Roast Mortem by Cleo Coyle Page A

woman wasn’t sitting, she was frantically pacing next to the sliding glass doors. And when she saw me walking away from Enzo’s station, her expression morphed from impatience to outrage.
    â€œWhat’s this? I was told Enzo was visiting with his daughter. But you’re not Enzo’s daughter!”
    Okay, Clare, come up with something—fast.

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 .
    â€œLet 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—”
    â€œYou’re not Lucia.”
    No kidding. “My name is Clare Cosi and—”
    â€œI don’t understand! The nurse told me Enzo was visiting with his daughter!”
    â€œAnd 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?”
    â€œI told you, my name is Clare—”
    â€œWho are you to Enzo ?”
    â€œA 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.”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œEnzo 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.
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œMe? 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?”
    â€œNo, but if you—”
    â€œHe’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—”
    â€œSorry 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.
    â€œEnzo can’t see you tonight,” I quietly told Mrs. Q.
    â€œAnd why would that be? He saw you, didn’t he?”
    â€œThe doctors just ordered more tests, so no more visitors, not even family—”
    â€œTests!” 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