Roast Mortem

perfectly pulled shot of espresso crema. But I did know Matt, and his reaction had everything to do with woman’s curvy figure beneath that stylish suit.

“Val’s husband is a firefighter,” I told him with pointed emphasis. And he’ll break your head with his Halligan tool. “He’s also the very same fireman who pulled your mother out of that burning building last night.” So poach elsewhere, please.

Matt instantly dropped Val’s hand. With a weak little smile, he asked her to thank her husband for him then excused himself to “freshen up” in our restroom.

As he sauntered away, I noticed Val considering his well-built back. I shook my head. Matt’s Tabasco-colored tee may have appeared to be an easygoing choice, but I knew he’d purposely selected the tighter size to show off his molded pecs. And while his open denim work shirt looked loose and casual, those sleeves had been rolled with strategic precision, giving full exposure to his tanned, sinewy forearms while tempting the ladies with that first teasing curve of his bulging biceps.

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.