5 - Her Deadly Mischief (21 page)

Instead of answering, the glass master swung around on his stool. A cabinet containing numerous small drawers, much like an apothecary’s, stood against the wall. Cesare opened a drawer on the bottom row and plucked out a folded paper. When he handed it across to me, I saw that the wax seal had been broken.

I quickly unfolded the message and scanned its contents. Written in an unschooled but firm hand, the note told me what I already knew: Everyone attending the opening of
Armida
would soon know that Zulietta Giardino and Alessio Pino were lovers.

I looked up. “Messer Grande told me you’d burned this.”

“That’s what I told him.”

“Why?”

Cesare shrugged. “Let’s just say I don’t like the way he marches in my factory acting as if that red robe makes him the master of all he surveys. The message was delivered to me. That makes it my property to do with as I please.”

“Who delivered it to the island?”

He shook his head. “A man in a gondola. It was handed from messenger to messenger until the details were lost in the telling.”

In the end, the details didn’t matter. When I held the creamy paper to my nose and took a deep breath, the odor of attar of roses was faint but unmistakable.

Chapter Fifteen

Once I’d reached Venice, my first stop was the Procuratie, the long office building on the Piazza where Messer Grande kept his headquarters. A black-clad clerk raised his head from his ledger long enough to tell me that the chief constable was out. No, he had no idea when he would return.

I wasn’t daunted. I could complete my mission on my own. With a swell of pride, I imagined returning to Messer Grande’s office and presenting him with the solution to the case on a silver platter.

A few questions in the right ears, ears well known to any gondolier, directed me to La Samsona’s casino. The same footman who attended her at the theater answered the jangle of the bell cord. His haughty features were unmistakable, even through the grated rectangle of the peephole. He recognized me, as well.

“Ah, Signor Amato. Do you think I’m deaf? Everyone in the building must have heard your ring.”

“I need to see your mistress, Lelio.”

“She is dressing. You can come back later, or better yet, see her tonight at the opera.”

Dressing was a process that could take several hours, involving as it did a visit from the hairdresser with its invariable exchange of gossip; lengthy application of cosmetics and fixing of patches; then donning layers of hoops, petticoats, and gown. My visit wouldn’t wait, and I still had a rehearsal and a performance to get through.

“I must see her now.”

“How desolating for you.” The little door behind the grate slammed shut.

I pumped the bell cord up and down. The noise reverberated through the wall: loud, rude, clanging, insistent. Yowls of protest came from neighboring apartments.

The main door swung open. I produced my card, but Lelio waved it away. In a manner so cold that frost could have dusted his shoulders, the footman took my cloak and hat. “You have uncommon luck, Signor Amato. My mistress is quite capable of letting a man ring for hours, the neighbors be damned. But when she heard it was you…” With a world-weary sigh, he passed me to a bouncy maid with apple cheeks and pointed chin.

Her manner was as warm as Lelio’s was chilly. She didn’t speak, but communicated volumes with her appraising glances and saucy shrugs. When we reached an unheated antechamber, she motioned for me to sit and disappeared into her mistress’ bedchamber. I had barely settled myself on one of the slick, striped-satin chairs when the door opened again. The maid summoned me with a curled finger.

La Samsona’s most intimate chamber was a pink and white confection, daintily pretty in the early afternoon sun that had finally chased the fog eastward. Drapes the color of ripe cherries hung at the windows and the wide four-poster bed, while the wallcovering featured garlands of pink roses supported by gamboling cherubs. A nest of matching sofa and chairs surrounded a table laid with a French
porcelain
coffee service. All was reflected two and three times over in the procession of mirrors that marched around the walls.

From the doorway, I looked toward the dressing table that was also draped in cherry-colored silk, expecting to find La Samsona in robe and chemise being fussed over by her hairdresser. But, no.

The maid led the way to a raised alcove set at right angles to the main chamber.

I stopped the minute I turned the corner. It was much warmer here, thanks to a crackling fire under a marble mantel. A good thing, I thought, since La Samsona was in her bath, as naked as the day she was born. Her gold-tinted chestnut hair was pinned up loosely; a few tendrils snaked over her damp shoulders that shimmered above the soapy water.

Ignoring me completely, she leaned back in the tin tub and stretched her arms above her head. Rivulets of water coursed over her rounded muscles and formed a confluence between her breasts. “More oil, Marietta,” she ordered in a husky voice. “And hot water, too.”

