Midnight in Venice (7 page)

“I love the Salute too. Have you ever gone to hear the organ vespers?”

“No. I know they start at 3 p.m., but I always seem to miss them.”

Alessandro looked at his watch as he swung the boat into the Grand Canal. “Come on, we should be just in time.”

“Don't you have to get back to work?”

“I can take another hour—I don't have anything pressing this afternoon. I'm not keeping you from anything, am I?”

She shook her head vigorously. She'd have to work late into the evening now on some letters Silvio wanted translated, but she didn't care. She didn't want the afternoon to end. So much for taking it slowly.

He docked in front of the Salute, and they walked side by side up the Salute steps, the plaintive sound of the organ reaching them through the open doors. The old blind woman was begging as usual beneath a sign that stated “Absolutely no one can ask for money to enter the church.”
Olivia was surprised when Alessandro dropped a couple of one-euro coins into the woman's basket.

“How are you this afternoon, Maria?” he asked politely.

She looked up, and although her eyes were clouded over with blindness, a smile of recognition spread over her wrinkled face. “
Bene, bene, molto grazie
, Signor Rossi. And who is the lady with you?”

“This is Olivia, Maria. She lives in the neighborhood.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Olivia said, still puzzled. She knew that begging was illegal in Venice, yet Alessandro, a cop, was giving this woman money.

“I recognize your voice and your step,” Maria said. “You always wish me a good evening.”

It was true, but she'd never given her money. The beggars of Venice made her uneasy. With their almost theatrical subservience, she imagined them enslaved to some Dickensian, Fagin-like boss, something she didn't want to encourage, although neither did she want to be uncharitable.

She dropped a euro coin in her basket, and Maria thanked her. “I'll watch out for her, Signor Rossi,” she added.

“Thank you, Maria. I appreciate that.”

“I don't understand,” Olivia whispered once they were seated inside. “I thought begging was illegal in Venice.”

“It is. But Maria is a special case. She was an Albanian refugee, and for many years, she lived in a deserted garden shed near you. While she qualified for social assistance, she refused to accept it. It was very frustrating for the authorities, and there was talk of forcing her into an institution for her own good. Then one day she told the priest she overheard two men planning to steal one of the Salute's Titians. He reported it to the police, and the plot was foiled.

“She was very proud of her role in saving the painting, and it gave me an idea. I told her that as a reward for saving the priceless painting, she would receive a check every month. It's only a welfare check, but she believes it's a reward. She won't leave her garden shed, so I convinced the city to let the guys at the station convert it into a cottage, and it now has a tiny bathroom, heat, and electricity. Sometimes police work takes a lot of creativity.”

“I'll say. That's really generous. But why is she still begging?”

“I admit that part backfired on us,” he said with a low laugh. “She thinks she's an undercover cop now. But she takes the role very seriously, and we consider the church—if not the whole neighborhood—safe in her hands. She may be blind, but she hears a lot.”

They left the church just as the final notes of the organ were fading away. Maria was gone, and they were docking in front of the Chiesa dell'Angelo San Raffaele just as it started to gently rain.

“Will you call me if you need to talk to anyone about the man who attacked you?” he asked as he helped her out of the boat.

“I'm fine,” she insisted and put up her umbrella. “You know, every time I see you, someone is getting arrested. I'm glad it wasn't me today.”

“How about yesterday at the bar? I didn't arrest anyone then.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm certain. But seriously, sometimes the shock hits later. Call me any time if you need someone to talk to. Otherwise, I'll see you tomorrow night.” He kissed her then. It was the customary kisses on both cheeks, but then he added a third to her forehead, his lips lingering there a moment longer before he turned and walked back to the station.

When she arrived back at her apartment less than an hour later, a box containing the most exquisite bouquet of orchids was waiting outside her door. She didn't have to read the card to know who they were from.

She took out her phone and typed a text. She didn't need to refer to the card he'd given her today, because she already knew his number by heart.

Thank you for the orchids and the wonderful lunch (not to mention being my guardian angel). See you tomorrow night.

The message left with a
whoosh
, and seconds later an incoming one pinged:

My pleasure. I'll be your Raphael anytime.

 

The next morning, Olivia went to the island of Murano to meet Rocco Zucaro, the glass artist she'd be translating for in New York. It was going to be hard to keep her thoughts from wandering back to Venice. Indeed, the day ahead in Rocco's studio now felt like only a way to fill time before going to see Alessandro at the Fenice.

