5 - Her Deadly Mischief (6 page)

“What about his chin?”

“Alessio’s chin?”

“Yes, you said the murderer’s mask left the lower part of his face bare. Did it resemble Alessio’s?”

I took time to think but had to shake my head. “One man’s chin is very like another.”

“Of course. It was a faint hope.” He again turned his gaze to the water and mused in a milder tone of voice. “This case makes me think of an old fairy tale.”

“Which one?”

“The Beauty and the Beast.”

“Oh, yes. A beast captures a beautiful maiden and her love restores him to his true self—a handsome prince.” I shook my head. “But the story doesn’t fit. The only beast in this matter is Pamarino, and handsome he’ll never be.”

“That’s true.” Messer Grande turned and propped an elbow on the smooth marble railing. The crowd of foreigners was drifting away. “But,” he continued, fastening on me with eyes of deepest brown, “I’d bet my last
soldo
that our little beast was hopelessly in love with Zulietta.”

“Pamarino?” I stared back incredulously.

“That misshapen body holds a heart as tender as any other man’s, does it not?” My companion’s voice again turned silky, a tone I was beginning to realize served him for both suspicion and reproof.

I was instantly ashamed. Who was I to disapprove of a dwarf’s longings? For every bouquet tossed at the opera house, I received as many gawking stares or whispered crudities on the streets. My tall height, longer than average limbs, and beardless face marked me as a castrato for anyone who cared to observe these peculiarities, and many a half-wit felt compelled to make a remark about me or the women who found me attractive. For consolation, I had my work and Liya, the love of my life. With his more obvious disfigurement, how much worse must it be for Pamarino?

I asked, “Do you think that’s why Zulietta’s dwarf is throwing blame on Alessio? Sheer jealousy?”

“It makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“Only if Zulietta had truly fallen in love with Alessio as he claims.” I shut my mouth and let the sun warm my cheeks. I was surprised that Messer Grande was discussing the crime in such an open manner, but he regarded me with a frank, friendly expression, so I continued cautiously, “Do you believe Alessio’s story?”

“What story? So far, that young man has told me very little and absolutely refuses to account for his movements last night.”

We both wrinkled our noses as a fisherman climbed the bridge steps with a shallow basket on his head. He was hawking sole and mackerel, but he’d left it too late. His wares were beginning to smell.

Messer Grande removed his snuffbox from his waistcoat and took a delicate pinch. After his sneeze, he said, “I don’t like it when cases are this complicated. Usually when a whore is murdered I have only two men to consider—her pimp or the last man who warmed her bed. This affair of the wager is a tricky business—if only you had gotten a better look at the fellow that stabbed Zulietta.” He proffered the snuffbox, but I shook my head. Tobacco wrecks havoc on the vocal cords.

“Have you spoken to Signor Albergati? He could at least confirm whether Alessio had called off the marriage.”

“Indeed,” he replied dryly. “If Signor Albergati would condescend to receive me.”

“He won’t see you?”

“I was turned away from his door like a humble turnip seller.”

“Surely you can insist. You are…Messer Grande.”

A grimace twisted his pleasant face. “The citizens of our Republic take my measure with different rods. I hold authority that can frighten a porter or a poor ship caulker out of his wits, but let me present my card at one of the palaces that line this waterway and I hear, ‘Perhaps his Excellency will receive you tomorrow.’”

I nodded. In the old days, there had been no official peace keepers. The great families provided for their own security with squads of liveried bravos while the common folk settled their differences as best they could. I wasn’t surprised that Messer Grande often ran up against the lingering traces of that lawless era. But there was something else. “It could be that Signor Albergati’s reluctance stems from the fact that he and his sons also had a motive to dispense with Zulietta.”

“Yes, that has occurred to me. Once those curtains parted, the spectators would have talked of nothing but Alessio flaunting his new mistress.” He gave a hollow laugh. “Even your fine talents might have failed to recapture their attention.”

“The Albergatis’ humiliation would have known no bounds.”

