Roast Mortem (11 page)

“Sister?” Enzo and I blurted out at the same time.

“Yes, 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.”

“The widow Quadrelli is not my sister. She must have fibbed like you to get in here—”

“And you don't want to see her?”

“When 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?

“I'd better deal with Mrs. Quadrelli directly,” I said. “What do you want me to tell her?”

“Tell 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 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.

“What's this? I was told Enzo was visiting with his daughter. But you're not Enzo's daughter!”

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.

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.

“EXCUSE
me,
Officer
?”

Amused blue eyes peeked over newsprint.

I never called Mike
officer.
I sometimes addressed him as detective in a teasing way, which was why I wasn't surprised to see the beginnings of a smile behind the man's
New York Times
.

“This is Mrs. Quadrelli,” I quickly added in serious staccato. “I brought her down from the ICU to verify that Enzo is not available for an official interview at this time.”

“That's right! Ms. Cosi is right!” Mrs. Quadrelli's beetle-brown head began bobbing again. “Lorenzo is undergoing tests. He can have no visitors. None at all, certainly not
you
.”

Mike shifted in his yellow plastic waiting room chair, set the newspaper down, and regarded us, his amused expression fading into one of guarded confusion.

Mrs. Quadrelli frowned at Mike's off-track expression. “You
are
a police officer, aren't you?” She turned to me. “Did he ever show you his identification, Miss Cosi? You can't be too careful these days.”

I met Mike's eyes. “Officer, let me explain: This woman is a friend of Enzo's. As I told you earlier, I don't live in Queens, but Mrs. Quadrelli here might have some ideas about who set that fire because I'm sure it wasn't Enzo.”

“That's right,” she said. “Enzo would never set fire to that caffè. He was attached to it.
Too
attached if you really want to know.”

I cleared my throat. “So,
Officer
, if you'd like to
ask questions
about who might have had a motive to burn the place down, Mrs. Quadrelli here might be able to offer you some leads.”
Please follow me, Mike. Please!

A nano-flash of annoyance crossed Mike's rugged features. It was instantly replaced with his still-as-stone cop mask. Slowly, deliberately, he unfolded his endless form to its full height. With his gaze holding mine, he said, “Have a seat, Mrs. Quadrelli. And talk to me . . .”

“Tell me what you think is relevant,” Mike began. “Talk about anything you can think of—”

Anything other than Maria Tobinski's medical history
,
and the saga of Pinto, the dog who rides around in a little red wagon.

I touched the woman's arm. “Try to stay on the subject of Enzo and his caffè. Police officers don't have a lot of patience.” I shot Mike an apologetic look. In my experience, patience was Mike Quinn's defining characteristic—although with Chatty Cathy here, who knew?

Mrs. Quadrelli settled into the plastic chair and looked up (way up) at the broad-shouldered cop now towering over her. Finally, she turned to me.

“He showed you his ID, right, Miss Cosi? You never said.”

With a barely perceptible sigh, Mike reached inside his sport coat, pulled out the well-worn leather wallet and flashed his shield.

“That's a
gold
badge!” A scolding finger appeared in my face. “This man's not just an
officer
, Miss Cosi. He's a
detective
.”

“Oh?” I said, exchanging another look with Mike. “I'm so sorry,
Detective
. I didn't mean to demote you.”