Death Under the Venice Moon

by Maria Grazia Swan

  He shook his head and rolled his eyes. He wasn't buying it. If my own son could think that for a minute, what would the outsiders and the media make of these…coincidences?

  "Roberto is filing a missing person report with the Chioggia police department, or whatever the hell they call it in this country. You'll probably need to go there and be interviewed."

  "About what?" If his intention was to make me nervous, he succeeded.

  "Mother…you were the last one to see Cruz, and by now I'm sure there are many stories floating around. One of the gossip sites labeled you the Black Widow."

  I looked at him. He wasn't smiling.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  "Don't leave your room. Don't open the door for anyone, and only talk to Larry." He stayed put until my dinner was delivered. Not taking any chances. "Please, Mom, it's very important. It's for your own protection."

  And with that Kyle left for the evening, something about Giada possibly returning to Rome the next day. I should have been thankful. Instead I became resentful. I came all the way to Italy for this? Maledizione.

  Shouldn't blame my son. The poor kid ended up babysitting his own mother. I had to admit that Pia's disappearance puzzled me. Then again, maybe she decided she didn't want to talk to Kyle. What did I know about their relationship? Her behavior when we met led me to assume she was seriously invested in a future with him. Maybe I was the one who knew nothing about young people's affairs of the heart.

  Young people? Why limit my shortcomings? I failed in so many ways, on so many levels. All the suspicions and accusations against Larry. Now I found myself as the accused. What was it they called it? Poetic justice? Poetic or not, I didn't like it.

  Night descended on Venice, and the irony of the situation wasn't lost. I came here to get away from Larry. Larry was now on European soil. If I so decided, I could get in a car and join him. I would love to be able to jump in Kyle's Ford and drive to Innsbruck—except I was stuck in this strange hotel room with no one to talk to and nothing to do unless I wanted to watch Italian television. Plus, I wouldn't drive on Italian roads.

  Black Widow? Kyle said one of the Italian gossip sites labeled me the Black Widow. Why this trend of labeling people? Well, nothing new about that, people have always done it and perhaps with good intentions. Or not.

  I remembered visiting my mother in the summer of 1991, and all she could talk about was the Dama Bianca, who was in a coma. Turns out this White Lady, as she was labeled, had been the mistress and later the wife by Mexican marriage of a famous Italian athlete, Fausto Coppi. Coppi was a professional road-racing cyclist, sort of the Lance Armstrong of the fifties, minus the drugs allegations but plus the adulterous relationship. Mother cried a lot while telling me their love story. The perfect tale of star-crossed lovers. I asked her why she was called White Lady, and all my mother could come up with was that the woman was once photographed wearing a white coat. That's it? That's how you label someone for life? Based on what they wear one time?

  What was I wearing the evening we went to look at Cruz's speedboat? Nothing black and nothing white. That I knew for sure. Damn, now I understood. They meant Black Widow as in the spider because the females of the species devoured the male after copulation. Oh, no. What have I gotten myself into?

  Poor Kyle must be so embarrassed. And it's all my fault. I should have stayed in California. Spoken to Larry. I sat on the bed in full self-pity mode when my cell rang. What now?

  "Hello?" No, no, say pronto. Damn.

  "Lella, are you okay? I can barely hear you."

  "Oh, Larry, Kyle told me not to talk to anyone except you, and I didn't know, I was trying to sound…different."

  "Well, you succeeded." I sensed he wanted to cheer me up, while he sounded pretty down himself.

  "What's happening?" We spoke at the same time.

  "You go first," I told him.

  "I wish I had something uplifting to report, but—oh, Lella, my Olivia, I didn't even recognize her." He stopped talking. I sensed he was struggling with emotions raging inside.

  "Larry, don't take it so hard, you haven't seen each other in two years. And she is so young. Young people seem to blossom in strange ways when parents aren't around." Only ten months for my son, and look at the changes.

