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
“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—”
A line of cars had stacked up behind me.
Madame pointed through the windshield. “The light’s changed, dear.”
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
Madame was right, of course.
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...”
