5 - Her Deadly Mischief (7 page)

Chapter Six

The passage of another hour found me pacing the wings, mentally entering the character of the hot-blooded crusader Rinaldo. Murder or no murder, curtains must rise as scheduled and singers must be costumed and in good voice. For most of the first act, I managed to put thoughts of Zulietta and Alessio and Messer Grande aside. I bathed the house in impassioned song and gave Maestro Torani’s opera every credit it deserved. The rest of the cast also did their best, and our maestro drowned his wig in tears of joy when the audience responded with the same explosive frenzy which had greeted the previous night’s truncated performance.

It was near the end of the act when my sleuthing nature took hold. Emilio and I shared the stage, which had been designed to represent a sandy cove. Sweets for the eye abounded: most prominently, a dozen ballet girls whose legs were encased in glistening green fish tails. Mermaids, of course, lolling on the sand and combing their unbound locks. Behind them, machinery concealed below stage caused a trio of elongated cylinders to rotate; their blue and silver coverings simulated billows of the sea with astonishing reality. As Emilio warbled through a lengthy recitative and aria describing our journey to find the wise hermit who would provide magical tools to defeat Armida, all I had to do was assume a graceful pose on a sturdy papier-mâché boulder and keep my mouth shut.

Well and good, except that in my case, locked lips give rise to a busy brain. Emilio had completed only a few bars before my gaze strayed beyond the footlights.

At first, only insignificant details met my eye: fluttering fans, a
grappa
seller weaving his way through the pit, twinkling flames reflected by a multitude of opera glasses. Then I took stock more closely, beginning with the upper tiers.

Torani had mentioned that the family of Alessio’s intended bride occupied a box directly above Messer Grande’s. The chief constable was wearing his bright red robe of office, so despite his beaked mask, I spotted him sitting with several other dignitaries, halfway along the left. I wondered if I should send up a note explaining that urgent business would prevent me from visiting Murano as planned, then thought better of it. Messer Grande would not be put off so easily. I would have to come up with something better, but just now I was anxious to study the Albergati family.

One tier above Messer Grande, a pasty-faced wisp of a girl was tucked between a pair of grim patricians. While Signor and Signora Albergati sat bolt upright, unmasked, barely glancing toward the stage, the girl followed Emilio’s performance as if entranced. She swayed to the music and once or twice put a hand on her heart as if truly moved. Behind this mismatched trio, several tall young men shifted about the depths of the box, pouring liquid refreshment and taking snuff. Ah, the brothers. Had one of them been given the charge of dispensing with the meddlesome Zulietta? A priest was hovering, too. I could just make out his black-and-white vestments.

I adjusted my pose on the boulder, mildly surprised. Given the rampant gossip over Zulietta’s murder, I would have expected the Albergati family to forego their evening at the opera, or at least close their curtains halfway. Scanning the pit, I saw fingers pointing in their direction, and among their luxuriously seated neighbors, more opera glasses were trained on the Albergati box than on the stage.

Mama and Papa must be made of stern stuff. And Maria? The pale-as-porridge miss grasped the railing as if she meant to vault herself onstage with the object of her adoration. If this was truly Maria, she was either a genius at behaving as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, or the arrest of her former fiancé had played little sport with her emotions.

As Emilio moved downstage to deliver what, for him, would be a thrilling finish to his aria, I shot my gaze to the opposite side of the auditorium. On the first tier, La Samsona appeared to be keeping up a lively banter with several dandies on the floor. Her voluptuous bosom was all but exposed as she leaned over to take a small bunch of posies. She made a great show of deciding whether to tuck it behind her ear or down her bodice, and her admirers applauded when the flowers found a home between her breasts.

A mere flick of the eyelids raised my focus to the fourth-tier box where Zulietta had been stabbed. The murder box, as I thought of it now. Someone had replaced the curtain the poor woman had clutched in her fall; the crimson panels were drawn tight.

A mask, I said to myself, the curtains make a crimson mask that conceals the box’s secrets as surely as the
bauta
hid the killer’s identity. But one thing couldn’t be concealed. The murder box was only the fifth along the right-hand side of the horseshoe that made up the auditorium, and La Samsona held court from the third box on the first tier. From her door, it was only steps to the staircase that gave access to the upper tiers. Perhaps Madame Dumas had the right idea. Moving swiftly, the oversized courtesan could have covered the space between those boxes in less than five minutes.

