Coffeehouse 09 - Roast Mortem

by Cleo Coyle

  I scrunched down, staying just high enough to peek over the dashboard. We followed Lucia all the way back to her place again. But she didn’t park this time. As soon as we swung onto her quiet street, she suddenly braked her Corvette. We were still a half block away from her place and Matt slowed the van almost to a stop.

  “What’s she doing?” I whispered.

  Lucia’s rear lights went on, and her Corvette began backing up until it nearly struck the front of our van. The door opened and Lucia climbed out.

  I sank down even farther. “What’s happening? I can’t see!”

  “We’re made, Clare. Lucia figured out I was following her.”

  “Is she angry?”

  “No, the opposite. She’s coming to my side of the car, shaking her finger and grinning.”

  “Grinning! Why is she grinning?”

  “Because she thinks I’m trying to hit on her. She’s got that flirty naughty-boy expression she had on her face with Oat.” Matt smirked. “I guess she likes what she sees.”

  “Can you handle this?”

  “Of course.”

  “Without sleeping with her?”

  “I’ll give it a shot.”

  But Matt didn’t have a chance. As Lucia’s metallic sandals teetered closer to our van, she spotted me. Her face flushed and she immediately shifted direction.

  “Where is she going now?”

  “Your side of the van,” Matt said. “I hope you’re ready for a cat fight.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  MY door was yanked open before Matt finished his sentence. Lucia stood glaring. “What the hell are you doing following me?”

  I sat up. “We know everything, Lucia. You might as well admit it.”

  “Admit what?”

  “You torched your father’s caffè.”

  “You little bitch! Come down here and say that!”

  “My pleasure!”

  “Oh crap,” Matt muttered as I unbuckled my seat belt. I heard his door opening and closing, but I didn’t look back. I jumped right down from the high vehicle, letting my low heeled boots hit the cracked concrete with a satisfying slap.

  I’d forgotten how tall Lucia was. For a moment, those four-inch gladiators made me feel like a mud hen next to a flamingo. But I stood firm, leveling my sights on her heavily lined eyes. I was glad it came to this, relieved to confront her at last.

  “You and Oat Crowley have been seeing each other secretly,” I charged. “You persuaded him to help you set the fire in you father’s caffè. I’m sure neither of you expected anyone to get hurt, but people were hurt. The investigation got so hot that you tried to cover up the arson by setting another fire—”

  “What!”

  “This time you and Oat conspired to set the blaze in a chain coffeehouse—one that’s been targeted in the past by political activists. Then you sent a fake letter to the newspapers in a pathetic effort to mislead the authorities.”

  Lucia stood gaping at me. “You’ve got some imagination.”

  “I’m not going to let you get away with this! You father’s in the hospital, Bigsby Brewer is dead—and someone is going to have to answer for that. So you might as well make it easy on yourself and confess everything to Fire Marshal Rossi. I’m sure he can cut you a deal if you’re willing to testify against the man who set the bombs for you.”

  Lucia’s eyes widened. She didn’t look outraged anymore. Now she looked scared. “You’re crazy!”

  “Oh, yeah? Then what’s in that orange shopping bag?”

  “Shopping bag! What are you talking about?”

  “I’ll show you!” I pushed past her, went right to her car, and jerked open the passenger side door.

  Lucia shouted, waved her hands. “What are you doing?”

  “Proving that you were getting rid of evidence!”

  “Evidence of what?”

  “Of a firebomb!”

  “How?”

  “With this!” I opened the bag, looked inside.

  Matt caught up to me, peered in, too. “Oh, brother.”

  “I promise you, Ms. Cosi, no one is making a firebomb out of that!”

  Inside the bag was a smaller bag: silver with pink stripes, the name of an upscale lingerie store splashed across in script. Oat had just given Lucia a white silk-and-lace teddy, white stockings, and two garter belts—clearly a gift that would keep on giving, especially for his next booty call. The fast-food bag had been some kind of foil, probably a way to hide the gift from the guys at the firehouse.

  Lucia glared down at me. “What makes you think I’d want to set fire to my father’s caffè?”

  “Your own father told me that you want nothing to do with it.”

