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