A Very Venetian Murder

by Haughton Murphy

  “See you Tuesday night,” Erica said when they got to the Zattere, referring to a dinner invitation she had extended earlier in the evening.

  As they continued the trip back, the Frosts could not miss hearing the chatter around them, all in English and peppered with complaints about the heat and, for one couple, the outrageous seating arrangements. One of the women regretted that there had not been dancing, in a tone implying that Baxter had been chintzy not to have a band.

  At the Cipriani, the motoscafista backed their boat alongside the landing stage at the rear of the swimming pool; the one in front was customarily closed after ten-thirty to cut engine noise in the bedrooms. The Frosts clambered up the steps with the others. They decided to have a nightcap in the bar adjacent to the pool and ordered Scotches from Walter, the barman.

  “I know Gregg Baxter will get his publicity,” Cynthia said. “But I do feel sorry for him, with all those ingrates as guests. I’ve never heard such griping and whining. He couldn’t control the weather, though somebody might have warned him about all those candles.”

  “And whoever advised him about using that second room should be fired,” Reuben added. “He should have been smart enough to realize you can’t divide your guests into an obvious ‘A’ list and ‘B’ list. It’s a shame, because otherwise it was a beautifully planned party. The work involved must have been incredible, to say nothing of the cost. I’m also sure he sensed everybody’s discomfort.”

  “Do you think that’s why he left so quickly?” Cynthia asked.

  “That’s my guess. But he wasn’t being very hospitable even before that. As far as I could tell, he didn’t circulate at all. Is he shy, do you think?”

  “Good heavens, no,” Cynthia said. “I’ve been to his shows in New York and he’s very much the social butterfly. And you’ve seen him at parties. He’s very outgoing, especially if there’s a good-looking boy to flirt with.”

  Massimo, the bar pianist, returned from his break while they were talking. Spotting the Frosts, he broke into “New York, New York.” He gave them a grin and they smiled back.

  “Good heavens, there’s Doris Medford,” Cynthia said, gesturing toward the door. Reuben called to her as she came by their table, seemingly oblivious of all those around her. She started when she recognized the Frosts.

  “Won’t you join us?” Reuben asked.

  “No, I’m just going to the bar and celebrate my talent as a weatherman. Weatherperson.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What I mean is, Gregg Baxter has just fired me because tonight’s party was, as he put it, a ‘major, major disaster.’ And it was all my fault. Up to and including the weather.”

  “I’m very sorry, Doris.”

  “Forget it. That’s what I’m going to do. Have a drink or two or three at the bar and forget it. Please excuse me for not joining you.…”

  “We understand, my dear,” Cynthia said. “And we really are sorry. We had a terrific evening.”

  “Thanks,” Medford said as she walked away.

  “That’s terrible,” Cynthia said to Reuben. “Even if you did say the person who came up with the ‘A’ room and the ‘B’ room should be fired.”

  “It’s too bad, but I’m not going to get involved in Gregg Baxter’s employee relations,” Reuben said.

  “You know who I didn’t see there tonight?” Cynthia asked. “Eric Werth and the Irish sumo wrestler.”

  “Neither did I, come to think of it. Very odd. They most likely were smart and went to an air-conditioned restaurant.”

  “Now don’t be another ingrate, dear. The evening was hot and ever so uncomfortable, but I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

  CHAPTER

  5

  Poison

  Cynthia had announced Wednesday night that, despite staying up so late, she was going to Murano the next morning to shop for “replacements for all the things you’ve broken.” At home the Frosts had a modest collection of hand-blown Venetian glasses, all of attractive modern designs but so delicate they often broke.

  “I see. I thought perhaps you might be going to buy a glass flamingo,” Reuben had retorted. “Just don’t wake me if you’re getting up early.”

  She now crept around the bedroom so as not to disturb her husband. Her precaution proved futile as the telephone rang on the dot of nine o’clock. It was Dan Abbott, full of apologies for the early call but asking Frost if they could meet for breakfast.

  “When?” Reuben asked.

  “As soon as you can,” Abbott replied.

  “What’s this about?”

  “I’d rather tell you in person. It’s somewhat touchy.”

