The Grand Tour: Four International Mysteries

by Michaela Thompson

  “It sounds just fine.”

  “Let’s go look, then.” He glanced around. “Where’s your suitcase?”

  Sally bit her lip. “I don’t have it with me.”

  A knowing look crept into Otis’s protruding eyes. “Had a fuss with your boyfriend? He sure will worry when you don’t come back tonight, won’t he?”

  “Oh— I guess so.”

  “Sure he will. He’ll be real sorry tomorrow. Happens all the time at Carnival.”

  The annex was behind the hotel, across an alley. Carla’s room was tiny, with a sink in the corner and the toilet down a musty-smelling hall. Sally told Otis Miller she would take it, and he left to return to his post. She stood in the doorway and watched until he disappeared down the stairs, and she could no longer hear his footsteps.

  ROLF IN FLIGHT

  Rolf extended his head cautiously. The wind whistling down the alley caught and tossed his hair and he looked around. No sign of Gianni.

  Rolf was lucky to be alive, after the rampage that maniac Gianni had gone on when he caught Rolf and Rosa together. No explanation had come out during the brawl, but Rolf assumed Gianni had suspected Rosa of hanky-panky and had followed her to the Colombiana. She hadn’t even locked the door. What an idiot.

  Fortunately for Rolf, Gianni had been interested in roughing up Rosa first. That had given Rolf time to dress. He’d been prepared to leave his backpack behind if he had to, but what with Rosa’s sobbing hysterically and Gianni’s chasing her around, Rolf had been able to grab it. Since he hadn’t planned to stay at the Colombiana he really hadn’t lost anything, provided he could evade Gianni.

  Clutching his backpack, Rolf had pounded down the stairs while Gianni, finally realizing Rolf was getting away, followed him, roaring. Rolf hoped Gianni didn’t have a lot of pals in the Colombiana to help him search for Rolf and beat his ass. Evading Gianni had been fairly easy as the two of them dodged through Carnival-crowded streets, because Rolf was fast and in good shape. Gianni was overweight and cutting his wind with all the yelling.

  He was around somewhere, though, and Rolf needed to get out of this neighborhood and preferably, since it was starting to rain, off the street for a while. Rolf peered out of the alley again. He didn’t see Gianni, but he still didn’t feel safe. He’d be better off disguising himself somehow.

  At the thought, Rolf nearly laughed aloud. If a disguise was what he wanted, he was in the right place. Diagonally across from where he was standing, in the brightly lighted street his alley opened into, was a store selling masks and costumes. The store was open, filled with customers on this final night of Carnival. Hanging in the window was a black devil mask with a leering face and curved horns. Rolf remembered that he had originally planned to dress as the Devil, with a branching staff of penises. He checked for Gianni one last time and ran across the street.

  By the time he had bought and put on his devil mask and hidden his fair hair under a black knitted cap from his backpack, Rolf had a plan. He set off in the direction of the Accademia Bridge.

  The name of Jean-Pierre’s hotel, Rolf had learned from the plastic laundry bag in which Jean-Pierre discarded the Pierrot disguise, was the Romanelli. Rolf thought he remembered the street, too. He crossed the bridge and located the place before too long, but when he got there, Jean-Pierre was out. Rolf took off his mask and settled down in the lobby to wait.

  Jean-Pierre didn’t appear for quite a while. Rolf was thinking of leaving to have dinner when he finally showed up, carrying a shopping bag. When Rolf hailed him, Jean-Pierre turned and said, “Rolf.” Jean-Pierre’s face was puffy, and his eyes were weird, glazed.

  Rolf said, in a low voice so no one would hear, “Listen, Jean-Pierre. I got kicked out of the place where I was staying. I wondered if I could stay here with you? Sleep on the floor?”

  Jean-Pierre blinked. He said, “I can’t speak about Brian. I can t.”

  Rolf held his hands up, palms out. “No problem. Really. I’m really sorry it happened, but—”

  “I can’t speak about it.” Jean-Pierre half turned, as if to leave.

  Rolf picked up his backpack. “So it’s okay if I come to your room?”

  Jean-Pierre frowned. “Come to my room? That’s impossible.”

  “Look, Jean-Pierre—”

  “Impossible.”

  Rolf saw with amazement that the little creep was actually walking away, as if he’d forgotten Rolf was there. Rolf said, “Wait a second!”

  Jean-Pierre turned. He said, “I can’t. Ask Tom or Francine.”

  Rolf couldn’t believe this. “I don’t know where they are!”

  Jean-Pierre put down his shopping bag and reached into his pocket. “I’ll give you the addresses.” He brought out a notebook and pen and copied something from another page.

