Left to Hunt (An Adele Sharp Mystery—Book Nine)

by Blake Pierce

  Adele shivered against the tone, trying to remember exactly why they'd come.

  “We're sorry for bothering you,” Adele said. “But we're investigating and need a second of your time... Mrs...”

  “You can call me Harmony,” the woman said without batting an eye. If she had, Adele suspected the glued-on eyelash extensions might have reached to her cheek. The woman's hair was dyed pure silver and the suit she wore matched with, of all things, stenciled snowflakes circling the collar and a scarf like white silk draped over her shoulders. The other beautiful people in the room kept glancing towards the snowflake woman and back, waiting, it seemed, for her reaction and looking for their cue.

  “Mrs. Harmony,” Adele said, trying again.

  “No,” the woman cut her off with a quick shake of her head. She didn't add anything further.

  “Ms. Harmony?” Adele said, raising a questioning eyebrow.

  “No,” the woman replied, her eyes narrowing, her eyelash extensions fluttering again like the bars on a cage sliding back into place. “Just Harmony.”

  John coughed again, but this time, to Adele's relief, hid the word well enough.

  “Right, Harmony,” she said, hesitantly. “We're here about—”

  “I know why you're here,” the woman said, cutting Adele off again, and this time folding her hands in her lap. She moved, causing the silk scarf to shift about her shoulders.

  “You just asked—” Adele tried to finish once more, but again the woman cut her off.

  “We don't have time for this. Do you know who we are? Hmm? Of course you don't. The French never do. We are Compagnia dei Cielo. Have you heard of us? Of course you haven't. In a day's time, we'll be hosting one of the most prestigious masquerade balls in all of Italy. And right now...” She pressed a long finger straight down, bending it against the glass table. “You. Are. Interrupting.”

  Adele blinked, too impressed by the sheer audacity to be much offended. John was trying to hide a snicker as a cough, holding his hand up to his lips, and Adele felt an urge to join him. She glanced off to the side, towards a golden tray beneath a second T.V. screen where a small little remote—spray painted silver—rested on a tasseled cushion.

  “I...I'm not trying to interrupt,” Adele said. She raised her voice as Harmony's lips twitched, it seemed, to speak over her again. “And I ask you don't either for a moment. We're here about the murder of two women who were going to attend this ball of yours.”

  At this, the other four pretty faces at the edges of the table all begin whispering, muttering to each other and shaking their heads. The two men who'd been presenting the photo book closed it swiftly, frowning from Harmony to the two agents and back.

  “Ridiculous!” Harmony said, though, cutting off the mutterings and worried glances. “Absolutely ridiculous. No one is murdering girls attending our ball. No one!”

  “I'm afraid the evidence suggests—”

  “No one!” the woman slapped a hand against the glass table, but the sound seemed a bit hollow now. Everything about the spectacle seemed just that—spectacle. Adele could feel her patience being tested, but at the same time she remembered Leoni's admonishment. Compagnia dei Cielo came from money. They clearly also came from ego.

  But she wasn't here about big-headed theater stars. So she swallowed her own pride and said, “I'm sure you're right. And I imagine we'll look through the guest list and conclude as much, and your party can go on without a hitch.”

  “It isn't a party,” Harmony snapped. “It is crowning moment in the Carnevale di Venezia.”

  “Certainly,” Adele said. “Well, this crowning moment will still take place. We have no interest in intruding and we certainly don't want to get the press involved in any way.” She didn't blink an eye at this last part and pushed smoothly on. “I imagine that would be horrible for business, which is why it is the very last thing I want to do. I'd far prefer to solve this quietly. If you would be so kind as to supply us with the current guest list for your,” she swallowed, “crowning moment. We can be out of your lovely hair.”

  Harmony stared at Adele, as if she'd been slapped. Slowly, her cheeks turning crimson above her silken scarf; she rose to her feet, revealing the full extent of the dress she wore. Icicles dangled from the edges of her sleeves, tinkling like crystal.