My companion nodded his agreement. “All true, but the old father is infirm and hobbled by a chronic case of gout. If any of them is our murderer, it would have been one of Maria’s brothers or a loyal bravo from the household. I would bet on the brothers—the one named Umberto is known as a hothead. I’ve taken steps to obtain a magistrate’s writ to force Signor Albergati’s hand, but it will be several days before my request is acted on.”

“Well, while you’re waiting, I did learn one thing that might be of help.” I went on to recount the tale of old Biagio’s sailor.

“I see,” Messer Grande said slowly, studying me with an expression that landed somewhere between amusement and curiosity. “So, you’ve been asking questions on your own. I suppose that means you’re every bit the sleuth they say you are.”

“‘They say?’ Who are
they
?”

He gave me a broad grin. “I think I’ll let you find out for yourself.”

I felt my own lips twitch in return. Several clever replies popped into my head, but instead I merely asked, “Have you investigated this sailor?”

“Yes, a man of his description inquired about Alessio Pino at the Pearl of the Waves. He waited nearly half an hour, then left the tavern.”

“Alessio was late because of the drunken gondolier.”

“It would seem so.”

“The sailor must have gone to seek Alessio at the opera house then.”

“Very likely, but that avenue of inquiry is also at a standstill. All we know is that he appeared to be a seafaring man…” Messer Grande frowned as he swept his arm in a wide arc that took in a flotilla of boats on the canal and a host of foreigners crossing the bridge, all of whom had arrived aboard ship.

I sighed in frustration. “This entire situation is fraught with such difficulties. The murderer wore an ordinary disguise, wielded a common dagger. I suppose the bonds that restrained the dwarf were fashioned of cord you could find just about anywhere.”

My companion nodded, and I continued. “What luck this killer has enjoyed. Besides all that, he somehow escaped the notice of everyone in the opera house except me.”

“At least I have you,” Messer Grande murmured with that amused, appraising look in his eyes.

“Yes, but I bring precious little to your investigation. How do you proceed on such scanty proofs?”

Messer Grande didn’t seem near as dissatisfied as I. He smiled broadly. “I have my ways. Continue to assist me and you may learn some of them.”

***

Later that evening, I stretched out on the comfortable sofa in my dressing room at the Teatro San Marco and closed my eyes. Benito was moving through his customary preparations: hanging my costumes in proper order, mixing cold-creams and powders, laying out puffs, fine-pointed brushes, and crimson paste for my lips. Next door, Vittoria’s agile gullet was moving through scales, and somewhere below, a violin sounded a mournful tune. Immersed in this familiar routine, I felt truly at peace for the first time since Zulietta’s murder had thrown the theater into chaos.

I had taken leave from Messer Grande with difficulty. He insisted that we cross to Murano immediately. The dogged chief constable harbored grave suspicions concerning Alessio but would not turn his case over to the Avogaria for trial until he had exhausted all possible avenues of investigation. Something about the formidable Cesare Pino must have aroused Messer Grande’s suspicions, because he wanted my assessment on the glassmaker’s resemblance to the murderous masked figure. I had escaped a windy trip across the lagoon only by pleading that I must coddle my throat for the night’s performance and giving my word that I would accompany him to Murano early tomorrow. He promised to call at my house with a boat.

My blessed calm was short-lived. A knock sounded on my door, and before Benito could cross the room to open it, Liya swept in, looking all the world like Titolino when he was trying—very hard—not to tell a secret. My head left the pillow. My feet hit the floor. As my wife enfolded me in a prolonged embrace, I could feel her heart hammering out a staccato beat.

Pushing me away to arm’s length, Liya stammered, “I can’t stay…I must get home…but I wanted to tell you…I saw Papa.”

“And?” When my wife had fled Venice so many years ago, her mother vowed to have no more to do with Liya or the child she carried. Her father was not so hasty to disown his daughter—Pincas stored more loving kindness in his little finger than most people displayed in a lifetime—but Liya’s rejection of her heritage and her devotion to Italy’s ancient pagan religion tested even Pincas’ loyalty.

“Papa was happy…actually happy to see me. He came running out of the back of the shop as soon as he heard my voice.” Her eyes glittered with unshed tears. “He embraced me. He wanted to know all about Titolino. And how you are doing, of course.”

