Death Under the Venice Moon

by Maria Grazia Swan

  Better take the telefonino. Fully dressed, my hair dry, lipstick on, I grabbed my purse and the keys to the condo, and walked out of the bedroom. The living room also displayed a blue stream, courtesy of the incredible beam of moonlight spilling through the tall window. It was so well defined it looked like a sliver of moon pie, narrow but elongated, reaching all the way to the thick rug covering the inlaid wood floor.

  Wait…no…what?

  In the center of the silvery slice, a dark figure lay motionless on the carpet.

  Dio Mio. I took a step. The body moved, and I screamed.

  CHAPTER THREE

  "Buona, sta buon. Son io, Cruz."

  Be good. I'm Cruz?

  The chandelier suddenly lit so brightly my eyes hurt. What? The dark shadow that had been sprawled on the rug was my host Manuel De La Cruz? I blinked but didn't budge from where I stood.

  "Am sorry," he said in an attempt to speak English. "Do you speak Italian?"

  "Of course I speak Italian. I am Italian." I wanted to slap his silly smile away. What had he been doing on the floor in the dark?

  "Italian Italian?"

  "I don't know what constitutes an Italian Italian, but I was born a little north of here, province of Vicenza. Is that Italian enough for you?"

  "Ah, Kyle's mamma, you are mad at me." He smiled with his eyes. His mention of Kyle reminded me in whose living room I stood. I smiled back. This was the great Cruz? Casanova Cruz? I had pictured him like the Italian version of George Clooney. But this was a middle-aged man in need of a good meal. Such a bony face, thin lips. Interesting, in a strange way. Imperfect features and unsettling eyes. Perhaps fame added an aura of charm to everything he did or didn't do.

  "It’s the moon." He hummed. "I like to meditate by the full moon. It reinvigorates me, clears my mind. Didn't mean to frighten you. How are you? Did you find everything you need? Have you had dinner?" His sentences ran together. As he spoke and grew more animated, personality began to seep through. He had a childlike smile, probably well rehearsed. He moved closer, right under the chandelier where I had parked myself. Thick lashes shadowed his eyes. Odors of tobacco and cigarette smoke lingered on his clothes.

  "I didn't hear you—did you say you have eaten?" My stomach growled, and Cruz had his answer. "Oh, Kyle's mamma is hungry."

  "My name is Lella."

  "Hungry and spunky. What are you hungry for—Lella?"

  The double entendre wasn't lost on me. Now I really wanted to smack this overgrown adolescent. Did he catch my annoyance? "Sorry," he said. "Habits. But seriously, anything in mind? Pasta? Fish?"

  Forget eating, I still couldn't get past his sudden appearance. "Cruz, I didn't know you had arrived. The place is so quiet. I'm puzzled or maybe simply curious. I wonder…if you don't feel like answering it is totally fine, but I understand you are a famous movie star. A household name, according to Pia Bartolomei, right?"

  He nodded. The glow on his face was bright enough to compete with the chandelier.

  "How do you manage? The anonymity, I mean. No paparazzi hurtling at your door, no admiring fans screaming under your windows."

  He bobbed his head to the cadence of my voice. "True, so true, Lella. But I am smart. Everything was planned carefully years ago. This is my place for tranquility. When I'm here, I'm not Cruz."

  "I see. You are not Cruz, and how do you convince the town of that? You wear a mask? A wig? You buy their cooperation?" What's gotten into me? It's none of my business.

  He laughed in a spontaneous way, maybe for the first time since we met.

  "Come on." He took my hand. "Let's go talk to Augusta. You will understand."

  We had made it to the door when he stopped. "Almost forgot. I'll be right back." He disappeared behind the door of what Pia had indicated was his bedroom and returned carrying a Prada gift bag. The blue lettering on the white background was hard to miss. "Now I'm ready. Let's go."

  "We are going to talk to Augusta the concierge?"

  No answer. He pulled me along to the elevator, down to the street level and into Augusta's office. He raised his hand to knock, but when his knuckles met the door, it opened.

  Pia had introduced me to the older woman known as the concierge when we arrived around noon. Distracted, I hadn't paid much attention.

