Death Under the Venice Moon

by Maria Grazia Swan

  Blood rushed to my cheeks at the memories. Our eyes met, held. I knew Larry was well aware of my state of mind. I shut my mouth and sat back sighing. May the floor open up and take me. Damn. Thank God no one but Larry would understand the reason behind such a high degree of discomfort.

  "Kyle, your mom has a point—how come they didn't find any of Cruz's belongings outside of the phone?" Larry's voice didn't give away a thing, but his eyes…

  He couldn't fool me, not this time. There was enough want smoldering behind his thick lashes for us both to burst into flames.

  "Should I make a note to ask the detective?" Kyle paused, lowering his eyes. "There's something else. What if Cruz was in the car when it went off the road into the ravine? What if he was thrown out and landed in a place hard to access? What if—"

  "Son." That was Larry calling him son. "Don't torture yourself. If that's the case, there isn't a thing you could have done about it. Okay?"

  The silence that filled the room was bursting with questions. There weren't any answers. We all knew that.

  I turned my attention to Giada in an attempt to ease the tension. "Are you going with them?"

  "No, I drove myself here, and I'm planning on circling around the lake to check out my parents' place. Care to join me?" she asked.

  I didn't answer. All the emotion of the day had piled up inside me, so high I had to do something before I suffocated in my own sorrow.

  "That leaves two cars," I said. Both men looked at me, their discomfort and curiosity easily read on each of their faces.

  "Yesss," Larry said slowly, his eyes on me.

  Kyle jumped in. "We can leave one of the cars here. Don't be concerned about the cars, it's just that—like I said—everyone thinks you are in Venice, and—"

  "Can I borrow your car?" I interrupted.

  In the silence I heard Kyle swallow hard.

  Larry rested his elbows on the table, fingers entwined, his chin on his knuckles and without flinching said, "Would you like to borrow the Mercedes?" If unspoken questions were light bulbs, Larry's would have lit up the whole piazza of Lazise.

  "No, I would prefer the Ford. It's automatic and it probably operates a lot more like my Mustang than your German car, but thank you for offering." I waited for Kyle to start breathing normally. I could tell he was in a state of shock.

  "Mom, how—you can't—your driver's license, you don't have an International driver's license and—"

  "She doesn't need one; I happened to check before leaving to make sure I was within the law." Larry to the rescue.

  "Thank you for the vote of confidence." I smiled at him.

  Poor Kyle deflated. His glance went to Giada. Finally he let out a loud sigh. "Where are you planning on driving?"

  I cleared my throat, not wanting emotion to spoil the moment. "I'm going home. Where I was born. It's long overdue."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I can do this. The old commercial mantra, "Never let them see you sweat," twirled in my head while I concentrated on getting to the Autostrada Brescia-Venezia. Most Italians knew it as La Serenissima, in honor of Venice's old glory days.

  Today Venice's glory came mostly from tourists' money and their hurry to get to it before it sinks. Concentrate on driving, Lella.

  In the rearview mirror I watched the Mercedes pull away.

  I was on my own. For an instant, euphoria trumped anxiety, then the light changed from red to green. I tapped the accelerator and entered the toll road while sweat drenched my body. Hot flash or reality settling in?

  I can do this.

  I would have to remember, no passing from the right lane. Stay out of the way of fast cars. How? Every car was faster than the Focus. I was so traumatized by my first time driving on the Italian highway, my knuckles on the steering wheel were whiter than Tom Cruise's teeth.

  Talk about trauma; poor Kyle had tried really hard to keep his cool while he transferred his belongings from the Ford to Larry's car. He'd gone as far as hunkering down to move the driver's seat forward to accommodate my short legs. I could imagine what went though his mind. His mother driving his leased car, a car she wasn’t familiar with on a road she hardly remembered among Italian drivers known for being extremely aggressive.

  Larry had stood back and watched. His eyes had made a sweep of the car, my son, the road, and…me. When Kyle was done with all the shuffling and preaching, Larry had given me a hug and whispered, "Stay safe."

  For a moment I'd wished I could take him with me, but I didn't. This was my time.

