Roast Mortem

“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