  “No one is murdering guests,” Harmony repeated, firmly. “And if we hear a whisper of it in the papers, I will personally sue you and your agency. Agent...”

  John interjected, “Melody,” he said in his heavily accented English, without batting an eye. “She just goes by Melody.”

  Adele had never felt such an urge to stomp on a man's foot before. She exhaled slowly, trying her best to keep as respectful a posture as she could manage.

  The coordinator for Compagnia dei Cielo, though, didn't seem to realize she was being mocked. “Agent Melody, this had best not reach the media in any way. It could prove disastrous for our ball, and even more for the Venetian economy. Do you understand? Damages alone will be worth a hundred times what you will possibly be able to compensate. Do you understand?”

  “I understand that we need to handle this delicately,” Adele said, side-stepping any desire to get in a back-and-forth barking contest. “But the best way for us to do this is without getting judges or legal teams involved, right? Which means if you supply us with the guest list, quietly, you have my word we won't speak of it to the press or anyone. Why would we? We're just trying to catch a killer. Besides, if the violence escalates...” Adele trailed off, shrugging. “Who knows, the authorities might decide to shut down portions of large gatherings. For the sake of safety. At the very least, we may have to place a large police presence throughout the city.”

  “Buzz kill,” John supplied, nodding.

  Harmony sighed, her long eyelash extensions fluttering again. She muttered darkly to herself, shaking her head, and then glanced towards the standing man who looked a bit like George Clooney, and whispered something beneath her breath.

  The man nodded once, and then circled the table, marching towards where John and Adele stood, his eyes frowning, it seemed, but his eyebrows painted on his forehead.

  “Come with me,” he muttered in English, waving a hand.

  “You'll give us the list?”

  The man said, “It's in my office. Yes. Come. Please. Harmony is very busy. Come, come.”

  Again, feeling like a dog following the orders of its owner, Adele sighed and fell into step behind eyebrow Clooney.

  John coughed delicately again, seemingly enjoying himself far too much for Adele's comfort as they exited through the ornate, swinging doors. On this side of the room, though, the doors weren't nearly so impressive as they'd been on the way in.

  Following would-be Clooney from the impressive board room to a smaller office hidden behind a row of potted plants felt like stepping from Narnia into a dreary cubicle. Behind a thin wooden door, a simple desk and two filing cabinets ornamented an otherwise unimpressive room with a window facing the alley.

  “Nice décor,” John murmured, sidling in after Adele and Clooney.

  “I'm the accountant,” the man said as if this were an explanation. “Hang on, give me a second.” His English was nearly perfect, but Adele could trace the faintest of accents in the vowels. She waited patiently by the door and the man coughed, wiggling fingers. “Mind closing that,” he said. “Some of the even coordinators aren't part of Compagnia dei Cielo and we're going for a bit of a... well impression.”

  “It's a very impressive impression,” said Adele.

  Eyebrows shrugged sheepishly as he hunched over his computer, and muttered, “It pays to keep us afloat,” he said. “Don't judge Ms. Herrera too harshly.”

  “Ms. Herrera, that's Harmony?”

  The man pressed a key on his computer and then, swallowing, turned to a printer. For a moment, they all stood in silence, listening to the whir of the machine. Then, he turned, presenting two sheets of paper to Adele and John.

&
nbsp; “There you are,” he said, simply. “That,” he pointed to the sheet he'd handed John, “is the event organizers, caterers and employees.” He pointed to the paper he'd handed Adele. “And those are our guests. It goes without saying, but Ms. Herrera is very serious. If either of those lists end up in media hands, she will invoke legal. I don't mean that as a threat, but our business is a competitive one. I hope you understand.” The man shrugged, glancing from John to Adele.

  Adele, though, was too busy reading the list to reply. As her eyes scanned down the rows of names, flitting from one column to a second, to a third, to a fourth, her frown only deepened.

  “What is it?” John murmured beneath his breath.

  She continued to scan the list, feeling a prickle along the back of her neck. Her cheeks felt warm and her frown was now a full scowl. “Hundreds of names,” she murmured.

