Roast Mortem (18 page)

Val lowered herself into Matt's chair and leaned toward me. “You actually divorced that hunk?”

“Yes. With relish.”

“Do dish.”

“It's a lengthy saga.”

“Let me guess. He's a womanizer.”

“One of his many issues, yes . . .”

“Too bad you handled it by divorcing him. He looks like a real catch . . .” She gazed after Matt once more to connect with him, but he was gone—a succinct description of my young marriage.

“If James ever cheated on me,” Val said, “I wouldn't be divorcing him. I'd be dealing with the female involved.”

That view surprised me. “Isn't James the one who made you the promise of fidelity?”

“A married man is already taken. The woman is the one who's doing the poaching. She's the one who needs to be dealt with.”

“But don't you think your husband owes you—”

“Hey, that's just my view. To each her own.” She laughed, but it sounded a little force. “I'd love to hear your side of the story. You and me, after work, over a couple of microbrews, okay?”

“Beer?”

“Oh yeah. That's
my
drink, don't mess with it.”

“To each her own, then.” I smiled. “Now how about one of mine?”

She nodded, and we moved to the espresso bar where I fixed her up with our latest special, a Belgian Mochaccino (espresso, foamed whole milk, a pump of coffeehouse vanilla, and a half shot of my homemade special syrup, which consisted of imported bittersweet chocolate, cream, sugar, and a pinch of French gray salt).

I leaned on the bar. “So, Val, what is it that you need me to do for you today?”

Val laughed. “How did you know I needed something?”

“The way you came in here. Most of my customers come for a break. You strode in like a general looking for volunteers.”

“That's what my husband calls me at home. The Little General.” She sighed. “Well, Clare, you're not wrong. I need your help . . .”

She pulled a colorful ad card out of her tote bag. “Can you display this?”

I scanned the sign:
Bake Sale! Union Square! Be There! Live music, hourly raffles, and the best goodies in the five boroughs. Benefits the NYC Fallen Firefighters Fund.

“Riveting.” I smiled. “You wrote the ad?”

“I'm also the gullible chump who had it printed. Tina Wade was supposed to do both, but she crapped out on me—two kids with the flu and a husband pulling 24/7 mutuals. I took care of it. I've got a stack of these going to businesses all over town. I was hoping you could take a few and spread the love.”

“Glad to. I'll post ours right now.”

I moved to the front window and set the placard beside our own plaque, the one that simply read:
Fresh Roasted Coffee Served Daily.
With the exception of our standing sidewalk chalkboard, the century-old tin was the only sign the Blend had ever displayed—or ever would as long as Madame had anything to say about it.

The bell jingled just then, and I glanced up to find the silver-haired woman herself breezing through the front door, black pants flowing like silk drapery, magenta and lime jacket displaying expressionistic swirls so vibrant they rivaled the feathers of a peacock.

“Clare, we need to talk.”

“You're the second person who's said that to me in the last ten minutes.”

I was smiling. She was not.
Oh, no.
The news was there in her red-rimmed eyes, the strain around her mouth.

“Enzo?”

“When I got there . . .” She shook her head. “They said he had a stroke very early this morning. He's in a coma. They don't know if he's going to make it.”

I was dreading exactly this. My initial shock gave away to sadness, and then I remembered Rossi.

“You weren't able to speak with Enzo?”

“Child, he's in a
coma
.”

I closed my eyes. “Sorry.”

When I opened my eyes again, I found hers tearing.

“I'm the one who's sorry,” she said. “This is my fault.”

“No. It's
not.
” I took hold of her shoulders. “The person responsible is the monster who set that fire.” In my mind, the connection was automatic. “His daughter,” I said. “Enzo asked me not to call Lucia unless things got worse. I have her number upstairs—”

“Lucia's already at the hospital. Mrs. Quadrelli called her last night. The child was very upset, of course.”

“Did she say anything to you?”

