“Looks like you bought out the town,” Reuben said.
“Not quite, dear,” she replied, sitting down heavily on her bed, plainly tired.
“Did you get to Murano?” Reuben asked. He was bursting to tell her about Gregg Baxter’s insulin bottle, but had decided it would be more fun to surprise her after she had described her own day.
“Yes, first thing this morning. And you’ll be happy to know they said at Salviati we can get replacements for our broken glasses by Christmas.”
“Just goes to show that money can do anything.”
“They are expensive, God knows. But beautiful and worth it. You do agree, don’t you?”
“Of course,” Reuben said. “Where did you have lunch?”
“A trat on the canal in Murano. My big discovery was the glass museum. Have you ever been there? I never had.”
“No.”
“A lot of what they have is appalling junk—”
“Did that surprise you? There are only about six patterns of Venetian glass that are tolerable. Including our glasses, I hasten to add. The rest is rubbish.”
“It was interesting. Did you know, Reuben, there’s a legend that the glass-blowers used to produce drinking glasses so fine that they would shatter if the slightest bit of poison were put in them?”
“Hmn. I know someone who could use one of those.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that while you were out buying up Venice, I was being consulted about an attempted murder.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
Frost told his wife about his morning meeting with Baxter and Abbott.
“So they still don’t know whether there was poison in Baxter’s medicine,” Cynthia said, when he had finished. “Maybe it’s his imagination.”
“It could be. We should know tomorrow.”
“Any shrewd guesses about who might have been playing with his insulin?” Cynthia asked.
“If anybody was, that is. No, I don’t, really. I suppose it could be any of the people around him—Doris Medford, Dan Abbott, that knockout model, young Garrison.”
“Well, let’s hope the lab report is negative. This is our vacation, after all.”
“È vero.”
“What did you do later?” Cynthia asked.
“I had a typical afternoon of Venetian sightseeing,” Reuben said. “I tramped around to three churches—all of them closed. Chiuso. I forgot to say a prayer to the patron saint of Venetian tourists—Santa Maria delle Chiusure. Saint Mary of the Closings, pray for us.”
“And don’t forget San Giovanni in Restauro. He should get a few prayers, too.”
An hour later, Reuben was at last able to reach Dan Abbott in his room. The business manager had nothing to report but said “thank God” Baxter had kept busy during the afternoon at Ceil Scamozzi’s workrooms, which had taken his mind off the poisoned insulin bottle. Reuben, in turn, reported a conversation with Cavallaro, in which he said he’d been promised a lab report not later than tomorrow.
“I guess we just have to sit tight till then,” Abbott replied. “Any suggestions?”
“Yes. I’d keep an eye on my partner. If there’s a poisoner out there, he may just try again.”
“Don’t worry, I intend to,” Abbott replied.
Reuben and Cynthia stopped downstairs for a drink before setting out for the Antica Besseta, their culinary target for the evening. They noticed that the hotel seemed overrun with formally dressed couples, with even more debarking from water-taxis.
“It looks like there’s a blow-out here almost as big as Gregg Baxter’s,” Cynthia observed.
“What’s going on?” Reuben asked Bianco, the bar waiter.
“A dinner. Americans. Bankers.”
Frost now recalled that they had been told this when they first checked in. “Do you know where from?” he asked.
“No, sir, I don’t.”
Having finished their drinks, the Frosts got up to leave. It never ceased to amaze Reuben that the elaborate bookkeeping and chit signing so intrusive and bothersome in the average hotel was almost completely absent here. If the bartender knew a guest, he looked up the room number himself; if the guest was a stranger, he asked the room number just once. That was the extent of the red tape. (Not that one did not pay, God knows, for every drop consumed.)
Outside, they ran into two acquaintances, Ted and Sandra Demetrios from New York. He was a partner in Hughes & Company, an old-line investment banking firm. His father, “old” Ted, had been a classmate of Reuben’s at Princeton, and the latter had followed, though not closely, the upward progress of “young” Ted (now a mere forty-five). Demetrios was wearing black tie, his wife a long yellow evening dress (a Baxter, at that).
