Roast Mortem

“He mentioned something to me at the bake sale. Something that’s weighing on his mind. I’d like to talk to him about it. I’d like your help with that. Maybe if we can get him to open up — ”

“Ladies! Good evening! How are you doing?”

The overly cheerful greeting was jarring, like a rodeo clown skidding into a morgue. I looked up to find a man standing there — shaggy wheat-colored hair, small round glasses.

“Hello,” Val said, obviously forcing her replying smile.

“Just doing the usual rounds,” the man told Val. “Two boroughs down, three to go...”

She shook the newcomer’s hand. “Glad you could make it, Ryan.”

Ryan — that’s right, Ryan Lane.

I remembered the man now. He served on the board of the Fallen Firefighters Fund, the charity benefiting from today’s bake sale.

Lane’s camel hair jacket was gone this evening. His simple white dress shirt and sweater vest made him seem more relaxed. He still had those slightly goggle eyes beneath the glasses and ears that were too large for his head, but his wide, lopsided grin appeared to lacquer over his uneven features with a boyish charm. I’d noticed the same effect in the park today when he’d been talking with Oat Crowley. My body stiffened as I realized —

Oat! This man knows Oat!

Thirty

My mind racing, I vaguely registered Ryan Lane introducing the unsmiling man at his left.

“This is the battalion chief for the entire borough of Queens, Donald O’Shea.”

“Good evening, ladies,” the chief said, voice gruff, an impatient hand jingling change in his pocket.

O’Shea sported a salt-and-pepper flattop and an expression that appeared equally flat. His outfit reminded me of Fire Marshal Rossi’s — pressed dark slacks, nylon jacket, and what looked like a white uniform shirt beneath — which meant he’d just come off duty or was just going on.

Val and I greeted him, and he immediately excused himself. “Some business,” he said to Ryan and moved off.

Ryan then gestured to the woman at his right. “And this is my lovely boss, Mrs. Josephine Fairfield. Valerie, you know Josie.”

Josie? Now why did that name sound familiar? She was tall and well formed with elegant almond eyes and a long, patrician nose sloped to a wide mouth of glossed cranberry. I’d seen her before. I was sure of it. Is she a Blend customer?

Her outfit carried that conflict of classes not uncommon among Manhattan’s urban wealthy. The denims appeared stressed and worn, but the sweater was cashmere; her matching scarf — the dazzling color of a dragon fruit cactus — was patterned with front-and-backward Fs, trumpeting the House of Fen; and her shoulder bag of polished black leather was a cool thousand if it was a penny.

“Good job overall, Valerie,” Mrs. Fairfield said, her words clipped. “But the mayor had to wait fifteen minutes for the sound system to come online. What was that about?”

Val tensed. I felt for her. Over the years, I’d waited on thousands of Mrs. Fairfields, their auras vibrating like crashing cymbals as they worked overtime to advertise how very important they were. Valerie answered the woman with the same tone of pained patience I used on this perpetually displeased Clan of Narcissus.

“The city provided the public address equipment, Mrs. Fairfield. Once I realized the problem, I called my close friend Dean Tassos — he owns the Mirage clubs? Anyway, Dean drove portable equipment all the way from Brooklyn to help us out and that took time.”

“Well, next time you should test the system out first, don’t you think?”

Val’s fingers tightened around her dark pint. “I assure you, we did test it first. Why don’t you — ”

“Josie,” Ryan Lane firmly interrupted, “I’m sure we want to congratulate Valerie, too, don’t we?”

I had to give it to Lane. He was one good executive. He’d defused Oat the very same way when the guy had been rude to me.

“All of the numbers aren’t in yet,” said Ryan, “but I can already tell, we had a record take with the bake sale this year.”

“It must have been the coffee,” Val said.

Ryan nodded. “It was outstanding, wasn’t it?”

Val pointed across the booth. “Thanks to Clare.”

Ryan looked confused for a second. “Oh, yes! You’re the coffee lady. Sorry, I’ve met so many new people today...”

He extended his hand. I shook it.

“No problem,” I said. “I’m glad it all worked out.”

“Did it ever. You know — ”

“I’m moving on, Ryan,” Mrs. Fairfield announced. She turned and headed straight for the end of the bar where Michael Quinn was perched — and that’s when it hit me.

I had seen Josephine Fairfield before, just not in the flesh. She was the mystery woman in those firehouse picnic photos, the ones taped to the door in Michael Quinn’s company kitchen.

Mrs. Fairfield was older now, of course, her figure fuller, her free-flowing hair bobbed like a Jazz Age flapper’s, but she was just as attractive as her younger self. I could still see her frozen in time with Michael’s arm around her. Of course, she hadn’t been dressed in designer duds in those old picnic photos, just a simple white cotton sundress. But I remembered Michael’s expression — a different man, so buoyant, so carefree...

“I’m sorry about Josie.” Ryan’s voice was low. He had leaned down close to us. “She’s easy to misunderstand.”

Val shot me a look: The woman is a be-yotch. How hard is that to understand?

Ryan straightened. “Anyway, it was good seeing you ladies. Have a nice — ”

“Wait!” I lunged for the man’s sleeve. “Don’t go!”

Ryan was taken aback, but I couldn’t let him escape. I needed to question him about Oat!

“Won’t you join us, Mr. Lane? For one beer, at least?”

“Uh...” Ryan looked worried as he glanced back toward his boss. I didn’t blame him: given the level of drinking going on in this working man’s bar, if Josie Fairfield treated anyone else like she’d just treated Val, she’d be getting a black shiner to go with that shiny black handbag.

“One drink,” he said.

“Great!” I scooted over.

He pointed to our glasses. “But you two need a refill. Allow me — what are you drinking?”

“Let me,” Val said. “I have a tab open already. Do you drink beer?”

“Sure do. I’ll have what Ms. Cosi’s having. Harp, right?”

I nodded. Val got up, and Ryan sat down across from me, fiddled with his cuffs. “Your coffee is quite good, Ms. Cosi, exceptional. Who’s your roaster?”

“You’re looking at her.”

“Is that so?” He considered me with new interest. “I’d enjoy seeing your facilities one day.”

“Come by anytime. I do small-batch roasting in our basement.”

“You know, I fell in love with coffee years ago... on a trip to Nicaragua.”

“Oh? I’d really enjoy hearing about it.”

Okay, so I wouldn’t, but as Mike often said (in a piece of advice that sounded almost culinary), grilling an informant met with much more success if you tenderized him first. So while I half listened to Ryan, I turned my peripheral eye to his boss.