STEALING VENICE
Anna Erikssön Bendewald
Hudson-Ivy Press
Stealing Venice © 2016 by Anna Erikssön Bendewald.
Published by Hudson-Ivy Press. All rights reserved.
Cover design by Emily Duong.
Ebook formatting by Maureen Cutajar.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, or events, is entirely coincidental.
First ebook edition © 2016
Visit AnnaBendewald.com to find a family tree style outline of the main characters of this story.
Dear Reader,
What you have before you is my art. I have not embedded any anti-theft software in this book because I believe that you will treat it with respect, and not attempt to profit from it in any way.
I hope with all my heart that you enjoy it.
Anna
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A wise woman once said, “It takes a village to raise a child,” and the same has been true of bringing Stealing Venice before the public. Here are my villagers, in no particular order.
Kate Summers, who was the first to read my rough draft, and encouraged me. Stacey Aswad, Judi Bendewald, Cindy and John Lytle, Lana Stenerson, Rebecca Bush, Heather Church, Lyn Healy, Hollie Bendewald, Charlotte Tinker, Heather Ussery, and Pam Duncan for reading the next drafts and supporting my writing process. Thanks to Maureen Cutajar at GoPublishing, for making my book look like a novel. And I’m indebted to Francesco Sinatra, my dear Venetian friend who provides me with affogatos, and his Mama Paola who makes the best pasta!
Thank you to my husband, Mason Bendewald, who doesn’t enjoy reading and yet made this book possible because he believes in me, and to my daughters, Jem and Julia, for being patient with me while we did our homework together.
The biggest thanks goes to Monique Huenergardt, because all of the patience and encouragement in the world wouldn’t have been enough. For every good book, there is someone who knows how to polish the flow of the plot, and elicit even more intrigue from a tired writer. What’s beyond me is how she stayed so cool, understanding, and correct through the whole process. I thank God for Mo Reads You. Mo took a chance on me, and I will be forever in her debt.
Finally, you, Dear Reader, I am honored to have you visit my village, too. I hope you stay.
And now, I offer you the first step down the dark path with these families.
Anna Erikssön Bendewald
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
CHAPTER
1
Giselle’s plans were about to spin out of her control. She’d just arrived at the Musée Maillol in Paris, excited to see their new modern sculpture exhibition. Brochure in hand, she stepped into the hushed gallery, blissfully unaware that in rapid succession she would be accosted, escape, and witness a robbery-turned-murder.
She was immediately drawn toward the largest sculpture in the room, an enormous gorilla constructed entirely of clothes hangers. A group of art students encircled the beast, they were holding their ground against eager patrons jostling to get a glimpse of it. With her tall stature and three-inch heels, Giselle had no trouble peeking over shoulders and impromptu easels. She was at home among other artists, each student intensely focused on their sketchpad, their charcoal pencils flying over pages to capture every facet of their subject. Leaning in closer to study one of the developing sketches, she caught a whiff of Gauliose cigarettes and clothing in need of a good washing. Peeking over the shoulder of a lanky boy, she noted that he was sketching only the gorilla’s powerful hind legs.
“You’re drawn to his legs,” she observed.
“I prefer yours,” he replied without looking away from the sculpture.
She ignored his flirtation, and noticed a sculpted school of fish dangling near the ceiling to her left. Careful to avoid the jumble of book bags on the floor, she moved toward it, entranced. The slightest air currents caused the wire filigree fish to undulate as if it was a live school swimming in an invisible stream. The effect had a dreamy quality that was remarkable. She imagined what this piece might look like near an open window, catching the breeze and sunlight.
“Giselle!”
She startled and cringed inwardly at the sound of the booming voice. Ah, merde! This was supposed to be a quiet evening alone! Trying to appear oblivious, she casually looked around the room as if orienting herself. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a big man in a lilac-colored Izod shirt on the far side of the gallery waving a museum brochure over his head like a distress flag. Looming over him was an enormous bird of prey made of fuzzy white feathers and fragile bones.
Who on earth is that? Maybe if I move quickly enough, I can avoid him.
Ducking around a sculpture that appeared to represent the female reproductive system, it came to her. I recognize that shirt! It’s that American art collector! She’d never met him, but last night at a charity dinner, she was seated next to his wife, “Candice-just-call-me-Candy” Taft. Candy spent the entire meal pushing her phone under Giselle’s nose, tapping a sculpted nail on pictures of her husband posing in front of his latest art purchases. The photos made two things clear: he owned a lot of art, and he owned a lot of Izod sports shirts.
Giselle slipped into the next gallery, moving through its displays of various-sized pink, white and brown Neapolitan ice cream-inspired boxes and bright multi-colored birdcages, but heard his shoes slapping against the polished floor behind her. Ugh! What was I thinking, telling Candy Taft that I was dying to see this exhibit? Why can’t these collectors just leave me in peace? Maybe he’ll be too embarrassed to keep following me. She hustled into the next gallery, but her heart sank as she heard another distinct set of pounding shoes and realized Taft had been joined by another pursuer. She tried to hide behind a small tour group, but in her fiery-peach silk sheath and bronze heels, she stood out like a flamingo hiding in a flock of pelicans.