It was only after the maid had fetched a steaming pitcher that sat before the fire, poured its contents in the tub, and topped it off with a stream of fragrant oil that La Samsona sent me a smile of smug contentment. “You were very anxious to be admitted, Signor Amato. Did you think of something I could do for you?”

“No, Signora.” I approached the tub so I could look down into her flushed face. “I thought of another question.”

She heaved a dramatic sigh, then tapped a finger against her chin. “How boring you capons are. It makes me wonder how you stand yourselves. Well then, ask your question so I can get on to more important things.”

“Why did you feel it necessary to summon Cesare Pino to the opera house?”

Her mouth opened, lips stretching in a tight circle. “Marietta,” she called toward the maid who was freshening bouquets of roses that brightened the chamber. “Leave us.”

Once we’d heard the muffled thud of the door closing, La Samsona continued, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You do. I’ve just come from Murano. Cesare Pino kept your note. You might have expected him to dispose of it, but he didn’t. And it reeks of your scent. You knew that Zulietta was going to join Alessio in his box that night, that her triumph was secure, and you wanted Cesare on the scene. Why?”

“If you know so much, you should be able to tell me.”

“Oh, I can tell you, but I’d rather hear you admit it.”

She clamped her lips in a tight line.

“All right, if you insist. You summoned Cesare as a sacrificial lamb. Like all murderers, you wanted to have your cake and eat it, too. You wanted your rival dead, but the consequences if you were caught—facing the gallows—terrifying. What to do? The ill-tempered glass master had made no secret of his desire to see Alessio married to one of Venice’s oldest families, and his feckless son was about to ruin everything by displaying Zulietta from his box. Not many would be shocked that he would resort to murder—especially since Zulietta was a Jew and he’d never hid his hatred of that race.”

“Really, Signor Amato. I have no time for this nonsense—”

“You don’t consider your jewels nonsense.”

“My jewels were safe in the Banco Giro.”

“You signed a contract to relinquish them if Zulietta won the wager—Zulietta and Alessio could take you before the magistrate—what an embarrassment. If there were even one tiny mouse who hadn’t heard of your galling loss, it would once the gazettes competed to publish every detail. Instead of being acknowledged as Venice’s leading courtesan, you would be our biggest joke.”

“Ridiculous!” La Samsona braced her muscular arms on the edge of the tub and created a miniature flood of bathwater and soap bubbles as she pushed herself up. I saw a goddess rising from the waves. Her flesh was smooth and firm, but this woman was no demurely smiling Venus. Images of Diana preparing to skin a deer or some bloodthirsty pagan goddess of war sprang to mind.

“Hand me a towel,” she commanded, fury flaring in her eyes and tone, fury barely controlled.

I did as I was told, refusing to avert my eyes as she rubbed herself dry before the fire. It was not because I wished to view her nakedness, but to prove that none of her weapons could turn me timid.

Once she had donned a dressing gown of green silk, she paced the larger chamber. Her reflection jumped from mirror to mirror, sometimes full on, sometimes at an angle that made her appear grotesquely misshapen. She finally paused. Whirling to face me, she shouted without a hint of Venetian graciousness, “Your accusation is absurd. Mad. You understand nothing.”

“Do you deny summoning Cesare Pino?”

“No, I admit sending the note. I also admit I didn’t want to lose the wager.” She gave a mammoth shrug. “Who likes to lose? Not you. Your battle of vocal cords with Emiliano is crushingly obvious to everyone who follows the opera. Haven’t you ever wished your rival would drop dead in the middle of his cadenza? Be honest.”

I took a deep breath. Just last week Emilio’s claque had booed me unmercifully. My rival had rolled his eyes and laughed behind his hand, spurring the audience to further humiliations. Be honest, the courtesan had said. “Well,” I muttered, “wishes don’t kill.”

“Neither do I. I hoped that Cesare would arrive at the theater in time to talk some sense into his son. Or at least threaten him with something dire enough to stop the culmination of the wager.”

“You never give up, do you? I suppose you don’t realize that I’ve uncovered the other half of your plan. Cesare could hardly talk to Alessio since you sent a woman to make sure his gondolier was in no condition to row across to Venice.”

“What are you talking about?” Her tone turned raspy.

“Alessio’s gondolier had a cup of wine with a woman who slipped something in his drink. With Alessio out of the picture, all you had to do was dispense with little Pamarino and overpower your petite friend. Did Zulietta ever realize it was you, I wonder.”

A shadow crossed La Samsona’s face. She appeared genuinely mystified.

Another thought struck me. “You sent your maid, didn’t you? Your Marietta is certainly saucy enough to interest a lonely gondolier.”

