Death Prefers Blondes

by Caleb Roehrig

  “Maybe fate will bring us back together.” She tried for a smile.

  “Maybe.”

  They reached for each other, hands linking for a moment, and then she stepped away.

  No regrets.

  * * *

  Two days later, she returned the Mini Cooper to the rental agency at LAX and boarded a plane to Rome.

  Act Four:

  BITTER BUSINESS

  33

  Venice, Italy

  One Month Later

  Despite the screech of gulls, the chatter of tourists, and the rumble of boats surging along the canal below her window, it was the sun that roused Margo from a sluggish, dreamless slumber. Her head throbbed and her eyes felt like they’d been taken out and put back in the wrong way. Stretching, she forced herself upright and groaned.

  Daylight streamed through the arched windows she’d forgotten to shut the night before, and across the Grand Canal, a bright blue sky stretched behind a picturesque jumble of buildings in shades of gray, fawn, and rose. The water was a Disney-esque turquoise, and it filled the air with damp, giving up an earthy smell. Gentle waves lapped at weathered piers, gondolas drifted by, and springtime was just touching the breeze.

  Margo slammed the wooden shutters closed, locking the sunshine out. Gulping down a painkiller with a glass of water from her bedside table, she shuffled for the door.

  Ludovico Ferrara, her stepfather, was a banker based in Milan; but his company had recently purchased the top two floors of a historic Venetian palace—one of many that bordered the Grand Canal—and had sent him to live there while he acted as supervisor to the expanding local branch. Dating back to the fifteenth century, the Palazzo Rambaldo was three stories of ornate moldings, Moorish galleries, and glossy stone floors, and it still didn’t quite feel real yet.

  “Good morning, sweetheart. I wondered what time we’d see you,” her mother drawled from behind a copy of La Stampa when Margo reached the kitchen. Angela Hopwood Manning Ferrara was impeccable in pale yellow, her red hair flowing over one shoulder in an artful cascade. “There’s coffee, and Vittoria made biscotti, if you’re hungry.”

  Margo grunted, fumbling with a gleaming French press on the counter. She had planned on skipping the biscotti, out of spite, but they looked so good she took two. Flopping down on a stool across from her mother, she started to devour her breakfast.

  “Had a late night, did we?” Angela’s voice was a musical undertone.

  “Lorenzo and Sofia had friends in from Germany, and they wanted to see Venice.”

  “The decent parts of this city roll up the sidewalks by midnight.” Her mother gave her an arch look. “And you didn’t come home until sometime after three.”

  “We went across the lagoon,” Margo said with an air of reasonability.

  “Well.” Angela flipped a page of her newspaper. “Sofia is a nice girl. And even though Lorenzo is definitely cheating on her, I’m sure they kept you out of too much trouble.”

  Margo didn’t know where to begin to answer, and decided not to try. Silence filled the kitchen, underscored by the rumble of a vaporetto cruising by outside. Margo dunked an offensively tasty biscotti in a demitasse of potent coffee and tried to remember she was supposed to be resenting this place.

  “So, what are your plans for the day?” Angela asked, making an effort and pushing La Stampa to the side. “More time with Sofia and Lorenzo and the Germans?”

  “No.” The biscotti crunched between her teeth. “They’re going to Padua and Verona and then Milan. They won’t be back for a few days. I thought, maybe now the water’s receded, I’d go sightseeing or something.”

  It was just her luck that she’d arrived in the middle of the Acqua Alta—Venice’s regular period of flooding, when lagoon levels rose and consumed the ancient city’s narrow streets. The problem was dealt with through temporary elevated walkways, but the winding alleys were far more picturesque without them.

  “Oh, that reminds me!” Angela clasped her hands together. “Ludo and I are spending the day at Lake Como with friends. You’re welcome to join us, but it may be rather boring.”

  Margo was startled, and it took her a moment to reply. “Thanks, but I’ll stick with my nonplans. I figured maybe I’d treat myself to lunch or some shopping or something. And I’ve been here a month and I haven’t even been out to the Giudecca yet.”