  They escorted me all the way to the entrance of the autostrada, where Larry turned his car around and headed to the meeting with the Italian detective. I drove in the right lane. It had to be for slower traffic, right? Like in the States? Not a big deal. I was starting to relax. All I had to do was stay in the same lane until I reached the Montecchio exit, get off, and turn right.

  I'd be on my way home. And then what? I had no idea who I would find in my small town. The last factory closed in 2006. Everything was outsourced, just like in the States. We even sold Mom's house after her death.

  I wanted to go to the cemetery and lay a potted yellow chrysanthemum on her grave. Two weeks away from November second, the Day of the Dead, a big day for cemeteries all over Italy. And a great day also for Italian florists.

  I had decided my mother's grave wouldn't be the only one without flowers, not this year. That was the main reason for borrowing the car, or was it? I needed some me time. To be alone. To make sense of the last eight days of my life. The new people I'd met. The new places I'd discovered. The old fears I'd constantly refused to acknowledge.

  In retrospect, I had overreacted to Larry's trip to Florida. I'd rushed to conclusions, and somehow my conclusions had never been the easy or pleasant kind.

  Pia's sad, sad ending was also on my mind. What an unnecessary tragedy. She was such a young, vibrant woman. Stop it, Lella, you hardly knew her. And if I were honest, I had to admit I liked Giada a lot more. How could I be so cold and heartless? Pia was dead and deserved some respect.

  The world around me seemed darker now, and not only because of my thoughts. The sky had turned gray, that solid cold gray that usually preceded—snow? Impossible. What would I do if it snowed? I needed to find where to turn on the windshield wipers, and I had never ever driven a car in the snow.

  Verona Ovest zipped by while I mentally debated the different scenarios in case of snow. How far to Verona Est? A sound came from somewhere in the car, a joyful sound. Music. Where was it coming from? The radio was off. There it was again. Could it be—a phone? My phone?

  I kept my eyes on the road, searched inside the purse with my right hand, and found the phone. It wasn't ringing. The music came from under my seat or at my feet, somewhere on the floor.

  My nervousness went from ten to ten thousand in a nanosecond. What should I do? Just like that, it stopped. A long sigh slipped from my lips. I glanced around as if afraid someone knew. Knew what?

  And the music started again. I swallowed hard. I needed to pull over, find the phone from hell and make it stop. Maybe I could park in the emergency lane for a minute and find the phone. I wasn't even sure it was a phone. I had to do this.

  Cars buzzed by me. My dilemma meant nothing to anyone. I put my signal on for the lonely, beat-up car trailing behind me. That poor soul must have been as intimidated by the road as I was. The car had been in my rearview mirror from the time I entered the autostrada. I hadn't thought about that before, but for some reason I did then. It had been back there the whole time, hadn't it? Strange.

  Lella, don't start that.

  I inched into the emergency lane. The beat-up car had no choice but to pass me on the left. As it drove ahead, the man behind the wheel craned his neck to check out my car. Maybe he wasn't a stalker. Maybe he was a Good Samaritan, concerned about my safety. He slowed down but didn't stop. I kept perfectly still, tempted to write down the license plate.

  Write it down? With what? Your finger
, Lella? Get over yourself.

  The car sped ahead, and I caught a glimpse of the plate. I couldn't see all the numbers, but the car was registered in the province of Venezia. Whoa! What a relief. It made sense. After all, this was the Brescia-Venezia autostrada.

  I didn't dare open my door. At the speed the crazy Italians drove by, I was bound to end up with a three-door sedan. I kept the engine running and slid my hands around the driver's seat, sides first, then as far as I could reach under the seat. Aha. Something was wedged between the floor mat and the seat. It must have happened when Kyle pulled the seat forward for me.

  It was a telefonino, a cell phone as quiet as a mouse. Quiet for now. Good. I could leave it on the passenger seat, and if it rang again, I could easily answer. Excellent plan, but whose phone was it? This was Kyle's car. Could it be Giada's phone? Poor Giada. What if she were trying to reach Kyle? I should check it out, for Giada's sake. It was a pretty generic piece of electronics—no pink cover, no rhinestones, nothing to help identify the owner. I pushed a button and the screen lit up. I clicked the call back on the last number showing.