Questioning revealed that the Hughes partners from around the world were gathered for a “retreat” that had begun in Milan and had moved to Venice that morning for three days of socializing, including the black-tie dinner for the bankers and their spouses that was about to begin.
“We’ve been held prisoner all week in Milan. It sure is good to get out,” Demetrios said.
Reuben learned that they were staying at the Gritti, and that the Hughes group was divided between the Gritti and the Cipriani.
“Business can’t be bad if you’re having a formal dinner here,” Reuben said.
“No, it’s not, thank God. But the black-tie part’s a pain in the neck.”
“All due to Suzie Benedict,” Sandra Demetrios whispered, referring to the wife of Hughes’ senior partner. “If there’s a chance to be pretentious, she’ll find it.”
Reuben and Cynthia joined in the conspiratorial laughter and then went off.
By the time they had negotiated the lengthy trip to the Riva di Biasio at the bottom of the Grand Canal, both were hungry and looked forward to putting themselves into the capable hands of the Volpes, Nereo and Maurizia, the owners of Antica Besseta. The modest trattoria had been recommended to them years before by a knowing New York restaurateur who had pronounced it “without question” the best in Venice.
Nothing ever changed about the place, except the occasional addition of a work of art to the cheerful miscellany on the walls (including a painting by Peter Begley, a young American artist living in Rome they had known for some years). In many restaurants, the heart sank when one encountered modern stereo systems and other latter-day “improvements.” There was never such a danger at the Antica Besseta.
The Frosts were greeted ebulliently by the Volpes, Nereo rushing from the dining room, kissing Cynthia’s hand, embracing Reuben, and calling to his wife, who appeared at once from the kitchen. They were quickly paraded to a corner table and without delay were drinking the house Pinot Bianco. There was a large and jolly party of locals; otherwise the room was filled with foreigners including, Reuben was startled to discover as he looked around, Doris Medford, Eric Werth and Jim Cavanaugh. The Frosts waved, deciding to postpone a more personal greeting until the others had finished dining.
Reuben’s and Nereo’s respective deficiencies in the other’s language did not inhibit a spirited discussion of both the fortunes of the Volpe family and the evening’s menu. With confidence, knowing that Nereo bought his fish from the Mercato del Pesce al Minuto—literally, the market of fish of the minute—below the Rialto at four o’clock each morning, they ordered the antipasto di pesce, a wonderful assortment of fresh seafood, both familiar and (quite often) not so familiar.
“Fancy seeing our friends here,” Cynthia said.
“Not so surprising. After all I told them on the plane that it was our favorite restaurant. Nereo should pay me a commission.”
Cynthia was silent for a while and then burst out, as if it had been troubling her, “I can’t believe you’re going to get mixed up in another escapade, Reuben.”
“I’m sure I won’t,” he replied. “If I’m lucky, Baxter’s problem will turn out to be a false alarm.”
“But if that insulin was poisoned?”
“There’s still not much I can do, as far as I can see. Question all the pharmacists in Venice? That’s a job for the police. I’m very confident our vacation’s not going to be interrupted. As confident as I am that these tiny gamberetti will be delicious.” He pointed to the minuscule “shrimplets” on the diverse and vivid plate of marine life Nereo Volpe had brought each of them.
Cynthia, always adventuresome, attacked a boiled polpo, a small octopus. “I agree, there doesn’t seem to be much that you could do. Which makes me wonder why they consulted you at all.”
“Dan Abbott said my reputation was considerable. I can’t believe that’s true—though it’s nice flattery—but he had heard about the Rowan case from Grace Mann. Anyway, to answer your question, if I were in a foreign country and saw my meal ticket threatened, I’d try to get help any place I could. He’s got a pretty good motive for keeping Gregg Baxter alive and well.”
Despite their animated conversation, the Frosts’ plates were soon empty—even the most peculiar and least known creatures had been eaten—and were quickly replaced by steaming bowls of spaghetti alle vongole, perfectly cooked spaghetti with clams in their shells.
“If the worst happens, and we’re dealing with a case of poisoning,” Reuben continued, “about all I can do is advise Mr. Baxter to get the hell out of here.”