  "It's not only her appearance, although she looks sick, it's her…attitude. All this time I lived with sunny images of my daughter traveling through Europe with her classmate, learning about cultures and people. Instead she has been surviving on the edge of normal life with some man whose name she won't tell me. She was caught shoplifting. Shoplifting, my little girl." Was he crying? Oh my God, for the first time ever the man I loved, the man who had been there for me every step of the way for the last two years, needed me, and I was sitting in this luxurious prison under orders to stay in the room. It was my turn to be there for him and tell him everything would be okay. Damn. I was going to get myself to Innsbruck. I didn't care what Kyle thought.

  "Is she with you? Will you be able to get her back to the States?"

  "No, she is at the infirmary of this place where they keep people waiting to go to court. The lawyer's working on getting her a new passport. He thinks we can pay a fine, and they'll release her with the stipulation she must leave the country and never come back."

  "She's probably thrilled to do that, isn't she? Going back to California, to be with her family?"

  "That's what I thought, but that's not the case. The passport and getting her out of there, that part she likes. Going back to the States? No. She expects me to keep sending her money every time she calls with her little sweet voice and another well-rehearsed story. It isn't going to happen. Oh, damn, I didn't mean to unload my problems on you. Tell me about your day."

  "Have you had dinner?"

  "What?" The surprise in his voice was real.

  "Larry, for you to understand what's happening now, I need to start from when I first arrived in Venice. That's going to take a while, so it would be better if you had some food in your stomach. I'm sure you also have jet lag."

  "Lella, Lella, I miss you. I feel better already. Yes, I had some food. So tell me. I can't wait to hear what you got yourself into this time. Where is Kyle?"

  "My son is spending the night with a young woman named Giada who happens to be the personal assistant…no, no…I need to start from the beginning."

  "Go ahead. I'm resting comfortably on this unusual bed. Sure is different than our beds. No sheets or blankets but this—plump duvet? The cover is like a sheet, and I'm told it's filled with feathers. I sound pretty boring, don't I?"

  "You are many things. Boring isn't one of them." I relished the silence we shared, picturing the fluffy duvet sheltering our entwined bodies. A heat wave hit me, but this time it wasn't a hot flash. I told him about Pia and Cruz, about the stranger taking pictures and the astrologer on the Ponte Vecchio, and on and on until I felt exhausted but at peace.

  "What can I say? Lella, don't get mad, but Kyle is right. People around you tend to disappear. I find the coincidence plausible because I know you well. However, if I were an Italian man of the law, I would look at you suspiciously. Don't these two people have families? Isn't anyone reporting them missing? If indeed you were the last one to see them both, some detective should be knocking at your door right now and asking you a lot of questions."

  I thought about the first time Larry and I met. He was the detective who knocked at my door and asked me a lot of questions.

  "Well, thanks a lot for your cheerful outlook. Now I'm not going to be able to sleep. Fortunately, no one knows where to find me. At least I hope they don't. And Kyle said the hotel has a good security staff in place."

  "Lella, again, Italian law may be different, but if a detective wants to talk to you, the hotel security isn't going to stop him. I need to take care of Olivia then get myself down to Venice."

  I smiled. "You don't even speak Italian. Except for the few bad words you hear me say when I'm mad."

  "Wait
, California is nine hours behind Austria, right? I'm going to make some calls. Look how well Bonnie's intervention helped with finding the perfect lawyer. You never know. I have a cell phone, and the ring tone is pretty loud."

  "Mine plays 'California Girls' when it rings. Kyle's sense of humor. How about yours?"

  "Ring, ring. Old-people phone," he joked.

  On that note, we said good night. But I couldn't sleep. While I knew very well it would be a stupid move, I really wanted to jump into a car and drive to Innsbruck. So, what's one more bad decision?

  I turned on the television, remembering the news in Italy came on late in the evening. I wasn't familiar with any of the channels. There might have been a program schedule somewhere in the room, but I didn't feel like getting out of bed. I started to click randomly. Lots of musical shows, old American movies…then I recognized the woman on TV from during the morning meeting. She mentioned Kyle York, and there was my gorgeous kid, smiling in one of his file photos. What was she saying? Oh, damn, a front view of the Century Palace, whoever the cameraman was, he or she was following my son, I recognized him from the back, they seem to jog, yes, inside the lobby. Oh my God! It was a video from that morning. There was Kyle arguing with the reporters, the elevator's door opening.

