of the blue to tell me that Dutch International just cancelled its order for three hundred bags of his green beans. Roger was stuck holding the bags—so to speak—and he wasn’t happy.”
“I don’t understand. Why did he call you?”
“Roger wanted to know why his deal collapsed, so he called the buyer at Dutch International’s corporate headquarters in Amsterdam. The buyer told Roger that the company would normally purchase his beans for decaf processing, but they didn’t need Roger’s green beans any longer because they’d just made a deal to sell beans that were already botanically decaffeinated, and they were expecting their first shipment in the next few weeks. That’s when he called me.”
“Is it possible that someone else came up with a similar product and beat Ric to the market?”
Matt stared down at his empty cup. “I think it might be worse than that.”
I didn’t get much sleep the night before. Maybe that was the reason, but I didn’t make the connection until Matt mentioned her name.
“Monika Van Doorn was with Ric at—”
“That woman!” I cried. “I saw her at the party, pawing up Ric!”
Matt nodded. “Now that her father’s passed away, she’s the head of Dutch International. That’s the first thing I thought of after I got Roger’s call.”
“So you think Ric made a deal with her?” I asked. “I thought the Village Blend had an exclusive distribution deal for the initial rollout?”
“So did I.”
“Is that what all those cell phone calls were about at the tasting last night? You think Ric is cheating you?”
“Not me, Clare. I have the hybrid beans in my warehouse. Enough to last six to eight months. Ric told me I had practically his entire harvest and I believed him. I still do . . .” Matt’s voice trailed off.
“So what were all those calls about last night? All those numbers you scribbled on pieces of paper?”
“I called a couple of growers, asked for some up to date numbers on Brazilian yields. Then I did a little calculating.”
I was anxious to hear Matt’s conclusions. I knew that coffee yields varied wildly among countries and regions. Factors like soil, weather, and irrigation techniques had as much influence on the quality and quantity of coffee as they had on wine grapes. And yield per acre on robusta farms was generally twice that of farms that produced arabica (one reason, but not the only reason, why arabica beans were generally pricier).
“You know that Brazil is the number one producer of coffee in the world, right?” Matt said.
“Right.”
“The country averages around twenty million bags a year.”
I nodded. “At about one hundred pounds per bag.”
“One hundred and thirty-two,” Matt noted, “but there are problems in Brazil. For one thing, it’s the only high-volume coffee-producing nation subject to frost. And Brazilian estates have some of the lowest yields. In Hawaii they get over two thousand pounds of clean coffee per acre. In Brazil that average is less than nine hundred pounds per acre—which is up substantially from the four hundred pounds in the sixties, but not even close to equaling Hawaii’s output.”
Matt took out a pen and started writing on a napkin.
“The Gostwick Estate is fifty acres, but not all of their trees are mature. At best Ric is harvesting forty thousand pounds of clean hybrid coffee, probably less. So if he’s selling Dutch International three hundred bags, at one hundred thirty-two pounds a bag, that equals nearly twenty tons—Ric’s entire harvest and then some.”
Matt looked up from his scribbles. “These numbers don’t add up, Clare. Either Ric’s got another estate somewhere, which is possible but highly unlikely, or—”
I closed my eyes. “He’s perpetrating a fraud on Dutch International.”
Matt rose and began to pace. “Do you know what that means? I’m in partnership with Ric Gostwick. My reputation and the reputation of the Blend will be ruined along with him if word gets out.”
“What do we do, Matt? I’m in this with you, you know?”
He stopped pacing. “I know . . . and I have to tell you, Clare, I’m grateful you are.” He squinted. “Not that you’re in trouble, too, but that you’re here for me . . . here for me to talk to about all this, I mean . . . it’s a lot to deal with, and I’m . . .” He moved closer, sat down and took my hand. “I’d never tell anyone this but you,” he whispered, “but I . . . I’m scared.”
“It’s okay, Matt.” I squeezed his hand. “I’m here for you.”
“I