“He must not be very happy with me.” Over Liya’s shoulder, I saw Benito nodding as he applied a curling iron to my third-act wig.

“Not very,
mio caro
. Papa admits he would rather see me married to a man from the ghetto, but he’s indebted to you for rescuing Fortunata and me from the fire before I left home. He thinks a great deal of you…though he’ll never understand why I want to live with an
evirato
who can never become his grandson’s legal father.”

I nodded as I squeezed Liya’s arms. Pincas wasn’t the only one. Most of the respectable Cannaregio housewives shunned our unorthodox household. These stern sentinels of virtue had little use for the opera. To them and their hardworking husbands, Liya would always be an apostate Jew with a bastard son and I an odd piece of theatrical riffraff. This was of little importance to me. I spent my days at the opera house, in a close-knit community that often ran counter to the established order. But I worried for Liya and Titolino’s sake. The boy would soon be going to school. How would he be treated there?

Despite all that, I felt compelled to state the obvious: “As far as the ghetto and the rest of Venice are concerned, you and I are not married at all. Not a situation to warm a father’s heart.”

Liya’s eyes glittered with more than tears. A peculiar smile played about her lips. “Papa did have something to say about that. I’ll spare you the first part, but listen to his last words on the subject…” She paused to press a handkerchief to her lips. I knew this ploy; she was enjoying the advantage of superior knowledge, at least for the moment. Liya continued by repeating her father’s words, “‘At least you didn’t follow the same path as Mina Grazziano.’”

That stumped me. Who was Mina Grazziano?

I tumbled to the answer just as Liya replied, “Silly! Mina is Zulietta. Or was. Her father was Davide Grazziano. He belonged to the same synagogue as my father.”

“Belonged? Is he dead, too?”

She nodded. “Signora Grazziano was widowed some time ago, left with five daughters to provide for. Mina was the oldest and the most attractive. Not really pretty. But the girl had a way about her.”

“You knew her?”

“In passing. Mina was about Sara’s age. They weren’t great friends, but still, if your sister knows someone, so do you.”

“How did Mina become Zulietta?”

“That must have happened when I was living in Monteborgo.” Liya’s dark brows drew together. “Papa isn’t clear on the details. He just knows that Signor Malpiero caused a scandal by taking Mina away from her family and installing her in his palazzo.”

“We must find out more,” I said excitedly. At that instant, the approaching performance of
Armida
was the farthest thing from my mind. If the massive ghetto gates hadn’t already been locked for an hour or more, I would have set off to find Zulietta’s family right then.

“Already arranged,” my lovely wife replied as she gathered her
zendale
over her head. “First thing tomorrow, we’ll visit the ghetto. Papa has promised to take us to talk with Signora Grazziano. His confraternity from the synagogue has contributed generously to her upkeep, so she will hardly refuse.”

I took a loud gulp. “First thing tomorrow? You and I?”

“Why, yes. Papa wants to go after prayers, but before the shop gets busy. Surely Maestro Torani won’t have you rehearsing that early.”

“No, not Torani. It’s Messer Grande that requires my presence.” I explained briefly.

“Tito, no. You must come with me—since Papa has been good enough to include you in this favor. We must both visit Mina…er, Zulietta’s mother.” Liya regarded me intently, clasping the ends of the
zendale
under her chin. There was more here than idle curiosity, more than reuniting with her father. Liya appeared to be as interested in this case as I was. “Besides,” she finished, almost accusingly, “you’re the one who notices things, who always seems to ask the right questions.”

I raised my hands in a placating gesture. “Then calm your worries,
cara
. I’ll be at your side.”

“But how? You can’t cross Messer Grande. If he has ordered—”

I took Liya in my arms and stopped her questions by kissing her mouth. By the time she left, I’d promised that I would hold off Messer Grande and we would pass into the ghetto as soon as the gates opened on the morrow.

Benito joined me as I stood at the door watching my wife hurry down the corridor dodging ballet girls and spear carriers. “Did I miss something, Master?”

“I doubt it,” I sighed, bracing my hands against the doorjamb. “You rarely do.”

“But I must have”—he draped a towel around my neck and gestured toward my dressing table—“because I don’t recall you perfecting the trick of being in two places at once.”