Silvio came to her office before she left. “I don't know how much reading you've been doing on the family. Rocco had a sister who was also a glassmaker. She married the son of one of the wealthiest men in Venice, if not Italy, and was murdered not long after. It was probably a botched kidnapping, but it was all kept quite hush-hush. I thought you should know so you're not caught off guard if it comes up.”

She thanked him, thinking this was the second woman she'd heard of being murdered in Venice. First Alessandro's wife and now Rocco's sister.

Silvio offered to call Dino for her, but she declined, saying she'd take the vaporetto. She'd never told Silvio that despite her attempts to get over it, Dino still made her uneasy. He was friendly, but she couldn't quite shake the feeling that whenever she was in his presence, he was watching her. Today, it didn't help that she'd had a nightmare the night before about a giant seagull in the Piazza San Marco. It pulled a baby out of its mother's arms and, carrying it by one leg, flew out over the Grand Canal. Hovering there, it held the baby under the water as the baby's mother screamed from the canal's edge. She had awakened with a start to the sound of her alarm, seagulls, and an ambulance siren, which explained some of it, but the rest had to have come from Dino.

Fortunately, the image evaporated an hour later when Rocco welcomed her into his studio and offered her a glass of grappa. He was in his mid-thirties, with cropped blond hair, a relaxed smile, and blue eyes that sparkled with humor. He was meticulously polite and, after handing her the bottle of grappa and a couple of glasses, he carried two wooden chairs closer to the warmth of the glass furnace, dusting one off with a towel before offering it to her. Everything about his manner indicated that he'd be an easy charge in New York, unlike some of the more temperamental artists Silvio represented.

He poured their grappa and set the bottle on the floor between them. “It's so nice to meet you at last. Marco is always talking about you. I thought I saw Marco near San Marco the other day, but Silvio tells me he's in Iceland. Such an interesting place to visit. I'm sure you'll be glad to have him back in Venice with you, though. I know you recently lost your father, and I know how important family is at such times.”

“Yes, it is,” she said. “And Marco has been wonderful.”

“You probably know of my sister's murder. She was better than I'll ever be. You're getting poor seconds in representing me. Her work was so intricate. She could make a goblet so delicate and so detailed, if you looked at it and nothing else for an entire year, you would still see details you had missed before.

“This business meant everything to her. We suffered some bad times after my father died. I was sure we were facing bankruptcy, but Katarina took control and found us an American dealer. Our less gracious competitors like to say it was her wealthy husband and not her skill that saved our business, but I know for a fact that she had turned it around before she married. And she worked every bit as hard after. Unfortunately, the dealer seemed to lose all interest after her death. By then, though, she had set us fully back on track, and while I still miss my sister every day, I'm satisfied with how things are going.” He picked up the bottle of grappa, but Olivia declined—she didn't want to show up at Alessandro's concert with a hangover.

Rocco topped off his own glass before continuing. “Of course, unless one of my children decides to follow in my footsteps, there will be no one to carry on the family tradition. It was assumed I would follow my father's path, but it is not like that now. Children have to choose their own paths. Right now, my daughter talks of becoming a veterinarian, and my son wants to be a professional soccer player. They are young, and so they may change their minds many times, but I will support them in whatever they choose.

“And this studio will continue—only the artists will not have the surname of Zucaro. And I'm at peace with that too . . . although I know if Katarina were alive, she would not take it so lightly. She used to say it was good I had a son to carry on the family name. She made the beads you're wearing,” he concluded with a smile. “I didn't know they could still be had—so much of her work ended up in the States.”

“I love them,” she said. Now she knew who'd designed them. She only wished they weren't connected to such a tragic story.

Rocco had put together a series for his show. They were calling it Water Like Glass, and he'd taken for his inspiration the colors of the canals, the lagoon, and the Adriatic. He wanted to give the impression that at any moment the piece would turn to water and flow away and join the sea. He handed Olivia a string of beads, and she held them in her hand, expecting them at any moment to drip through her fingers.

He offered to give her a little demonstration before she left, and when she agreed, he went over to one of the worktables and turned on a blowtorch. Picking up a rod of blue glass, he heated it in the flame until it became a glowing white orb. With a pair of pliers, he pulled out a strand of molten glass. Shaping it with a few swift twists, he transformed the blob of glass into a tiny seahorse. “A little present for you,” he said, laying it on a stone block where it cooled to a sweet blue.

“It's lovely,” she said. “I'll always treasure it.”

“No, it is but a trinket, like what we make for the tourists.”

“It's very lucky for the tourists.”

