Midnight in Venice

by Meadow Taylor

  She looked up at Titian’s Virgin, whispered, “Wish me luck,” and slipped out of the church. Dusk was falling, and the bars around the campo sparkled with thousands of white fairy lights. Dozens of people dressed in Renaissance-period costumes milled around doorways, drinks in hand, discussing plans for the evening. Yes, she thought—once in costume, she could hide in plain sight and wait for Beatrix’s party to start.

  A guided tour group passed by. She dropped in behind them, doing her best to look like she belonged. The guide paused to point out the baroque exterior of the Scuola Grande di San Rocco before turning in the direction of Campo Santa Margherita.

  Once there, the group stopped at a pizza bar, and she hurried on. She caught sight of a couple of carabinieri walking ahead of her. Heart pounding, she waited until they turned out of the square and down a side street. Of course there’d be a lot of police out on the first night of Carnival.

  The costume shop was busy, and no one paid much attention to her. She picked out a long Renaissance-style dress with a brocade skirt in rich dark green and a matching bodice. There was a hat too, and, to complete her disguise, a simple white mask that covered her eyes and nose. She slipped the dress on over her clothes. Standing in front of the store mirror, she adjusted the hat and mask and concluded that even her own mother wouldn’t recognize her.

  The thought of her mother pained her. Would the police contact her? Surely she’d know Olivia wasn’t involved in this, but no doubt she’d be worried sick. All the more reason to turn herself in as quickly as possible.

  Back out in the square, she felt so much better. Unless the police started searching everyone in costume, she was as safe as could be.

  Hungry and with two hours to kill before the party, she found a small, dimly lit bar, where a dozen people, some in costume, were drinking wine and spritzes. No one paid the least attention to her. She ordered a panini and was tempted to ask for a glass of wine but decided she’d better not—she needed all her wits about her.

  She allowed herself a quick fantasy of meeting Alessandro at Beatrix’s. He’d tell her everything had been solved, and they’d laugh at the strange course of events that had meant she could make the party after all.

  That was, of course, if he wasn’t working, scouring Venice for her, thinking Beatrix’s was the last place in the world she’d be tonight.

  A young uncostumed couple sat down at the table beside her and ordered two spritz à Aperol. They discussed their plans for the evening, talking nostalgically of the quiet winter nights before Carnival. In the end, they elected to stay home and watch a movie, and Olivia wished she could be making decisions like that with Alessandro instead of wondering if he was ever going to speak to her again.

  Deciding she’d have a drink after all, she ordered a spritz, sipping it slowly as she watched the clock crawl toward seven thirty, when she could finally leave.

  At seven thirty, she decided to walk rather than take the vaporetto, in case she was asked to show her photo pass, and weaved her way through the crowded streets, crossing the Grand Canal by the Accademia Bridge.

  On the other side, the entrance to the street that led to Silvio Milan’s and Beatrix’s palazzos was blocked by a clown juggling torches, the flames’ reflections flickering in the dark waters of the canal.

  A tourist took a picture. The camera flashed, and the juggler lost his concentration for a moment, the circle of flying torches faltering dangerously before continuing their smooth revolutions through the air. The audience applauded while the man with the camera apologized profusely to the crowd at large.

  “Stupido turisto,” someone said right behind her, and she turned to see two uniformed carabinieri. She turned back and willed herself not to run away. “If I were the juggler,” the officer continued, “I’d make him eat those torches.”

  “I’m sure you would,” the other officer said. “Anyway, hanging around here is ridiculous. If she were going to Silvio Milan’s, she would’ve shown up by now.”

  “Not sure the chief is confident Milan would report it to us.”

  “This is like looking for a needle in a haystack. For all we know, every man and woman on Interpol’s most-wanted list is here. ‘Just put on a mask and costume and come to Venice,’” he quipped as if he were doing a TV commercial. “‘No one will ever find you here!’”

  And if I were a needle in a haystack, I’m close enough to jab you, Olivia thought.

  The show over, Olivia continued over the bridge and on to Beatrix’s. Behind her, the police were ringing Silvio Milan’s door. One glanced her way. She quickly looked away and pressed the bell.