  Reuben was intrigued, so he told Abbott he would meet him in fifteen minutes.

  “I’ve got a suite, or a junior suite, or whatever the hell they call it. I’d prefer to meet there if you don’t mind. Number 42, over by the pool. It’s the first door when you come up the stairs to the second floor.” Abbott asked Frost what he would like to eat and said he would place the order.

  Reuben described the call to Cynthia. “What do you suppose he wants?”

  “Maybe he needs advice about where to buy a new wig.”

  “Very funny. If it’s one thing I don’t know anything about it’s wigs. My hair may not be as thick as it once was—it’s thinning out at an appalling rate, if the truth be known—but I’m not in the wig business. At least not quite yet.”

  “I know, dear. Besides, I hope when you are you’ll have the courage to go around bald.”

  “Hmn.”

  Dan Abbott was dressed in khaki Bermuda shorts and a blue polo shirt—wig in place—when he opened the door to his suite after Reuben’s knock.

  “Thanks for coming over, Mr. Frost,” he said. “Breakfast just arrived.” A waiter was arranging the order on the table outside on the balcony. There was a tomato omelet for Reuben (a dish he regarded as one of the greatest delights of the Cipriani kitchen) and a simple caffè completo for Abbott, resting under metal warming covers.

  “Come sit under my big magic umbrella,” Abbott said.

  “Why ‘magic’?”

  “Well, every morning when I get up this umbrella is open, although it was closed the night before. I’m sure nobody’s walked through my room to open it, so it must be magic.”

  “Probably a very agile houseboy, who climbs along the edge of the balcony,” Reuben said.

  “That’s what I think, too. Have a seat,” Abbott said. Then, with a deep sigh, he added, “It seems like mid-afternoon already.”

  “Why so?”

  “Doris Medford. I had to get up at dawn and help her move to the Bauer Grunwald. Gregg fired her last night and she had to get out of here.”

  “Why didn’t she go to the Gritti?” Reuben asked. He had never especially liked what he had seen of the Bauer Grunwald.

  “Absolutely full.”

  “We saw Ms. Medford late last night and she told us the bad news. I gather they had a falling out over the party.”

  “It’s more complicated than that, but too tiresome to go into so early in the morning.” It was clear the subject was closed. Abbott told Reuben that he had “a pretty good reputation as a detective around New York.” Then he added, “Different than working on First Fiduciary loans.”

  Reuben laughed. “You’re right about the banking part. But you’re not very accurate about my reputation. I’m just a retired lawyer who’s had the bad luck on occasion to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “You’re too modest. I’m an old friend of Grace Mann, who told me about your part in solving David Rowan’s murder.”

  “Yes, I did have a hand in that. But, tell me, how did I earn this breakfast?”

  “I need your expertise. Or more precisely, Gregg Baxter does.”

  “Mr. Abbott, I can’t possibly respond to that until I know what it is you’re talking about.”

  “It’s very simple. Gregg Baxter thinks someone tried to poison him yesterday.
”

  Abruptly Frost realized that the designer’s odd behavior at his own dinner might have had a deeper cause than the weather.

  “What happened?” Reuben asked.

  “I’m sure he’ll want to tell you himself.”

  “What am I supposed to do? Find the poisoner?”

  “The first thing I need is assistance in trying to calm him down. He’s got all kinds of work to do. This poison thing has to be cleared up if he’s going to concentrate properly. Needless to say, we’ll pay you whatever fee you think appropriate.”

  “Mr. Abbott, I’m not a licensed detective, nor do I care to be one. I couldn’t possibly charge you. And, anyway, I’m here on vacation, not looking for detective work, legal work or any other kind of work.”

  “I understand. But I’d consider it a great favor if you’d hear what Gregg has to say and offer him whatever advice you can. I’m sorry I mentioned pay. That was crass. But if you can get to the bottom of this weirdness perhaps we can do something for Mrs. Frost. Christ, if you succeed, we’ll keep her as well dressed as Mildred Radley for the rest of her life.”

  “I couldn’t go along with that, either. And for your own sake and mine, I suggest you not pass that proposal on to her.”

