“A mother will usually think the best of her daughter. From what I’ve heard Beatrice was talented. Don Marcantonio told me you’ve seen some of her paintings.”
“So that old fool did send you over! His information isn’t always the most reliable. He sees things the way he would like them to be, not the way they are.”
“You’ve never seen any of her paintings?”
“In this case he’s right.” Cavatorta was obviously reluctant to grant the priest even this limited claim to truth-telling. “Yes, I’ve seen three of Beatrice’s paintings.” He reached over to the table to pour himself a cup of coffee without asking Urbino if he wanted any. After taking a sip, he continued, “After I became a priest Maria treated me as if there had never been any bad feeling between us—that’s how it was, anyway, until I left the priesthood. She asked me to look at some of Beatrice’s work. She knew I had always been interested in art although I never saw any of Beatrice’s paintings while she was alive. I ran into her once or twice at the Accademia and the Glass Museum when she was setting up her easel but I got only a brief glimpse of what she was doing. I had to wait more than ten years after she died to see some of her work—and I would never have seen anything at all if Maria had waited a few more months.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I had left San Gabriele by then, had ‘turned my back on God.’ I left in May of sixty-seven.”
“So sometime between the flood in November and May you saw Beatrice’s work.”
“Right. She said only one other person had ever seen what Beatrice had done—Sister Veronica. Maybe she showed them only to us because she felt that, as religious, we would keep them secret. Those paintings were something of her daughter’s she wanted to have only for herself yet she wanted our opinion.”
“Were they good?”
“She had some talent but not much more than all those poor fools with their easels set up along the Molo. She was young. With time she might have improved. Two were Venetian scenes, the Grand Canal at the Rialto Bridge and a view of Murano from the Cannaregio. The other was a study from Tintoretto.”
“Which Tintoretto?” He remembered how upset the Contessa had been that Maria had never mentioned Beatrice’s interest in the painter.
“The Transport of the Body of Saint Mark at the Accademia. It wasn’t a particularly good copy. Beatrice didn’t have the patience for that. I know what you’re thinking. You’re wondering if there’s any significance in the fact that Beatrice chose that painting when thirty years later her mother has been murdered during the theft of the body of another saint. Coincidences aren’t undreamt of in my philosophy. Are they in yours?”
As he went out into the Campo Ghetto Nuovo, Urbino asked himself if Beatrice’s copying this particular Tintoretto was in fact a coincidence or if, as he had mused last night about such things, it was actually part of a design he was yet unable to see.
8
NOT even the faintest traces of a design had begun to emerge an hour later when he stopped by Stefano Bellorini’s studio on the Fondamenta Nuove.
“You’re here about Maria Galuppi,” Stefano Bellorini said as he led Urbino into his studio. Dressed in worn black corduroys and a large black turtleneck that stood out sharply against his pale skin, he looked very much the artist—and very much aware of it.
“As it turns out, I am, but first I’d like to see the frames.”
He gave Stefano his coat and looked around the large open space, cluttered with the implements and materials of the man’s art. Bellorini’s father had bought the building as the future site of a clinic for his son when he was studying medicine at Padua. Medicine hadn’t suited the artistically inclined Stefano, however, and after his father’s death he had knocked down all the walls on this top floor and made it into a comfortable studio.
Stefano brought him over to a worktable at the far end of the room by two large windows looking out on the quay and the lagoon, Murano and San Michele in the distance. He moved aside what looked like a small, rusted anchor impaling a piece of wood.
“One of my found objects, but don’t tell Barbara it was next to her frames.”
Unwrapping the frames from pieces of worn velvet, he examined them himself for a few moments before passing them on to Urbino.
What he had seen as mere sketches at the Contessa’s party three weeks ago were now close to being finished. They were made of brass and turquoise fashioned in a severe Egyptian design, blue ceramic and bronze in liquid lines, and pearls and mother-of-pearl inset in beaten copper.
“Beautiful. Barbara must be very pleased. I might have you do something similar for a photograph of my mother and father.”
Bellorini beamed.
“I’d be happy to. So,” he said, his eyes blinking with humor behind his round glasses as he rewrapped the frames in the velvet, “our incomparable Barbara tells me that you’re playing Sherlock Holmes. She said she hoped that didn’t leave her the role of Signor Watson. As she remembers him, he was a bit dull-witted and on the short and fat side.”
“As usual she flatters me. All I’ve been doing is asking a few questions here and there to settle my own mind.”
“I can understand that—what with your laundry being involved and Carlo coming to the Palazzo Uccello the way he did. Please sit down.” He gestured toward several chairs and a sofa on the other side of the room away from his work area. “And let me get us a drink. I’m in the habit of having a bit of Strega about this time every morning.”
“Just a swallow for me.”
Urbino sat on the sofa. He could tell from the pillow and blanket that it was probably used for afternoon naps—or maybe morning naps if Stefano was in the habit of having more than just a bit of Strega at this time.
Stefano handed him his drink and sat in one of the chairs.
“How can I help you?”