  Chapter 22

  To her relief, Beatrix’s door was opened almost instantly by a man who looked like a butler from Downton Abbey.

  Quickly she stepped inside the courtyard, for a moment forgetting everything else as she looked around in wonder. Water splashed down a multitiered fountain worthy of the palace of Versailles; white fairy lights twinkled in the bare tree branches and along the high stone walls. At the other end of the courtyard, golden light spilled from the open doors of the palazzo, and Olivia was reminded of the heavenly light in Titian’s painting. The Assumption of Olivia, she thought absurdly.

  The butler wished her a good evening as he took her invitation, and Olivia walked toward the light, where a maid dressed to match the butler in her Downton Abbey-ness appeared and asked for her coat. Now feeling like Cinderella going to the ball, Olivia climbed the wide marble stairs and entered a piano nobile even grander than Silvio’s. Above her, huge Murano glass chandeliers hung from a ceiling painted with mythical scenes. Priceless paintings adorned richly colored walls, and precious antiques lined the walls.

  At the very far end, outside the windows, the dome of the Salute was lit up against a purple night sky. A string quartet tuned up in front of the French doors, and a young woman dressed in the exact same costume as her own, minus the mask, rushed toward her.

  “My first guest!” she cried.

  Olivia could see that Beatrix shared Alessandro’s good looks, though while Alessandro was tall, Beatrix couldn’t have been more than five feet.

  “Thanks for coming!” Beatrix exclaimed, throwing her arms around Olivia. “I think it must be good luck that my first guest looks exactly like me! We could be twins! I have to get my cousin Roberto. Roberto! Roberto! Come here and take a picture!”

  A young man in Renaissance costume complete with wig instantly appeared and, dutifully pulling an iPhone from the pocket of his brocade doublet, took their picture.

  “Wonderful!” Beatrix exclaimed, turning to Olivia. “Now let me guess who you are. Rosanna? No, she has short hair. Adriana?”

  Olivia shook her head; she’d yet to say a word.

  Beatrix peered into her eyes. “I don’t know anyone with eyes that color. Such an unusual shade of violet.” She crinkled her nose. “Wait. I know! You’re the girl my cousin Alessandro mentioned last night at the recital!”

  Olivia sighed. So much for her costume.

  “It is you!” Beatrix exclaimed, as she stood on her toes and kissed Olivia on both cheeks. “The girl with eyes the color of violet Murano glass. Oh my God, that was so, so romantic! Absolutely everyone is dying of curiosity. Roberto, fetch her a glass of champagne. No one can believe Alessandro has finally met someone new. After Katarina died . . . Oh no!” she exclaimed, clapping a plump hand over her mouth. “Maybe I shouldn’t say anything. You know about Katarina?”

  “Yes, a little . . .”

  “Well, I don’t want to get into any trouble. But after she died, he was so heartbroken, we didn’t think he’d ever fall in love again. And yet, here you are! I don’t blame him—you are so absolutely beautiful.” She clasped her hands together and, seeming unable to contain her glee, jumped up and down.

  Olivia couldn’t remember ever having such an enthusiastic reception. “I don’t know how
you can tell anything under all this stuff . . .”

  “Oh, I can see enough to tell you’re very pretty. Besides, I saw you last night at the concert. I wanted to meet you, but you disappeared into thin air! I was so disappointed, and then Alessandro said you had to go to America today.” Beatrix raised herself back onto her toes and peered into Olivia’s eyes again. “He is so right. What eyes! ‘Eyes the color of violet Murano glass.’ I love that line. But,” she said in a mock-serious tone as she dropped back to her true height. “I should also tell you that I am hideously jealous.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m madly in love with Alessandro, and he refuses to marry me. I said, why not? Cousins do marry. But he said it would be more like marrying his kid sister. I told him that didn’t bother the ancient Romans and Greeks, nor the Egyptians, for that matter, but he won’t hear of it. Now Roberto here”—Roberto had just returned with a champagne flute in each hand—“is also my cousin, on my mother’s side. He wouldn’t have any problem marrying me, would you, darling?”

