woman wasnât sitting, she was frantically pacing next to the sliding glass doors. And when she saw me walking away from Enzoâs station, her expression morphed from impatience to outrage.
âWhatâs this? I was told Enzo was visiting with his daughter. But youâre not Enzoâs daughter!â
Okay, Clare, come up with somethingâfast.
NINE
ENZO had described Mrs. Quadrelli as a donna pazzesca , which is why Iâd mentally cast her as a bug-eyed Phyllis Diller with a wild gray âfro and a voice like Alvin the singing chipmunk.
Way off.
Impeccably tailored in a sleek black pantsuit, Enzoâs wannabe love interest was a handsome, slender lady in her midsixties. Her dark hair was cropped short like Luciaâs, 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 .
âLet me introduce myself,â I began, trying to ignore the increasing itch in my nose. Lord , that cologne. She must have just doused herself! âMy name isââ
âYouâre not Lucia.â
No kidding. âMy name is Clare Cosi andââ
âI donât understand! The nurse told me Enzo was visiting with his daughter!â
âAnd she told me his sister was waiting to see him. We both know youâre not his sister.â
The womanâs squinting eyes collapsed another millimeter. âWho are you?â
âI told you, my name is Clareââ
âWho are you to Enzo ?â
âA 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.â
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, âYou people shouldnât have been there at all.â
âExcuse me?â
âEnzo closes early on Thursdays to play bocce. Everyone knows that.â She looked away then, as if a poster on flu prevention were in immediate need of study.
âI donât understand. What does that have to do withââ
She whipped her head back around. âIf not for you and your employer , heâd have been in that park with me. Itâs your fault Enzo is in this hospital.â
I studied the woman. âWhat do you know about the fire, anyway?â
âMe? Nothing! Not a thing!â She threw up her hands. âI wasnât even near Enzoâs 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
âNo, but if youââ
âHeâs 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 canât walk. Or is Pinto a she? I forget. Anyway, Pintoâs vet is that new fellow on Steinway Streetââ
âSorry to interrupt,â I said, beginning to get a clue why Enzo was willing to choose a coma over this conversation, âbut I think we should head downstairs.â
The glass ICU doors slid wide just then, and I noticed Enzoâs pretty nurse glancing curiously our way.
âEnzo canât see you tonight,â I quietly told Mrs. Q.
âAnd why would that be? He saw you, didnât he?â
âThe doctors just ordered more tests, so no more visitors, not even familyââ
âTests!â Mrs. Q snorted. âI know all about doctors and their tests! Maria Tobinski, on Thirty-ninth Avenue, she has a husband whoâs a conductor on the MTA. Works the F
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