  Angela rose from her seat, placing her coffee cup in the dishwasher, tucked beneath a window overlooking a Renaissance-era courtyard. “You’re not missing anything. Aside from the Redentore, there’s nothing to see over there. At least the Lido has a beach.”

  It was fifty degrees out; why did everyone want her to go to the beach when it was freezing? “That sounds like a great idea.”

  “Anyway, I should get ready. We’re leaving in an hour.” Blowing Margo an awkward kiss, she headed for the sitting room and the stairs beyond it. “Have a nice day, sweetheart, and stay out of trouble!”

  “Sure thing,” the girl answered automatically. For a while after Angela had departed, Margo stared at her half-eaten biscotti, a weight pulling down in her chest. Finally, she mumbled, “Happy eighteenth birthday to me.”

  * * *

  It was a short walk from the Palazzo Rambaldo to Margo’s favorite café on the Campo San Polo, a vast plaza ringed by colorful tenements. It spread out from the back of a Catholic church dating to the 1400s, a sturdy brick edifice with a detached campanile. In summer, the square would be thronged with tourists and elderly locals, ice cream kiosks doing a brisk trade; but in the off-season, it was peaceful.

  She sat at her regular table, and her regular waitress brought her regular order—cappucino and a savory cornetto. There were a few patrons at other tables, but Margo felt like the last living person in the world. She hadn’t expected a lot of fanfare, but she also hadn’t expected her mother to flat-out forget that it was her birthday.

  Reflexively checking her phone, she saw two missed texts from Davon and a missed call from Irina, and she hastily put the thing away. As soon as her plane had touched down in Rome, she’d sent an update to everyone, telling them where she was and why. The boys had a right to know what Addison Brand had on them, a message that was neither fun to deliver, nor received very well by the interested parties.

  The truth was, she and Addison were in sort of a standoff, and she didn’t think he was going to expose them. Not anytime soon anyway. That information was his ace card, and he could hold the threat of it against her forever; once he used it, there was nothing to stop her from retaliating—and even if she held fewer cards, she could still probably compel a police inquiry her father’s killer wouldn’t want to face.

  The real problem was Petrenko. She had to assume the Russian billionaire would mention his vendetta against Margo to Brand sooner or later; and Addison was absolutely clever enough to realize that he held the names and addresses of every person on Arkady’s hit list. How long would he hold on to that information? When would he decide that having Margo eliminated would be more useful than having leverage to manipulate her?

  How soon would promising Arkady Petrenko the satisfaction of revenge become a negotiating tool he couldn’t resist?

  “Jeez, from the look on your face, I don’t know if I should break into ‘Happy Birthday’ or a funeral dirge.”

  Margo’s head snapped up at the unexpectedly familiar voice, and for a moment she stared in uncomprehending silence at the boy standing by her table. “Axel?”

  He plunked down into the chair opposite her, as casually as if they’d been planning to meet, and he was just running late. “I am desperate for coffee. They had some on the plane, but it tasted like wastewater from a paper factory, and I was extremely not into it.”

  Margo continued to stare. “What are you doing here?”

  “It’s my best friend’s birthday,” he answered, signaling to the waitress. “Where else would I be?”

  “How did you even know where to find me?”

  “Well, e
ver since you stopped answering my texts and calls, I started stalking you online,” he divulged conversationally. “You may be in Italy, girl, but you’re still Margo Manning, and that MadMargo hashtag is better than an FBI satellite for tracking you down. I found like six creepy cell phone pictures of you sitting at this exact table. I came here straight from the airport.” Axel ran his fingers through his dark, wavy hair. “Well, okay, not straight here, because I got lost for an hour. And bumped into a cute Italian boy who needed about fifteen minutes of my company.”

  “Venice is a labyrinth.” She smiled, realizing in an instant just how much she’d missed him. The waitress made it to their table, then, and Axel ordered a caffè corretto—a potent mix of espresso and grappa. With an arched brow, Margo commented, “The best part of waking up is one-hundred-proof brandy in your cup.”

  “I’ll have you know I’m still on California time, so it’s about two a.m., hunty.” He reached across the table and batted a lock of her hair. “I love this new look. Very chic—very ‘international femme fatale.’”

