Death Under the Venice Moon

by Maria Grazia Swan

  "Okay, give it to me. I'll have Kyle write it down." He shifted gears, now all business.

  I repeated the numbers twice. "It's registered in the province of Venice. I'm not sure about the make of the car, but it's an old vehicle."

  "And you know all this because?"

  "Because the jerk has been following me. You know? T-A-I-L-I-N-G me? Ever since Lazise."

  "If you knew you'd been T-A-I-L-E-D since Lazise, why didn't you say something?" He was good! I even felt a little pang of affection tugging at my heart.

  "Long story, don't have time to go into details. There is a throng of not-so-happy women waiting outside my stall door."

  "You are calling from a public bathroom? Damn, Lella, what have you gotten yourself into?"

  "I'll be waiting for a call back. So hurry up. I'll go sit at the bar for now." When I opened the bathroom door, I was greeted by solemn silence as the line of women parted to let me through.

  Because it was late afternoon, the bar wasn't that busy. I crawled up onto one of the stools, mentally cursing whoever came up with that concept. Certainly not a person with short legs. I ordered a cappuccino and, while I waited, surveyed the place to see where my stalker had parked himself.

  Too funny; he played busy looking through magazines, or pretending to, just as I had. How pathetic. He couldn't even come up with his own spying technique? The barman slid the steaming cup in front of me. I loaded it up with artificial sugar and real cocoa powder.

  I felt eerily calm and in control. What was that American cliché? The calm before the storm. Yes, the perfect metaphor. Had I been a gambling woman, I would have bet Larry wouldn't be the one calling me back.

  At this point in our relationship he wouldn't try to trick me into anything. He would probably have the Italian detective call me, hoping to extort information. Yes, any minute now they would call, unless they were out in the boonies without access to the police information grid.

  I felt the halo of foam left around my mouth by the wonderful cappuccino. I licked it off. Who cared? No one knew me and I would probably never come this way again. I'd slurped up all the frothy stuff and was looking at the dressed-down coffee and milk—really all cappuccino is made of—when "California Girls" interrupted my analysis of this important Italian beverage.

  Luckily for me, I hadn't placed that bet. Larry was on the phone. "The Opel is registered to a Nicola Martori, and it's a Chioggia address. Do you want me to spell the name? Do you know him?" He said it all in a very polite and impersonal way. What was he up to? "How is the information going to help you?" No sarcasm. Amazing.

  "Nicola, huh?" I twisted to look at the man in the brown leather coat. My cheating dead husband's name was Nicholas. Bad omen?

  "Yes, Nicola." He waited. I liked the way he pronounced the co in the name.

  "Larry, you don't need to be concerned about me. I'm at one of those fancy rest areas typical of Italian autostrade. What is he going to do? Kidnap me? We are surrounded by lots of people. His options are limited, and I know how to scream in Italian and English." My attempt at humor was wasted on Larry.

  "Are you planning on waiting him out? Even if it means spending the night there? I assume they are open twenty-four seven." He had a point. A damn good point.

  "Huh. I haven't gotten that far. I'll think of something."

  "Of course you will. That's the part I'm most concerned about. I'm up in the mountains of Trento with Kyle, the detective and a special group of Carabinieri. We have a map of all the structures in the area, even the ones that have been abandoned by the owners for years. We are going to check them all. I'm told some are only accessible on foot. I'll let the Carabinieri find those. I'm not up for the task. Would you like the detective to send a patrol car to escort you over to Giada's place?"

  "No." I looked up. Brown coat was on the move. "Got to go. You be careful out there."

  I could hear Larry cussing when I disconnected.

  Nicola Martori was now in the line waiting to get into the self-serve section of the restaurant. I left a tip on the bar counter, lowered myself back to earth, and hurried to line up with the hungry crowd. Mistake. That wasn't where he was headed at all. Instead he stepped to the side and sat at a small deserted table, which probably gave him a sweeping view of every angle.

  Smart. What now? What was I going to do? I tracked back to the magazine rack, well aware of brown coat's eyes on me. This was getting old. I hesitated only a second, grabbed a glossy publication, paid for it, folded it under my arm, and walked straight to the stalker's table.