“Very little. I tried speaking with her, but she brushed me off and not very politely. You saw how she acted last evening.”

“Sorry to interrupt . . .” It was Val, she had crossed over from the espresso bar. I hadn't noticed her standing right behind us and wondered how long she'd been listening. (I didn't like anyone eavesdropping on me, although, I had to admit, I'd done it myself enough times in the name of snooping.)

“I should be going,” Val told me, “but I did have one other thing to discuss with you.”

“No problem,” I said, “but first let me introduce you to my employer, Mrs. Dubois. Around the Village, everyone knows her as Madame.”

“Very nice to meet you,” Val said.

“This is Valerie, Madame. The wife of James Noonan, the firefighter who carried you out of that caffè last night.”

A moment of blank surprise passed over the older woman's features; then she opened her arms and hugged Val tight. “If there's anything Clare or I can do to thank James for what he's done.”

“Actually,” said Val, glancing meaningful at me. “I do have an issue you might be able to help me with.”

Madame released her and nodded. “Tell us, dear.”

“Well, I had planned to use the same beverage vendor for the bake sale that supplies my catering events at the hotel. Unfortunately, they're letting me down. I just got word. I was wondering if you could hook me up with your coffee distributor. I know it's last minute, but . . .”

“The Blend is its own distributor,” Madame said, “and we'll be delighted to help.”

Val's nutmeg eyes widened. “That's very good of you—”

“Clare, you can set up a kiosk, can't you?” Madame said.

“Easy.”

“And the Blend will supply a free cup of coffee for anyone who makes a bake sale purchase,” Madame declared.

Val's mouth gaped. “That's a lot of coffee!”

“Those young firemen saved my life, and they jeopardize their own health and safety every day. It's the least we can do.”

“Thank you both!” Val said, then grabbed her bag and headed for the door. “Sorry I've got to dash. Tons to do yet and only my lunch break to do it!”

Outside, I noticed she stopped abruptly, fished in her handbag, and lit a cigarette. For another moment she stood there, inhaling with visible signs of relief. Then she quickly headed up Hudson.

“Mother!”

I turned from the window to find Matt striding across the floor. Before Madame or I could say a word, my ex had swept his mother up in a hug so enthusiastic her heels took flight.

“SON!
Put me down! My goodness!”

Matt complied—after a gentle spin and a peck to her cheek. “I was worried about you!”

She glanced at me. “First a troop of doting firefighters, now a public display by a wayward son. Perhaps I should become trapped in burning buildings more often.”

“Please don't,” I said. “My heart can't take it.”

Madame smiled. “I want to show you both something.” She motioned us to the espresso bar where she drew a yellowing snapshot out of her bag. “This came from the photo album Enzo gave me last night. There's your father, Matt . . .”

Her expression softened, one wrinkled but beautifully manicured finger caressing the image. “And that bouncing little
bambino
is you as a toddler! Such big brown eyes and thick black hair, just like your daddy . . .”

Tucker peered over Madame's shoulder. “
Bambino
Matteo.
Très
cute, not unlike the big-boy version.” He threw Matt a wink.

Matt smirked. “I'm still straight, too, Tuck.”

“I know.” Tucker waved his hand. “Such a waste.”

The shop bell rang again and a customer rushed in. I barely noticed, too distracted by Matt's (admittedly) adorable baby pic (and my own disturbing nanosecond of yearning for one just like it—the baby, not the picture). Too late my peripheral vision registered the fedora coming at me.

“You are no longer
boss
to me!”

Oh, no. Now what?!
Looking up, I realized Dante Silva was looming over me. “What's this all about?” Was he angry? Was he quitting?

“I can't call you
boss
anymore, Clare, because you're my
hero
!”

Before I knew what was happening, Dante put his arms around me and lifted me off the floor.

“Hey! Put me down!”

Instead, my crazy barista spun me around. The flight path was much the same as Air Matteo, but with a much higher altitude.