The courtesan pulled her chin back and crossed her arms. “Did this saucy woman converse with the gondolier?”

“Of course. Her golden tongue seduced the simple man with lies and promises.”

“Well, aren’t you smart. Quite the expert at detection. Nothing gets by you.”

I shrugged modestly.

La Samsona surprised me with a horse laugh that must have started at her toes. Her entire body jiggled with the hilarity of it. Still gasping, she said, “I wonder, then, how you failed to notice that Marietta is mute.”

Mute? I shook my head, momentarily bewildered. I had to admit the maid had shown me into the room without voicing a sound.

“But…but,” I stammered. “So the woman in the tavern wasn’t Marietta. You could have hired anyone who needed money—a courtesan down on her luck—there must be many in your acquaintance.”

La Samsona had stopped laughing. Her expression was perplexed and she chewed on a thumbnail. She said, more to herself than to me, “I suppose I’ll have to tell you, though he won’t be happy. If I don’t explain, you’ll spread your outrageous story all over town.” She drew herself up. “It’s like this, Signor Amato. I couldn’t have murdered my friend Zulietta because I was in Messer Grande’s box when she tumbled into the pit.”

I quickly reviewed that night in my head. As I had scanned the boxes, I noticed Messer Grande sitting alone in the second tier. His box had been one of the few with empty chairs. Also one of the few with curtains a quarter drawn.

“You’re lying,” I snapped. “I had reason to observe the house closely. I remember Messer Grande watching the opera on his own. I didn’t see you in his box while I was singing.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t have seen me.” She sent me a wide smile. “I was on my hands and knees at the time, well covered by his robe.
”

***

Luigi was waiting for me among the gondolas bobbing at the painted posts of the nearest landing. Floating along the canals hardly suited my mood. I needed to move my legs, so I told Luigi his services wouldn’t be required until after that night’s performance. Skirting puddles and avoiding awnings still dripping from the recent rain, I wandered aimlessly. Or so I thought. My feet knew where they were going; they were carrying me toward the Piazza, toward Messer Grande’s office, away from the opera house where I would soon be expected to rehearse a scene from
The Labors of Hercules
.

Why hadn’t Messer Grande told me La Samsona had been in his box when Zulietta was murdered? He certainly expected me to report on my conversations with everyone from Maria Albergati to Cesare Pino. His silence wasn’t based on overdeveloped moral rectitude—that hardly existed in our society. It would be highly unusual to find a man of his status who didn’t have a mistress stashed somewhere. This friendly man had asked me to use his Christian name—Andrea—and had treated me as an equal in the murder investigation, yet he’d kept me in the dark about a central feature of the case.

Brooding darkly, I turned down an alley that would take me to the Mercerie and thence under the great clock that stands on the north side of the Piazza. A weak sun had made its appearance, but its milky rays didn’t penetrate this thin shaft. In the dimness, footsteps approached from behind, running lightly though there was no reason for haste. The alley was so narrow, one man couldn’t pass another unless they both flattened themselves along the brick walls.

I spun around. My heart had become a tiny hammer; I felt its blows as my fingers went to the bulge of my amulet bag. My follower drew up abruptly. It was a man in the loose yellow shirt and worn loden cloak of a gypsy. His skin was nut brown and an embroidered scarf was tied around his head. He kept his chin on his chest, refusing to meet my eyes.

I didn’t know whether to be relieved or disgusted. “Andrea,” I said. “You must have better things to do than follow me in your silly disguise. Your mistress is fresh from her bath and would welcome a visit, I’m certain.”

As the man raised his chin, the whites of his eyes flashed through the gloom. “
Che diavolo
?” His hand flew to his sash and curled around a silver hilt. His accent was strange, his tone unfriendly. “What is this nonsense you say?”

I was staring into the exotic face of a wary, puzzled gypsy. No amount of cosmetics could transform Messer Grande’s features into these. “
Scusi
,” I muttered, nodding a small bow. “I thought you were someone I knew.”

With that I turned and strode quickly to the opening at the far end of the alley. My back tingled with each step, anticipating the slash of cold steel. On the Mercerie, the shops had just reopened after the midday siesta, and a swelling tide of humanity filled the street. I dove to my right and exhaled deeply when the corner of my eye caught my gypsy turning left. After pausing for a moment to watch his bright head scarf weave in and out of the crowd, I directed my steps toward the theater. Pushing my way through unyielding shoulders, gawking tourists, and hooded maskers, I reminded myself what I believed about loyalty and justice and wondered if anything in Venice was truly as it seemed.

***