“If I were he, I’d have left already,” Cynthia said.
“He’s got work that has to be done with Ceil Scamozzi. If he flees, he’ll have to come back later, or so Abbott told me.”
“Isn’t he frightened? I would be.”
“I’m sure you’re right. There were little signs this morning that he was. Like a throbbing vein in his forehead.”
“Reuben, aren’t these vongole the best dish in the whole world?” Cynthia asked.
“No.”
“No?”
“No. Maurizia’s grilled sole, which you’re about to have, is the best thing in the whole world.”
“It’s a close call,” Cynthia said. As she spoke, Nereo Volpe presented with a flourish the sogliole alla griglia his wife had prepared, then took them back for deboning.
“This sole is delicious, Reuben,” Cynthia said, once she had sampled it. “I’d forgotten how fantastic it is here.”
“Better than the vongole?”
“Yes. But what a choice!”
“È andato bene?” the proprietor asked as he stopped at the Frosts’ table when they had finished their sole.
“Sì, Nereo. Era proprio squisito,” Reuben said, meaning it: their most delicious meal had indeed gone well. Cynthia and Reuben declined dessert, pleading that they were absolutely stuffed. Then Jim Cavanaugh, who must have been watching their progress, came over and asked them to join him and his friends “for a digestivo, as they say.”
“I’m not sure I’m up to that, but we’ll be happy to join you for coffee,” Reuben said. After a shuffling of chairs, they arranged themselves in a semicircle around Cavanaugh’s table.
“This was a good recommendation, Mr. Frost,” Eric Werth said. “This place was a new one on me and I thank you.”
Sig. Volpe returned with a bottle of homemade grappa, complete with its label showing an old woman money changer, the namesake antica besseta. Cynthia, Reuben and Eric Werth declined—with profuse thanks—but Cavanaugh and Medford did not.
“Have you been having a good time, Mr. Cavanaugh?” Reuben asked, genuinely curious.
“I can’t say as I have,” the lawyer said. “This place is a joke—no cars, no street signs that mean anything, dirty water. And prices you wouldn’t believe. And the dog crap! Nobody warned me about the dog crap! It’s everywhere!”
Reuben laughed. “A couple of years ago they passed a ‘scooper’ law here, like the one in New York, but didn’t bother to enforce it. Now I’m told they are and you can be fined two hundred thousand lire—almost two hundred dollars—if you don’t clean up after your dog.”
“If they call what they’re doing enforcement, I’d like to know how they handle serious crimes,” Cavanaugh said.
“I’m sorry you’re disappointed with Venice,” Cynthia said. “I hope your business has been successful.”
“Negative,” Cavanaugh said. “We haven’t had any luck in that department at all.”
“Gregg Baxter won’t even see us,” Werth added. “We fly all the way over here, and he won’t even see us!”
“That seems peculiar,” Reuben said.
“We’ve been trying to talk turkey with Gregg Baxter for two years,” Werth said. “He’s so big right now that if we could get a license to use his name on a line of perfume, we’d have a money machine like you’ve never seen. But will he cooperate? Not on his life. Says all he really wants to do is high-line fashion, that’s enough for him. Coo-toor. The fancy stuff.”
Werth’s reference to “coo-toor” drew an exuberant laugh from Medford. “Hail, hail,” she said, as she reached for the grappa bottle and poured herself and Cavanaugh generous refills. “Have some more of this diesel fuel, honey,” she said to the lawyer, patting him affectionately on the back of his head.
“Baxter looks down on us,” Werth went on. “We’re beneath him. He won’t license us or anybody else to do anything. Why, Dan Abbott said it was all he could do to get Baxter to do a line of better dresses.”
“Better dresses?” Reuben asked.
“Yes, better dresses,” Werth said. “The stuff between high fashion and what’s mass produced. They should be called ‘worse’ dresses, I suppose, but the trade calls them ‘better.’”
“Do you know Dan Abbott?” Cavanaugh asked.
“Yes,” Frost said.
“Good solid fellow. He’s been trying to talk Baxter into making a deal. He’s the one who got us to make this trip. As I told you the other day, he thought Baxter might sit down and talk when he’s relaxed, when he’s out of New York. Fat chance. We even got uninvited to Baxter’s party.”
