Roast Mortem (10 page)

Enzo's bratty little witch of a daughter, who else?
And I didn't think she did it alone
.
But was Glenn her accomplice? Or someone else? How many other lapdog beaus did that woman have on a leash?

I wanted to tell Madame what I thought and what I was beginning to fear—if Lucia had been ruthless enough to torch her father's caffè, what other crimes would she be capable of committing? Would she harm her own father to get her hands on her inheritance faster? Was she capable of setting him up for an “accident”? Poisoning him?

I needed to know more before I started accusing anyone, even through speculation, and as Mike had warned me outside, this was not the time or the place. So my reply to Madame was—

“I have a few people in mind.”

“Who?”

“I'll let you know.”

I took off fast after that
,
to avoid any further questions. But after just three steps, I stopped dead.

On the other side of the partitioning curtain, a big man stood, ear cocked against the snowy fabric.

“Oat?”

Lieutenant Oat Crowley had been listening to every word we'd said. Propped up on the stretcher next to him was Ronny Shaw, the firefighter who'd landed in here thanks to a chunk of ceiling.

Crowley and I stood staring at each other. His craggy, roundish face betrayed a mix of embarrassment and annoyance. Finally, beneath the slightly shaggy crown of his oatmeal-colored hair, the man's features hardened into an iron mask. His eyes narrowed like a shooter's gun sight, and I was in his crosshairs.

Crowley opened his mouth to address me, but considering our surroundings and the amount of ears and eyes so close, he appeared to be hamstrung.

The lieutenant had shot me some pretty nasty looks outside, as if I'd been the sole cause of the animosity between the Quinn cousins, which was patently ridiculous. Their feud had been going on for years before I'd known either one of them. Still, showing weakness to Crowley would be a mistake (I'd learned a thing or two from Madame by now), and I boldly stepped up to the man.

“Hello,” I said.

“Ms. Cosi.” The words were more statement than greeting.

“How is your friend doing?”

“Who's this?” Ronny asked from his stretcher, looking a little dazed.

“Nobody,” Crowley answered, then stepped toward me—and kept on stepping. He danced me backward, right out of Ronny's designated ER rectangle. “He's going to be fine, Ms. Cosi. How's your old lady?”

“My
employer
is doing all right,
considering . . .
”

“Considering what?”

“Considering someone tried to murder her.”

Crowley stopped dancing me backward. “You ought to be careful what you say in a public place.”

“Maybe.” I folded my arms, finally standing my ground. “But what do you care? You must put out dozens of fires in any given year—”

“Exactly. You'll have another fire tomorrow, maybe two. More next week. So what do you care what anyone says about any one of them?”

“I don't.”

I studied the man's eyes.
You do. You do care. Why?
I opened my mouth to ask, but Crowley spoke first, his voice so low even I could barely hear him.

“Steer clear of this, missy. For your own good.”

“Why? What do you know?”

“I don't know a thing,” Crowley said. Then he spun around, walked back to his buddy's bedside, and closed the curtain on our conversation.

SEEING
Enzo was more difficult than I'd anticipated. For one thing I was tired—emotionally drained over my worries about Madame and Dante, and mentally strained by the absurd scene between Mike and his cousin. The cryptic threat from Oat hadn't helped, and the hospital's critical care facility wasn't exactly a laugh a minute, either.

Laid out like the ER downstairs, the ICU consisted of beds lined up in tidy partitioned rows, but that's where the similarity ended. There was a hypersterile scent to the ICU; no sharp, astringent sting of ER alcohol or bright, clean bleach. There were no grounding smells at all, which only increased the surreal feeling of disconnection, and where the ER was filled with bustle and noise, this unit exhibited the chilling reverence of a funeral home's viewing room.

Male and female nurses in scrubs went about their duties like polite androids, fully aware yet completely detached from ongoing human dramas around them: a young Filipino woman sobbing at the bedside of a comatose grandfather; a Hispanic man mumbling Hail Marys next to a youth swathed in bandages . . .

An RN escorted me through it all, to the bedside of Madame's friend. Enzo's skin appeared fragile as rice paper, his cheeks sunken, his surfaces painted paler than a winter moon. This robust older gentleman, so full of burning energy, now had all the life of one of Mike's postmortems.

I took a breath and closed my eyes, willing myself to toughen up. It wasn't easy. Feelings were washing over me, images from half a lifetime ago: that phone call in the dark morning hours; my frightened little girl crying in her bed; the summons to an ICU like this one to find my dynamic, young husband laid out like a corpse, clinging to life, his strong body brought down by a little white powder.

I thought I'd frozen those memories, left them far away, like ancient snow on a mountain top, but the smells and sounds flash-melted it all, raining it down in a sudden, unavoidable flood.

“Mr. Testa?” The nurse's voice. “Your daughter is here to see you.”

“Daughter?” he repeated, voice weak. “Lucia?”

For a few seconds, the steadfast beeping of Enzo's cardiac monitor was the only sound on the planet. Then I silently wished myself luck and stepped up to the bedrail.

“How are you,
Papa
?” I said in clear English, then quickly switched to quiet Italian: “I said you were my father so they would let me in here. Is that all right with you, sir?”

