5 - Her Deadly Mischief (19 page)

“You could have arrested Aram on the spot—for reselling stolen goods.”

Messer Grande flushed a little. “I could have—but I don’t wish to make a mockery of the law. If Aram came up before the Avogaria for such a petty crime, he would pay a fine and go his thieving way, laughing behind his hand. Within a fortnight he would be executing the same robberies in another district served by decrepit Watchmen—the city is full of them. No—” Messer Grande paused and let a smile quiver at the corner of his lip. “I put some of my new ideas in play.”

“Yes?” I leaned forward, hands on knees.

“It’s generally simple luck that brings a man before the Avogaria. The rogues do their worst while in perfect view of the constables, and are thus apprehended. If not, they rob or injure a victim who has the means to file charges with a magistrate and see the prosecution through.” He nodded sagely. “A crime committed in secret is generally a crime that goes unpunished.”

“That’s the way of it,” I agreed.

“But not the way it should be.”

“Of course not, Excellency.”

He sent me a crooked smile. “If I’m going to tell you some of my secrets, we should use each other’s given names, don’t you think?”

“Then I am Tito.”

“And I am Andrea.”

I shifted my position on the sofa, dimly aware of the other performers shutting doors and calling their good-byes. “You’re making me very curious…Andrea.”

“I’ll enlighten you at once. You see, I’ve paid close attention to the habits of the men locked up in my guardhouse. If allowed, they constantly talk among themselves, bragging of their crimes and seeking to impress their fellows with their daring.”

“You employ confidential informers, I take it.”

“Not at all.” He laughed with infectious gusto. “Professional spies only fill your ears with what they think you want to hear. I get the truth by listening to the inmates myself.”

“Surely they fall silent as soon as
you
walk into the cell corridor. They’re rogues, not fools.”

He shrugged. “Well, sometimes both. But you’re on the right track.”

“So…”

“So, I become one of them.”

“How?”

“I have myself put in a cell.”

I regarded him for a long moment, disbelief writ large on my face. “You are instantly recognizable. Even if you donned the canvas slops and woolen shirt of the meanest workingman, your face would still stand out.”

“Really? Are you so sure?” He half-turned to examine the cosmetics spread across my dressing table. Picking out the gray pencil Benito employed to transform me into a seasoned general or aged king, he said, “Your man has a dab hand with this. But I wonder, has he ever tried painting wrinkles with a bent hairpin that’s been darkened in candle smoke? The effect is more subtle and quite natural in appearance.”

Suddenly I understood. Messer Grande—it would take some time before I could think of him as Andrea—was an expert at disguise. I recalled the dark smudge on his handkerchief that had puzzled me at the Pino glassworks. He must have been following Liya and me through the ghetto the day we called on Zulietta’s mother. I thought he had allowed me to wiggle out of our planned trip to Murano much too quickly.

Several emotions ran through my head—wariness, admiration, a sinking sensation at being so easily fooled. “You were the brown-skinned Jew in the eastern robes,” I said accusingly, “at the gates of the ghetto and later in Pincas Del’Vecchio’s alley—only you were taller.”

“Boots with built-up soles—surely you have such things among your costume stores here in the theater.”

I sat back. Anger was rapidly conquering my other emotions, and I felt unwholesomely warm under my dressing gown. I was certain my cheeks were turning red. “Why did you follow us? Didn’t you believe I was going where I said?”

“Tito,” Messer Grande leaned forward and responded with a quirk of his eyebrow. “Our friendship had barely begun. Your errand in the ghetto gave me an opportunity to verify your intentions and also to check up on Aram Pardo. I found it deeply interesting that he entered the widow Grazziano’s household soon after you and your Hebrew wife.”

What was he saying? Did he believe Liya’s old life in the ghetto made her somehow partial to Aram and Reyna? I felt compelled to set him straight at once. “My wife has nothing but contempt for Aram Pardo. He has always been a wrongheaded, untrustworthy—”

Messer Grande held up his hand. “I don’t doubt it. I only mean that it was quite a coincidence—an eddy of coincidence actually. Zulietta’s sister Reyna is married to an unprincipled thief who has a shop on the canal that rings the ghetto. They both stand to gain from Zulietta’s will. And it happens that this thief was engaged to marry your wife when she was still Liya Del’Vecchio.”

