Клео Коул - Decaffeinated Corpse

A tinkling melody interrupted Ric’s equivocating. The tune sounded vaguely familiar. “What’s that?”

“My cell...” Ric pulled it out of the robe pocket. “I downloaded a Sting ringtone.” He grinned. “Can you guess the song?”

The melody wasn’t on my mind, the so-called “problems” of Ric’s patent issues were.

“It’s ‘Roxanne,’ ” he announced as he hit a button and put the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

Confused as to whether Ric was referring to the Sting tune “Roxanne” or the name of the person phoning, I sipped my own cup of decaf as he took the call.

“No, darling,” Ric cooed into the phone after a minute of listening. “I had a breakfast meeting outside the hotel, a very early one.”

He tossed me a little shrug, which I assumed was supposed to persuade me to overlook the fact that he’d just lied to the person on the other end of the line.

“Why don’t you just contact me on my cell from now on....” He listened some more and checked his wristwatch. “Of course... me, too... yes, darling... that sounds lovely, but you’d better make it later than that, all right? I’ve got an important meeting...”

Ric finished his call, and I asked who had called him.

“Oh, just a friend in the city.”

“A female friend?”

“Yes.”

The phone rang once more. It was Sting’s “Roxanne,” all right.

“Hello?”

Another vague call ensued with yet another “darling.” “Me, too,” Ric purred. “And I’m looking forward to it, darling... but I’ll have to get back to you on where... yes, soon... just be patient... me, too.”

Ric hung up, and I raised an eyebrow with (as Matt used to tell me) nunlike judgment.

“Let me guess, another female friend in the city?”

“Why, Clare...” Ric’s eyes widened in mock surprise, “you didn’t tell me you were psychic.”

“Funny. You’re too funny, Federico.”

“What can I tell you? It’s a hazard having this much charisma.”

“Not to mention humility.”

Ric laughed. “I do love women.”

“You and my ex-husband... hence the ex.”

“Men who love women this much, they shouldn’t marry.”

“You’re telling me.” I was kidding, but Ric looked suddenly serious.

“This is something of an insight then?” he asked earnestly.

“Uhm... actually, I was joking. Don’t you know why Matt married me?”

“Because he adored you, of course. Why else?”

“I was pregnant with Joy. I thought you knew?”

“No, Clare.” Ric shook his head. “Matteo never said anything like that, not once, not ever.”

Honest to God, I was stunned to hear it. For those last years of our marriage, I’d assumed Matt had told every friend and colleague that I was the ball-and-chain around his neck, that he’d been pressured down the aisle because of my expecting Joy.

Ric was one of Matt’s oldest friends. If he hadn’t told Ric the truth, then he hadn’t told anybody.

“So Matt was less of a cad than I thought,” I whispered. Not much less, but enough to surprise me.

“What do you mean?” Ric asked.

Might as well set the record straight. “Matteo’s mother pressured him into proposing. I didn’t know it at the time, but apparently she made him understand that she didn’t want her only grandchild to be illegitimate.”

Ric nodded, looked down into his cup again.

Had I said too much? I wondered. Probably . The easygoing Ric looked suddenly more uncomfortable than usual. Or was there more than simple discomfort? It probably doesn’t matter, I decided. Not only was this stuff ancient history, it was off my interrogation subject.

“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 arabica .”

“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.

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.