“Uninvited?” Cynthia asked, incredulous.
“That’s right,” Werth said. “We’d received engraved invitations back in New York, but once we got here Abbott called us at the Gritti and said that Baxter not only wouldn’t see us, he didn’t want us at his party. So we wasted good time and money to get here for nothing. Temperamental son of a bitch. I could kill him!”
You and a party unknown, Reuben thought. “I’m afraid we have to be going,” he said, then asked Nereo for the contecini.
The owner smiled at Reuben’s use of the local slang expression for a bill—not a word for a small conto, or check, as Reuben had mistakenly thought the first time he had heard it, but a reference to the late Count Cini, an open-handed local philanthropist but apparently a legendary avoider of paying when he dined out with others.
“We’ll come with you,” Werth said. “We had a helluva time finding this place and I’d hate to get lost going back.”
Cavanaugh, who had already paid, and Medford each had another grappa while Reuben counted out the lire to pay his bill.
“I should leave something for all these drinks we’ve been having,” Cavanaugh said.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it,” Reuben said, adding another bank note to the pile in front of him.
Their new companions waited awkwardly at the front of the restaurant while the Frosts said goodbye to Nereo. Maurizia Volpe, as she often did, had already slipped away home. So now the leave-taking consisted of a flurry of embraces with Nereo, kisses, vows of lifelong esteem, paeans of compliments to la signora and her cooking and a firm promise by the Frosts to return presto.
Arm in arm, Reuben and Cynthia led the others back to the Riva di Biasio. Never mind that the Riva was named for a medieval innkeeper who allegedly killed and stewed small boys to make his squazzetto; after their delightful meal and generous draughts of wine, it would take more than this ancient tale to disturb their sense of well-being.
They did not have to wait long for a vaporetto. Like all vaporetti it was misnamed, po
wered as it was not by steam but by diesel; doubly misnamed in this case for, although called l’accelerato, it made every stop along the Grand Canal.
The slow pace was quite all right with Reuben and Cynthia. They had agreed, many years ago, that the two-mile passage up the Grand Canal late at night was the most thrillingly beautiful journey one could imagine. Reuben even sought out the marinaio to pay the fare, then joined his wife in an outdoor seat to take in the exquisite palazzi that lined the route, some receding into the shadowy darkness, others with brilliantly illuminated rooms visible from the water. Even Jim Cavanaugh seemed impressed.
“What’s our stop?” Eric Werth asked, after they had passed under the Rialto Bridge.
“Santa Maria del Giglio,” Reuben told him. “We’ll get off there, too. After that dinner, we can use the walk to San Marco.”
As they went up the Canal, Reuben was surprised to see Jim Cavanaugh unobtrusively holding Doris Medford’s hand. An Adriatic romance? he wondered.
Once ashore, Cavanaugh said he would walk to the Bauer Grunwald with Medford. Eric Werth, at the prospect of being alone, said he would go to the Square with the Frosts. “We’ve got time,” he said. “It’s only ten thirty-five.”
“That’s about eleven hours till we have to leave for the airport,” Cavanaugh said.
“You’re going home tomorrow?” Reuben said.
“Unless some new twist develops,” Werth said.
Reuben wondered what “new twist” there could possibly be at the late hour, but refrained from pressing the point. At the Bauer Grunwald, Medford begged off from walking on to San Marco and announced that she was going to bed. Cavanaugh said he would see her to the elevator. After observing the hand-holding on the vaporetto, Frost thought this might be the last they saw of him. But in a few minutes he came back and they started walking east toward the Piazza.
“This way—that’s a dead end,” Reuben instructed, as Cavanaugh veered off toward the right of the church of San Moisè, straight ahead of them. Frost got everyone heading leftward, and in five minutes they had reached the Square. When they had walked to the center of the Piazza, Eric Werth asked Reuben if he knew “the story of those horses,” pointing to the four bronze statues mounted on the facade of the basilica. “Didn’t they come from Constantinople? That’s about all I know about them.”
A Very Venetian Murder Page 6