Roast Mortem

European-born gallery owner had become smitten with my former mother-in-law after they’d eye-flirted across a semicrowded Manhattan dining room. The two had been a couple ever since.

“I’m not troubling Otto with this,” Madame stated.

“That’s crazy.” I pulled out my cell. “I’ll call him.”

“Please don’t.”

“For heaven’s sake, why not?”

“Otto’s hosting an important dinner between a promising young painter and a very serious Japanese collector. I wouldn’t dream of doing anything to hurt the artist’s prospects.”

Considering what the woman had just gone through, I found that reply frustrating, although I knew where it came from. For decades, Madame had run our Village Blend as a second home for poets, writers, dramatists, and yes — as cliché as it sounded — struggling fine artists.

Actors, dancers, singers, writers, visual artists, and students burning to prove themselves worthy of said identifiers still frequented our Village coffeehouse. But the neighborhood’s skyrocketing real estate values had driven the majority of them to more affordable neighborhoods in Brooklyn, here in Queens, and (in the case of many jazz musicians) North Jersey.

Back in Madame’s prime, however, when Greenwich Village was still a “cheap” place to live on Manhattan island, she’d befriended some true legends of the art world (before they’d become legends): Hopper, Pollock, de Kooning, Rauschenberg, Warhol, Lichtenstein, even the graffiti prodigy Jean-Michel Basquiat.

She’d also known artists, just as talented, who’d failed. Not in their art but in their ability to make a passable living at it. What the bottle and needle didn’t claim, the demands of day jobs or young families did. So it was no mystery to me why Madame didn’t want to feel responsible for interfering with even one aspiring artist’s sale.

Still, I had to point out: “When Otto finds out, he’ll be extremely upset that you didn’t call.”

Madame waved her hand. “To tell you the truth, dear, the last time I was in harm’s way — you recall, don’t you? At Matteo’s wedding last year?”

“The shooting?”

“Yes, for weeks after that little incident, Otto was solicitous to the point of annoyance. I’d rather not go through that again. I do adore the man, but a woman needs her space.”

Madame glanced up then, beyond me, into the vast fluorescent bustle of the ER’s central area. “And where is your knightly young officer?”

Knightly? That’s a first. I pointed. “Waiting room.”

“I must tell you, Clare, he took excellent care of me, found me a sparkling water, brought me a hairbrush and mirror. Oh!” She pointed to my shoulder. “I see you have my bag. At last, I can do my makeup.”

I handed over the recovered booty. As Madame pulled out her compact and lipstick, I heard male laughter and hearty greetings coming through the closed curtain to her right. That patient, whoever he was, had just gotten a visitor. At the same moment, I realized the Biker Guy on the stretcher to the left of Madame was watching us with interest — easy enough to do because the partitioning curtain on his side was pulled completely open.

“Howyadoin’?” he called when he noticed me noticing him.

“Fine,” I replied, then gestured to the plastic brace around his neck (the one beneath his narrow version of a ZZ Top beard). “What happened? Traffic accident? Spin out?”

“Slipped in the shower.”

“Oh...”

“Clare, this is Diggy-Dog Dare.” Madame turned to the biker. “Diggy, this is Clare Cosi, my daughter-in-law — ”

“Ex,” I corrected, and not for the first time.

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Diggy replied in basso profundo.

“Before you arrived, we were exchanging recipes,” Madame explained. “Diggy gave me his favorite: tequila chicken.”

“With tomatillo sauce,” Diggy noted.

“And I gave him my bourguignon-style short ribs and — ”

“Osso buco,” I interjected with a nod. “I overheard.”

Madame tapped her chin. “Now that I think of it, dear, didn’t you used to make a steak with bourbon sauce? I recall Matt raving about it and Diggy has a proclivity for bourbon. Don’t you, Diggy?”

“A proclivity? No. But I do like it a lot.”

“Of course, Matt always raved about your cooking,” Madame went on. She turned back to Diggy. “Matt’s my son. He and Clare have the most beautiful daughter together.”

“Is that right?” Diggy scratched the roots of his beard. “I have two myself. Wife number three’s got custody of the first. Wife number four’s bringing up the second.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Dare,” I said, moving to the partitioning curtain. “Would you mind very much if I had a private word with my ex-mother-in-law?”

“Naw, no problem. Pull it.”

I did, hoping the wall of white on both sides of her would help Madame’s grappa-happy mind to focus — on something other than alcohol-soaked meat, anyway.

“What is it, dear? What’s wrong?”

“Don’t forget!” Diggy-Dog’s voice boomed through the drapery. “I sure would like that recipe for bourbon steak!”

“Okay!” I called, then took a breath and approached Madame with my serious face. “Enzo’s in the ICU.”

“What? Why didn’t your young man tell me?”

“For the same reason you didn’t call Otto. Mike didn’t want to upset you. Enzo’s stable now, but they’re monitoring him. It’s his heart...”

Madame closed her eyes. “If anything happens to him, I’ll never forgive myself.”

“That’s absurd. Why would you say that?

“We arrived at the caffè an hour late, Clare. If we’d been on time, we all might have been out of harm’s way before the fire started.” In a rare show of naked anxiety, Madame wrung her hands. “If only we’d gotten there earlier — ”

“Listen to me — ” I took hold of her shoulders. “If Enzo dies, the person that killed him is the arsonist who set that blaze.”

Madame’s hand-wringing stopped. “Arsonist?”

I nodded.

“What are you saying, Clare? Did you see someone set the fire?”

“No. But I witnessed the start. I think someone set off a bomb in Enzo’s shop.”

“A bomb in Enzo’s shop!”

Crap. The laughing voices beyond the curtain fell silent. I waited a few seconds, until the muffled sound of men chatting drifted back through the thin material again. Then I turned back to Madame.

“Try to keep your voice down, okay? Tell me what you remember about the fire.”

“There was a whoosh at first, that’s what I recall, a very loud whoosh. Enzo went up the stairs, felt the door, and knew there was a terrible blaze on the other side. Smoke began seeping through the floor.” Madame shook her head. “Enzo kept us alive, Clare.”

“He did?”

“Yes. He was a rock. We couldn’t get out of that basement. But Enzo kept assuring me the basement’s metal door was a fire door and we’d be all right as long as we could get fresh air. The man didn’t show one moment of panic. I can’t say the same for myself.”

“Given what was happening, Madame, panic would have been normal.” And that thought made me pause...

Had Enzo planned, all along, to end up trapped in the building, behind a fire door, to make himself appear innocent?

“And then smoke began to fill the room, and he used all his strength to move some heavy crates. He helped me down onto the floor and made me move my head all the way into an old air vent. The smoke in the room became unbearable. There was only room for one of us to get fresh air. I wanted us to switch off, but he refused.