Roast Mortem

Nine

Enzo had described Mrs. Quadrelli as a donna pazzesca, which is why I’d mentally cast her as a bug-eyed Phyllis Diller with a wild gray ’fro and a voice like Alvin the singing chipmunk.

Way off.

Impeccably tailored in a sleek black pantsuit, Enzo’s wannabe love interest was a handsome, slender lady in her midsixties. Her dark hair was cropped short like Lucia’s, dead straight, and shiny as a beetle shell with enough shimmering red highlights to have been recently salon-glossed. A cloying cloud of flowery cologne floated around her. Like Lucia, she sported plenty of gold jewelry, which jangled with every fidget, and although she appeared upset to see me, she was far from what I would have described as a crazy woman.

“Let me introduce myself,” I began, trying to ignore the increasing itch in my nose. Lord, that cologne. She must have just doused herself! “My name is — ”

“You’re not Lucia.”

No kidding. “My name is Clare Cosi and — ”

“I don’t understand! The nurse told me Enzo was visiting with his daughter!”

“And she told me his sister was waiting to see him. We both know you’re not his sister.”

The woman’s squinting eyes collapsed another millimeter. “Who are you?”

“I told you, my name is Clare — ”

“Who are you to Enzo?”

“A friend in the coffee business. I went by his place this evening with my employer to look over an antique roaster. We were all caught in the fire.”

Mrs. Quadrelli fell silent. Her red lipstick was so boldly applied that when she twisted her mouth into a scowl, I flashed on my years taking Joy to the Big Apple Circus.

Finally she said, “You people shouldn’t have been there at all.”

“Excuse me?”

“Enzo closes early on Thursdays to play bocce. Everyone knows that.” She looked away then, as if a poster on flu prevention were in immediate need of study.

“I don’t understand. What does that have to do with — ”

She whipped her head back around. “If not for you and your employer, he’d have been in that park with me. It’s your fault Enzo is in this hospital.”

I studied the woman. “What do you know about the fire, anyway?”

“Me? Nothing! Not a thing!” She threw up her hands. “I wasn’t even near Enzo’s caffè. It was Mrs. Mercer who told me about it. Mary saw the whole thing, and she came to the park with her dog, Pinto. Little Pinto is famous in the neighborhood. Do you know about him?”

“No, but if you — ”

“He’s the dog who rides around in the red wagon. Pinto was featured in the Daily News last year. He has cerebral palsy or something and can’t walk. Or is Pinto a she? I forget. Anyway, Pinto’s vet is that new fellow on Steinway Street — ”

“Sorry to interrupt,” I said, beginning to get a clue why Enzo was willing to choose a coma over this conversation, “but I think we should head downstairs.”

The glass ICU doors slid wide just then, and I noticed Enzo’s pretty nurse glancing curiously our way.

“Enzo can’t see you tonight,” I quietly told Mrs. Q.

“And why would that be? He saw you, didn’t he?”

“The doctors just ordered more tests, so no more visitors, not even family — ”

“Tests!” Mrs. Q snorted. “I know all about doctors and their tests! Maria Tobinski, on Thirty-ninth Avenue, she has a husband who’s a conductor on the MTA. Works the F train — anyway, Maria went to her gynecologist for a routine checkup and they found — ”

“You know what?” I said, cutting her off before I heard every private detail about poor Maria Tobinski’s medical history. “Let’s you and I go downstairs together — ”

I was forming the plan as I said the words. Mrs. Q appeared to know every little happening in Enzo’s neighborhood, and Mike’s stories of his fieldwork hadn’t been lost on me. A source like this one was too good to pass up.

“I need coffee,” I said. “Let me buy you a cup...” (I had no idea where I’d get one at this late hour, but this was a hospital; they had to have at least four things: doctors, nurses, stethoscopes, and java juice.)

Mrs. Quadrelli frowned at my offer. “Maybe I should double-check with the nurse.”

“Don’t do that!”

“Why not?”

Why not? “Because, well... it’s a secret.” I motioned her closer. “I didn’t want to say anything, but...”

“What? What?”

The woman’s entire body came awake. Her head cocked, even her pupils dilated. A gossip addict, for sure.

“The truth is,” I continued, snaking my arm around hers, “it’s not pretty. Are you sure you want to hear?”

“What? Tell me!”

“Enzo is in trouble,” I whispered, guiding her away from the ICU doors, down the hallway, toward the elevators.

“What kind of trouble?”

“Officials are investigating whether or not the fire was deliberately set.” Not a lie!

Mrs. Quadrelli looked sufficiently horrified. “What makes them think that?”

“I don’t know. But Enzo will be their prime suspect.”

“Why!”

“Because he’s the owner, of course, and the beneficiary of the fire insurance payoff. Did you know he was planning to move back to Italy? It sounds incriminating.”

“That’s just talk! His daughter will tell you. He’s been saying that for years, but he never goes through with it!”

We actually made it to the elevators. I pushed the down button. “So you’re saying Enzo had no concrete plans to leave the country?”

“None. Not before the fire, at least. Now things have changed though, haven’t they? I mean, with the caffè up in smoke.”

“I see. So you think he’ll bank the insurance money and finally retire to Italy?”

“I certainly hope so because I intend to go with him.”

I gaped at her. “You plan to move to Italy? With Enzo?” This has to be news to him.

“Don’t look so surprised, Miss Cosi, my husband was born in Italy, so I’ve been there quite a few times already. I just wish it had been more. For years, you see, we ran a restaurant together on Thirtieth Avenue — ”

“You’re divorced?”

“Bite your tongue! I’m a widow. The restaurant business killed my husband! Put him into an early grave... But that’s behind me now. And the fire can be behind Enzo soon, too.”

She exhaled, gaze turning glassy. “It’s been years since I’ve toured Italy, but it is a beautiful place, and I know I’d love to retire there. Enzo and I could set up a very nice little home near his two sisters.”

“You don’t sound very broken up about the fire.”

“After Enzo gets out of this wretched place and we’re all settled in Italy, he’ll see it’s really a good thing his business went up in flames...”

I blinked, recalling the masterpiece of a mural the man had spent half a lifetime creating — not to mention his spotless floor, polished tables, meticulously maintained espresso machine — and wanted to punch this donna pazzesca right in the nose.

“Now, Mrs. Quadrelli,” I managed through gritted teeth, “why would you say such a thing?”

“The man is over seventy! He should retire already, enjoy his life, not spend every waking hour making silly coffee drinks!”

Bing! Bing! I had two words for this woman: “Elevator’s here!” Those weren’t it.

Four endless stories of pointless babble later, we reached the hospital’s ground floor.

“Come with me to the waiting room,” I said, deciding something that very second. “I’ll get us coffee and you can talk to the police officer.”

“Police officer!”

“Shhhh...”

“What’s a police officer doing here?”

“That’s what I was trying to tell you. I went up to warn Enzo that the officials were looking into the fire being suspicious, so he shouldn’t say anything to incriminate himself.”

“Oh! I see!”

“And you can help, too.”

“How?”

“Well, to start with, you can back me up when I tell this officer that Enzo can’t see any more visitors this evening.”

Mrs. Quadrelli’s head bobbed like an eager parrot. Inside of ten minutes, I’d transformed the woman from suspicious shrew to co-conspirator. Even Mike would be impressed, of that I was certain — what I wasn’t so certain about was his reaction to the way I was about to use him.