  Augusta sat at her desk. The moment she saw us she stood and smiled, magically losing twenty years.

  "Manuel, you're back," she cooed, extending both hands to him.

  He smiled, accepted the offered hands and placed the Prada bag in them, then kissed the plump concierge on both cheeks.

  "Not for long, I'm afraid. But Kyle's mamma"—he nodded in my direction—"she is on vacation, so you'll see a lot of her and perhaps Kyle also." He moved his hands away from hers. "Do you think we can take a look at the menus? Of course, I already know what I want." More smiles. "But Kyle's mamma has no idea about the good care you take of us."

  I wanted to shout that my name wasn't Kyle's mamma but decided I could put up with his immature sense of humor for one evening. After all, he was willing to put up with the imposition of my unscheduled presence.

  Augusta went back to her desk and removed a folder from one of the drawers. The lamp put a shine on her silver hair. She opened the folder and laid at least a dozen restaurant menus on the desktop. While she motioned me to look at them, she kept glancing at the Prada bag, obviously dying to open it.

  Small golden bells chimed eight p.m. The lovely sound came from a handsome old clock on the wall.

  "I never get tired of listening to that beautiful sound. Thank you, Manuel." Augusta sounded a little misty.

  I stared at the menus, unable to decide what to do. "Cruz, you are more familiar with these restaurants than I am. What do you suggest? Something light so I won't toss and turn all night."

  He chuckled at my remark, spread the menus on the desk, picked one, and suggested some risotto di frutta di mare. While it literally translated to "rice with fruits of the sea," when served it would be a light risotto with mussels, scallops, and calamari. Perfect. He worked out the details with Augusta, who apparently ordered his food when he stayed at the condo.

  She assured us everything would be delivered within forty-five minutes.

  More kisses on both cheeks, then we left.

  "Let me see. You get here in the dark so as not to be seen and hide in the condo while your star-struck old girl provides you with your daily needs, then you take off again in the dark. That's your wonderful life in Chioggia? How long have you been calling this gilded cage home?" Why was I so mean? The poor man did nothing to deserve my criticism. Misplaced anger or a preview of the mood swings my ob-gyn predicted for my near future?

  "Gilded cage? Hide waiting for darkness?" We paused by the elevator door. "You don't know a thing." He grabbed my arm. Like a man on a mission, he firmly dragged me along toward a dim corridor. Smoke might have flared from his nostrils, but I couldn't tell in the low light.

  "Where are you taking me?" All his passion could be a sign of craziness. The narrow hallway grew even darker and seemed to close in around us.

  He stopped at a door. I knew it was a door because a low-voltage light bulb above it made it possible for Cruz to insert a key, unlock and open it wide.

  A gush of cold air took me by surprise. Were we outside? This wasn't just cold air; it had a damp, chilling effect and smelled of mold and rotten wood. Memories of my grandfather's cellar popped into my head. But my grandfather's cellar had a floor. This place? Several steps down from the threshold, dark water slapped against the walls.

  "Come on." Cruz stood on the lower step, prodding me to join him. The instant I moved away, the door shut behind me. What have I gotten myself into?

  Water dripped somewhere in this cavernous place, resonating loudly. Precise and relentless.

  "Watch where you step." His voice was as calm as if he were taking a stroll in the park. He must have pulled a flashlight from his pocket. The light beam showed the way.

&nb
sp; He seemed to be walking on solid ground, so I followed him closely. Our footsteps echoed in the vaulted space. We turned a corner and found ourselves at a moonlit underground dock. The moonbeams poured in from a large skylight, bleaching the walls and the boat to a ghostly pallor. A boat!

  "Where are we? What's above us?" I listened for dock sounds—voices, engines of other boats. But the only sound was the water slapping against the walls and moorings.

  "The skylight is part of the garden terrace. We are under the palazzo. Think of this place as a basement with seawater." His laugh was filled with affection. "And this is my Gemelli."

  "Gemelli? You are a twin? You have a twin brother?"

  "Lella, Lella, pay attention—Gemelli, as in astrology. I named my boat after my birth sign."

  That explained the affectionate tone. The man was in love with his boat.

  "Got it. This is your beloved speedboat you named Gemini because you are a Gemini. Correct?"