  “Just say the word,” he said, handing them each a glass. “But you know I’d only be marrying you for your money.”

  “You only say that to save face because you know it’ll never happen, even if I do love you to bits. But if all Alessandro wanted was my money, I wouldn’t care. Alas, he doesn’t need it. A billionaire cop, how sexy is that?”

  A billionaire? Olivia thought. Until last night, she’d assumed he was a cop on a cop’s salary. When she learned he belonged to a race-car dynasty, she’d known he had to be rich, but a billionaire? Surely Beatrix was exaggerating—she clearly wasn’t one for subtlety.

  Not waiting for Olivia’s answer, Beatrix plunged on. “Can you believe he’s a billionaire, a cop, a concert pianist, and a race-car driver?” She turned to Roberto. “What did you call him? It was another word for a Renaissance man.”

  “A polymath,” Roberto said. “There are lots of examples of actors and musicians who are race-car drivers.”

  “Really?” Beatrix said. “Like who?”

  “Paul Walker, for starters.”

  “Oh yes, of course. That was so sad when he died. I made Alessandro promise he’d be extra careful after that. Who else?

  “Paul Newman, Elio de Angelis, Rowan Atkinson—”

  “Mr. Bean is a race-car driver?” Beatrix exclaimed. “That’s amazing. But when Alessandro gets out of his car and takes off his helmet, you can hear a sigh go up from every woman in the stands. It’s all I can do to not swoon on the spot.” She flipped open a painted fan and started to wave it wildly as if to prevent herself from collapsing at the very thought of him. “I bet that doesn’t happen to Mr. Bean.” She snapped her fan shut. “No. If I can’t have Alessandro, I won’t have anyone. Except maybe a pirate or a sultan.”

  “There isn’t a pirate or sultan anywhere on God’s green earth brave enough to marry you,” Roberto said wryly.

  “Perhaps not—but this is Venice and doesn’t count as part of God’s green earth. I’m counting on at least one pirate here tonight brave enough to let me trim his jib.” She laughed and drained her champagne in a single gulp that would have put the hard-drinking Blackbeard himself to shame. Alessandro had warned her that Beatrix’s parties could be wild, and Olivia could tell Beatrix wouldn’t have it any other way.

  “It was so nice of you to come early so we could have a little chat. Alessandro told you he’s going to be late, didn’t he?”

  Olivia decided a nod would suffice.

  “He texted me about an hour ago. Some trouble at the airport earlier today. A drug bust or something—one of the suspects fled the scene. But he promised to come later. Do you want me to text him and let him know you’re already here?”

  “No, no,” Olivia said quickly, thinking if he knew she was here, he might be obligated to bring backup and arrest her. “He’s busy. He’ll be here soon enough. When he arrives, will you point him out to me? I may not recognize him if he’s in costume.”

  “Of course. Though I probably won’t have to. It’s pretty hard to disguise those good looks,” Beatrix said with a wink as a noisy group entered the room. “Oh look, more people at last! Let’s get this party going! Maestro, let’s hear some Vivaldi! Roberto, you’re to look after . . . Oh my God, I never even asked your name!”

  Olivia thought quickly again. Had her name been plastered all over the news? “I’d like to stay incognito until Alessandro shows up, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Absolutely. This is a masquerade, after all. If anyone asks, I’ll just refer to you as the mystery woman. You have to see my shrine to Alessandro in the study,” she said over her shoulder as she bounced off to greet the guests now pouring into the room.

  “I apologize for my cousin’s lack of subtlety,” Roberto said. “She takes a little getting used to.”

  “She’s charming,” Olivia said. On anyone else, Beatrix’s relentless glee would have seemed artificial, but on Beatrix it seemed natural and unaffected.

  “Come on. I’ll show you the view.” He held out his arm to Olivia. “Your Italian is perfect, but do I detect an accent? American, perhaps?”

  Olivia was saved from answering when Beatrix, now flanked by not one but two swashbuckling pirates, called out to Roberto for more champagne.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Olivia said. “I think you have your hands full already.”