My eyebrows must have jumped up to my hairline. Was there anything this man didn’t know?

“Sometimes coincidence is just that,” I replied. “Even when it comes in threes or fours.” My voice sounded harsh even to my ears.

“Settle yourself, my friend. You do me scant justice if you believe I would leap to rash conclusions. I had several of Aram’s lackeys arrested. That was easy enough—they are the type that amuse themselves with untying gondolas moored at private houses or breaking into churches to ring the fire bell. I know because I spent an uncomfortable night in a cell with them. Their chatter made up for the fleabites. On the night of Zulietta’s murder, the gang robbed several houses near San Rocco while their owners were here at the theater for
Armida’
s opening night. Aram was among them, whispering orders, directing every step of the enterprise.”

“Then Aram had nothing to do with Zulietta’s death.”

“Correct. He is guilty of robbery, but not murder.” Messer Grande gathered his heavy robe around him, seeming to consider. “At least not of Zulietta’s murder. Whoever else he might have killed wouldn’t surprise me. But I must hand it to the little scoundrel—he’s made my murder case go more smoothly.”

“But I understood the Council ordered you to suspend investigation once Alessio escaped.”

“So they did. As an appointed official I bowed my head and received my marching orders from the secretary to the Ten. I did as I was bade, but no order—no matter how highly placed
—can bind my thoughts. I’ve continued to work on the problem in my own way, and when necessary, I’ve put my disguises to good use.”

“That has you doing double duty.”

He shrugged. “My official work is often tiresome. Most thieves and rogues are utterly predictable. Sometimes I think they are all following the same script, written by some playwright who fancies himself a master criminal. But when something different comes along, I don’t mind burning the midnight oil. Besides, turning yourself into someone else can be…exhilarating. I imagine it’s a little like what the rope dancers on the Piazza must feel when they look down at the pavement and realize just how high they really are.”

I nodded slowly, recalling several colorful characters who had crossed my path in recent days. “You were the crab-catcher on the bridge near Zulietta’s casino. And the Franciscan on the Campo San Barnaba who refused to let me pass without a donation.”

“The crab-catcher, yes. But impersonating a man of God? No, some things are sacred.”

“If you’ve been watching the casino, then you must know…” I let my words trail off, suddenly conscious of the promise I’d made to Alessio.

“You can speak frankly—the young glass prince’s hiding place is no secret to me.”

“Why haven’t you had him arrested again?”

“Keeping watch over Alessio’s movements offers more possibilities than holding him in a cell. That accomplished nothing. Unlike our usual run of inmates, Alessio kept his lips shut tight as a clam. He’s stubborn, that one.”

“Perhaps loyal is a better word.”

Messer Grande leaned back on an elbow propped against my dressing table. “Alessio has impressed you, I see.”

“Perhaps I do find something admirable in his character.”

“You’re not alone in that. His men from the factory were willing to risk everything to deliver him from my guardhouse”—Messer Grande gave me an outright grin—“Yes, I know all about the proposed flight to Charles Town, and a man doesn’t have to look far to see what was going to fund the trip. La Samsona doesn’t realize how close she came to founding a glassworks halfway across the world.” He finished on a chuckle.

“What are you going to do?” I asked over a lump in my throat, sick at the thought of Zenobio and his fellow workmen coming under arrest for sedition.

“I have no intention of calling the glassmakers to the attention of the Ten, if that’s what you mean. Men are meant to be free, my friend, not fettered to an island, slaves to a glass furnace. If Cesare Pino refuses to admit his workers to the rank they’ve earned, they should be allowed to take their skills elsewhere. Those men made a brave gesture in freeing Alessio. How were they to know they were presenting me with a windfall? I had racked my brain to come up with some way I could release the prime suspect without bringing the Ten down on my head, and they did it for me.”

“You allowed Alessio to escape?” I asked wonderingly.

“Of course. If breaking out of the guardhouse were truly that easy, I might as well rip the locks off the cell doors and let the prisoners stroll in and out as they please. I expected that Alessio’s partisans might try something of the sort once I’d run down the sailing captain Alessio had arranged to meet before the opera.”