  “I’m an adult now.” Margo tossed her mane extravagantly. She’d had two inches cut off, the color lightened to a champagne hue; the change had felt significant, symbolic. “You think the color’s okay? Or is it too much?”

  “Girl, I’m gagging,” he said with approval. “And blondes have more fun, right? So more blond has to mean more fun.”

  “Plus gentlemen prefer us,” Margo reported solemnly, even though it was starting to feel like Death was the only gentleman with a particular taste for blondes lately. After Axel’s highly flammable coffee arrived, she confessed, “I’ve missed you.”

  “It hasn’t showed,” Axel replied, but without malice. He gave her a half smile. “So much stuff has happened since you vanished. I mean, living with the constant danger of death-by-Petrenko hovering over our heads has really shifted everyone’s priorities. Kinda helped us all figure out what really matters.”

  “Are you trying to tell me you and Davon are back together?”

  “No,” he said emphatically. “No, no, no.” Then, “Well, maybe we finally agreed to stop pretending that we aren’t friends with benefits.”

  “Wow. Well, that’s … congratulations?”

  “Thanks.” Axel took it sincerely. “I feel like I’ve unlocked a new gay achievement or something. And dating sucks, you know? Like, it’s hard enough when you’re femme, let alone a drag queen, let alone the son of the most hated man in the country.”

  “Well,” Margo interjected, trying to determine what was called for, “I’m happy for you two.”

  “What else, what else … oh.” His expression soured. “Quino and Leif are dating. Like, officially. As in boyfriends.”

  “They are?” Margo sat up in her chair. “That’s so great!”

  “No it isn’t, so you can wipe that heart-eyes-emoji look off your face,” Axel retorted. “It’s going to screw up our whole dynamic, and I am not happy about it.” With a prim little sniff, he added, “Quino’s never had a boyfriend before, and let’s face it: Leif is a ho.”

  “Talk about the pot calling the kettle promiscuous, Mr. Fifteen Minutes of Company.” Margo snorted around her cornetto.

  “That’s different.”

  “No it isn’t,” she said pointedly. “Joaquin and Leif are both sweethearts, and unless one of them gets hurt, their relationship isn’t any of our business.”

  Axel made a harrumphing noise but let it go. “I guess the only other news I have is Georgia. She’s just about to finish up her treatment program, and we’re trying to figure out what to do. They can’t go back to Boyle Heights; that shithead Peck got into their apartment and trashed the place.” The boy drained his beverage. “So we’re apartment hunting. Everything is expensive, but thanks to the LAMFA job, D at least has enough money in the bank that his applications aren’t getting rejected outright.”

  “That’s great,” Margo repeated, but somehow her happiness wouldn’t quite manifest. Selfish as it might be, it was hard to hear how much better everyone else’s lives had gotten, especially when her own felt so aimless for the first time. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do—like, write a reference letter or something.”

  “That would be cool.” Axel gestured at her. “So, how about you? You’re living in a romantic city, filled with Italian men … What kind of adventures are you having?”

  “Nothing special.” Margo tried to sound breezy. “I’ve been wooed by a few boys and girls, but nothing serious.” In fact, she’d had one very short fling with Sofia, the daughter of one of Ludo Ferrara’s clients—who was not dating her friend Lorenzo, as Angela seemed to believe. They’d had fun, but Margo’s heart had been elsewhere. Somehow, she seemed to have temporarily misplaced the organ in a shitty Eagle Rock kitchen. “Mostly, I’ve been trying to catch up on school. Somerville is letting me complete my coursework online so I can still graduate, but my mom had to hire a tutor because I’m so far behind.”

  “Is he cute?” Axel asked promptly.

  “No, which is an outrage, and also something my mom arranged deliberately,” she huffed. “How long are you here for?”

  “Just tonight. Some of us have to finish school in person,” he pointed out, “and Quino can’t drive Mami to her doctor appointments.”

  “Well then, let’s make the most of it,” Margo declared, rising to her feet and tossing some euros down on the table. “I’m gonna show you the hell out of Venice.”