  The expression on his face was priceless. I thought for sure someone would have to sweep his eyes up off the floor if they bulged out a little more. His face turned ashen, and even without my glasses, I could see his lower lip tremble.

  I stopped in front of him and in my sweetest voice I asked, "Excuse me, is that seat taken?" I pointed to the chair directly across from him.

  I guessed he still hadn't found his voice, because he shook his head, his eyes avoiding mine. His hands gripped the edge of the table.

  I smiled, unzipped my jacket, plopped down, and crossed my legs, relaxed and comfortable—a person set to stay for a while. His Adam's apple bobbed fast and furious, like a drop of water on a hot skillet.

  A sense of power came over me but left just as quickly. I opened the glossy magazine. It would be the ideal prop for me in this game of cat and mouse, and it didn't hurt to know I was the cat.

  Forgive me, Flash.

  The magazine fought back; it wasn't willing to stay open. I used both hands to flatten it. The table was so small the spread-out pages took up most of the surface. I felt the man's eyes following my every move. He was even more transparent than I. He seemed to suddenly stop breathing. I looked up and saw him staring. At what? The magazine? What was so special? And so I checked it out.

  Augusta the concierge, not looking much like the concierge I remembered, smiled at us from the center page. Her hair was dark, not gray, and combed in a sort of fluffy soft look around her face. She wore makeup. A light blue shirt was revealed beneath a darker jacket. The professional photo showed her from the waist up. Apparently she had been interviewed by the magazine. The headline read, "Could Cruz Have Been Saved?" The next page had a small headshot of Kyle and several pictures of Cruz—Cruz on his Gemelli, Cruz walking on the beach.

  I was dying to read the article, but even more I was interested in why the story produced such a strong reaction from this man. Did he know Augusta? Cruz? He couldn't possibly know Kyle or my son would have recognized him at the restaurant, unless he didn't see him there.

  Could he have been following the Focus thinking Kyle was at the wheel? Oh, maybe he was the admirer asking for the autograph at the restaurant. So many questions. The only way to find out was to ask.

  "Did you know this Cruz? This movie star?"

  He nodded, his Adam's apple still bubbling and his eyes wide open. He was looking at me like I was the executioner ready to end his life. I had seen that kind of terror in very small children exposed to terrible noises or horror scenes they weren't prepared for, and also in the eyes of puppies at the pound. I'd gone to offer my services as a volunteer, only once. I hadn't been able to go back. The eyes of those puppies on death row traumatized me for months. I even bought a lottery ticket to see if I could win enough money to take them all home, even knowing full well a new wave of puppies would replace the rescued ones.

  It was to those eyes that I spoke. "Nicola, why are you so frightened?"

  "You know my name?"

  "I do. What I don't know is why you are following me."

  He covered his face with his hands, and I heard a quiet yelp. "I am so sorry." His words were muffled through his hands. I couldn't see his eyes. "I don't mean you harm. It was never about anyone getting hurt. Oh my God, I'm so sorry."

  Up close I could see he was younger than my Kyle, but a short stubble made him look unkempt, older. Now I noticed the worn patches on the leather coat, as wo
rn as his old beat-up Opel. I reached out and tapped his shoulder, hoping he would remove his hands and talk to me. Instead he sort of collapsed, laying his head on his arms. He sobbed.

  I waited. My back was to the room and the people coming and going. I faced a wall and a young man crying his eyes out in front of me. Everyone was probably asking what the hell I said to him. They might even have assumed I was his heartless mother.

  "Look, Nicola, I'm not here to judge you. It would be better if we could talk about this. Maybe I can help you, but I need to know how deep you are into this…situation." I had to choose my words carefully, as I had no idea what he did to land himself at this table crying like a lost child. I pulled some clean tissues from my purse and set them by his elbow.

  After what seemed like a lifetime, he picked them up, raised his head, and wiped his eyes. He blew his nose and finally looked at me. "It was her idea. She asked my mother to send me over. They go to the same mass on Sunday, you know. So I went to see her."