  “It is a very popular ball,” Clooney supplied.

  “Yes, but also this,” Adele snapped, tapping one finger against the paper and causing it to crinkle.

  John leaned in, reading the indicated row.

  “Mr. Amos?” he said. “What about him?”

  Adele lowered her finger and John read, “Mr. Amos...”

  She lowered her finger to another line again. “Mr. Amos,” John said a third time. “I don't get it.”

  “Ah, well, some of our guests buy multiple tickets,” Clooney said, clearing his throat. “For friends, family, events. In fact, it's quite rare to only have a single ticket purchase. The event is more of a social gathering.”

  Adele's eyes skipped across the list of hundreds. Every few lines, she found a block of names with tickets ordered by a single person. On one row, between numbers three hundred and three hundred and twenty-eight, nearly thirty rows were occupied by the same name. A Cleo Iadanza.

  Adele shook her head, looking away from the paper and glancing at the accountant before regarding John. She shrugged. “No way to know who these tickets are for...” She glanced at the accountant, adding, “Is there?”

  He winced, shaking his head. “All the information we have is there.”

  She sighed, looking back to John. “Well?”

  He frowned past her. “Who has access to this list?” the tall Frenchman said, pointing insistently. “Hmm? Who can read it?”

  Clooney crossed his arms now. “Well, I suppose there's me... Ms. Herrera and,” he said, emphatically, “any number of people coordinating the event. Caterers, and their entire staff. Performers, and their staff. Decorators, the theater staff...” he trailed off, shrugging. “Not just people organizing the ball, but also other event organizers of the Venice festival. We all use the same ticketing platform and tend to share information pertinent to audience capacities. It's a one-week event, so it's important everyone knows how many employees to hire, how much merchandise to order... And the like.” He winced, shaking his head. “At least a hundred people have seen that list. Maybe more. It's the reason Ms. Herrera was so willing to give it to you.”

  Adele frowned, folding the copy of the guest list and sliding it into her pocket. “Thank you for your help,” she said. “We'll see ourselves out.”

  She turned, still frowning, trying to think through the information.

  The guest list was too long, and the names hidden beneath the ticket purchasers. There would be no way to track that many people in such a short amount of time. Already, Adele knew they were on a clock. The killer was hunting tourists, and time was rapidly running out.

  At the same time, John had been right to question access to the list. It was a smaller number of people... Maybe there was an angle that way.

  John reached the elevator before her, jabbing a finger against the descending arrow and looking past her, over the potted plants towards the accountant's door where he watched them through the gap in the frame.

  Frowning, and turning as if to hide his mouth, John lowered his voice and said, “Think we split up?”

  “Might be the only move,” she replied. “No way we can cover that ground teamed up. You want guests or employees?”

  John wiggled his own piece of paper. “Fewer names on mine—I'll keep it.”

  “Great,” Adele muttered. “I'm not going to be able to make it through all these names,” she said. “I need a way to narrow it.”

  “Might be good to look for the victims' names,” John said. “Maybe narrow it that way.” He shrugged as the elevator dinged and opened above the aquarium. The two of them stepped into the compartment, turning to face the ornate hall as the doors slowly slid shut once more.

  Adele didn't relish the prospect of splitting up, but John was right. There was no way they'd be able to cover enough ground together.

  She'd just have to hope one of them got lucky or... better yet... that the killer made a mistake before it was too late.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Fiorella Lettiere stretched like a cat in sunshine, moving through the motions of the exercise, her hands passing over her knee to her toes. At the same time, she curved her other leg back, slowly, feeling the tautness of her muscles, the way in which her body obeyed her intention.

  She shifted across the vibrant green yoga mat, arching her back, putting both hands on the mat and then lifting one leg up, high, over her head, pointing it at the ceiling.

  She held the pose, breathing in, out, slowly, her abdomen muscles clenched, her teeth similarly braced.

  She counted in her mind, using her breathing pattern to keep track before lowering her leg again and then lifting the next one. She tilted her chin, carefully, avoiding a rush of blood to her down-turned face.