A burst of raucous approval from Emilio’s claque put an end to my musings. As I eased off my boulder and strolled upstage to take my place for my next aria—which I intended to put his to some considerable shame—I decided to pay La Samsona a visit.

During the second interval, the mermaids would shed their tails and treat the audience to an extended ballet. The perfect opportunity.

***

Maestro Torani considered it bad form for singers to mingle with the audience during the intervals. Still, it was a frequent practice; keeping fame-drunk singers from their admirers was roughly as successful as trapping an eel in a tuna net. Just last season Emilio had left the stage—fully costumed, mind—and popped up in the box of a certain lady where he ostentatiously balanced a hip on the railing and laughed during my finest embellishments. Torani had docked him a week’s pay.

I hoped to avoid that fate by donning a disguise of sorts. Once Benito had hastily readied me for the third act, I threw a light cloak over my costume, tied a white satin mask over the upper part of my face, and slipped through the pass door while the maestro was closeted with the box office manager.

Liveried servants whisked up and down the stairway. The curving corridors were a pandemonium of din and feminine conversation. While many of the men remained seated to admire the graceful limbs of the dancers, the women were on the move, shifting from box to box, intent on paying as many social calls as possible. As I threaded my way through panniered skirts of satin and silk, a few ladies recognized me despite my mask and insisted on delivering a compliment on my performance. By thanking them with only a brush of my lips on their hands and moving with determination, I reached La Samsona’s box with a good twenty minutes to spare before I had to return backstage.

A willowy footman in snug, cherry-red livery answered my knock. The box was dim, as the curtains were half-drawn and only one of the wall sconces was aflame. At first the footman attempted to dismiss me with a sneer and a firm shake of his proud head. “My mistress is already engaged.”

I insisted, making my high, melodic voice carry to the woman who occupied a low armchair angled well back from the rail. A man in a devil’s mask sat close at her side. His arm was buried in her skirts up to his elbow. She pushed him away and asked over her shoulder, “Who is it, Lelio?”

I lowered my mask.

“It is S…Signor Tito Amato,” the footman stammered, no longer quite so sure of himself.

It took only a moment for La Samsona to dismiss her companion and welcome me to the seat still warm from his backside. In the midst of exchanging the usual courtesies, she ordered, “Lelio, pour Signor Amato a glass of wine. Fetch some
mandorlato
. And,” she paused to send me a sidelong, heavy-lidded look, “do close the curtains all the way.”

From a small cabinet, the footman produced a silver dish of almond nougat and two glasses of Cyprus wine. As he deposited these on a tripod table before us, La Samsona leaned over to lay a hand on my sleeve. My nose was assaulted by her heavy scent—attar of roses. I ducked my chin. The long fingers that dug into my forearm sported three huge gemstone rings. I wondered if they were real or paste. I was no jeweler, but they looked damned fine to me. I could say the same of the diamond bracelet encircling the wrist that was decidedly thick and sinewy for my taste. But the lady was speaking, and I had better pay attention.

“…so pleased you’ve given me this opportunity to tell you how much enjoyment your performances have afforded me. Perhaps you’ll allow me to repay you in some small way. I am also famous for certain talents.”

Momentarily speechless, I felt her hand shift from my sleeve to stroke the silk of my breeches. I captured that hand with my own and locked my gaze on eyes as brilliant as the settings of her rings. They shone from a face defined by high cheekbones, a prominent nose, and a strong rounded chin decorated with a heart-shaped patch. If La Samsona’s features had not been as perfectly symmetrical as a classical statue, they would have been overwhelming. As it was, they were simply magnificent, the goddess Athena walking among mortals.

I removed the goddess’ roving hand firmly to her lap and said, perhaps a bit too bluntly, “I came to discuss Zulietta Giardino.”

La Samsona sank back against her cushion and rearranged the flowers at her bosom. Their gay colors fought with the multihued beads and spangles encrusting the bodice of her lilac gown. She gazed at me with a thoughtful expression. “Oh, dear, have I got it all wrong? Are you like the lead castrato at the San Benedetto? More fond of boys than women?”