Her work itself was easy, since he'd already chosen the pieces he wanted to show. Just as she was leaving, Luigi arrived with a red carry-on suitcase and an armload of forms to be signed for Customs. She resisted the urge to tell him to pack carefully. He was, after all, working for Silvio Milan, and it was his job to make sure nothing would break.

Still, as she left, Luigi looked at her a little oddly, and she wondered if he was expecting her to admonish him.

 

Yesterday was a disaster. All he had to do was steal her purse, put a tracker on her phone, and return it through her mail slot. And he does it in front of a cop? Stupid idea to hire a junkie to do it. At least he's in jail now, and as he doesn't have a clue who hired him, at least he can't name names. But without the tracer, I have to be doubly sure I don't lose sight of her now. Just one more day, and it'll be done.

 

Olivia arrived at the opera house at a quarter to eight. She was directed up the wide sweeping staircase to the Apollo Room, where an attendant took her coat. The bar adjoining the salon was packed, and Olivia took a glass of champagne from the tray that was being offered around.

Alessandro's father's friends looked very affluent. Every woman there was dressed in an elegant, flawless way that made her think of Kate Middleton or Michelle Obama. Pearls and diamonds graced their necks and sparkled on their earlobes and fingers. The men, from young to old, were dressed impeccably in dark suits, and expensive watches peaked out under diamond-cuffed white shirts. Women and men alike greeted each other warmly with kisses on both cheeks.

Not knowing anyone, Olivia felt awkward. But the fact she was dressed well in a new cream cashmere dress helped give her some confidence, and if the violet Murano beads weren't diamonds or pearls, she knew how much they flattered her.

She was glad she hadn't told anyone she was coming to this event. She wanted to keep it to herself. Silvio would want her to network, something she wanted a break from, while Marco would want all the details about Alessandro. But she still didn't know where this was going, and if things didn't work out, she wanted to be saved the pain and embarrassment of having to explain. After all, she'd met him only three times, and in one of those meetings she'd been under suspicion of having planted a bomb in an airport.

She took her champagne and walked from the lounge area into the hall itself. She was looking for Alessandro, of course, and she finally glimpsed him near the stage standing next to a distinguished older gentleman who was clearly his father. They were surrounded by people, and Alessandro was talking to a very elderly couple. Tonight he was wearing a formal jacket, not his black leather, but the effect was every bit as devastating.

She had no hope of getting near him, so she had just resigned herself to waiting for the recital when he looked at her. He gave her that sexy smile, and she raised a hand in greeting. Then he was swallowed back into the crowd before suddenly appearing at her side.

“Come here,” he whispered, and taking her by the elbow, he led her through the crowded salon, making his apologies as he went. Moments later, they were alone in the green room.

“I'm so glad you made it!” he said.

“Me too,” she said a little breathlessly. She started to add something conversational about his father having a lot of friends when she noticed him staring at her with alarm.

“What is it?” she said.

“Your necklace . . .”

“What? Don't you like it? It's from Murano.”

“It's my wife's . . . I mean, she made it. Where did you get it?”

“It was a Christmas present from Marco. I'm sorry, I didn't know. Your wife was a glassblower? Rocco Zucaro told me his sister Katarina made it . . . Oh my God, Rocco's sister was your wife, Katarina! I'm so sorry.” She was out of her depth here. What was she supposed to do? Her hands flew to the back of her neck to undo the clasp.

“No, no, leave it on,” he said. He gently took her hands in his. “It was just a shock to see you wearing it. Other than what I and her family have, most of her work has ended up in the hands of American collectors. It would've been a shock seeing her work anywhere—but especially since we . . .”

His voice tapered off, and Olivia sought to fill in the blank: especially since what?
We just met, we know each other, we're friends, we're dating?

It was a strange coincidence. More than one, in fact. Not only was she wearing his wife's beads, she'd also met his brother-in-law that very morning. But then everything about meeting Alessandro had been strange, starting from how they'd met in the airport. It was beginning to feel like destiny, if she even believed in such a thing. “I can take it off if it makes you uncomfortable,” she said.

“No, of course not,” he said. “I'd like to say it was made for you, but as beautiful as those beads are, they're no match for your eyes. I can't think of anyone they'd look lovelier on.” He smiled, and she saw herself reflected back in his dark eyes. The compliment was maybe a little over the top, but he seemed sincere in his intentions not to let this reminder of his wife come between them.

“Look,” he said, “I have to go soon, but I have something to ask—”

He was interrupted by a knock. “Alessandro?” someone said through the door. “Your father would like to see you.”

“I'll be right there.” He looked disappointed as he released her hands.

“You can ask me later,” she said. “Although if I leave through that door, your father's going to wonder what we've been up to.”