As Messer Grande went on to recount the questions he’d put to the harbor master about ships lingering in port and, later, to the captain of the vessel who intended to make the crossing to Charles Town, I hung my head and rubbed my eyes. I was suddenly feeling every step I’d taken that long day, every tense word engendered by Maestro Torani’s new opera, every note I’d sung in competition with young Majorano. Fatigue took possession of my limbs, and a swelling sense of disillusionment invaded my heart. For what little I’d accomplished in searching for Zulietta’s killer, Messer Grande was ten steps ahead. Why had I even bothered to involve myself in the investigation?

Heavy thoughts filled my head. I saw myself as ridiculous as those sweet-voiced ladies who’ve had a few singing lessons and declare they’re ready to take the professional stage by storm. I was an amateur, a dabbler. I had no idea what it takes to catch a truly clever criminal.

“Where does all this leave you?” I asked dully, once Messer Grande fell silent. “Have you come to any conclusion about Zulietta’s killer?”

“Well,” he stood and stretched his arms above his head, causing his wide sleeves to puddle about his shoulders, “now that Aram is out of the question and light has been shed on Alessio’s mysterious errand, I can turn my attention to other things—”

“The key,” I cut in before I could stop myself.

He brought a key out of his waistcoat pocket. Holding it upright between long fingers, he gave it a concentrated stare. “Odds are the little piece of metal that matches this one is at the bottom of a canal or down a well by now. If by some miracle it’s not, I would very much like to find it.” With a sudden motion, he flipped the key in the air, then made a neat catch and tucked it away once more. “The other tantalizing item is the note that summoned Cesare to the theater. The killer wanted him on the scene, probably to serve as a very well-recognized and obvious suspect.”

“Do you have the note?”

He shook his head. “Cesare burned it. That leaves my hands empty of tangible proofs. From now on, I will simply be following my nose, asking questions. If Signor Albergati would give me admittance to his palazzo, I would start with his hotheaded son Umberto.”

“You still haven’t questioned him? You were waiting for a writ.”

“When the Council of Ten decreed the case closed, the magistrate dismissed my request. The Albergati doors have remained tight shut. Hoping to catch the old gentleman unawares, I approached him as he dozed over his gazettes at a coffeehouse one day—a pair of bravos instantly put themselves in my path.”

“But I’ve been meaning to tell you, I managed to talk to Maria.” I felt absurdly heartened that I could provide some small piece of assistance.

Messer Grande sat down again. He listened to every word of my conversation with Alessio’s young
fiancée.
“Excellent! Well
done, Tito. That gives me somewhere to start.” He cocked his head. “Did you perhaps discover anything of similar importance as you and that splendid wife of yours roamed around Venice today?”

I told him about Liya’s suspicions regarding La Samsona and how Pamarino had shot them down.

“Oh, no. No. La Samsona had nothing to do with the murder—except perhaps in the very indirect way of being party to the wager.” He crossed his arms and shook his head decisively. “I was speaking of your visit to Zulietta’s casino.”

I considered a moment. Alessio had extracted a promise of silence regarding his whereabouts, which Messer Grande already knew. The proposed trip to Murano had not been included in the promise of secrecy, so I felt justified in relating my plan to question Alessio’s gondolier.

“Ah, going to Murano, are you?” Messer Grande crossed to the sofa. He sat beside me and flung his arm around my shoulders. “Perhaps someone there can tell us something about the delivery of Cesare’s note. How would you manage that, do you think?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well…” he replied judiciously. “I have faith in you. I expect you’ll come up with something.”

No cunning plans sprang to mind, but despite my empty head, Messer Grande’s manner radiated such confidence that I began to feel quite useful again.

Chapter Fourteen

I dreamed there was a toad on my chest. A giant toad who knocked the breath from my lungs every time he hopped up and down, croaking, “Bwark, bwark.” I twisted under the beast, seeking to reclaim my peaceful rest on the soft mattress of goose feathers. But then there was an insistent hand stroking my cheek—not a dream, but real. My eyelids flew open.