I shook my head. “Believe me, dear lady, I’m only here to ask a few questions regarding your friend Zulietta. She was your friend, was she not?”

Was it my imagination that La Samsona stiffened a bit? She covered whatever emotion my statement produced by reaching for her glass and taking a long drink. “You’re merely indulging an appetite for scandal? I confess I’m disappointed in you, Signor Amato. I’m also getting tired of answering questions about that silly little wager. It was not nearly so important as people want to make out.”

“This isn’t an idle visit. I have a pressing interest in Zulietta’s murder, and I think you can help me if you will.”

She narrowed her eyes and took another generous draft of wine. “Go on.”

“Did you realize that Zulietta was on the verge of winning your wager?”

“I judged it couldn’t be too long. Zulietta and I met on the field of combat, and the better woman prevailed. I would reproach myself except that the affair took a turn I could hardly have expected.”

“What’s that?”

“I launched into the contest as an amusement, a mere dalliance. But Zulietta fell in love. She actually lost her heart to Alessio Pino, and that great child gave every sign of being equally besotted.”

“Love often flares up quickly and just as quickly fades,” I observed.

“Not for that pair. They saw no one but each other and parted with the greatest difficulty. When last we met, Zulietta assured me Alessio was determined to have her as his wife.”

“If she meant to marry him, why didn’t she call off the wager?”

La Samsona took up her fan, unfurled it, and cooled her cheeks languidly. I couldn’t help but notice that this courtesan’s fan was painted with a perfectly respectable hunting scene. Or was it? Were the men on horses chasing a stag or an unclad nymph? Difficult to tell in the dimness.

“I don’t know, but she didn’t. Our pact was signed and sealed and very much in force.” The fan halted for the space of a heartbeat. “Perhaps Zulietta wanted to offer my jewels to Alessio as her dowry. Can you imagine? A Hebrew who had been on the town for years and a glassmaker of Alessio’s standing, practically royalty in that little world of Murano? Such a match is unheard of, impossible, but my friend—yes, I counted Zulietta as a friend—believed that true love could triumph over all. You’d think she would have learned by now. Poor thing—I would never have begrudged her a few baubles if the affair could bring her happiness.”

“That’s very generous.” I gave her rings a pointed look, then the rope of pearls around her neck. “And hard to believe. The jewels you’re wearing tonight must be worth a fortune. I can only imagine what you must have at home.”

She snapped the fan shut and drew it through her hand several times. If I chose to consider this gesture a silent message in the fashionable language of the fan, La Samsona was ordering me to withdraw. But I stayed where I was; this woman was not one to hold her tongue and let her fan do the talking. She confirmed my impression by throwing her head back and laughing with a donkey’s bray. She continued on a chuckle, “We have only a slight acquaintance, Signor Amato, so I’ll forgive you for thinking I’m a fool. The wager specifically entitled Zulietta to the jewels on my person and in the casket in my bedchamber. When I saw how the wind was blowing, I took steps…”

Tossing her fan on the table, La Samsona rose and went to open the door. She summoned the footman who had retreated to the corridor.

“More wine, mistress?”

“No, Lelio.” She favored him with a doting smile. “I want you to tell Signor Amato where I sent you Thursday last.”

Without missing a beat, he faced me and replied, “The Banco Giro, Signore.”

“And what was the burden you carried?” At his hesitation, she encouraged, “It’s all right. Just answer the question.”

“A lockbox containing your very best jewels.”

“Tell him what they did with the box.”

“The director of the bank took charge of it himself. He locked it in their vault.”

“Thank you, Lelio. You may withdraw.”

She swept back and seated herself with a whisper of lilac skirts. Reclaiming her fan, she asked, “Does that satisfy you? Or do you still think I murdered my friend to keep her hands off my remaining trinkets?”

I took a deep breath, thrown off balance by her forthright manner.

La Samsona regarded me severely. Her face was now all angles, her eyes stormy, and she tapped her closed fan against her left ear. I didn’t mistake the fan’s gesture this time. It meant
I wish to be rid of you
. I was also aware of the ballet music drawing to a close; Maestro Torani would have my head if I wasn’t onstage in five minutes.