“Did you hear me, Clare? You're my hero!”

“A hero is a sandwich!”

“A hoagie is a sandwich. A hero is my boss!”

Now I knew how James Noonan felt—embarrassed. “Okay, okay, I get the idea!
Down
, please!”

Dante finally obeyed.

“What's with the hat?” Esther asked, pointing to his fedora.

He removed it to show her. His shaved head was swathed in bandages.

“Look, look, everyone!” Esther cried. “It's the Thief of Baghdad! Tell me, oh, genie of the lamp, if I rub you the right way, will you grant me three wishes?”

“Esther, you don't rub anyone the right way,” Dante replied, “except maybe your commie ex-pat boyfriend.”

“Boris was never a communist. He believes in freedom of expression.”

“Okay then. You won't care if I express myself.” Dante reached into his backpack's pocket, pulled out a digital camera, and snapped her photo. “That's going on my Facebook page. Amy Winehouse hair and all.”

“Good. Link to my page while you're at it. I'm about to post a new poem about a coworker with brain damage.”

Dante took another photo. “For Twitter.”

That did it. Esther turned on her heel and marched away.

“Well, my friend,” Tucker said, gesturing to his swathed head, “my only advice to you is: Do not grow a goatee. Homeland Security might mistake you for Osama bin Laden.”

“Oh, yeah?
As-Salamu Alaykum
to you, too, my brother.”

“Hey, you said that pretty well.” Tuck tapped his chin. “Maybe you
should
grow a goatee. Fox is filming another one of those thriller franchise movies in New York this summer. I think my agent could get you hired as an extra.”

“Stop teasing Dante,” I shook my finger. “He's lucky to be alive. So is Madame—”

The camera flash went off. I blinked.

“Good one,” Dante said, lowering the camera.

“You did
not
just take my picture!” My scolding finger was still hovering in the air. I instantly dropped it.

Matt laughed. “Hey, Dante, do me a favor. E-mail a copy of that one to Joy. If it doesn't keep our daughter in line, I don't know what will.”

“Not funny.” I folded my arms. “And that blaze last night was no joke, either. But I'm going to nail whoever set it.”

Matt cursed.

“What's the matter?” I asked.

“Don't start, Clare.”

“Don't start what?”

“I know that look. You're getting all sleuth-y on me.”

“I am not getting sleuth-y,” I lied.

Madame tilted her head and smiled. “It's like you're both still married, he knows you so well.” Then she glanced at the picture in her hand and sighed. “I would so love another grandchild. A little boy this time.” She pinned her son with a formidable look. “Perhaps you and Breanne could work on that. She's not menopausal yet, is she?”

Matt paled.

The man was not having a good morning.

 

 

LUNCH
rush came and went. Madame departed for a date with Otto, and as the pace of the café wound down again, Matt pulled up a stool at my espresso bar.

“Tell me the truth,” he said. “What's going on with this arson thing you mentioned?”

“I'm determined, Matt, enraged and determined. That's what's going on.”

“If you care so much about who started the fire at Enzo's place, why didn't you share your theories with the fire marshal?”

“I did. I called the man this morning.”

“And?”

“And Marshal Rossi strongly implied that he wouldn't mind my help as an informant—”

“You've got to be kidding!”

“Keep your voice down.”

“Are you telling me that snooping around for the NYPD isn't providing enough of the thrills you missed as a stay-at-home mom? Now you want to play with the FDNY?”

“I am not playing. Rossi is going to find the forensic evidence to prove arson, and I don't want him going after Enzo. I'm certain, down to my bones, that others were responsible. You'd feel the same way if you'd been there. Your own mother was almost burned alive.”

“Burned alive!” Matt's olive-skinned face went paler than the cream in my espresso con panna. “I thought you said she was never in any real danger!”

Woops.
“Okay, maybe I, uh, downplayed things a little, but you were in a state—”