The corners of Enzo's mouth lifted. “Hello,
daughter
,” he croaked in English, strong enough for the nurse to hear. Like me (and more than a few Italians) the man obviously believed that rules were made to be broken.

With relief I leaned over the rail and kissed his colorless cheek. Despite the oxygen tube taped under his nose and the IV snaking into the bulging blue vein in his hand, Enzo's eyes appeared clear, a miracle considering everything he'd been through.

He patted me on the cheek, and the nurse walked away. She'd already explained that his lungs were strained from the toxic fumes he'd inhaled, and his heartbeat had become erratic. Further tests were needed to pinpoint the problem.

I knew how important this interview was. None of the fire marshals had come around yet to question Enzo. If he died before they spoke with him, they might just pin the arson on him, which meant the real perpetrator would get away with murder.

“I'm glad you're safe, Clare,” Enzo rasped. “When everything went boom, Blanche was worried only about you and your friend. How are they doing?”

“The ER is getting ready to release Madame. How are you feeling?”

“Me? I'm about ready to run the New York City Marathon.” Enzo laughed, but it quickly degenerated into a weak cough. “How is your artist friend?”

“Dante was hit on the head, so they're holding him overnight for observation.” I summoned a tight smile, still worried about my
artista
barista. “You know, before the fire, he was admiring your mural . . .”

Enzo nodded, eyes glistening as my voice trailed off. “I'm afraid he was the last to admire it . . .” He coughed again. “I still want to meet your friend, see his work maybe?”

“You will, I promise.” I touched the man's hand. His graciousness, despite his condition, was moving—and made me all the more determined to nail the monster who'd put him here, destroying his art in the process.

“Has anyone called your daughter yet?”

Enzo shook his head. “No. I don't want that. What happened at the shop is enough of a shock without this, too . . .” He touched the IV tube in his arm. “I feel like a slab of veal.”

“Let me call Lucia,” I replied, reaching for my cell. “I can do it right now—”

“
No
,” Enzo said. “She looked forward to this weekend for a month. I might be out of here by tomorrow; then
nobody
has to call.”

I wasn't comfortable with Enzo's choice, but when I checked my cell phone's screen, I saw there was no reception in the ICU.

“I hate being in this place,” Enzo said, eyes spearing the IV bag above. “I want to retire, go back to Italy to be with my two sisters . . . visit my Angela's grave every Sunday . . .”

Retire to Italy?
Back at the caffè, Enzo hadn't once mentioned retirement. But then I considered the timing of his call to Madame, unearthing that photo album and wanting to give the Blend back its old roaster. Was that the reason he'd been cleaning out his basement? Had he been planning on moving back to the old country? If Enzo innocently revealed his plans to the fire marshals, what were they going to think?

I leaned closer. “What about the caffè,
signore
? Who is going to run your business?”

“Lucia,” Enzo replied. “When I leave this country, I'm signing it all over to my daughter. That was always the plan. Now my daughter's going to have to rebuild . . . if she wants to.”

“You sound doubtful. Why is that? Don't you think she'll have the funds to give it a go?”

“It's not the money. There's plenty of insurance coverage on the building—”

(
Exactly what I suspected.
) “So what's the problem, then?”

Enzo sighed, stared off into space. “My Angela . . . she was such a beauty . . .”

“Your
wife
, Angela?”

“We met in the park, in the spring . . .”

Enzo smiled weakly, turned his gaze back to me. “You are like her, Clare . . . like Blanche, too . . . such fire in your spirits yet still so good-natured . . .” He reached out to touch my cheek. “My Angelina came to my loft many times . . . I painted her . . . We made love . . . many times . . . so sweet . . . My best work, those portraits . . . I could not bear to sell them . . .”

Uh-oh, I'm losing him.
I tried switching to Italian. “About the caffè,
signore . . .
”

“Angela indulged her, you understand?” he said in English. “Treated her like a baby doll, dressed her up, took her shopping, wherever she wanted to go . . .”

“Lucia? Your daughter? Is that who you mean?”

“If she wanted to stay home from school, she stayed—no questions. Never had to work. Just lessons—dancing, singing, whatever she desired. And then the boys started coming around.” He shook his head. “When she was young, Lucia had my Angela's beauty, but not her heart. Her mother could not see it . . . back then, neither could I . . .”

“But now you can?”

“I looked at my daughter through my wife's eyes. Now that Angela is gone, I see with my own eyes: Lucia is not like her mother . . .”

“You don't think Lucia will rebuild the caffè?”

“She talks about marrying Glenn.”

The tone was disdainful. “What's the matter with Glenn? You don't approve?”

“What's to approve? Lucia is a grown woman. She can make up her own mind about her life, about this . . . this
boy . . .
”

“A boy? Not a man?”

“You saw how she treats him?”

I nodded.

“Why 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.”

“Because?”

“Because 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 . . .”

“And 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.

“Glenn rebuilds cars, right?” I prodded, trying to keep the man focused. “With his skills, maybe he can help Lucia rebuild the caffe.”

“Glenn 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.”

“It 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.

“Enzo, where do you think Glenn Duffy is going to get the money to—”

“Excuse 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.”

“You 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 . . .”