Roast Mortem

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?”