling off the circle and taking a turn, okay? My eyes are still on the SUV in front of us.”
“Okay!”
“I’m anticipating a right onto Flatbush, by the way.”
