Coffeehouse 09 - Roast Mortem

by Cleo Coyle

  “Mike—”

  “Promise me.”

  I sighed. “I promise you, Mike.”

  “Good, let’s change the subject, okay? Mind if I watch the headlines?”

  “No . . . I’d like to see them, too.”

  Mike flipped on the small television in the corner of the counter, turned it to NY1, our local twenty-four-hour news channel.

  “I’ll make more coffee,” I said.

  Obviously, Mike was done talking about his cousin, but I couldn’t stand having secrets between us, and I was determined to get this one out of him.

  As I measured out our Breakfast Blend, I considered how to reopen the subject. For about twenty seconds, the noisy gears of my burr grinder drowned out the dulcet tones of NY1’s morning anchor. Then the grinder stopped and Pat Kiernan’s voice came back.

  “. . . a three-alarm fire in Long Island City. The coffeehouse was part of a popular international chain . . .”

  “Coffeehouse!”

  I turned quickly, just in time to see last night’s recorded footage. I recognized several members of the fire station I’d just laughed with the night before. Then I recalled what Oat had said to Captain Michael as they strode away from his office—“Long Island City . . . a two-alarm, going to three . . .”

  “. . . and the mayor will make a statement later today about this sad turn of events,” Kiernan continued. “The coffeehouse was closed at the time of the blaze and no customers or employees were injured. But one of New York’s Bravest lost his life . . .”

  I glanced at Mike. We both tensed, waiting. Finally, the still, color photograph came up on the TV screen—a picture of the dead man.

  I stumbled backward, fell into a chair.

  “. . . best known for his appearance as Mr. March in last year’s famous FDNY calendar, Bigsby Brewer died instantly after jumping from the building’s roof. The cause of the fire is deemed suspicious and is under investigation.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  THREE days later, a public funeral was held in Queens. Dante, Madame, and I attended. The mayor was there and the city commissioners. The cardinal came, the FDNY Emerald Society Pipes and Drums, the local press, and every member of Bigsby Brewer’s beloved firehouse.

  The pomp and turnout were overwhelming, the grieving genuine. Thousands of firefighters from every borough showed up in dress blues. The small army couldn’t fit inside the church so they lined up in formation on the streets outside, where cops redirected traffic for hours, all the way to the burial ceremony in Calvary Cemetery on Laurel Hill Boulevard.

  The younger firefighters looked steely, the older ones visibly haunted, unshed tears glazing their eyes, tense expressions barely masking rekindled memories. Back in fall 2001, this city had seen hundreds of funerals just like this one, final farewells to those who’d answered their last alarms.

  Now it was Bigsby’s turn. And on the morning of his funeral, that’s when it hit me. I’d heard his last alarm.

  THE cluster of days that followed blew by like fast-moving storms. Time felt compressed, and so did I. Tensions were so high that most mornings I woke up feeling as though I’d slept with my head inside a panini maker.

  The Blend’s business went on as usual—morning crush, lunchtime takeouts, evening regulars—but just as Mike promised, detectives from the Sixth took shifts in plain clothes while sector cars drove by so often I was starting to feel like I managed a gangland hangout.

  There were no more threats, however, and no more coffeehouse fires. My two follow-up calls to Rossi and the precinct detectives handling my case yielded polite but completely fruitless conversations.

  Madame continued to spend part of every day at the ICU, reading the newspapers aloud to Enzo. He was still comatose, but his condition was stable, at least. Until he woke up—if he ever did—the doctors wouldn’t be sure of the extent of his stroke damage.

  I met with Valerie Noonan twice (in microbrew bars, her choice) to finalize details for the bake sale. Mike and I managed to meet a few times for dinner, too—Cornish hens with coffee glaze and Cumberland sauce; an outstanding recipe for Triple-Threat Firehouse Penne Mac ’n’ Cheese (that James shared with me); steak with a Jim Beam reduction; and Korean-style fried wings (my first attempt to identify the ingredients and technique behind those delectable Unidentified Flying Chickens).

  As usual, Mike swooned for my cooking, but his undercover operation near the Williamsburg Bridge sapped so much of his time and energy that we failed to connect beyond the dinner table.

