Roast Mortem

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.

Seventeen

“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!”