  She then lowered both feet, lifted her hands off the mat and stretched, pulling herself to full attention. As she did, her eyes glanced to the mirror above the cabinet in the corner of the small living room she shared with her roommate.

  In the reflection of the mirror, she spotted her dress for the masquerade ball hosted by Compagnia dei Cielo. Her eyes lingered on the lacework and oddly shaped butterfly buttons—made of actual silver. Of course, the dress would have been far out of her price range if not for her new boyfriend.

  Her lips turned slightly as she paused, upright on the yoga mat, considering the last few dates she'd gone on over the intervening weeks leading up to the festival.

  In fact, she'd only just returned from a dinner date. Perhaps he was more than a decade her senior—something her roommate Drina never failed to point out. But Drina was just jealous... especially after she'd seen the stream of gifts. Who knew Germans, even Germans on prolonged vacations in Venice, could be so generous with their new girlfriend.

  Not that Fiorella was complaining.

  She paused before resuming her exercise, glancing at the clock above the mirror. Her roommate was due to return home following a late work shift. Tourist season of all things. As a Venetian herself, Fiorella didn't love the crowded streets or the loud city, but the festivals alone were well worth it—plus, those without wealthy German boyfriends benefited from the influx of commerce.

  Her eyes flicked towards the mirror again, glancing at her dress draped carefully over the couch. She still hadn't picked out a mask for the ball, but already she could feel the rising sense of excitement.

  Compagnia dei Cielo were hosting a new masquerade. She'd been to the others over the last few years. But this new one, put on by the famous theater troop was bound to be a noteworthy affair. Everyone was talking about it. Even her boyfriend, who'd bought the dress, seemed to have heard of it.

  At that moment, she heard the front door to the apartment open and shut.

  She'd left it unlocked for her roommate. Drina was back.

  “How was work?” she called out, then bent over again, hands placed on the mat once more. Her foot raised behind her, stiff now, extended like a plank. She winced against the throb in her stomach, but kept the position, breathing in, out, slowly, feeling sweat prickle across her forehead.

  She heard her roommate’s footsteps, the soft sound of breat
hing.

  “Drina?” she asked, still upside-down. “How was work? Did Adamo bother you again?” She caught her breath, exhaling once more.

  When her roommate didn't answer, she frowned, twisting just a bit to glance in the mirror which reflected past her in the direction of the small apartment door.

  She glimpsed a flicker of motion in the mirror, someone crossing in front of where her dress draped over the couch. Someone approaching her.

  The breathing grew louder... A familiar sound. The same sort of intentional, quiet puffs of someone uncomfortable in the Venetian masks.

  Masks?

  Her eyes flicked along the mirror where she maintained her pose, her body still tremoring with the effort.

  Her roommate glanced into the mirror.

  Except...

  It wasn't Drina.

  This person was wearing a pale mask—a man, standing directly behind her.

  Her heart collapsed and her lungs loosened a horrible scream. She dropped the pose, scrambling over the mat and tripping in a desperate attempt to spin around, to locate the threat. For a brief moment of cognitive dissonance, as she spun, she desperately hoped perhaps she'd just been mistaken. Maybe Drina was pulling a prank.

  But as she rounded and her vision adjusted, sweat slipping down the corner of her eye, her gaze landed on a large figure, a tall, barrel-chested man wearing a simple, unadorned Venetian mask.

  In one hand, he had something glinting—something sharp. A knife?

  In the other... almost more horrifying, he held a second mask. This one he waved in her direction as if offering it to her.

  “Please,” she gasped, breathing heavily, her back to the window, feeling the cool glass against her sweaty skin. Her eyes darted to the apartment door behind the intruder. “Please—who are you? Drina!” She screamed again.

  The man seemed in no rush. He moved towards her, cutting off any attempt to flee towards the door.

  Behind her, Fiorella heard the soft sound of a chugging engine. The moped Drina used to go to and from work. Her roommate was back...