  No more spicy-sweet 4 AM wake up calls. In the wee hours before dawn, Mike would come back to the Blend and relieve Matt from his night vigil of global coffee trading. Then Mike would come up to my bedroom, collapse onto the mattress, and by the time he stirred again I was already at work, pulling espressos . . .

  FINALLY, the day of the big bake sale arrived.

  Val had chosen the location and it was perfect—Union Square Park, an island of green space ringed by skyscrapers. The park was three city blocks long and the northern perimeter was frequently used to stage open-air farmers’ markets. That was the real genius of the location. New Yorkers were already used to stopping by the area for food purchases so the turnout was practically guaranteed.

  Early that morning, volunteers from the NYC Fallen Firefighters Fund began setting up their tents and tables. Matt and I spent two hours transporting supplies and erecting our little blue Village Blend stand. Now he was gone—off to catch some sleep since he’d been doing business with Europe and Japan most of the night—while I stayed to man the booth, test our espresso machine, and marshal the troops.

  Behind our portable counter, Dante and Esther began unpacking columns of plastic lids and cardboard cups.

  Then Tucker arrived, waving the New York Post at us like a signal flag. “People, people, did you see this!”

  “See what?” Dante asked.

  Esther and I stared blankly.

  “Oh my gawd!” Tucker was close to apoplectic. “There’s something in this paper you all need to hear!”

  “Lottery numbers?” Esther asked.

  “Listen!” Tucker cleared his throat and his best PSA announcer voice began to read: “Coffee is a drug. Coffee is toxic to the human body. Coffee is a capitalist tool and should be eradicated from the earth—”

  “What is that?” Esther cried.

  She reached for the paper, but Tucker pulled it out of reach. “It’s a letter from the ‘Coffee Shop Arsonist’—according to the headline, that’s what the police are calling this Looney Tune. Last week, this letter was sent directly to the New York Post. Apparently, they just got the okay from the authorities to publish it.”

  “Keep reading, Tucker,” I said quietly.

  “Farmers in developing countries should be growing crops, not coffee. Coffee is a threat, a weapon! But I have a weapon, too, and I will use it. Close your coffeehouses or suffer the consequences—”

  “Toxic?” Esther said. “On what planet? Try reading a Harvard study once in a while, why don’t you? And did he say coffee is a weapon? That’s lunacy. Coffee is the most traded commodity on earth next to oil. And they make napalm out of oil. So you tell me—which one is the weapon?”

  “Blame it on the writer, Esther. I’m just doing a dramatic read of the lines.”

  “You’d expect an actual arsonist to know the difference between a thousand-year-old beverage enjoyed around the world and a combustible fluid used to make firebombs. Isn’t that his job?”

  “All I can tell you is that the arsonist’s ‘job’ has got me goosey. And I’m sure I’m not alone. I signed up for mixing espresso drinks, not fielding Molotov cocktails.”

  Esther shook her head. “Well, I’m not sweating it. This nut job has only burned three coffeehouses. Do you know how many cafés there are in this city? Statistics are on our side.”

  “Listen, Missy!” Tucker snapped his fingers. “When somebody’s out to turn me into a human torch, having the ‘odds on my side’ i
s not a comfort! And in case you’ve forgotten, this firebug already left a warning package in our coffeehouse.”

  “Where’s your dramatic spirit? Think Method. Can’t you see yourself playing Joan of Arc?”

  Tuck went quiet a moment. “I realize you’re joking, Esther, but that’s actually not a bad idea for a black box production—I mean, given that Peter Pan is usually played by an adult woman, I don’t see why I couldn’t do Joan, although . . .” He flipped his signature floppy ’do. “I’d never want to cut my hair that short.”

  “Either way, you’re not in a coffeehouse at the moment,” Esther pointed out. “You’re outdoors. In a park. And you’re surrounded by highly trained members of the New York Fire Department. I really do think you’re safe from a fiery death.”

  Just then a tremendous whooshing sound made Tuck and Esther yelp, and me jump. A wave of hot air wafted toward us and we quickly turned our heads. The stand beside ours had erected a banner: Crème Brûlée! Torched to Order!

  To the enthusiastic applause of a growing group of spectators, two burly firefighters in bunker suits and safety visors proceeded to caramelize the sugar on top of several servings of the classic French egg-custard dessert.