  "Brava!"

  Maybe it was the chill of the underground canal or the jet lag that finally caught up with me, but the tingling that crept up my spine when he mentioned Gemini wasn't pleasurable. More like bad memories and an urge to get out of there.

  Cruz's flashlight had a limited but powerful beam. He pointed it and examined the ropes anchoring the Gemelli.

  "Don't you have any electricity?" I stomped my feet. The humidity from the slippery stones dampened my ankle boots.

  "Of course I do, but I don't want to attract attention."

  "Attract attention? Whose attention? The sewer rats?" I can't believe I said that.

  He grabbed my elbow and forced me to walk the length of the boat past the bow. A few meters ahead, the underground boat slip opened into a wide canal dripping in moonlight. Cruz pointed across the water at a few lit windows. "The stores are closed, but people live above the businesses." He smiled. "Like you say in America, I like to keep a low profile."

  "Is below sea level low enough? How about we go back to the condo?"

  "Not yet. I want you to understand how free I feel to be myself. No agents, no paparazzi, just me and my boat." He rubbed his hand against the side of the speedboat the same way I ran my hands over Flash's back, except my cat purred. "My boat is my magic door. Once we leave the slip, I enter a different world, a world where I can choose who I want to be and where I want to go. No one questions me. I spend days on one of the small islands, just painting."

  "You paint?"

  "Painting is my passion. When I'm no longer, um, effective on the screen, I will paint every day. Augusta stores all my painting material when I'm gone for long periods of time. I don't leave anything personal in the condo. You never know who may stop by."

  "You mean you are not the only one with the keys?"

  "I'm told I am, and I give keys to my guests, but I trust no one. And you are right, Lella, I do wear wigs and glasses when I roam around town. Here." He climbed aboard the boat and was immediately coated in that ghostly, washed-out color. "Take my hand; come aboard."

  "No, that's okay. Really. I'm fine." My stomach gurgled loudly. Cruz kept his arm stretched out to me. Damn! He helped me up. The saying "a fish out of water" took on a whole new meaning. All I wanted was to get out of that drippy, stinky place.

  The boat actually smelled of new paint or something. Cruz stood there like a king assessing his domain. If a simple boat gave him such pleasure, this middle-aged man must have missed a lot more than a good meal in his life.

  "See?" He pointed to the skylight above. "Soon the moon will be directly over us, and on nights like this I lie on the bow. Come on, I'll show you."

  "Show me what?" I really, really didn't want to be there and had no intention of waiting for the moon to reach its pinnacle. This was getting too strange. Cruz lifted me up and sat me on the bow of the boat. He seemed very comfortable, while I was just the opposite.

  "Relax, relax." He settled himself beside me and leaned back, looking straight up past the skylight to the moon just coming into view.

  He tapped his palm against the bow. The chill and humidity must have messed up my brain functions, because I lay back next to him, looking at the same moon, thinking of the easiest way to get the hell out of there.

  "Nights like these make it all worth it." His voice dreamy.

  I had no idea what he meant, and I didn't care. Lunatic. It dawned on me the moon in Italian was luna. How appropriate.

  "So, Cruz, you're Spanish?" I figured talking might keep him from enjoying his moonlight, and maybe we'd go back to the condo.

  "Spanish? No. Why do you think I'm Spanish?

  "Your name?"

  "Oh, that. I adopted the name."

  "Adopted? You mean you legally changed your name? Or is it your screen name?"

  "When my friend died I adopted his name to honor him."

  We are not having this conversation. He's rehearsing some movie part and wants to see my reaction. "And you didn't have to go to court for that?"

  "Only three people know, now four. I doubt you'll go out and tell the world about it. Besides, no one will believe you."

  Dear God, the man is crazy. "What about your family, don't they care?"

  "I don't know. I grew up in an orphanage. My friend and I ran away when we were about twelve. I always liked his name." He became very quiet, then I heard muffled sounds. Was he crying?

  "He died of meningitis when he turned fourteen. I gave the priest my name for the burial. Manuel approved. I know it. Now Manuel De La Cruz is a household name—not bad for a runaway orphan." His voice faded.

