Roast Mortem by Cleo Coyle

gone, I see with my own eyes: Lucia is not like her mother . . .”
    â€œYou don’t think Lucia will rebuild the caffè?”
    â€œShe talks about marrying Glenn.”
    The tone was disdainful. “What’s the matter with Glenn? You don’t approve?”
    â€œWhat’s to approve? Lucia is a grown woman. She can make up her own mind about her life, about this . . . this boy . . . ”
    â€œA boy? Not a man?”
    â€œYou saw how she treats him?”
    I nodded.
    â€œWhy do you think he puts up with it? He is still a boy. Lucia says they’re engaged. Eh. She won’t go through with it.”
    â€œBecause?”
    â€œBecause there is a man from my daughter’s past who still comes sniffing around . . . a real man, a grown one. Lucia has a special smile for this one. Glenn doesn’t know it, but she does. Love is a game to my daughter . . . she is not like her mother . . . to Lucia men are playthings . . .”
    â€œAnd who is this man? The one from her past who still comes around to play with her?”
    Enzo shrugged once more. “You don’t know him . . .” He looked away again, into space.
    â€œGlenn rebuilds cars, right?” I prodded, trying to keep the man focused. “With his skills, maybe he can help Lucia rebuild the caffe.”
    â€œGlenn Duffy is a mechanic , not a carpenter. He has no interest in running a caffè . . .” Enzo paused to cough. “I’ve heard him talk. He wants to open his own car shop in North Jersey, where he has family.”
    â€œIt takes money to start your own business,” I said. And I was willing to bet ten kilos of Kona Peaberry that a competent car mechanic would possess enough skill to rig a basic incendiary device with a timer.
    â€œEnzo, where do you think Glenn Duffy is going to get the money to—”
    â€œExcuse me.” The RN appeared again, a tall, slender woman of East Indian heritage. “How are you feeling?” she asked Enzo, her voice a sweet singsong.
    Taking in the nurse’s dark, cat-shaped eyes and flawless dusky-skinned face, Enzo immediately perked up. “I died and went to heaven, that’s how I feel. Only this can explain the angel I see before me.”
    The nurse laughed. “You’re still here on Earth, I’m glad to say, Mr. Testa.”
    â€œYou call me Enzo, okay? No more of that Mr. Testa stuff. Mr. Testa was my father.”
    She arched a pretty eyebrow then turned to face me. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wrap up your visit. Mr. Testa has another family member waiting. As soon as you come out, I’ll show his sister in . . .”
    â€œSister?” Enzo and I blurted out at the same time.
    â€œYes, Mr. Testa, your sister Mrs. Rita Quadrelli.”
    As the nurse turned and strode away, Enzo’s eyes widened in obvious panic. “Clare! A favor, please ! I beg you.”
    I already guessed.
    â€œThe widow Quadrelli is not my sister. She must have fibbed like you to get in here—”
    â€œAnd you don’t want to see her?”
    â€œWhen God made that woman, he left out the quiet! Five minutes with her babbling in my ear, and I’ll be pulling these tubes out to get away, even if it means certain death!”
    I considered going to the nurse, but that had the potential to turn ugly, especially if Mrs. Quadrelli were confronted. After all, how could I accuse her of not being his sister when I wasn’t his daughter?
    â€œI’d better deal with Mrs. Quadrelli directly,” I said. “What do you want me to tell her?”
    â€œTell her I’m sleeping. Tell her I’m drugged. Tell her I’m in a coma!”
    I touched his shoulder. “I’ll think of something. And I’ll keep checking in with your nurse to see how you’re doing.”
    Moments later, I spotted Mrs. Quadrelli just outside the critical-care unit. She was waiting in a small seating area, but the