  “I don’t. I’m sorry my father was hurt in that fire—truly sorry. But I don’t care a fig about the caffè going up.”

  “How can you say that! Your father worked his entire lifetime in that caffè. And his wall mural was astonishing!”

  “Shows what you know. It was worthless.”

  “Worthless!”

  I couldn’t hold back any longer. I launched myself at the woman, ready to shake some sense into her, but a pair of strong arms hooked my waist and yanked me backward.

  “Let me go, Matt!”

  “Calm down! Both of you!”

  Lucia pointed. “Tell her to calm down!”

  “How can you say that your father’s art was worthless?”

  “It’s not me who said it! I called up an art critic, had the guy come down and check it out. He said it was executed well enough, but he didn’t see anything unique about it.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “I don’t know! Five, six years.”

  “Your father has worked on it since then, Lucia. The new sections were groundbreaking! Don’t you have any sense of aesthetics, any appreciation for his use of line, of color!”

  “No!”

  “No?”

  “No!” Lucia shouted. “I’m color-blind!”

  I stopped struggling. “What?”

  Matt released me. He looked surprised, too. In the awkward silence that followed, Lucia expelled a long, weary breath. All of her fight appeared to go with it.

  “My father wanted me to be a painter, Ms. Cosi, an artist like he was.” She closed her eyes. “I tried. I did. I took the damn classes for him: beginning painting, still life, figure drawing, anatomy—I sucked at it all!”

  She threw up her hands. “After that, nothing could make me care about swirls on a wall. Nothing. Finally, my father accepted that I wasn’t going to be the next Mary Cassatt, but then he started pushing me to try all these other things: dancing, singing, acting. I had no talent for any of it. I just didn’t care about that crap! I still don’t!”

  I exchanged a glance with Matt. This interview wasn’t going at all the way I’d imagined. On the other hand, the woman’s answers weren’t exactly exculpatory.

  “Lucia, what you’ve just said makes you look even more guilty. Like you had a grudge against your father and the caffè . . .”

  “You still don’t understand! I’m glad the caffè went up in flames because my father hasn’t been happy there—not for years, not since my mother died. If it weren’t for his obsessive work on that stupid mural, he would have retired, gone back to Italy to be with his sisters. He could have found some peace instead of lying in that hospital bed. God knows if he’ll ever wake up again.”

  The woman’s eyes were glistening now, tears spilling down her cheeks. Her charcoal liner began to run. I glanced at Matt again. He stepped up to offer her a handkerchief.

  “Thanks.”

  Lucia sniffled. As she wiped her eyes, her makeup smudged. She looked like a sad raccoon, and I felt like a heel. Still, I had to ask . . .

  “How am I supposed to believe anything you say? You lied about Glenn, didn’t you? You claimed you were engaged to him.”

  “Glenn and I are engaged.”

  “Then why are you sleeping with Oat?”

  �
��Not that it’s any of your business, but Glenn hasn’t given me a ring yet. He keeps saying he wants to find the right one, but I think he’s stalling . . . not so sure about me yet.”

  Lucia shook her head, glanced in the direction of the firehouse. “Oat and I were hot and heavy once. When he started hanging around Dad’s caffè again, I decided to have a little fun with him, a last little fling. I needed a break from the hospital today, and Oat’s the kind of guy who can make a girl forget her troubles . . .”

  “So you have no interest in Oat? You’re just leading him on?”

  “Oat doesn’t want to get married.” She waved her French tips. “He’s a confirmed bachelor, just like his captain. He knows I’m just playing around, waiting for my stupid boyfriend to get off his ass and marry me. I’m actually hoping Glenn will get wind of what’s going on. Nothing like a little jealousy to get a man off his behind and make him commit.”

  A match made in heaven. “Here.” I handed the bag back to her. “If you didn’t set the fire, then who do you think did?”

  “Some nut obviously. Haven’t you read the papers?”

  Matt tugged my arm. “Let’s go, Clare.”

  “Wait,” I said. “One more thing, Lucia.”

  “What?”

  “The arsonist threatened to burn down my coffeehouse. An unmarked package was left for me with a box of wooden matches inside.”