  It rang twice then, "Hello?"

  Oh my God. Kyle. I was right. This was Giada's phone.

  "Hi."

  "Mom?"

  "Yeah, it's me…I—"

  "How did you get my phone?"

  "Your phone?"

  "Whose phone did you think it was?"

  "Huh—Giada?" Silence.

  "Lella, where are you?"

  "What? Larry? Are you two playing games with me?" I was tempted to open the window and toss the phone out. Idiots, stupid sense of humor. I could have had an accident. Doing what? "Lella, please tell me you are not driving and talking on the phone?" Mister Lawman.

  "Of course not." My shrieking tone wasn't going to help. The man knew my limitations. "I'm parked. I didn't know where the noise was coming from. It drove me crazy. Do I need to turn around and bring back the phone?"

  "No, no." That was a rather forceful no. Why? What were they doing they didn't want me around? "Don't worry about returning Kyle's phone. He can use mine. He must have dropped it when he moved your seat. If it rings again, just ignore it. Better yet, do you know how to turn it off?" I heard voices in the background. "Kyle suggests you turn off the phone. We are headed to Trento." To look for Cruz? Based on the finding of his cell phone in her car. That was when it hit me.

  "Wait, Larry wait. What if—picture this—Pia drove Cruz somewhere, maybe to the fantasy cabin she told Kyle about. They unloaded their stuff, and she was on her way somewhere else when she realized Cruz's phone was in her car. Kyle said Cruz never went anywhere without his phone. If she left him in some rustic cabin, the phone would have been his only means of communication to the outside world." I had to catch my breath, I was that excited.

  "Go on." The snake charmer's voice. Larry also thought I was on to something…oh my God. Oh my God!

  "Pia would have made a U-turn to take the phone back to Cruz wherever he was. And it would explain why there was no luggage or anything else belonging to Cruz in her car besides the phone. Maybe it was the U-turn in the rain and darkness that killed her." I was out of breath, too much adrenaline.

  I could picture Larry mentally analyzing my scenario. Why was he so quiet? What happened to the background voices? Quiet as a tomb. Stop it.

  "Not bad, not bad. Let me run that by the people here."

  "Who are you with?" I glanced at the side mirror. A car was coming at crazy speed. It looked like a…damn…Polizia Stradale. "Sorry, got to go. Ciao." I buckled up, gingerly turned on my turn signal, and put my car in drive. Too late—the Italian Highway Patrol automobile drove up right behind me. And it was hard to ignore. Unlike the Carabinieri's vehicles, this one was neon blue; sort of reminded me of the California sky.

  What now? I had zero experience regarding Italian police. Naughty or nice? I was about to find out. A young man in a snazzy uniform and black boots to die for came around the passenger side of the Focus and knocked on the window, motioning me to roll it down.

  "Signora"—he lifted his hand toward the visor of his hat, but didn't touch it—"tutto bene?"

  "Signor Ufficiale." I had no clue how to address him. I called him Mister Officer, and he reacted with the shadow of an amused smile. He probably thought I was an idiot. An entertaining idiot. I was about to prove him right. "Signor Ufficiale, devo prorpio andare al gabinetto di brutta." I rocked back and forth in my seat to convey the idea of how bad I needed to use the bathroom. "I'm calling information to see if there is a public bathroom not too far. I'm a tourist."

  He bought it. Turned out there was a major rest stop just a little way ahead. The highway patrol with the fancy boots and hat got into his flashy BMW and escorted me to the place with bathrooms. He instructed me how to get back to the autostrada and on my way to Venice. So why are Italians always complaining about their cops? Had I been really headed for Venice, I might have offered him a drink.

  Instead I thanked him loudly, locked Kyle's Focus, and headed toward the building, making sure I walked a little hunched over and with stiff legs. I was so pleased with my performance, I almost forgot about the dark sky.

  It was hardly the kind of rest area I had imagined. I was rediscovering my own homeland. Hundreds of cars and SUVs filled the lot, and I noticed two tourist buses. One was a double-decker. Really? From London? The gas station to the side could serve twenty cars at a time, and the building itself was a combination restaurant, souvenir and grocery store. I assumed there would be plenty of bathrooms, for a fee.

