Roast Mortem by Cleo Coyle Page B

train—anyway, Maria went to her gynecologist for a routine checkup and they found—”
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œDon’t do that!”
    â€œWhy not?”
    Why not? “Because, well . . . it’s a secret .” I motioned her closer. “I didn’t want to say anything, but . . .”
    â€œWhat? What?”
    The woman’s entire body came awake. Her head cocked, even her pupils dilated. A gossip addict, for sure.
    â€œThe truth is,” I continued, snaking my arm around hers, “it’s not pretty. Are you sure you want to hear?”
    â€œWhat? Tell me!”
    â€œEnzo is in trouble,” I whispered, guiding her away from the ICU doors, down the hallway, toward the elevators.
    â€œWhat kind of trouble?”
    â€œOfficials are investigating whether or not the fire was deliberately set.” Not a lie!
    Mrs. Quadrelli looked sufficiently horrified. “What makes them think that?”
    â€œI don’t know. But Enzo will be their prime suspect.”
    â€œWhy!”
    â€œBecause 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.”
    â€œThat’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?”
    â€œNone. Not before the fire, at least. Now things have changed though, haven’t they? I mean, with the caffè up in smoke.”
    â€œI see. So you think he’ll bank the insurance money and finally retire to Italy?”
    â€œI 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 .
    â€œDon’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—”
    â€œYou’re divorced?”
    â€œBite 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.”
    â€œYou don’t sound very broken up about the fire.”
    â€œAfter 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.
    â€œNow, Mrs. Quadrelli,” I managed through gritted teeth, “why would you say such a thing?”
    â€œThe man