  Roberto rolled his eyes. “Why do I have the feeling that before this night is over, there’ll be a sword fight on the balcony that ends with someone in the canal?”

  Relieved to be left alone, Olivia stepped out onto the narrow stone balcony. Below her on the canal, gondolas bobbed on the waves left in the wake of a lumbering vaporetto. A water taxi pulled up below, spilling out dandies and their damsels onto the dock.

  Looking to her right, where she could see Silvio’s balcony, she remembered standing there on her first night in Venice, blissfully unaware she’d soon be caught up in a drug-smuggling ring.

  Two women in powdered wigs and elaborate regalia joined her on the balcony. They wished her a good evening but didn’t introduce themselves. Like her, they wore masks. If I could go back in time three hundred years, Olivia thought, this scene would be the same: the view of the Salute, the costumed men and women, the string quartet playing Vivaldi . . .

  “Did the police release the woman’s name yet?” one asked.

  “Yes,” said the other. “No one I recognized, so it didn’t stick.”

  Olivia froze. Were they talking about her? She grasped the cold stone railing and tried to look as if she were just enjoying the view.

  “Come on. You can’t tell me a woman’s body was pulled out of a dumpster and then not remember her name. That’s mean.”

  Okay, they weren’t talking about her. At least not yet. But she didn’t know a woman had been found dead!

  “She worked at the airport. Beatrix said there was a drug bust there today too. That’s why Alessandro isn’t here yet.”

  “Speaking of Alessandro, have you seen that YouTube video?”

  “Of course. I think everyone has seen it. I love the comments. You can tell the ones from the guys because they’re all about how the police are stupid, but the ones from the women are all OMG—is that cop gorgeous or what! Then someone posted he was also a race-car driver known as ‘the Billionaire of Venice,’ and now there’s a Facebook fan page. I think he’s just become Italy’s most eligible bachelor. Maybe all of Europe’s!”

  “What do you mean, just? He’s always been, except for the year he was married, and even then. When she died, there wasn’t a woman who didn’t wonder—”

  “Shhh. How do you know he isn’t standing right behind you?”

  “But he’s going to be late, right?”

  “I hope that business at the airport doesn’t keep him away all night. A suspect fled the scene.”
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  “I’m sure they’ve got him by now.”

  Not him, Olivia thought—her.

  “I don’t know. It is Carnival. Just buy a mask, and you could hide out for a week. The suspect could be at this very party and no one would ever know.”

  “It sounds like an Agatha Christie mystery. How much do you want to bet one of the guests is going to be found impaled with a cocktail fork . . .”

  They started to giggle.

  “And Alessandro will gather us all in the library and say, ‘The murderer is in this room,’ and we’ll all look at each other suspiciously . . .”

  Olivia went back inside to the significantly more crowded piano nobile. Noisier now, too: the string quartet was in danger of being drowned out. A waiter offered her Prosecco, but she declined, setting her empty glass on the tray.

  The party wasn’t confined to the piano nobile, and Olivia slipped into one of the rooms that surrounded it. She’d kill some time by finding the study and viewing this “shrine to Alessandro” Beatrix had referred to.

  She had no trouble finding it, occupying an ornate antique desk. All that was missing were candles. Beside a scrapbook of newspaper clippings, a constant parade of photos faded in and out of a digital frame.

  Alessandro standing next to a race car, wearing a leather jacket with the car’s name emblazoned on it, helmet in hand. When Alessandro gets out of his car and takes off his helmet, you can hear a sigh go up from every woman in the stands. She had no trouble believing Beatrix on that point.

  Alessandro standing next to the car with a trophy in hand. Alessandro wins again, the photo was captioned.

  Alessandro in a tuxedo standing with Beatrix dressed in a glittering gown in an equally glittering ballroom. Christmas Gala for the Save Venice Foundation.

  Alessandro caught in profile looking out over the lagoon, his expression thoughtful and serious. No caption.

  Alessandro at the piano, the lid reflecting the light of overhead chandeliers. Alessandro plays Mozart for Mama’s birthday.