Free Roast Mortem by Cleo Coyle Page B

ears to hear what the two were saying, but the noise of traffic and hospital workers was too loud. Finally, when it looked like fisticuffs were about to break out, a third figure in fireman’s gear thrust himself between the men.
    â€œKnock it off!” Oat Crowley barked.
    That I heard.
    Crowley reached into his pocket and shoved a set of keys into Mike’s hand. “Your girlfriend’s car is parked down that block.” He pointed then shot a naked glare my way before pushing against his boss with both arms. “C’mon, Cap, I’m going inside to check on Ronny Shaw, and you need to go back to the firehouse. There’s paperwork waiting.”
    Captain Michael looked pleased with the scene he’d created, even threw a final, cheeky wink in my direction before turning back to continue arguing with Oat.
    My Mike didn’t miss the devil’s wink. He came back to me in body after that but not in spirit. “Let’s go inside,” he said, taking my elbow a little too roughly.
    â€œNo! What was that all about?”
    â€œForget it happened,” he said with a brusque finality that I rarely heard from him. The retrograde attitude sounded more like his cousin’s.
    â€œSorry. No sale.” I planted myself.
    â€œThis is not the time or place, Clare.” His expression was still rigid, but when he spoke once more, his tone was softer. “Please.” He stepped close, put his hands on my shoulders. “Let’s not do this. Let’s go check on your friends.”
    I didn’t argue. Not then. Mike wasn’t wrong about the timing. So I shelved my questions (for the moment) and let him guide me through the doors of the emergency room.

SEVEN
    â€œOSSO buco is another example,” Madame was saying.
    â€œIs that beef? Like the bourguignon?” The voice was gruffly male, its pitch low enough to dub James Earl Jones.
    â€œVeal, dear. The veal hind shank, to be precise, sawed into three-inch-thick pieces . . .”
    As I came around the white partitioning curtain in the busy ER, I found Madame regally propped on the pristine sheets of a narrow hospital stretcher. Her silk pantsuit was still smoke stained and wrinkled, but her face was freshly washed, her hair brushed into a sleek silver pageboy.
    Relief washed over me—along with fear, anger, gratefulness—the internal emotional swell was nearly as powerful as the moment I’d seen her carried out of that charred caffè.
    She hadn’t yet noticed me. Her focus was on the man occupying the next stretcher, and I was glad of that. It gave me a few moments to swallow back tears, compose myself.
    â€œSo how hard is to make?” asked Madame’s ER neighbor.
    The bare-chested guy wore black leather pants and a Vandyke beard long enough to braid. Every inch of skin art along his muscled arms had something to do with Harley Davidson, and if that weren’t enough of a giveaway, the flaming hog across his chest released scripted exhaust that plainly read Hells Angels.
    â€œOsso buco? It’s a snap!” Madame chirped. “Salt and pepper the shanks, dredge them in flour, and brown them in a skillet with a bit of olive oil. Then just cover with a mixture of chicken or veal stock, sautéed onions, carrots, and celery and dry white wine—or French vermouth, whichever you prefer.”
    â€œI like bourbon. Can I use bourbon?”
    â€œI wouldn’t.”
    â€œSo why put flour on the shanks if you’re covering ’em with stock, anyways?”
    â€œAs the shanks are braising, flour will thicken the sauce for you. Then there’s no need for more difficult measures.”
    â€œI get it. Cooking time?”
    â€œTwo hours or so. Finish with a sprinkle of gremolata to add a sprightly flavor note.”
    â€œGremo-what-a?”
    â€œIt’s just a bit of minced garlic with chopped parsley and zest from a lemon.”
    â€œOh, zest ! I know zest! I