Decaffeinated Corpse (12 page)
Read Decaffeinated Corpse Online
Authors: Cleo Coyle
Tags: #Mystery And Suspense Fiction, #General, #Fiction, #Detective, #Mystery, #Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, #Fashion, #Mystery & Detective, #Fiction - Mystery, #Mystery & Detective - General, #Coffeehouses, #Suspense, #Women Sleuths, #Cosi; Clare (Fictitious character), #Mystery fiction, #Restaurants - Employees
“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
. . .”
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.
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?”
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
?”
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.”
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.”
“What are you getting at?”
“I just couldn’t reconcile a man who’d painstakingly create a new hybrid plant with the sort of carefree playboy Ric had been during his college years. You know that Brazilian term Matt uses?”
“A
carioca
?”
carioca
?”
“That’s the one.”
Madame sighed. “Alas, my son’s favorite foreign word.” “We’re talking about Ric.”
“Not just.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I want to talk to you about Matt. That’s why I was coming to see you.”
“Okay . . .” I said, curious at the suddenly hushed tone. “What did you want to talk about?”
“That woman.”
“Excuse me?”
Thinking my ex-mother-in-law was speaking about a pedestrian, I glanced out the window. To our left was Little Italy, although lately it was hard to tell. Swanky Soho (to our right) had jumped the avenue, bringing its chic boutiques and trendy watering holes into the neighborhood of old school Italian restaurants and mirror-walled patisseries.
“Which woman?”
Madame saw me searching the crowded sidewalk and shook her head. “No, dear, not out there . . .”
“Where?”
“Right under your nose, that’s where!”
“Right under my . . . ?”
“Breanne Summour.”
By this time, my reaction to the woman was an autonomic response. At the sound of her name, my grip on the steering wheel tightened.
“What about her?” I asked levelly.
“I know Matt’s been networking with her.”
I laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Madame sniffed. “That’s the word he used.”
“Networking?”
“Yes,” said Madame. “I’ve seen their photos together in the tony magazines—you know, those charity party mug shots? I’ve met her a few times, too, and Matt continually tells me it’s a casual thing, a collegial relationship.”
“He’s sleeping with her.”
“Well, yes, of course.”
I sighed. “You know your son better than anyone.”
“What I know, Clare, is that Matt doesn’t love this woman. Not even remotely.”
I shrugged uneasily. “The
caricoa
strikes again. He’s made it perfectly clear he doesn’t need to love a woman to sleep with her.”
caricoa
strikes again. He’s made it perfectly clear he doesn’t need to love a woman to sleep with her.”
“If all he was doing, or intended to do, was sleep with her, I wouldn’t be so worried.”
“Worried?” My ears pricked up. Had Madame heard something suspicious about the woman, something that might be linked to what was happening with Ric? “What worries you?”
“I think Matt may be getting serious about her.”
“Oh, is that all . . .”
I tried not to laugh.
Matt
and
serious
—when it came to women, anyway—just didn’t go together in the same sentence. To prove it, I considered telling her about the pass he’d just made at me the night before, but I held my tongue. Madame still entertained the ludicrous idea that I might one day remarry Matt. Why give her hope?
Matt
and
serious
—when it came to women, anyway—just didn’t go together in the same sentence. To prove it, I considered telling her about the pass he’d just made at me the night before, but I held my tongue. Madame still entertained the ludicrous idea that I might one day remarry Matt. Why give her hope?
“I saw them together yesterday,” Madame continued in a grave tone.
“Uh-huh.”
“They were at Tiffany, Clare. They were looking at rings.”
“Rings?” I repeated. My brain seized up for a second, but then I thought it through. “Breanne’s quite the fashionista. She was probably just shopping for a new bauble—”
“They were diamond engagement rings. I kid you not.”
Good lord.
I managed to keep my foot from jamming on the brakes, but only barely. “Did you ask Matt about it?”
Good lord.
I managed to keep my foot from jamming on the brakes, but only barely. “Did you ask Matt about it?”
“No. I was with a friend and we were on our way out. But I tell you Matt and Breanne were very close together, very intimate.”
“He is sleeping with her, Madame. I wouldn’t think standing cheek to cheek in a jewelry store would be an issue.”
“I want you to find out what’s going on.”
“Why?”
“I told you. My son doesn’t love this woman. I can’t have him marrying her.”
