Decaffeinated Corpse by Cleo Coyle

confusion.

    She didn’t explain. She simply climbed into the front seat beside me and slammed the door.

    “Madame, I don’t think—”

    Beep! Beep!

    A line of cars had stacked up behind me.

    Madame pointed through the windshield. “The light’s changed, dear.”

    Beeeeeep!

    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,”