  He really is a great actor. Maybe I should clap. I wanted to hug him and tell him everything would be okay, but I choked on my emotions and didn't move.

  The boat rocked a little harder. I was getting motion sickness.

  My imagination played tricks on me. I could have sworn someone else was on the boat. I felt a presence then—no—I caught a moving shadow. Too frightened to scream, I elbowed Cruz.

  "You hungry?" He got halfway up. I don't know if he saw the fear on my face, but something must have alerted him. He turned his head, and his body stiffened. "Hey! Delinquente," he yelled.

  When Cruz moved, I could see the dark silhouette of a man perched on the side of the boat. The stranger jumped off. The sound of his pounding feet receded as he ran away.

  I lay still, paralyzed by fear.

  Cruz jumped down and went after the intruder.

  The roar of a motorized boat zipped by the open canal before Cruz even reached the end of the slip.

  Show over.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Cruz paced with the frenzy of a caged feral cat.

  "Shouldn't you call the police?" I sat at the dining room table, not knowing what to do. Can this day get any weirder?

  "Call the police and say what? A stranger touched my boat?"

  "The stranger was clearly trespassing, and I'm sure he was going to rob you or something."

  "How do you know he was trespassing?" He stopped at the opposite side of the table, the intensity of his stare totally disturbing. "Is he a friend of yours? No one has ever come close to my boat at night, ever. Until tonight, that is."

  I didn't like the way this was going, and above all I didn't like his accusing attitude.

  "Friend? What friend? I know no one in this town. All I saw was a dark shadow, then he was gone." Those eyes of his—reminding me of other eyes, stirring memories, painful memories I didn't want to revisit.

  "Maybe he was a paparazzo." He looked at me again. "Did you see him take photos?"

  "No, of course not. I didn't see any flash, did you?"

  He stared at me like I was a seagull who pooped on his boat. "Flash? Who needs a flash? What? Are you living in the sixties? This is 2008. Remember?" He headed for the direction of the kitchen, mumbling.

  I pouted. How rude of him to bring up the age issue. I rethought the matter of his cinematic charm.

  I hadn't dared to question him about dinner, but intruder or no
t, I could use some food. The clatter of dishes came from the kitchen. My mouth began to water. "Need some help?"

  "No, I'm getting our food from the dumbwaiter. I'll be right there." His tone very pleasant.

  Dumbwaiter? I'd never seen one and wanted to go have a peek, but the volatile Cruz finally sounded more composed, so I stayed where I was. Better not to poke the sleeping bear. He brought two covered dishes then turned back to the kitchen.

  "I don't mind helping," I offered.

  "You are my guest—besides, not much to do but open a bottle of wine and enjoy our meal. No sense worrying about what happened on the boat. We'll see. Let's eat." He sat across the table from me, picked up his napkin, and smiled. "Aren't you going to look at your food?"

  "Oh, yes, sure." I removed the stainless steel plate cover. My risotto looked perfect, and the appetizing smell of shellfish wiped away all thoughts of boats, paparazzi, and mercurial actors. "Mmm."

  Cruz slid a wine-filled stem glass toward me. "A toast to an exciting tomorrow," he said.

  I wasn't going to ask him to explain. I toasted, sipped some wine—excellent—then started to eat my risotto. Never checked to see what my host ate. By the third bite I realized I hadn't thought about Larry since I screamed at Cruz moonbathing on the rug. Maybe I had reached the turning point. I wished.

  We ate in silence. Cruz refilled my glass, always without talking. Awkward. The whole evening felt like a page from the diary of a cranky divo.

  My sense of gratitude for the hospitality waned according to Cruz's mood. When he stood and cleared his place from the table, I saw a chance to pack it in for the night without offending him. I picked up my plate, silverware, and glass and followed him to the kitchen. He set his tableware into a cabinet built into the wall. The dumbwaiter!

  "How clever." I drummed up as much improvised enthusiasm as I could muster.

  "Oh, you mean this?" Cruz pointed to the mini-elevator with so much pride you'd have thought he invented it. "Here, let me show you how it works."

  After adding my tableware, he closed the door and pushed a button on the wall, and a soft whir from the other side of the closed cabinet door let me know the dirty dishes were on their way down.