“He married me.”
“You’re the only woman Matteo’s ever loved, Clare. Don’t you know that?”
“Frankly, no. His behavior during our marriage was unforgivable—the women, the drugs—”
“I can’t defend him, and you know I’ve never tried. But that was a long time ago. He’s been off the drugs for years now, he’s working very hard, has wonderful ambitions for our business, and—”
“Please stop. We’ve hiked this hill already.”
“But he still loves you. I know it. If he marries Breanne, there’ll be no chance for you two to reconcile.”
“We’re not going to reconcile! I’ve told you before, we’re business partners now, but that’s all.”
“True love shouldn’t be ignored, Clare.”
I took a deep breath. As gently as I could, I said, “Madame, listen to me. I love you. And I know how much you loved Matt’s father. But Matt isn’t his father. And I’m not you.”
Madame fell silent after that. She leaned back in her seat and gazed out at the slow-moving traffic.
I could see by the crawling blocks that we were inching up on Joy’s culinary school. I began to scan the sidewalks, a little desperate to score a glimpse of my daughter’s bouncy ponytail. But then I remembered she was uptown these days, interning at Solange under that hot young chef, Tommy Keitel.
Given Madame’s news about Matt, a feeling of empty-nest heartache stung me especially hard. I swatted it away.
You have a bigger problem to think about,
I reminded myself.
So think about that . . .
You have a bigger problem to think about,
I reminded myself.
So think about that . . .
Ellie Lassiter was my only lead on the mysteries surroundingFederico Gostwick and his magic beans. Once more, I considered discussing everything with Madame— the smuggled cutting, the mugging, the stolen keycard, the possibility of attempted murder. But when I glanced over at her again, the look in her eyes told me she was no longer in the present.
I wondered what she was seeing now; probably an image of her late husband, some memory from years ago, like my marriage to Matt, something long past.
I’ll tell her about everything later,
I decided,
after I speak with Ellie.
Then I juiced the car, swerved around two lumbering supply trucks, and moved with greater speed toward the Brooklyn Bridge.
I decided,
after I speak with Ellie.
Then I juiced the car, swerved around two lumbering supply trucks, and moved with greater speed toward the Brooklyn Bridge.
ELEVEN
IN person, Ellie Lassiter looked much the same as she had on her Web photo: the layered, shoulder-length strawberry blonde hair, the freckled, fair skinned oval face. She’d been so slender in college, the little bit of weight she’d gained over the last twenty years looked good, giving her attractive curves, even beneath the Botanic Garden’s sexless green uniform of baggy slacks and zipper jacket.
“I almost forgot you went back to Cosi,” she said as she shook my hand. Her voice was still softly feminine, but the big, joyful smile I remembered was now tight and reserved. “I’d known you as Clare Allegro for so many years . . .”
I shrugged. “That’s all right. It’s apparently hard for my mother-in-law to remember, too. But then she has a selective memory.”
Ellie nodded. “My grandmother’s like that. Terribly forgetful when the subject’s irritating, but sharp as a pruning hook when she’s got an agenda.”
“Sounds like your granny and Matt’s mother have been playing croquet together.”
Madame might have made a barb of her own just then, if she’d been present, but she wasn’t. She’d already obtained a map from the Botanic Garden’s Visitor’s Center and set off on a trek of discovery through the fifty-two acre sanctuary.
I envied her. The October day was bright and warm, the foliage around us displaying vibrant colors—deep russet and bronzed gold, brilliant yellow and blazing orange. We’d parked in the Washington Avenue lot, and then followed a paved pathway onto the grounds. The smells of the Garden hit me immediately: damp leaves, late season blossoms, freshly turned dirt. (Funny, how you can actually miss the smell of dirt when your entire range of outdoorsy experience consistently runs from Manhattan sidewalk to Manhattan asphalt.)
We strolled past an herb garden with hundreds of varieties, from medicinal and culinary to ornamental. I picked up scents of sage and rosemary as we walked. There was fresh mint and basil, along with some wild pungent fragrances I couldn’t identify.
The Japanese Hill-and-Pond garden came next. A miniaturized landscape—Japanese maples dressed in bright vermillion and evergreen shrubs traditionally pruned into perfect cloud shapes—surrounded a manmade pool, alive with quacking ducks, turtles, koi, and elegant, slender-necked herons.
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