  Noooo.

  That was me in my bathrobe with the oily hair stuck to my scalp, but wait—my face didn't look so bad. I had the look of a deer caught in the headlights, but all that makeup didn't look half bad. I certainly looked younger. What was I thinking? About how good I looked? I hadn't heard what they were saying. Maybe I could get it on another channel. I resumed clicking fast and furious but finally gave up and went to sleep. Or tried to.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  "Mom."

  The voice sounded far away, but the hand shaking me was firmly planted on my shoulder.

  "Kyle?" I fought to keep my eyelids open. "What's happening? What time is it?"

  "Seven a.m." He was fully dressed. "We have a long day ahead. I need you to get up and come look at something."

  Maledizione, what? She kicked him out of bed?

  I dragged myself to the bathroom. Some things couldn't wait. Thank God he didn't run around opening drapes and windows…what was with this kid of mine? I didn't remember him being an early riser. And I certainly never was a morning person. By the time I made it to his room, he was pointing to a laptop on the desk.

  "Come, take a look."

  Must be that thing I watched last night on TV, me in my robe and makeup…poor Kyle.

  I was wrong. The screen displayed several women's suits, like a catalogue. He wakes me up at seven a.m. to show me women's clothes? "What? Are you a closet crosser…"

  His eyes got so big I thought they would come out of their sockets. "Cross dresser?"

  "Yes, that."

  He erupted in laughter while trying to talk. "Oh, too funny. Cross dresser—my mother thinks I'm a closet cross dresser. I have to remember to tell Giada, ah, ah." He wiped tears from too much laughing. Maybe he would go tell Giada in person right now, and I could go back to sleep.

  There was a light knock at the door. He quickly ran his fingers through his hair and over his cheeks, motioned me to stay put, and went to open his bedroom door. He spoke to someone then came back holding a large tray with coffee and a lot more. Good boy.

  I headed straight to the table where he set the tray.

  "No, no, Mom, we have to take care of business first. Which one of these suits do you like?"

  "Suit? Like? Like for what?"

  "To wear, of course."

  "Kyle, it's so sweet of you, but I don't need any clothes, honestly. All I want is to get out of here, out of your hair, and get myself to Innsbruck. Maybe I can catch a flight from Marco Polo, no?" I gave him my sweetest, most innocent look.

  He shook his head. "Late yesterday afternoon Roberto reported Cruz missing to the authorities. We expect they'll want to talk to you. So you have to volunteer to be interviewed. It shows good intent. De Bernardi and crew are in full containment mode. You need to be dressed for the part."

  "Part? What part? I'm not some puppet—"

  "You want to go to Innsbruck? Follow directions, and you'll be on your way in no time. By the way, did you bring both passports?" He was all business.

  What kind of Kool-Aid did my kid drink in my homeland? Did he read the disapproval in my eyes? His attitude changed. "Giada is waiting for you to pick the suit. Please, Mom, we don't have much time."

  I rolled my eyes. "Giada? Where?"

  "She has access to clothing from companies the studio uses. Sit and scan, then decide. What size do you wear?"

  "Italian size?" I sat and looked. "I don't know. I never buy clothes in Italy—for one thing, they don't have 'petite,' so it's only shoes and handbags. But American size is six petite." Since I wasn't going to pay for the suit and none of the outfits had a price tag, I decided to go with the flow, like we say in America. I paid close attention to each suit. I could hear Kyle fiddling with the coffee cups. Good. Teamwork. Who was kidding whom?

  "What do you think about this one?"

  He brought me some coffee when he came to check out my choice. I pointed to a dark teal skirt and fitted jacket. I figured if I got to keep it, the suit would be a great addition to my wardrobe.

  "Yes, that would work," he said. "What about shoes? We were thinking a small heel so you look sophisticated without trying to be sexy. Mom, stop rolling your eyes already, you're supposed to be this wonderful, strong woman who did such a good job raising your only son in spite of being a widow."