  Neither of these guys was using a kitchen salamander; dainty, handheld chef’s torch; or even a standard oven broiler (an option I gave my Jersey readers when I was writing my In the Kitchen with Clare column). No, these guys were finishing their crème brûlée with an industrial-sized acetylene torch mounted on a wheeled gurney.

  “You’re right, Esther,” Tucker said, staring. “I feel so much safer with a tank of explosive compressed gas next door!”

  “Let’s keep it down, guys,” Dante told Esther and Tucker. “Remember, these firefighters lost one of their own to this psycho bastard.”

  “Oh God, you’re right,” Tuck said, glancing around. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Well, I think this letter is absurd,” Esther muttered, smacking the newspaper. “And probably a hoax, too.”

  Tuck clutched his head like the kid in Home Alone. “A hoax!”

  “Okay, enough,” I said in a stern managerial voice. But I shared Tuck’s apprehension. Blowtorch aside, this development was a bombshell. No wonder Rossi and his colleagues were so tight-lipped with me. If Homeland Security wasn’t on board before, they certainly were now.

  “Let’s get back to work,” I said. “Customers are starting to line up.”

  “Fine with me,” Esther said, then she pointed toward the crème brûlée stand. “You know, I’ve tried making that stuff, but I can never get my custard tops to come out smooth.”

  “Full of pockmarks?” I assumed.

  Esther nodded. “Pothole central.”

  “You didn’t follow the recipe,” I stated flatly. “You upped the temperature.”

  “The lower temperature takes forever!”

  “When you turn up the heat, you boil the custard,” I said. “Cooking is like a lot of things in life, Esther. Rushing the process only gets you burned . . .”

  And speaking of getting burned . . .

  I asked Tuck if I could borrow his New York Post. Then, letting my capable baristas handle the drink orders, I took the paper to a nearby bench and began reading every story I could find on the Coffee Shop Arsonist. Apparently, the Post had received the letter from the alleged bomber the day after Bigsby’s death. The Post’s editors promptly handed it over to the authorities—after copying the text verbatim for today’s edition.

  Prior to the letter appearing, no one had announced anything connecting the three seemingly separate coffeehouse fires: Enzo’s caffè, the shop in Brooklyn that had burned the same night, and this chain store that ended up costing Bigsby’s life.

  Thus far, the only speculation I’d heard was on the chain store’s fire. That particular coffeehouse chain was currently at the center of an ongoing labor dispute over wages and benefits. People assumed the fire was set deliberately by an angry employee.

  But this letter changed everything. Now all three fires looked like terrorism, or at the very least a serial arsonist. Its appearance also wreaked havoc on my own suspect list. While I could imagine Lucia Testa or Mrs. Quadrelli torching Enzo’s shop for their own selfish reasons, I doubted either woman was capable of burning two additional coffeehouses to cover their tracks.

  A gust of morning chill swept suddenly across the park, crinkling the tabloid in my hand and stirring the canvas of our nearby Blend tent. In line at our stand, pedestrians shivered inside their light jackets and sweaters. I shivered, too, thinking of the threat I’d received.

  But what if the letter isn’t real? What if it’s a decoy?

  Even Esther used the word hoax, and the idea stuck with me. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that the pattern of fires made no sense for a political activist. The authorities have to see that, don’t they?

  I glanced up to see our line had gotten even longer. And it appeared there was a problem with the espresso machine. Great.

  Break’s over . . .

  AS the sun climbed higher in the cloudless sky, the weather warmed into a perfect day for an outdoor event. The bake sale was soon packed with customers.

  “Hey, boss,” Esther called after a sudden rush. “The way I’m calculating it, we’re going to run out of cups in another two hours.”

  I glanced at my watch. “Don’t worry. Matt wanted a nap and a shower, but he’ll be back this afternoon with a van full of supplies—”

  My words were drowned out by a sudden cacophony. Pigeons took flight and squirrels escaped into the trees as amplified bagpipes howled from a temporary stage in the middle of Union Square. Over the heads of a hundred off-duty firemen and their families, six men in kilts launched into what would best be described as a unique rendition of the Doors’ “Light My Fire.”