  Who was he talking about?

  I nodded knowingly.

  "She knew a lot about me, about my new job. She said she could make me famous, the most famous reporter in Italy if I did what she told me. She would share a secret about a very famous person. She was the keeper of the secret and would share with me because I had a bright future, she said. She also wanted money. Money for the secret of the famous person. It took me a while, but I was finally able to borrow enough money to convince her to tell me the secret." He paused and again hid his eyes with his fists. I assumed the famous person would be Cruz, but I still couldn't see the connection between Cruz and Nicola following me. Also, who was this "she" he gave money to? Pia?

  Why was I sitting there listening to this man? I had to get into my car and make it to my hometown before nightfall. The last thing I wanted was to drive a car that wasn't mine on dark, unfamiliar roads.

  "I didn't know you recognized me." His inner pain tainted his voice.

  "Um, sort of." I had no idea what he meant by "recognize him."

  "Signora, you understand. I didn't know it was you. She told me there would be a woman, but no names or anything else. I really thought you were his lover." He looked me straight in the eyes. "Well, are—were you Manuel De La Cruz's lover?"

  "No, of course not. Why would you even ask such a thing?" Where was he going with this? So he thought I was Cruz's lover? How? When? And then I knew.

  But Nicola wasn't looking at me any longer. He stared at something or someone somewhere above my head, and panic spread from his eyes to his lips.

  He turned to me, a smirk on his face. "You tricked me. And I thought you were different. I thought you were going to help me."

  He stood abruptly, taking the table up with him. It dropped back and hit my knees. The pain was so intense I crouched down, holding my legs. I wanted to wail, and all I could do was watch his back disappear into the crowded restaurant.

  What spooked him? I still couldn't stand. I cradled my knees, hoping they weren't broken. But if Nicola got away, how would I get the rest of the story? I forced myself to straighten, grabbed my purse, and reached for the magazine, still hunched over.

  Holding on to the chair, I managed to move ever so slightly, then BAM, something or someone hit me from behind. I landed on the marble floor on my knees.

  This time I cried out. A hushed calm had overtaken the place. I twisted around to see who hit me. I couldn't move. The highway patrol cop in the snazzy uniform who escorted me to the rest area was busy dusting off his jacket sleeve. He wasn't even bothering to see if I was hurt.

  "Signora York." He remembered my name? "I am sorry. I was chasing a suspect and didn't see you. Are you okay?"

  "No, I'm not okay. I think my knees are broken. But never mind, you go ahead, go catch your suspect." I figured I would somehow get to the car and disappear. I had just about enough. Plus, we now had a name, Nicola Martori, and his address. I had no doubt he was the trespasser who took that picture that night on Cruz's boat.

  "No need to rush after him, by now he should already have been apprehended."

  "Oh? By whom?"

  I was still on the floor. The jerk didn't even offer me a hand. I finally managed to get myself on the chair. My legs shook; one of my shoes had fallen off. What a mess. Just then, two other uniforms came from the restaurant. Brown leather coat walked between them, all slouched over. His head hung so low, his hair had fallen over his eyes. But he wasn't handcuffed, and I didn't see any guns drawn. So, what was really going on? The trio stopped by Snazzy.

  "Hi, Nicola," I said, hoping to cheer the poor boy. I turned to the cop who'd decked me; he appeared to be the one in charge. "What's going on? Where are you taking him? What did he do?" Finally my stalker looked up, and the surprise on his face was genuine. He seemed to notice me for the first time, and I could tell he now considered me to be on his side. Whatever side that was.

  "Signora York, he is going with us to the Verona police station, and so are you."

  What did he just say?

  "Huh, I would like to help you out, but I can't. You see, I'm driving my son's car, and he would be very, very upset if I left his car somewhere in the middle of nowhere. I'm sure you understand, Signor Ufficiale?"

  His smile was very different from the way he'd reacted the first time I addressed him as Signor Ufficiale. He must have talked to someone about Nicola, about me. But who?