  34

  A warren of narrow passageways, twisting among centuries-old buildings in a state of elegant decrepitude, Venice is a challenge to navigate—even if you have a map. Lucky for Axel, he had Margo. Following her lead, they darted down alleyways not wide enough for them to stand side by side, scampered over canals on fairy-tale bridges, and dashed by gift shops and cafés.

  The air was redolent of gelato, warm spices, and the green stink of algae; washing hung like prayer flags from lines strung between tenements; and sunlight splashed across buildings colored mauve and tan and butter yellow. Venetian boys were just as gorgeous as the city itself, with gleaming black hair, bright teeth, and a prowling, feline sensuality. Axel was in heaven.

  From the top of the famous Ponte di Rialto, he took breathtaking photos of the Grand Canal—of the jutting piers, glimmering water, and striking palazzos—before Margo dragged him onward. They wove through the small, connected plazas on the other side of the bridge, stopping briefly for an affogato and some fresh-baked focaccia. Studded by tomatoes and perfumed with rosemary, it was still warm and slippery with olive oil.

  By the time they had passed the stocky, whitewashed facade of the Chiesa di San Giuliano, the streets narrowing down—crowded by tourists, lined with souvenir stands and boutiques—Axel had forgotten how tired he was.

  “Through here,” Margo said, and they hustled down an arched passageway and into the dazzling expanse of the Piazza San Marco. An elaborate church rose to his left, and to his right extended a vast and dramatic public square, bordered on three sides by stacked colonnades. Ahead of them rose the church’s campanile, a breathtaking pile of brick and stone climbing more than three hundred feet into the air; and past that, beyond the ornate frontage of the Doge’s Palace, the flashing, blue-green waters of the lagoon beckoned.

  “Wow,” Axel said. It was an understatement; the space was more than impressive, every angle eye-catching, and he didn’t know where to start first.

  As a kid, travel had been something his parents forced on him: a week in Mexico with Mami’s parents; a week in Zurich, while his father tended to business; and other times it was Hong Kong, Paris, Buenos Aires … places he resented for their strangeness. It wasn’t until it was too late, until Basil had been hauled away in handcuffs—countless privileges going with him—that Axel finally realized what he’d taken for granted.

  Neither Davon nor Leif owned a passport; and Joaquin had volunteered to stay with Jacinta so Axel could make the trip. Now, standing at the rear of the Piazz
a San Marco, drinking in the gaudy domes of the basilica, the tower, the arcades, and the cornflower sky, he felt happy—free, for the first time in over a year.

  Margo indulged his lust for photographs, trailing happily behind as he darted from one edge of the square to the next. There was a guy—college aged, dark haired, reasonably attractive—advertising skydiving lessons in heavily accented English. Dressed in a full jumpsuit, he wore a parachute on his back and waved around the heavy-duty clip of a static line at passing tourists. Margo stared at him like a long-lost relative, and Axel ached to interrogate her about it, but was afraid to break the spell of the afternoon.

  From the guidebooks, he knew that St. Mark’s Square was separated into two parts—the actual piazza, enclosed by the wraparound arcade, and the piazzetta, the smaller expanse that spread before the Doge’s Palace and ended at the water’s edge. Directly across the canal was a spit of land dominated by a pearly structure with a magnificent rotunda, and when Margo caught him admiring it, she explained, “That’s the Punta della Dogana. The church is called Santa Maria della Salute—Saint Mary of Health—because it was built after a particularly gnarly outbreak of the plague. You want to see it from the inside?”

  “Girl, you had me at ‘the plague.’”

  They saw the church, navigated more winding streets, and crossed the great, wooden expanse of the Ponte dell’Accademia with its postcard view of the Salute perched at the mouth of the canal.

  The crowds grew thicker as they wended through the district of San Marco, past lavish hotels and hole-in-the-wall wine shops; past churches and campos and old wells that had been long-since sealed up. Every corner they turned presented a view worthy of a snapshot, and by the time they straggled into the district of Castello, shadows were lengthening over the city, and Axel’s backpack was like a dead body draped over his shoulders.