  Kyle was in his twenties when his father died.

  "People don't need to know when dad died." Did he read my mind? "Or that I'm not such a good son because I hardly visit unless I happen to be passing by your house on my way to somewhere else. No, no, Mom, no crying. You need to look calm and serene, not a worry in the world. No red eyes. So, what size shoes?"

  I couldn't talk, too choked up. I blew my nose. My son hadn't changed. He was simply in hiding…thank you, God. I managed to say, "Six and a half, medium width. But Kyle, Italian shoes don't have the medium width. I always have to buy size thirty-seven, and that's really too big because I have small feet, but—"

  "Mom, your feet are perfect. Relax. You're not running a marathon. Let me call Giada and place the order." He walked away smiling.

  All that sniffling plugged my nose, and I made slurping sounds while drinking my coffee. Might as well see what else was on that tray. All this before eight a.m. Whatever happened to the famed Italian dolce vita? Another busted myth, like the one about the sanctity of holy matrimony? I could hear Kyle talking and laughing on the phone. Must have been Giada at the other end.

  "We are all set," he said when he came back. "Here is the plan. Giada is bringing the clothes. Roberto has a press conference scheduled here at the hotel. The studio went all out and rented the big fancy party room. They're providing free food and drinks to the reporters, so you know they'll all show up. Giada will text me when they're serving, and Roberto will start taking questions so we can sneak out through the service elevator. There'll be a boat waiting to take us to Sottomarina, and from—"

  "Sottomarina? We are going all the way there by boat? And why Sottomarina? It's across the bridge from Chioggia."

  "Precisely, that's where the new Sede dei Carabinieri is. Carolyn is meeting us at the lawyer's office, then from—"

  "Whoa. Wait. Police station? Lawyer? What's going on?"

  "Mom, the studio set this up, sort of preempting the next move. You'll be interviewed by the local authorities before they even consider calling you up. The lawyer is on retainer, and the studio wants to make sure my reputation and, of course, yours remains spotless. Look, a lot of planning went into this to make our life easier. So smile, and don't forget to thank Giada when she arrives with her staff."

  "Her what?"

  He checked his watch. "If you want to shower or wash up, you better get going. I'll let you know when th
ey are on their way up."

  And with that, he dismissed me and never told me a thing about her staff.

  I sat in the bathtub, stewing. If God were out to teach me a lesson, well, mission accomplished. I remembered getting on that flight to Venice thinking I was going to teach Larry a lesson. Poor Larry, how were things going with his daughter? Was he getting bossed around like I was? What time was it? I left my watch and my phone in the bedroom, but it was probably time to get out of the tub and prepare myself to face the music, or, as Kyle called it, Giada and her staff.

  She arrived wearing a gorgeous dark green outfit, long pants and matching coat. This was the first time I had a chance to see Giada up close. Her eyes matched the shade of her outfit. I fought the urge to ask if she wore colored lenses. Eyes like hers were the kind I'd read about in romance novels but had never encountered in real life.

  She was very professional, so professional I asked myself if my son spent the night with her or someone else. No longing glances were exchanged, no lingering handshakes. Maybe they decided to try to fool me. Both the skirt and the sleeves of my suit needed shortening. No problem. One of the two women Giada brought with her happened to be a seamstress with the necessary tools of the trade. I tried on two pairs of shoes. One pair fit comfortably. The shirt to be worn under the jacket was a pale blue knit top.

  To everyone's consternation, I said no to pantyhose. I had stopped wearing them twenty years ago. Kyle should have remembered that. The second woman on the staff did my makeup and hair. She should have applied for a manager job at the hotel spa. I looked better than I had in a very long time. Had she used products tailored specifically for the trade? Could they be purchased over the counter? Then again, maybe it had more to do with her talent than all the concoctions.

  I didn't know what all this would accomplish, but I loved the results and wasn't going to offer to return a thing unless forced to. The suit looked and felt expensive. It could have been custom-made by the way it fit my body, not too snug here or too loose there. And Kyle said Giada had connections with the apparel manufacturers. Good to know.