“Wake up, Papa. The morning is half over. I had my breakfast ages ago.” Titolino bounced on my chest again. His knees dug into my ribs like sharp stones.

I groaned and rolled him off onto his mother’s vacant side of the bed. Still muzzy from sleep, I pushed up on one hand and massaged my brow with the other. The room was very dim. Instead of sunshine, a gray half-light seeped through the shutters’ open slats. As so often happens, the rain had moved out to sea, but the sun lagged behind.

“Shouldn’t you be at your lessons?” I asked in a hoarse voice. Titolino was learning his letters and sums at a school run by the parish priest. Benito conducted him there every day at ten o’clock.

“Mama said I could wake you before I go.” Still bouncing, he launched himself at my chest again. I collapsed under his wiggling weight. Oh, for just one more hour of blissful sleep.

“I said wake your Papa, not smother him.” Liya edged through the door of our bedchamber, bearing a tray of pastry and fruit. She deposited the tray on the table and came to sit on the edge of the bed. Ruffling Titolino’s black curls, she took a firm tone. “It’s time to go. Benito is waiting for you in the downstairs hall.”

“Just one more minute. Enough time for our song. Please—” He vaulted to the floor and pulled his chin into his neck. Making his voice as deep as old King Toad’s, he sang, “Firefly, Firefly, golden bright, bridle the filly under your light.”

I cleared my throat and answered in a lilting soprano: “Oh, Toad King, Toad King, ready to ride, I’ll light your way as you fly by my side.”

Our song contained many verses, but Liya only let us get through a few before she hustled Titolino downstairs. When she returned, I was making a meal of grapes and buttery, horn-shaped rolls. Mimicking the boy, I asked in a gruff, deep voice, “Do you have any chocolate for a toad king, my good lady?”

“Todi is warming the milk in the kitchen. Benito will fetch it when he returns.” Liya plucked a grape from the bunch and nibbled at it thoughtfully. “Titolino is still begging to visit the menagerie.”

I tapped my head with two fingers. “Of course he is. With all our detecting and the upheaval at the theater, I’d forgotten. I will take him, I promise.”

“Today?” She arched an eyebrow.

“Not today,” I answered with a sigh. “Tomorrow, I promise. As soon as he returns from lessons.”

“Why not today?”

“Today I visit Murano. Messer Grande was in perfect harmony with Alessio’s suggestion that I should question his gondolier. Our circle of suspects is getting smaller—I may be able to narrow it still further by asking certain questions around the glass factory.”

“Messer Grande has ruled someone out?”

I teased her with a mysterious smile but wasn’t allowed to keep silent for long. My wife plopped herself on my lap and took my chin in her hand. “Out with it, Tito.”

Liya’s mouth flew open as I recounted the story of Aram’s robberies, then she demanded to hear every detail two and three times over. “I’m not surprised,” she finally said. “Aram’s arrogance knows no bounds. He has always been convinced that he could get away with anything. He takes it almost as a personal religion.” Switching topics briskly, she pressed her palm to the amulet bag that lay beneath my shirt. “You will be careful, won’t you?”

“Of course, I just wish you could elaborate on this danger I’m trying to avoid.”

She pushed off my lap. As she crossed the room to the mantel, her dark, smoldering eyes never left mine. I watched as she took something from her carved ivory box. Settling once again in my lap, she covered my lips with her own. After I’d returned her kiss, she showed me a card that pictured a man tied to a stake, his half-naked body pierced with ten swords.

“You found a new deck of
tarocchi
,” I said slowly. It felt as though a cold, clammy wind had blown into the room, but the balcony doors were locked and shuttered.

She nodded. “Fresh cards, but they convey the same warning.
”

“A dire warning by the look of it.” Now I saw that the man was staked on a desolate plain. The sky above was black, without stars or moon. I repressed a shudder. “Is this the card of violent death?”

“Not necessarily…Though if you were a soldier, it would spell defeat in battle.”

“It is rather like a battle. I feel our enemy, but I can’t see him. Somehow, he manages to stay one step ahead while spreading his evil all around.”

“He?”

