Клео Коул - Decaffeinated Corpse

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 Mighty Marigolds soccer player living in Indiana; a seventy-five year old nurse from New Zealand, traveling the world on a Norwegian cruise ship; or a twenty-two year old exotic dancer who made virtual house calls with her “easy-to-use Paypal account.” I scrolled down more Lassiters—Ralph, Jonah, Lassiter Electronics in Kentucky, and Lassiter Footwear in Toronto, Canada.

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

BBG is truly a living museum where plants come to life. Each of the distinct gardens within the larger Garden is carefully and artfully maintained by a BBG curator. The curator is responsible for the distinctive look and presentation of each plant collection, helping to enhance the natural beauty, horticultural significance, and educational experience of the overall Garden.

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 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.

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 is a lovely day. And I’ve never been to the Brooklyn Garden. All right, I’m game.”

“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—”

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—”