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?”
He held up the cookie. “According to the guys I bought it from, it’s a ‘Stuck on You’ Linzer Heart.” Franco winked as he offered her a taste. “Yummy, huh?”
“Peanut butter and marshmallow. Not bad . . .”
“Ladder 219 has a thing for Elvis,” Franco said. “All their stuff has the King’s theme: Chocolate Hound Dogs, Love Me Tender Blueberry Corn Muffins, Jailhouse Rocky Road Bars, Big Hunk O’ Burnin’ Fudge. They even dubbed their firehouse ‘Graceland.’”
Esther licked some marshmallow off the corner of her darkly glossed lip. “Sticky, but good.”
“I wonder if Joy could bake this?” Franco said.
I was about to inform the sergeant that my daughter’s interest in Fluffernutters ended when she quit the Girl Scouts. But I bit my tongue. I’d learned a thing or two during Joy’s teen years. Better not encourage their relationship by discouraging it.
“So, Coffee Lady, I heard something about a free cuppa joe with a purchase.”
I nodded. “That’s right. And for a purchase that big he deserves a large.”
Esther presented Franco with his coffee—black, no sugar.
“Mmmm, hot stuff,” he said after a sip. “Kind of like that new batch of digital goodies Joy sent me from France.”
When he waggled his eyebrows, I nearly lost it. “Just what kind of photos is my daughter sending you?!”
“Calm down, Momma Hen.” Franco laughed over his coffee cup. “They’re pictures of some of the dishes Joy’s been making. A sweet roasted chicken, some pretty vegetable medleys, a glistening glazed duck, and a very sexy puff pastry.”
“Oh, thank God,” I said, relieved—until I noticed Tucker exchanging a look with Esther.
“Did you know Frenchies eat pigeons?” Franco asked, completely serious.
Esther folded her arms. “You mean squab?”
“Squab? Is that what—” Franco suddenly stopped. He seemed to be listening to something that we couldn’t—like a micro radio receiver