“Or she.” Last night, Messer Grande had discounted La Samsona, but he had not told me why. My suspicions remained, Pamarino’s denial of a fragrance surrounding his attacker notwithstanding. She was a clever woman, this muscular courtesan; it may well have occurred to her to dispense with her attar of roses for the evening.

Liya touched the red flannel bag again. “Just keep this with you. It’s all I ask.”

“I will,” I promised crisply. “And while I’m making the crossing, what will you be doing? You look as if you’re going out.” At some point, I’d awakened sufficiently to recognize Liya’s best day dress decorated with new French ribbon and a freshly pleated fichu. Her clothing generally tended toward the practical rather than the modish, but she had dressed with special care that morning.

She rose and replaced the disquieting card in its box with the others. “I thought I might take Papa a treat. When I lived at home, I used to make a special bread that he loved—a braided loaf with raisins, cinnamon, and other spices. I have some in the oven now.”

“I hope you save some for us.”

“Never fear. If you delay your errand, you can eat your fill while it’s still warm, otherwise it will be waiting when you return. I just hope I have the proportions right—the ingredients I could never forget.”

I thought as I chewed on what now seemed like a very undistinguished piece of pastry. Liya didn’t usually dress up for her father or Fortunata, and my wife seemed to be worrying over something besides my safety. Perhaps it was time to address the thorny subject that we’d all been ignoring. Swallowing the last of my breakfast, I asked, “Do you expect to see your mother while you’re at the shop?”

Liya dipped her chin. She clutched the mantelpiece with one hand. “Papa has given me to hope that I might. He says Mama has actually expressed an interest in how Titolino has grown up so far. Perhaps she has given up her old retributions and will want to meet him someday.”

“Hmm. Do Sara or Mara have children? I don’t think you’ve mentioned.”

“Daughters. Two apiece. Our family is over blessed with girls, just like Zulietta’s. But Mama rarely sees them since they’ve moved to the mainland.”

“And what of Fortunata? She’ll be of marriageable age before you know it.”

“Fortunata seems quite happy working in the shop, and Papa would be desolated if she left. I wouldn’t be surprised if Fortunata stayed home and cared for Mama and Papa as they get older.”

So…Titolino was Signora Del’Vecchio’s only grandson—and the only grandchild near at hand. His slender shoulders might well support the bridge that would carry Liya back to her mother. Signora Del’Vecchio was a formidable woman, easily angered and sharp-tongued, but she
was
Liya’s mother. She and her daughter should at least be on speaking terms. My own mother had died when I was six; her memory was so dim I could barely picture her face, much less anything of her personality. Still, if my mother lived but a few squares away, I couldn’t imagine any lingering argument that would keep me from attempting reconciliation.

I joined Liya at the fireplace and took her by the shoulders. “What is the worst that can happen? Relations couldn’t possibly deteriorate from what they are at this moment. So, deliver your wonderful bread to the ghetto, and I’ll be thinking of you all the while I’m on Murano. I may come back before I go to rehearsal. When do you expect to return?”

“One o’clock at the latest. A relation of Todi’s is coming to inquire about the maid’s job.”

“Do you think you’ll hire her?”

“I have to meet her before I decide. She’s very young, so perhaps not. After Angelina, I’d rather have a woman who has a bit of life behind her.”

“You haven’t made any promises?”

“No. Why?”

I shrugged. “I was just thinking. Now that her mistress is dead, perhaps Sary would rather stay in Venice than go to America—that’s assuming Alessio would be able to arrange passage after all that’s happened.”

“Hire Sary to replace Angelina?”

I nodded.

“I have no objection, but I promised Todi I would interview the girl. If I don’t give her cousin a chance, Todi will take it as a personal insult and we’ll have to put up with overdone chops and burnt risotto.” Liya shrugged absently, her anxious smile revealing that the ghetto was more on her mind than housekeeping staff. My wife could benefit from a complete change of subject.

“Now,” I grumbled in the toad king’s voice, “what has become of my chocolate?”