He laughed. “I'll just tell him you're a groupie—my only groupie, I might add. Still, yes, you're probably right. He'd be thrilled to see me with a woman, but maybe this isn't the best time. I don't want him to have a heart attack on his birthday. I'll introduce you after the recital.”

He opened the door leading to the hall. Looking with mock furtiveness in either direction, he whispered comically, “It's safe to go now. See you after the show!” He kissed her quickly on either cheek, and she thought how if anyone saw her, they'd conclude by the size of her smile that she'd indeed been up to no good with the star.

She found her way back to the Apollo Room just as the lights flicked off and on, the signal for people to find their seats. She took one close to where she was standing, while Alessandro walked with his father to the microphone at the front of the stage.

When the audience was quiet, Alessandro's father spoke. “Thank you, everyone, for coming. I am truly blessed to have so many good friends.”

Someone from the audience called out, “We love you, Antonio!” A woman started singing “Happy Birthday” and was joined by everyone in the room. This ended in cheers and applause, and Olivia could see that both father and son were touched.

It took Antonio a moment to regain his composure before speaking, but when he did he thanked them again for coming. “I also want to thank Alessandro for helping me celebrate tonight. Like most fathers, I dreamed my son would follow in my footsteps, and when I held him in my arms that first time, I could already imagine him racing the cars I made . . .”

Oh my God!
Alessandro belonged to
that
Rossi family?! Rossi racing cars were absolutely iconic—right up there with Lamborghini, Porsche, and Ferrari. No wonder his friends looked so well heeled! He was probably one of the richest men in all of Italy! Another reason why she hadn't connected Alessandro's wife with Rocco's sister. Silvio had said Rocco's sister had married into a wealthy family. It had never occurred to her that Alessandro was wealthy. He was a
cop
—though the palazzo on the Giudecca should've been a clue.

Suddenly, the enormity of his wife's death struck Olivia with a force it hadn't before. He'd given up the lifestyle of the super-rich to pursue his wife's kidnapper and killer. It spoke of incredible devotion, and she was right to be cautious. Katarina Zucaro was going to be a hard act to follow.

“But like all rebellious young boys,” Alessandro's father continued, “he spurned the family business and decided to play the piano instead. I was, of course, disappointed,” and smiling, he turned to face Alessandro, “and I hope you forgive me that. And I do thank you for humoring me by racing now and again.”

Alessandro placed an arm around his father's shoulders, while his father continued. “I came to accept it and used to joke that when he inherited the business, he'd turn the car factories into piano factories.” There was a ripple of laughter, and Olivia remembered her Grand Prix–loving brother-in-law, Phil, once mentioning while watching a race on TV that the Italian driver was also a concert pianist. She'd said that it was a peculiar mix of talents, but she'd thought nothing of it at the time, not even bothering to look up at the screen where she would've seen Alessandro.

The laughter died, and Antonio concluded emotionally: “But I have to say, his playing has been one of the great joys of my life. I wish Katarina could be here tonight. But I trust she can hear anyway and sends her blessings.”

Olivia wondered how Alessandro would react to this mention of his wife and was surprised when he looked at her through the crowd and gave her one of his heart-stabbing smiles.
Don't get ahead of yourself
, she reminded herself, knowing full well she might as well try to stop breathing.

Alessandro started by thanking everyone for coming and helping his father celebrate his birthday. “These have been difficult years, and I thank my father for convincing me to perform again. Here's to friends and family, to old memories and making new ones. Tonight, I will be playing my father's favorites.”

As he sat at the piano, a hush fell over the audience. Alessandro began with “Clair de lune” by Debussy. It was familiar to Olivia, but she'd never heard it played like this, a subtle blending of harmonies like colors on a canvas, an Impressionist painting in sound. His hands appeared to float over the keys rather than strike them.

Alessandro played for an hour. When it was over, he bowed and smiled and was rewarded with a standing ovation and calls of
Bravo! Bravo!

He went back to the piano and waited for the applause to stop before addressing the audience. “Thank you all again. Please stay and have another drink. I understand there's marvelous food. Let's make this a birthday my father will never forget. And now for the encore. I'm going to play something new but already very special to me. So while the rest of the program is dedicated to my father, this one is for the girl with eyes like violet Murano glass.”

An almost electrified murmur went through the crowd.
If curiosity and surprise had a sound, it would be this
, Olivia thought. The woman next to her looked at her curiously, and Olivia's hands went to her throat as if covering the beads would hide her identity.

But now he was playing again, and she forgot the curious looks and listened to the beautiful music that was being played just for her.