  "No problem, signora, I will have one of my men drive your son's car back to the station. Your son can come and pick it up. See? He will not be mad at you." His eyes never smiled. How was I going to get out of this? And why did he insist on taking me to the police station? Was he arresting us? Did he think I was an accomplice? Maybe he assumed I got down on my knees to stop him. That would explain why he didn't offer to help me up. What now? I had to think of something. Ah! I was an American citizen. All right. Let me get my passport from my purse and see how quickly I was let out of there. And then I remembered the passport in my purse was burgundy, not dark blue, and the golden letters spelled out UNIONE EUROPEA REPUBBLICA ITALIANA.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  We sat next to each other in the back seat of the flashy BMW. While there weren't any visible restraints, bars, or glass panels separating us from the driver and passenger up front, we didn't land there by choice. There wasn't much in common between the interior of this Italian police car and its American counterpart. Of course, my knowledge was limited to what I saw in cop shows and movies.

  A new-car smell lingered in the closed space, and white noises came from the dashboard radio or whatever gadgets they used to communicate with other units.

  I had my own entertainment in the back seat. Nicola cracked his knuckles. First one hand, one knuckle at a time. Done? Moving on to the next hand. I wanted to scream at him to stop, but what if he did then started to cry again?

  Crack, crack.

  Kyle's Focus, driven by one of Signor Ufficiale's minions, followed at a short distance. My son's phone and all my belongings were in the car. Damn.

  My knees hurt. The left one was swollen. I assumed they weren't broken but didn't know for sure. I was running on anger and dreams of revenge. My only diversion at the moment was a mental exploration of a hundred ways to kill Larry, for I had no doubt this elaborate escort was the direct result of his meddling in my life.

  He must have quickly bonded with the Italian detective to get the Polizia Stradale to run interference for him. His death should be slow and painful. Better yet, I would torment him first by disrupting his picture-perfect daily routine. I had the key to his house, and I wasn't afraid to use it. I imagined myself wearing dark overalls as I slipped into his kitchen and sprayed mud-colored paint all over his pure white walls then pouring strong, dark tea on his precious white towels. But wait—what could be better than removing the labels from the frozen yummy meals his cook prepared in advance? Except—if I did that I might as well return the key, because he always let me pick what we ate. Okay, scratch the
last one.

  All was quiet in the car.

  Nicola had either fallen asleep or run out of knuckles.

  The silence felt more eerie than the cracking.

  He cleared his throat. "Did you hear that noise?"

  "What noise?'

  "Like, hard to explain. Sounds like a ticking clock. Or a bomb."

  I stared at him. "Are you crazy? I don't hear a thing. Not funny."

  "I'm not trying to be funny. Why are you here?"

  "Here? You mean here in the car? Or on my way to the police station like you?"

  "Both, I guess." He spoke in a whisper, as if we were in church.

  "Truth? I'm clueless. Maybe they assumed I'm your accomplice because I was talking to you."

  "Accomplice? Of what?"

  "Why are you asking me? What did they say to you when you got arrested?"

  "Arrested?" The pitch in his voice rose. "Certainly you're joking. I don't know where you are coming from, but this is not the way people get arrested in Italy."

  "Oh. How do they get arrested in Italy?" I was certain the two uniforms up front were listening to every word we said. Maybe that was the purpose of this forced ride. But to accomplish what?

  "I don't know. I have never been arrested, never been in trouble." He cracked a knuckle. Damn. "This is not right. I haven't done anything to deserve this. I'm a reporter, and—"

  "You are?" So I was right. Nicola was the creep who sneaked up and took the picture of Cruz's boat, the same creep who ruined my vacation. Okay, part of it. The rest I did myself. "Let me guess. You were the trespasser who sold the unauthorized picture of Cruz to a smut magazine."

  "I wasn't trespassing; I had the owner's permission. Permission? I had her blessing. Plus, that's my job. That's what I get paid to do."

  Owner? Then I was wrong. It wasn't Augusta who sold out Cruz. Certainly this young man would know the difference between a concierge and an owner. "Oh, I'm impressed. You work for a so-called magazine, and you know the French heiress."