spend days, even weeks, racing after some lead only to find their well-meaning lances lodged in a windmill.
“So I won’t be seeing you at all tonight?” I said, banishing any timber of disappointment.
“If this turns out to be bogus, I’ll be there in an hour or two. But if we make an arrest—”
“I won’t see you until morning, I know. Okay, well . . . good luck, Mike. I hope you nail them . . .” I cringed, remembering Lucia’s threat to use actual nails on me. Time for a new go-to catch phrase.
“I’ll miss you,” I added, “but I understand.”
“Thanks, Clare.” Mike paused. “You know how much I appreciate what you just said, right?”
“I know . . .”
The man’s ex-wife never would have been so understanding (that’s what he meant). Every time Mike had to cancel, delay, or let me down because of his job, I always heard the same tension in his voice, as if he were bracing for a Leila-like tongue lashing. But he never got one. Not from me. I wasn’t Leila.
“Be careful, okay?” I whispered.
“I always am.”
I sighed as I hung up, not because I was left dateless for this post-bake sale shindig. I’d hoped Mike’s skills would help me loosen up James Noonan, get him to explain what he’d meant earlier today when he’d declared Bigsby Brewer was murdered. Now it was up to me alone—if James ever showed.
I glanced around the pub. The place was jammed with firemen and their wives or significant others. I’d already said my hellos to everyone I knew. Many of the faces still packing the place included guys from Michael Quinn’s house: Manny Ortiz and the flirtatious Mr. Elfante. The veteran of the company, Ed Schott, was here, too . . . but no James, no Oat. Not even Captain Michael had shown—although for that I was profoundly relieved.
In the corner, an acoustic band played: singer, fiddle, frame drum, tin whistle. The scent of beer saturated the air, the cacophony of laughter and lyrics making it hard to concentrate, which was, of course, the point.
This isn’t the time for thinking, Clare. This is the time for drinking . . . (Matt’s words from years ago . . .)
We were young then, having a night out downtown, but I couldn’t relax. I was too worried about our daughter, our bills, our books, our marriage. Matt couldn’t stand that about me, and I’d spent half my life feeling bad about my nature, trying to pretend my mind wasn’t working. But that time was good and over: The beverage I pushed was sobering, and I preferred to think . . .
I still suspected Oat Crowley of something here. And the more I considered it, the more I decided I wasn’t totally off base with targeting Lucia as the center of the arson spree.
Oh, I believed her claim today—that she was innocent. What I didn’t believe was that Oat was a confirmed bachelor. I’d seen the way he looked at her, the way he touched her. And his intimate gift of lingerie looked more romantic than risqué: He’d chosen white, hadn’t he? Bridal white.
If Mike was sitting across from me instead of Val, he’d probably ask me for a theory on motive. Well . . .
What if Oat wants Lucia for his own, but the young car mechanic Glenn Duffy stands in the way?
Maybe Oat was trying to do Lucia a favor—without her knowledge. Fire was his business, wasn’t it? Burning down the caffè would force Lucia’s father to retire and return to Italy, leaving Lucia free. And wouldn’t a shocking event like a fire make Lucia see how much she needed a man in her life, a real man (as Enzo had referred to Oat) and not a boy like Glenn?
Getting Enzo out of the way—one way or another—already appeared to be working in Oat’s favor. Lucia was clearly distressed today, but she hadn’t sought out Glenn for comfort, she’d sought out Oat . . .
“What’s up?” Val asked when she saw me spacing out. “You okay?”
“Sorry, yeah . . . Looks like I’m on my own.”
“You and me both, sister.” Val tapped her watch. “James was supposed to be here an hour ago.” She pulled an even longer face and drank deeply. Then she put down her Guinness and clawed inside her bag for a pack of cigarettes.
“Are you going outside?” I asked. Given my position, I knew chapter and verse of the no-smoking codes of New York’s Health Department.