***

The gondoliers of Venice are a race apart. Local legend has it that a true gondolier is born, not trained. The sure sign is webbed feet to help them glide over the water. I’ve never asked Luigi to remove his boots, so I can’t be certain about his anatomy. I do know that he inherited his instinctive knowledge of the city’s waterways and the surrounding lagoon from his father. Lithe in body, often vexingly arrogant in attitude, Luigi claimed membership in a brotherhood founded centuries ago, when the ancient patricians first developed a sleek, graceful boat for private transport between the low-lying islands that became Venice. Besides carrying people to and fro, often singing or whistling as they rowed, gondoliers had also come to function as messengers, local guides, and news carriers. Together they wove a wide, complex web of acquaintance, which I didn’t hesitate to exploit. By agreeing to give me an introduction to the man who rowed for Alessio Pino, Luigi made up for leaving me in the lurch on several occasions. Now our accounts were settled.

The mouth of the Canale Serenella appeared soft and dreamy in the moisture-laden air. Drooping willows gathered mist in leafy armfuls while thin spikes of poplars disappeared into nothingness. Though the workday was well along, little traffic plied the canal. Luigi’s oar broke the water in muffled plops, and all was at peace until a gull caught by a sudden updraft cried with the agony of a burning martyr. For no reason at all, I found myself touching the bump made by the amulet bag under my clothing.

Luigi tied up at a small boatyard. Under a lean-to attached to a long wooden shed, we found a number of gondolas in various stages of restoration set up on wooden racks. Most lay on their sides. Arced bows that usually towered above the water swept outward to form dangerous barriers; their six-pronged steel combs that represented the six districts of Venice were sharp enough to cut a boat, or a man, in half. Picking our way through this maze, we found Alessio’s gondolier polishing the lacquered frame of his boat that had apparently undergone minor repair. I hung back while Luigi explained and joined the two men only when summoned by a brisk gesture.

“This is Guido,” instructed Luigi. “He prefers to keep his family name to himself, but he’s agreed to answer your questions if they will help his master.” With a nod of his jutting chin, Luigi disappeared around a stack of lumber and entered the shed. Before the door slammed shut, I heard a burst of masculine greetings rife with friendly swearing.

Guido and I were alone in the stealthy quiet formed by the enveloping mist. The gondolier had the look of a young man who hadn’t slept well for many nights. Blue-black stubble covered gaunt, pockmarked cheeks, and shadowed eyes peered at me from beneath a single bristling eyebrow. I had rehearsed my questions during the row to the island, but the gondolier’s hunched shoulders and the defensive set to his jaw drove them from my head.

I said quietly, “It’s not your fault, you know.”

He scowled. “What do you know about it?”

“I know your master describes you as a loyal rower, a man who never let him down until the night of the opera house murder.”

Guido bent his head and rubbed his polishing rag back and forth along the gondola’s jet black surface. The mellow smell of beeswax and linseed oil met my nostrils. I couldn’t see his expression, but I could hear the disgust in his voice. “Who else’s fault would it be? Seven years I’ve been Signor Alessio’s boatman, ever since Signor Cesare allowed him off the island by himself. I’ve carried him back and forth to Venice a thousand times without harm coming to one hair on his head. And now he stands accused of a crime he doesn’t have it in him to commit. If I’d gotten my master to the opera house in good time, this would never have happened.

“How can the law believe Signor Alessio killed that woman?” Guido continued, stiffening his back and meeting my gaze. “For all that he’s the glass master’s son, Signor Alessio is unspoiled in every way—not a wild, arrogant sprig like other rich men’s sons. He was always a good boy, now grown into a fine man. While Signor Cesare barely knows my name, Signor Alessio never fails to ask how I’m doing, how my old Mama and Papa are getting on—and he actually waits for an answer. If I have troubles, he sees them righted. Last winter, he had our cottage repaired when a storm blew the chimney down, and the year before that, when Mama took a congestion in her chest, he sent over broth for her and macaroni to feed the rest of us.” Guido’s expression was cloaked in guilt and regret. “And look how I’ve repaid him. I should fill my pockets with stones and walk out into the lagoon until the waters take me.”

I shuffled my feet, uneasy with such naked emotion. “That would hardly be of help to your young master. Signor Alessio believes someone tricked you that night—that is where the fault lies. I need to understand what happened.”