“Giselle!” He boomed, “It’s me, Hank Taft! My wife was at a fundraiser with you last night!”
With a deep sigh, she turned to face Taft and saw that he was in a footrace with a fastidious little man in an impeccable puce-colored suit. The agile little whip-of-a-man zipped past the American and skidded to a stop before her, just a half step ahead of Taft. She coughed as she was enveloped by a vapor of strong aftershave, and could only guess which of them had been so liberal with their fragrance application.
“Giselle, I simply must have a word with you,” the dapper little fellow huffed.
“Oui, monsieur…” she smiled. Although she recognized the Turkish collector who had been profiled in a recent art magazine, she was not inclined to acknowledge that.
“I am Atan.” He pronounced it with obvious pride, and thrust his thin chest out like a rooster posing before a hen. “I believe your last sculpture should never have been banned by the British! No! But then, my tastes run to outrageous, even dangerous art.” He arched an eyebrow lewdly as his eyes dropped to her décolletage.
Likes dangerous art, does he? My next sculpture will make him re-think that position.
Before she could comment, Taft waved a manicured and meaty paw of di
smissal toward Atan. “Oh, cut the crap, Ant Man.” She watched the smaller man bristle at the intentional mispronunciation. “The only thing outrageous about the art you collect are the price tags hanging from ‘em.” He leaned toward Giselle and squinted. “I gotta be frank with you, Giselle, your last sculpture makes me think you’ve got a screw loose in that pretty head of yours. But all the same, I want one of your pieces for my collection. What are you working on now? I want you to slap a ‘Sold’ sticker on it.”
The diminutive Turk had risen onto the balls of his feet to get a better look at her earrings. “My dear, I know antique jewelry, and your earrings are superb. They perfectly compliment your emerald eyes. From Cyprus?” Giselle smoothed a stray lock of blonde hair behind her ear and forced a smile at the compliment.
Startled by the vibration of her phone, she reached into her little evening clutch, withdrew it, and peered at the screen.
“Oh, I have to take this. It’s my agent, she’s the person you’ll be dealing with if you’re going to buy any of my sculptures. Will you excuse me for a moment Atan, Mr. Taft?”
The men nodded, and she stepped out of the nearest exhibit hall door into an alcove for privacy.
“Alo?”
“Alo, Giselle?”
“Fiamina, how are you?” Glancing over her shoulder, she ducked down an employee service passage.
“Good. I just called to tell you the funds from your last show have been transferred to the Africa Outreach Project.”
“Oh, that’s great news.” She hurried down a handicap access ramp with her phone pressed to her ear.
“Are you all right, chérie? You sound out of breath.”
“Just trying to evade a couple of collectors, named Taft and Atan.”
“Ooh! Good money there! Have them call me.”
“You know I hate dealing with them.”
“Ah, oui. Give them my number. I’ve got another line holding, so I’ll leave you to your escape.”
“À bientôt.”
Nodding to a security guard, Giselle popped the phone back into her purse, then moved fast down a long hallway, and slipped out a side exit. What now? Her driver was expecting her to be occupied for hours. If she called and waited for him, she’d be left standing on the sidewalk and risk being caught by Taft and Atan. They were probably already looking for her.
Making a snap decision, she walked across the street and down a flight of stairs to the Metro. High-heeled sandals wouldn’t be her footwear of choice for the commuter train, but tired feet were preferable to being trapped alone with a couple of rabid collectors. Since she couldn’t enjoy the exhibit, she would go to her husband’s office and persuade him to take her some place fun.
Giselle groaned when she reached the crowded platform. The underground station felt hot, filled with a growing mass of listless commuters all vying for a bit of personal space. An overhead speaker announced that the train was delayed, and her fellow travelers grumbled in unison before returning to their phones. A man near Giselle opened a bag and produced a sandwich, causing her to pivot away from the aroma of pâté and onions on brioche. This was becoming an evening she’d like to forget.
As she stood fanning herself with her exhibit brochure, she felt a dampening patch of sweat at the small of her back that stuck her dress to her skin. It seemed that time was standing still, and she was beginning to regret her mode of escape. The forlorn sounds of a busker’s saxophone floated from a nearby pedestrian tunnel, only to peter out after a few lazy notes. The roar of an approaching train caused everyone to crane their necks and look down the tunnel in expectation. No luck. It was on another track and blew straight through the station with a blast of heat that ruffled everyone’s hair.
“Adele!” It was a screech. “Oh la! Look at this mess!”
Giselle turned, along with the crowd, to stare at an old woman in an outrageous rainbow caftan scolding a toddler. The pair stood in the center of a widening pool of red juice as it fanned across the tile floor. People shuffled backward, bumping one another to avoid the fruit-scented mess. The child held her hands up for assistance, and the woman led her out of the puddle. Taking mincing steps in her green jelly sandals, she lifted her hem and unwittingly gave everyone a peek of support hose rolled down below swollen knees.