  “Gregg’s at the other end of the hall,” Abbott explained, when they had finished their breakfast. “We’re all happy campers here in the compound. Come with me.”

  Number 45 was unlocked and Abbott went in without knocking. Baxter was sitting on the private balcony outside the room, wearing an ornate dressing gown, drinking coffee and looking woebegone.

  “Hi,” he said to Reuben. Then he ordered Abbott to pour him another cup of coffee. Abbott was about to do so when the designer barked, “Wash the cup out first. Otherwise it will taste like shit. You know that.”

  Abbott dutifully went inside to the bathroom and returned with a rinsed cup. He poured coffee and warm milk from the pitchers on the table and handed the cup back to Baxter. Never in the process was there even a muttered “thanks.”

  “Did you tell him?” Baxter asked Abbott.

  “I told him the problem, yes,” Abbott replied. “I figured you’d want to give him the details.”

  “It was your idea to get him involved. You tell him.”

  “I’d like to hear your version,” Frost said, taking a seat opposite Baxter.

  “Oh, okay, okay. The story is this. I’m a diabetic. I take insulin twice a day—by injection—once first thing in the morning, the second time before dinner. Yesterday, I decided to take my shot here before going off to the party. It meant I’d have it a little earlier than I should—it’s supposed to be just before you eat—but it seemed less of a hassle than taking all the damn paraphernalia over to the palazzo.

  “I’ve been keeping my insulin in my minibar refrigerator,” he continued. “I had two bottles with me. I finished one yesterday morning and threw it away. Then, last night, I took out the other one and found that it had already been unsealed. I knew I hadn’t opened it, and when I took off the top there was a funny smell. Like garlic, for Christ’s sake. That was definitely wrong and all I could think of was that someone was trying to poison me.”

  “Let me ask you a couple of questions,” Frost said. “First of all, where’s the bottle?”

  “In the room safe, inside.”

  “Good. Now, you seem very certain that your second bottle of insulin hadn’t been opened by you. Are you sure of that? Isn’t it possible you opened it when the first one ran out yesterday morning?”

  “Not a chance, Mr. Frost. I’ll tell you why. I’m not too careful about many things in my life, but I don’t fool around with my shots. Since my diabetes was first diagnosed a few years back, at different times I’ve had both hyperglycemia and insulin shock—too much blood sugar and too little—because I didn’t pay enough attention to measuring my dosages. My doctor convinced me—scared me—that I could kill myself if I wasn’t more careful. So I’m both fussy and finicky when it comes to insulin. Besides, even if I wasn’t uncertain about when I opened the bottle, I sure as hell wouldn’t have injected myself when the stuff smelled like garlic.”

  “What do you suppose the garlic smell means?” Abbott asked.

  “Christ alone knows,” Baxter replied. “But I wasn’t about to find out.”

  “I don’t know anything about diabetes,” Reuben said, “but I’ve always understood that you must take your shots regularly.”

  “That’s right,” Baxter said. “If you miss even one, you risk hyperglycemia.”

  “So what did you do last night when you decided your insulin was contaminated?” Reuben asked.

  “I sent Dan over across to town to buy some more. You don’t need a prescription for insulin, you know. Just the needles—for obvious reasons.”

  “There was a farmacia in back of St. Mark’s that was still open,” Abbott explained.

  “You may have noticed I wasn’t exactly the life of my own party last night,” Baxter said.

  “I did,” Reuben answered.

  “So what do you suggest, Mr. Frost?” Abbott said.

  “The first thing is to have that insulin bottle analyzed. I think we should get Cavallaro from the front office up here. He should be able to help you find a laboratory. Unless, of course, you want to go to the police.”

  “I don’t think there’s any point in involving the police,” Baxter said. “I’m supposed to be here to get publicity. I don’t need the sob sisters clucking over who tried to poison me. You disagree, Dan?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I’m not a sob sister, Mr. Baxter, but who do you think might have tried to poison you? Assuming there’s poison in that bottle,” Reuben said.

  “Valerie Steifel,” Abbott said.

  “Not amusing, Dan,” Baxter said.

