Decaffeinated Corpse by Cleo Coyle Page A

she said. “The island had a range like Jamaica’s, between four- and five-thousand feet—a splendid altitude for cultivating 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.

    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 ?”

    “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.”

    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 ?”

    “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