  I closely watched Lucia’s reaction. Her raccoon eyes widened; her glossed lips parted. She looked genuinely surprised.

  “I don’t know whether you’re telling me the truth or not,” I said. “But I want you to know: I’m going to get this arsonist. I’m going to nail him—or her—right to the wall.”

  “I hope you do, Ms. Cosi,” she said. “As long as you leave me alone and stay out of my business. Or I’ll nail you to the wall with real nails.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah!”

  Matt tugged my arm again, harder this time. “Let’s go, Clare.”

  As he pulled me away, Lucia returned to her Corvette and slammed the door. I watched her drive away, then I faced my ex.

  “I’m not giving up.”

  I half expected a lecture or at the very least a smirk. Instead, Matt put his hands on my shoulders and said—

  “I know you won’t.”

  The guy always did come through when I least expected it.

  TWENTY-NINE

  HOURS later, the bake sale over, the Village Blend kiosk packed up and put away, I found myself back in Queens, sitting across from Val Noonan in the shamrock green booth of Saints and Sinners.

  The Irish pub had all the traditional trappings: darkly paneled walls, a long bar, authentic Gallic hops on tap, and shiny brass fittings everywhere you looked. (I would have given half my New York lottery winnings for a doppio espresso—if I had lottery winnings—but the only coffee this pub served was Irish, so I’d ordered up a Harp.)

  Val, who preferred a darker brew, was now nursing a pint of Guinness, eyes riveted on the front door, while I finished up my cell phone conversation.

  “Say that again? You’re going to be late because of . . . ?”

  “A pizza delivery,” Mike replied. “We got a last-minute tip. A delivery is scheduled for tonight. The stuff’s coming in a pizza-delivery car, but it’s not pizza. You follow me, sweetheart?”

  “I do.”

  I was happy for Mike. I was. Sergeant Franco had ferreted out a solid lead in their current case. A pizza car was the method of delivering the buffet of club drugs to key players on the construction site—at least Mike thought so. His squad still had to prove it.

  “I’m sorry, Clare. I wanted to be there with you tonight, but this is the break we’ve been waiting for . . .”

  I heard the regret in Mike’s tone, followed by the barely suppressed excitement. I didn’t mind. I knew how he felt—and in more ways than one.

  My confrontation with Lucia left me feeling like Don Quixote again, although I wasn’t kicking myself for charging a pair of stiletto heels instead of a fire-breathing beast because I’d seen Mike make the same kind of run. He and his squad would spend days, even weeks, racing after some lead only to find their well-meaning lances lodged in a windmill.

  “So I won’t be seeing you at all tonight?” I said, banishing any timber of disappointment.

  “If this turns out to be bogus, I’ll be there in an hour or two. But if we make an arrest—”

  “I won’t see you until morning, I know. Okay, well . . . good luck, Mike. I hope you nail them . . .” I cringed, remembering Lucia’s threat to use actual nails on me. Time for a new go-to catch phrase.

  “I’ll miss you,” I added, “but I understand.”

  “Thanks, Clare.” Mike paused. “You know how much I appreciate what you just said, right?”

  “I know . . .”

  The man’s ex-wife never would have been so understanding (that’s what he meant). Every time Mike had to cancel, delay, or let me down because of his job, I always heard the same tension in his voice, as if he were bracing for a Leila-like tongue lashing. But he never got one. Not from me. I wasn’t Leila.

  “Be careful, okay?” I whispered.

  “I always am.”

  I sighed as I hung up, not because I was left dateless for this post-bake sale shindig. I’d hoped Mike’s skills would help me loosen up James Noonan, get him to explain what he’d meant earlier today when he’d declared Bigsby Brewer was murdered. Now it was up to me alone—if James ever showed.

  I glanced around the pub. The place was jammed with firemen and their wives or significant others. I’d already said my hellos to everyone I knew. Many of the faces still packing the place included guys from Michael Quinn’s house: Manny Ortiz and the flirtatious Mr. Elfante. The veteran of the company, Ed Schott, was here, too . . . but no James, no Oat. Not even Captain Michael had shown—although for that I was profoundly relieved.