  “Who is Valerie Steifel?” Frost asked.

  “The head buyer for Saks Fifth Avenue,” Abbott explained. “She was here for the party and Gregg took the occasion to tell her he’s pulling out of his Saks boutique unless she remodels it.”

  “And remodels it like I want it,” Baxter added. “The place looks like a Kmart.”

  “She was ready to kill you after you gave her the bad news,” Abbott said.

  “I assume you’re not serious,” Frost said.

  “Mr. Frost, the rag trade is cutthroat. Probably even worse than the legal profession,” Abbott said. “If I’ve learned one thing, it’s never to be surprised at what happens in this business. And to the people in it.”

  “No, he’s not serious,” Baxter said. “Valerie was leaked off as hell, but she’s not about to murder me.”

  “Any other candidates?” Reuben asked.

  “Probably one of the blackies. They’re always ready to kill me over something.”

  “Gregg, if that’s all you can say, shut up,” Abbott said angrily. “To talk like that is childish. Tabita and Tony are completely loyal to you and you know it.”

  Baxter smiled, seeming pleased that he had upset his partner. “I guess that leaves only you, Dan,” Baxter continued. “A pretty drastic way of taking over Baxter Fashions, wouldn’t you say? But I guess you’re desperate to get your hands on it.”

  There was a definite edge to his voice, even though he kept smiling. Abbott looked hurt but did not reply; Frost guessed that he was accustomed to Baxter’s abuse.

  Frost was curious at the conspicuous omission of Doris Medford and decided to ask about it. If he was going to be involved in this strange imbroglio, there was no point in holding questions back.

  “Medford?” Baxter said, when Reuben had asked his question. “That drunken bitch? I doubt it. She screwed up my dinner, but she’s not the murdering type. You agree, Dan?”

  “Basically, yes,” Abbott said. “Though when she’s on one of her rampages, it’s best to watch out. Booze fuels her up like a NASA rocket.”

  “Surely with all the party preparations she wasn’t drunk yesterday,” Reuben said. “At least until late la
st night.”

  “Quite right, quite right,” Abbott said. “I was making a general observation that isn’t relevant here. I’m sorry.”

  “Let’s call Cavallaro,” Frost said. “But before we do, let me just say one thing. If I’m involved, and we find out that your insulin bottle had poison in it, Mr. Baxter, I’m going to try my damndest to find out who put it there. As far as I’m concerned, the chips can fall where they may. Is that clear?”

  “We wouldn’t want it any other way,” Abbott said.

  “I hear you Mr. Frost,” Baxter said. “Our objectives are the same—I’m going to find out who tried to poison me if it kills me.”

  Alfred Cavallaro appeared at Baxter’s suite, his facial expression a mix of concern and apprehension.

  “What we’ve been hoping, Alfredo,” Frost said, once the problem had been presented, “is that you can direct us to a laboratory that can find out quickly whether Mr. Baxter’s suspicion is justified.”

  “Yes. That is possible. I have an old friend in Mestre who runs a commercial laboratorio. I’ll try to call her. I have her number in the office.”

  “Excellent,” Reuben said. “Meanwhile, Mr. Baxter, why don’t you retrieve the insulin bottle from your safe. I take it no one has handled it except you?”

  “As far as I know,” Baxter said.

  “And no one else has the combination?” Frost asked. Lesser rooms, like his own, did not have such fancy appurtenances.

  “No. I set it myself. It’s one of those gizmos where the guest picks the numbers.”

  “I don’t think there’s much else we can do right now, once we get the bottle off to Mestre,” Reuben said.

  “Let me ring my friend,” Cavallaro said.

  “And I guess I’ll go down to Ceil’s,” Baxter said. “If someone’s trying to do me in, I’d better try to get my work done fast.” Reuben was going to warn him to be careful, but when he noticed a vein pounding in Baxter’s temple, he decided that a warning was not necessary.

  CHAPTER

  6

  Antica Besseta

  Cynthia frost returned to the Cipriani about six, after a busy day of shopping, first on Murano and then in the shops of the Mercerie behind San Marco. She was laden with bundles when she came into Room 201.