A flash of movement to Giselle’s left made her glance over just in time to see the evening go from bad to tragic. She saw a teenager wearing a headband wrench a briefcase out of an old man’s grasp, then shove him hard and sprint away. A second man with ultra-short blonde hair made a lightning-fast swoop, caught the senior, and then lowered him to the floor. Sprinting up the stairs after the mugger, the agile blonde yelled, “Zupynyty yoho! Stop him!”
People glanced around trying to figure out what had just happened as Giselle hurried over to help the old man. Passing a woman standing at the edge of the crowd, she said, “Please, call the police.” The woman nodded and made the call.
“He pushed the old grandpa!” the little girl garbled, pointing to the stairs where the men had just fled.
Giselle knelt next to the fallen man. The old man’s eyes were squeezed shut, and the color was draining from his face. She unbuttoned his collar, loosened his tie, and fanned him with her brochure. She noticed his white shirt was ironed and starched, and his suit was tailored. But judging from the frayed cuffs and lapels of his suit jacket, he’d fallen on hard times.
“You’re going to be okay. Do you have a heart condition?” She stroked his cheek with the backs of her fingers in an effort to get him to open his eyes.
“Ehhhh…” It came out a sigh.
“Do you take any medication?” She started to lift his head.
“I’m a doctor. Please leave his head on the ground.” A man came down to his knees and opened the old man’s jacket. He glanced at Giselle. “We want his airway open, and cradling his head can restrict that.”
Giselle complied, but it felt cruel to leave the man’s head on the floor. As she took his hand in hers, her eyes fell on a handcuff with a broken chain link dangling from his wrist. The doctor did a quick examination, then looked up at the crowd and yelled, “Someone call an ambulance!” before beginning CPR.
The sound of police sirens drifted from the street above, and Giselle saw a female police officer escorting the blonde Good Samaritan down the stairs. She was carrying the briefcase with the other half of the broken chain hanging from the handle. At the edge of the stairway, she set the case down, handcuffed the Good Samaritan to the handrail, and tried unsuccessfully to open the case. The hushed crowd stood fascinated as the officer questioned her suspect.
Next, a burly policeman hustled down the stairs, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief as he squeezed past the arriving commuters.
“Now, who got robbed?” Following everyone’s pointed fingers, he ignored the cuffed blonde suspect and headed toward the victim, with the female officer following. Seeing the red pool on the floor, he stopped short and his hands fluttered for his handkerchief again. A bystander pointed to the fallen plastic cup. “That’s fruit juice.” Stepping around the mess, the officer whipped out a notebook as he approached the sprawled man.
“This is the victim of the robbery? He was assaulted?” The policeman addressed the doctor, but when he got a look at Giselle, his mouth dropped open and he blinked. The doctor was breathing into the fallen man’s mouth, so Giselle answered for him.
“He was pushed.”
The rainbow-clad grandmother charged toward Giselle and the officer, dragging the toddler by the arm and shouting, “You’ve got the mugger! My granddaughter saw the whole thing!” She pointed at the handcuffed suspect triumphantly. “That guy with the buzzed blonde hair robbed the old man! He yelled something Slavic!”
“No, officer.” Giselle stood up. “You’ve handcuffed an innocent bystander who was helping. The mugger was a teenager.”
Another voice called out, “Oui, I think two or three men ran from the station.”
The conversat
ion was interrupted as paramedics arrived. The medical team came down the stairs toting a gurney and equipment. They quickly assessed him, and after a word with the doctor who’d been performing CPR, they lifted the fallen man onto the stretcher. Just then the delayed train pulled into the station and the platform erupted into chaos. Trying to stay ahead of the wave of jostling bodies, the female police officer grabbed the briefcase, took Giselle’s hand, and rushed her over to the stairway where the suspect was chained.
Disembarking passengers poured from the train’s doors and shoved toward the exits. Impatient commuters bumped against one another, all trying to board the train at once. Even more people stampeded down the steps, jamming onto the already crowded platform in the hopes of just making this train. Frustrated voices raised and echoed off the tile walls, creating a confused roar over the conductor’s announcements from the train’s speakers.
As the melee pushed Giselle and the female officer into the suspect, Giselle felt panic surge through her at the very real possibility of being trampled. She saw that the force of being dragged by the streaming crowd was cutting the handcuff into the man’s wrist, so she tried to shield him with her body. Together they leaned against the churning passersby, but she was alternately pushed against him, and dragged away. She gasped as something hard slammed into her from the side, almost knocking her to her knees, and then suddenly felt a strong arm around her waist holding her upright. She peeked over her shoulder and caught sight of a tourist with a towering backpack crashing his way through the crowd. The female police officer had latched onto the railing with one hand, and was gripping the briefcase handle with the other as she fought to stay on her feet.
“Back up!” she yelled, but no one paid any attention.
The tide of bodies lessened as the train pulled out of the station, but the blonde man didn’t immediately release her. Meaning to thank him, she looked up into his face, and immediately forgot what she was going to say.
His eyes were a startling blue and crystal-clear as aquamarines, set in a classic Eastern European, chiseled face. He had even, white teeth, sculpted lips, and the barest twitch of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. His blonde hair was incredibly short and impeccably cut. His features were so perfectly matched, he reminded her of an Italian sculpture. She was aware that his strong arm was still holding her tightly against him.
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