  In the corner, an acoustic band played: singer, fiddle, frame drum, tin whistle. The scent of beer saturated the air, the cacophony of laughter and lyrics making it hard to concentrate, which was, of course, the point.

  This isn’t the time for thinking, Clare. This is the time for drinking . . . (Matt’s words from years ago . . .)

  We were young then, having a night out downtown, but I couldn’t relax. I was too worried about our daughter, our bills, our books, our marriage. Matt couldn’t stand that about me, and I’d spent half my life feeling bad about my nature, trying to pretend my mind wasn’t working. But that time was good and over: The beverage I pushed was sobering, and I preferred to think . . .

  I still suspected Oat Crowley of something here. And the more I considered it, the more I decided I wasn’t totally off base with targeting Lucia as the center of the arson spree.

  Oh, I believed her claim today—that she was innocent. What I didn’t believe was that Oat was a confirmed bachelor. I’d seen the way he looked at her, the way he touched her. And his intimate gift of lingerie looked more romantic than risqué: He’d chosen white, hadn’t he? Bridal white.

  If Mike was sitting across from me instead of Val, he’d probably ask me for a theory on motive. Well . . .

  What if Oat wants Lucia for his own, but the young car mechanic Glenn Duffy stands in the way?

  Maybe Oat was trying to do Lucia a favor—without her knowledge. Fire was his business, wasn’t it? Burning down the caffè would force Lucia’s father to retire and return to Italy, leaving Lucia free. And wouldn’t a shocking event like a fire make Lucia see how much she needed a man in her life, a real man (as Enzo had referred to Oat) and not a boy like Glenn?

  Getting Enzo out of the way—one way or another—already appeared to be working in Oat’s favor. Lucia was clearly distressed today, but she hadn’t sought out Glenn for comfort, she’d sought out Oat . . .

  “What’s up?” Val asked when she saw me spacing out. “You okay?”

  “Sorry, yeah . . . Looks like I’m on my own.”

 
“You and me both, sister.” Val tapped her watch. “James was supposed to be here an hour ago.” She pulled an even longer face and drank deeply. Then she put down her Guinness and clawed inside her bag for a pack of cigarettes.

  “Are you going outside?” I asked. Given my position, I knew chapter and verse of the no-smoking codes of New York’s Health Department.

  Val closed her eyes, shoved away the pack. “I forgot. I’ll go out back later . . .”

  I nodded, sipped my Harp, and heard a sudden eruption of voices—

  “Hey! There he is!”

  “How ya, doin’, Cap?”

  “Glad you came!”

  “Let me buy you one . . .”

  The commotion was behind me, near the front door. I turned in the booth but couldn’t see—too many giant male bodies.

  “What’s going on?” I asked Val.

  “Michael Quinn is here . . .”

  Crap. “Where is he exactly? Can you see?”

  She silently tilted her chin. The man was striding past our booth that moment, a crowd of men around him. I couldn’t see the guy, but I could almost feel his energy as he passed.

  “I’m surprised he came . . .” Val said.

  So was I. And I wasn’t happy about it. My gaze tracked the mob across the room to the far end of the long bar. A few guys made way so Michael could have a stool. The men shook his hand, pounded his back. The bartender began to pour.

  He wore jeans and a knobby fisherman’s sweater, both black; mourning black, I realized. Behind his flame red handlebar, his complexion looked colorless. A charcoal grayness seemed to surround him now, like the creeping smoke that hissed off the caffè blaze as the engine company doused the life out of the roaring fire.

  Michael abruptly glanced up from the bar. I didn’t expect it. His eyes locked onto mine. He was surprised to see me here, too. I broke the connection, focused back on Val.

  “He looks worn down,” I said. “Worse than the last time I saw him.”

  “When was that?” she asked.

  “At Bigsby Brewer’s funeral. He’s taking Bigs’s death hard, isn’t he? As hard as James . . .”

  Val took a long sip of her dark beer. As she set the glass back down, her hand appeared to be shaking. The Irish band finished its set, and the pub suddenly got quieter, loud voices falling to murmurs and laughter becoming muted. I leaned into the table to hear Valerie’s next words—