  Tucker moaned, his musical aesthetics clearly assaulted. “I hoped to avoid this.”

  Dante snorted. “Avoid the magnificent sound of the bagpipes? At a fireman’s anything? What planet are you from?”

  “One without men in kilts, apparently,” Tuck replied. “Although they do have good legs.”

  “Look! It’s Roger Clark from New York One!” Esther was so excited by the media presence we could actually hear her voice over the racket. “And there’s the eleven o’clock news team from WPIX. Looks like the Firefighters Fund will get good publicity.”

  “Good publicity is an oxymoron,” Dante said. “Bad news trumps good news in this town.”

  “Huh?”

  “They’re not here for charity. The press came because of Brewer’s death and the arsonist’s letter.” Dante jerked his thumb in the direction of the stage. “See that Asian guy Channel Four is talking to? The dude’s name is Jason Wren. He was the owner of Avenue O Joe, that coffeehouse in Brooklyn. The one that burned the same night as the Queens café where I almost became human kindling.”

  Esther shrugged. “So?”

  “So the Channel Four news team brought him down here specifically so they could interview Wren about the arsonist’s letter, using this fireman’s event for a backdrop. Tragedy is opportunity to the media.” He touched his bandaged head. “They better not stick a mike under my nose and ask for a statement or . . .”

  My barista proceeded to describe a use for a handheld microphone that no sound technician would ever consider—not sober, anyway.

  While the bagpipers segued into a rendition of Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire” (I was catching a theme here), my eyes were drawn to a familiar male strut.

  The cocky guy approaching us wore a sunny yellow hard-hat over his more typical red, white, and blue ’do-rag, and a dusty flannel shirt over his muscular shoulders, but I instantly recognized the distinctive swagger of Sergeant Emmanuel Franco. Under one arm, he toted a number of pastry boxes and his free hand held a large sandwich cookie.

  “I’m still working undercover, Coffee Lady,” Franco warned me as he munched the cookie. “So pretend you don’t know
me.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Franco laughed. “You’re funny.”

  “Yeah, I’m a laugh riot. Well, anyway, stranger, you look pretty stocked up already, but feel free to peruse our baked good offerings . . .”

  I pointed to the table next to our espresso counter. The last few days, I’d been in a lousy mood. Now, amid the sunny sky and cheerful crowds of the charity bake sale, I realized the nicknames I’d given my home-baked treats might have been a little dark.

  “Killer Caramelized Banana Bread?” Franco read, moving down the table. “Murder by Mini-Coffeehouse Cake?”

  Franco glanced back at me. I shrugged.

  “O-kay. What else have we got? Death by Double-Sized Double-Chocolate Chip Cookies. Hey, those look tasty, give me six. Sinful Salt-Peanut Caramel Shortbread Bars. Oh, yeah, sinful’s definitely up my alley, I’ll take a dozen of those . . .”

  He continued down the table and glanced back at me once more. “Chokehold Chocolate Brownies? What are you on, Cosi Lady?”

  In my defense, I’d made a half-dozen normally named things, too: Blueberries ‘n’ Cream Coffee Cake Pies (which were—surprise, surprise—a cross between a cake and a pie); Fresh Glazed Strawberry Tarts; Almond-Roca Scones; Star Fruit Upside-Down Cake; and my old standby Cinnamon-Sugar Doughnut Muffins, with a surprise twist this time, a raspberry-flavored heart. I pointed out the muffins to Franco.

  “We have jelly doughnut muffins.”

  Franco just shook his head. “It’s a mystery what you have against selling me a good, old-fashioned American jelly doughnut!”

  Esther leaned over the counter. “So what are you eating, Bob the Builder?”

  He held up the cookie. “According to the guys I bought it from, it’s a ‘Stuck on You’ Linzer Heart.” Franco winked as he offered her a taste. “Yummy, huh?”

  “Peanut butter and marshmallow. Not bad . . .”

  “Ladder 219 has a thing for Elvis,” Franco said. “All their stuff has the King’s theme: Chocolate Hound Dogs, Love Me Tender Blueberry Corn Muffins, Jailhouse Rocky Road Bars, Big Hunk O’ Burnin’ Fudge. They even dubbed their firehouse ‘Graceland.’”