Клео Коул - Roast Mortem

“Why don’t you try calling him again?” I suggested.

“I left two voice mail messages, Clare. He hasn’t bothered to return either. What good will a third one do?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

She studied the table. “I think he’s having an affair.”

I tried to sound surprised. “What makes you say that?”

“I just think so.”

“With whom?”

Val took another hit of hops, lifted her head, and stared hard at me. “Exactly how long have you known my husband?”

“Not long. The night of the Caffè Lucia fire — that’s when we met.”

“He talks about you a lot.”

“Oh?”

“I heard you went to the firehouse, helped the guys with something?”

“Espresso making. I gave them lessons.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And did my husband enjoy it?”

“Excuse me?”

“Forget it...” She glanced away.

“Val, look at me.” I waited until she did. “I am not having an affair with your husband. I am in a very happy relationship at the moment, and I intend to keep it that way.”

“I’m sorry...” Despite Val’s words, her expression remained stony. “It’s just that... like I told you at the bake sale, James has been acting so odd since Bigs died. I mean, I expected grief. Those two guys were really tight. But this is something else. He doesn’t want comfort from me. He’s just snappish and then distant... but mostly so angry...”

A portrait of James came to me then, a quixotic image of the way he’d looked in the park. A gray fog surrounded him, just like the captain, shrouding his energy. His expression was haggard yet his eyes were wary, continually glancing at Oat Crowley... Oat with the wooden matches... Oat with his scowls and insults for me...

What if James Noonan suspects Oat of setting that second fire to cover up the first one at Caffè Lucia? Is that what James meant when he said Bigsby Brewer was murdered? Does James suspect — or even know for a fact — that Oat is responsible?

I cleared my throat. “Val, I think I might know what’s bothering your husband.”

“You do?”

“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!

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 F s, 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?