“I was wondering if you might have noticed anything unusual along the quay in the week after Maria’s murder.”
“Like someone with your pillow slip filled with the bones—or whatever—of Santa Teodora on his back? I’m afraid not. I wish I could help you—or rather help poor Carlo. He’s dead now, I know, but there’s his memory to consider, his reputation even if he is gone.”
“You don’t believe he killed his mother either.”
“I’m an artist, a craftsman, if you will, not a psychologist or criminologist. Sons do kill their mothers of course. And Maria could be demanding. I feel uncomfortable saying this since she’s dead, and not just dead but—but murdered the way she was, but she had a hard side to her. Maybe you never came up against it. Neither did I,” he added quickly, “but I saw it. She ordered Carlo around, chastized him for being late or dropping some of the laundry.”
“Mothers do things like that from time to time, even the best of mothers.”
“There was something else. The two of them were arguing one afternoon about ten years ago in front of San Gabriele. I don’t know what Carlo had done to upset her but she said something about having lost her best child. Angela was with me. She took it pretty hard since we never were able to have children of our own.”
“Did you know the sister?”
“It might be more helpful to ask who didn’t know her. She was familiar to just about everyone in the Cannaregio, probably in most of the other sestieri as well. If you knew what Beatrice Galuppi had looked like you would understand. Even Angela, the most charitable soul I’ve ever known, although I suppose it’s not for me to say, had some resentment toward her. Women couldn’t help it. She was extraordinary-looking—and to make it worse she was intelligent, talented. The women would have had to be saints to feel differently.”
“And the men?”
“Just what you would expect—smitten, all of them, although I should say all of us. Without Angela back then I would have been led by the nose like everyone else. As it was, I had my share of fantasies but those were almost the days of our honeymoon, you might say.”
“Ye
s,” came his wife’s voice from behind Urbino, “they were the days of our honeymoon—even if our love nest in that university apartment was more like a dungeon!”
Urbino turned to look over the back of the sofa. Angela, a flattering rosiness in her cheeks, was holding a string basket with vegetables, bread, and a newspaper.
“Don’t be naughty and tell our secrets.”
“Look who’s talking! I had time to hear some of what you were saying, my dear! Besides, Stefano, the condition of apartments is no secret to anyone who’s been in Venice as long as Urbino has.”
Urbino, who had his own continuing battles with mold, rats, and water bugs at the Palazzo Uccello, gave Angela an encouraging smile. She took off her coat and knit hat and walked over to them. Noticing the bottle of Strega, she shook her head but seemed more amused than anything else. She gave Stefano a look in which there seemed a great deal of silent, wifely communication. “You artists have your weaknesses as I know only too well, Stefano, but must you be corrupting others?” She sighed indulgently and gave him a kiss on his bald spot. “So what do you think of my Stefano’s work?”
“That wasn’t why he came, Angela. He wanted to know if I noticed anything strange along the quay the week after the murder.”
She gave a quick, high-pitched laugh.
“You bothered to ask him? He has two strikes against him. He’s a man and he’s an artist. They’re the least reliable people to ask questions of when it comes to what they’ve seen. They—or should I say ‘you’? I think you qualify on both counts!—you live in a different world and force us to live in it with you. No, Urbino, ask a woman. Then you might stand a chance.”
Before he could ask her though, she added quickly, “But I’m afraid you’re not going to have any luck with me this time. I was in bed with the flu. It always seems to hit me hard after the holidays. Thank God for Sister Veronica. If I had had to depend on Stefano, I would still be under the blankets.”
“But you were at Maria’s funeral.”
“Just barely. I looked like a corpse.” Realizing that this hadn’t been the best way to express herself, she gave Urbino an embarrassed, apologetic smile. “But I might be of help nonetheless. If you want to know what’s going on along the quay, ask Benedetta Razzi. She’s always looking out her window. But she’s a peculiar one.”
She tapped her temple twice.
“Angela!”
Stefano seemed genuinely upset.
“He’ll see for himself!” she said defiantly.
9
THE widow Razzi was a familiar figure in her native Cannaregio where she owned many buildings, most of them in a poor state of repair. About sixty-five with wispy white hair and faded blue eyes, she pinched her centesimi at the markets and yet lavished a small fortune on dolls.
When Urbino entered her parlor all he could see at first were dolls—on chairs, sofa, tables, shelves, and cabinets, even perched on an old wall clock, peeping from open drawers, and adorning the carved wooden top of a baroque mirror. Many of them were in regional costumes from Italy and other parts of Europe and the world.
“Maria Galuppi.” Benedetta Razzi nodded as she lowered herself into a ripped and sagging love seat. Her long, false eyelashes only emphasized the bags and circles under her eyes. She carefully rearranged two dolls beside her. “I knew her as well as a woman could know another one much, much older. She might have been my mother.”
Sister was more like it, Urbino thought, as he sat down in an overstuffed chair.