  Before I reached the last row of parked cars, the cop's BMW sped away into the autostrada. Automatic streetlights came on in response to the diminished daylight rather than the hour of the day. I was feeling good about my decision, glad I did this. I should have rented a car the minute I got off the plane and gone to visit relatives instead of imposing on Kyle.

  As I approached the main entrance, I noticed a beat-up car parked in the front row. It looked strangely familiar, an older vehicle showing its age. I glanced at the license plate without slowing down. Province of Venezia. The tailgating car.

  An unexplained pang of anxiety landed on my chest. Memorize the number on the plate. Write it down once you're inside. Even better, write it down while you're sitting on the toilet. Good. I kept repeating the numbers to myself and walked by without hesitation. There was movement inside the car. I stepped up my pace.

  Once I reached the main entrance to the restaurant, I looked back. A man was busy locking the car. He wore a brown leather coat.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  It couldn't be.

  I hurried inside, looking to blend in with the crowd and hoping to feel reassurance from the presence of so many people. But I couldn't help myself; I kept looking back. Was he following me? Why?

  He wasn't a policeman; at least I didn't think so. Had he followed me all the way from Lazise? From the restaurant? Hell. Maybe all the way from Innsbruck. How could I be so stupid? And how about Larry? He was a cop. He should have been aware of this kind of stuff. What if the man were the lover Olivia wanted to stay with? That would make sense. Perhaps he assumed I was Olivia's mother?

  Stop it, Lella.

  He walked slowly, staring straight ahead. I could see him clearly from where I stood pretending to check out some Italian magazines, my eyes on the glass windows opening into the parking lot. I was so shaken by his presence, I had no idea what magazine I pretended to read.

  He could take all the time in the world. Where was I going to hide? With only one way in and probably only one way out, all he needed to do was wait.

  He appeared to be in his mid-twenties. Kyle's age. Brownish hair and a medium build. Nothing particularly out of the ordinary set him apart from other men his age. If not for the brown leather coat, I would have not suspected him to be the same person sitting alone in the Lazise restaurant, the same man I bumped into by the bathroom. Of course, now I knew that was no accident. He was spying on me. I
felt trapped, trapped in a public place among hundreds of people speaking dozens of languages.

  I should call Larry. Stop it, Lella.

  He stood inside the large glass doors and seemed to blink, probably looking for me. Well, I wasn't going to make it easy. I turned my back to him and kept fingering the magazines. My stomach in a twist, I felt his approach. With a long, vocal sigh, I turned and headed toward the bathrooms, passing just inches away from him. Panic flared in his eyes. I was about to enter the expanse of the women's room, and once again he would be left waiting outside.

  Italian public bathrooms, while substantially different from the ones in the States and a hassle due to the exact change required for the user fee, had one factor in common with the public bathrooms back home—always more women than stalls. Today that was a plus. I could wait. I had all the time in the world. Well, sort of it. I needed to share the license plate of my stalker with someone, just in case.

  In case what? Get real. I waited for my turn, and once I made it inside the toilet, I sat and pulled out my phone. I would speak to Larry. This was the perfect place to do it. Fewer women here would understand English than Italian, I hoped.

  It was Larry who answered the phone. I don't know why I felt lucky. It was his phone I called, after all.

  "I need you to do me a favor." Straight to the point, this wasn't the place for pleasantry. "Do you have something to write with?"

  "Lella? Where are you? What are you talking about? Are you still parked on the emergency lane?"

  Damn, here we go with the million questions.

  "Never mind all that. I need you to write something down, now. I don't have much time. It's a license plate. Are you ready?"

  "Sweetie, tell me you aren't getting into trouble." His best snake charmer's voice since his arrival in Europe. Impressive.

  "Really, Larry? You are so predictable. Are you going to help me out or do I need to call 113 or whatever the emergency number is around here?" I figured by now even non-English-speaking women were listening to my shrieking. The last thing I wanted was to attract attention. Yep, I was really good at that.