“A terrible thing to have happened to anyone,” she continued. “It makes me even more content not to have any children of my own.” She picked up one of the dolls—a blond girl in Tyrolean costume—and put it on her lap. “One child breaking your heart is bad enough but then to have your other one do the same years later—not to mention your head too! But what am I saying?” With an exaggerated giggle she put her hand over her mouth and looked at Urbino with wide eyes.
“There are some who don’t think Carlo killed her.”
“Yes, there are those. I’ve heard them talking.”
“And what about you, Signora Razzi?”
“I don’t think it makes very much difference. I always said that Maria was dead ever since that daughter of hers died.” Her head was bent over the doll as she arranged its skirt more neatly. “Of course, thirty years is a long time to be alive and also dead.” There was no giggle but mirth managed to escape from her ravaged eyes.
“Did you know Beatrice Galuppi?”
She got up so quickly that the doll tumbled to the floor. Urbino rose to retrieve it but she waved him away. She snatched it up and put it down on the love seat. “My employee,” she said curtly.
“I beg your pardon, Signora Razzi, but I don’t—”
“My employee,” she repeated impatiently. “Beatrice Galuppi was my employee, I said. No matter how uppity she was, she came to work for me like any other girl for five months. It was around the time my husband died.”
“What kind of business did you have?”
“Still have! Buildings, property—more now than I did then! He left me with three buildings back in fifty-four. I was young and rich, and I made myself richer. If there had only been some way to make myself younger too or at least stay the same age, like these sweet young things.” She sighed as she looked around at her dolls. “But at least I have my money and my health although I wish I could sleep better. I’m an insomniac.”
She went over to the window and drew aside the drapes to look down at the Fondamenta Nuove.
“There goes Giorgio with another bottle from the wineshop. Is that his nose or a bunch of grapes? Well, he’s still sober enough, I see, to be able to avoid Angela Bellorini. Probably afraid shell use one of her meals as an excuse to poke around in his affairs the way she did when my Donato died. She’s a strange one. Always wanting to give people those miserable meals of hers but give her anything yourself and she’s likely to throw it in your face the way she did with the Cavatortas and a cousin of mine. Too proud, that woman.”
Somehow Urbino wasn’t surprised to find that the widow Razzi was just as critical of Angela Bellorini as Angela had been of her. He hardly knew the widow Razzi at all but he knew her well enough to realize that deference, not charity, was what she wanted—and preferably from a man.
She was still looking out the window.
“And there’s that silly old fool Gabriela with her nasty little dog. They look more and more alike every year!”
She started to laugh at her own joke and stopped. From the direction of her gaze he could tell she was now looking out at the cemetery island.
“I might have made a mistake staying here,” she said, dropping the drapes and closing off the view. “I should have moved to my building by the Madonna dell’Orto.” She turned back to Urbino. “What were we talking about?”
“Beatrice Galuppi.”
“My employee,” she emphasized again. “Yes, Beatrice Galuppi worked for me, cleaned apartments like anyone else who needed the money, although Maria probably never saw any of it. Beatrice spent it all on clothes, paints, brushes—everything for her own sweet self. She cleaned this apartment here, too, although she liked to work where I couldn’t see her.”
“When?”
“I already told you—back in fifty-four! She worked until a month before she died. Didn’t surprise me much when she did either.”
“Did she seem depressed?”
“I know what you’re getting at—depressed and then killed herself like everyone says. Well, maybe she did and maybe she didn’t. What I meant was that she was sick enough the last few weeks she worked for me. I would hear her throwing up in the toilet—or trying to was more like it. She looked ready to faint once or twice and was so thirsty she took to carrying a bottle of water around with her—a fancy bottle it was, too, all cut glass. I thought it had wine in it but I sniffed it once. It was water all right,” she said begrudgingly. “She looked a fright, too. She was a beauty but
even a beauty can look a fright at times.”
She nodded with satisfaction as she went back to the love seat.
“Did you see anything out of the ordinary in the week between Maria’s death and the discovery of Santa Teodora’s body down there on the quay?” When she gave him a puzzled look, he added, “From your window there. You say you suffer from insomnia.”
“So did Rossini! He wrote operas from his bed, didn’t even have to get up when he couldn’t sleep. What I do myself is get up and see if any of my darlings are awake too. I make myself some tea and take it over to the window. Sometimes one of my sweethearts likes to keep me company.”
A comfortable-looking chair was near the window and on the sill was a dirty, lace-covered pillow. He could imagine her sitting there with one of her dolls and looking down at the quay for hours.
“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary on any of those nights or maybe during the day?” he asked again.
“What I see is always ordinary, most ordinary, that’s my comfort. The usual people and boats come and go—the sweepers, the deliverymen, the police, the neighbors, the tourists—always different but always the same. During the night there’s hardly anyone about. It’s always been that way. It’s all so predictable, it’s better than counting sheep. Sometimes we drop off to sleep right there, me and one of my darlings, even from time to time during the afternoon when I haven’t slept at all the night before.”
“Before I go, Signora Razzi, I have just a few more quick questions about Beatrice.”
She picked up another doll, this one dark-haired with a mantilla, combs, and a brightly colored dress.
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