  Rolf would get even with Jean-Pierre for this, but now wasn’t the time. He snatched the paper Jean-Pierre proffered with a caustic, “Thanks a lot,” and headed for the door. Francine would be glad to see him. He’d try her first.

  ANOTHER REFUSAL

  The Accademia Bridge was thick with revelers despite the weather. Capes cracked in the wind like flags. An orange plume, escaped from a headdress, flew past Rolf’s face, accompanied by the anguished wail of its former owner.

  As Rolf retraced his steps on his way to Francine’s, he thought about the Medusa at the Rio della Madonna. The Medusa had been crouched beside the canal, the dark blue robe billowing, the red-eyed snakes moving eerily, as if they were alive. Rolf had said, “Hi, Miss Medusa. Changed any faithful lovers to men in despair lately?” He had thought it was funny at first, the way the Medusa— Sally, he believed— lashed out and grabbed his staff. He heard the shattering sound again, the mirror breaking.

  How could Rolf have made such an error? He felt outraged, seething with shame.

  At last he found the house where Francine was staying, on a quiet side canal near the Church of Santa Maria del Giglio. The building had the peeling-plaster shabbiness typical of Venice, but as Rolf had suspected, the interior was more sumptuous than the outside indicated. He climbed to the top-floor flat. The doorbell was answered by a mousy-looking maid who apparently spoke nothing but Italian and who responded to his insistent repeating of Francine’s name with gestures indicating that Francine was unavailable.

  Rolf didn’t intend to leave until he had made arrangements to stay here. He moved over the threshhold, ignoring the maid’s startled preventive gesture. “I’ll wait.”

  He surveyed the anteroom with its small chandelier and slippery-looking blue chairs. The maid vanished. Rolf was halfway through a cigarette when a woman in a cerise dressing gown and feathered mules walked in. She had a deep tan and bleached-blond hair. Her arms were crossed, her jaw thrust forward.

  Despite her threatening stance, Rolf was relieved. If this was the person who lived in the flat, he’d be in good shape. Rolf rarely had trouble getting women to do what he wanted.

  “Who are you?” the woman demanded.

  Rolf told her his name and then asked, “What’s yours?”

  “Ursula,” she said, then abruptly demanded what he wanted.

  While he was explaining that he was a close, good friend of Francine’s, Francine herself, wearing her black dressing gown printed with scarlet poppies, appeared in the doorway. She didn’t look pleased to see him. “What in God’s name are you doing here?” she asked.

  It was a pity Rolf hadn’t had a chance to get Ursula on his side before Francine arrived. He reached toward Francine to give her a pat, or perhaps grab her shoulder and dig his fingers in so she’d know he meant business, but she jumped back as if he were poison. “What?” she asked again, her tone scathing.

  Rolf explained that, through no fault of his own, he had lost his place to stay, and he was hoping—

  “Hoping to impose on my friend?” Francine’s voice held out no suggestion that Rolf’s hopes would be fulfilled.

  “For God’s sake, Francine. I’m not asking for any b
ig favors.” Rolf didn’t understand what was happening here, but he didn’t like it.

  “You are asking for favors. Worse than that, you’re intruding. You must leave now.”

  Rolf was flabbergasted. Why the hell shouldn’t he sleep on the floor of this obviously spacious apartment? “Look. I’m just asking—” he began, but Ursula’s hand closed on his upper arm in a tight grip.

  “You are disturbing my friend,” she said, and in an instant had propelled him through the door.

  Shock prevented Rolf from reacting until the door was closed, but as soon as he heard the latch click, fury whirled through him. He threw himself against the door, pounding it with his fists and yelling, “Francine! Open up, you fucking whore!” He kicked the door several times, leaving black scuff marks on its white surface. He pounded a few more times, crying, “Let me in!” From behind the door came the sound of a dog’s furious barking.

  Rolf gave the door one last, reverberating kick and ran downstairs before the neighbors could arrive to investigate. Back outside, he ran until he was on a well-traveled route by the Church of Santa Maria del Giglio. There was a traghetto stop down on the Canal, next to the Gritti Palace Hotel. He dropped his backpack there and sat on it, gasping breath after breath of the frigid, damp air. The air tasted like Minnesota. It tasted like Minnesota. A damp, cold autumn day in Minnesota, where there was a girl he had hurt. He hoped she was hurt. Only hurt. Minnesota felt and tasted like this. Her name was Barbara, and he thought, he was reasonably sure, that she was only hurt.

  Eventually, Rolf’s breathing became slower. The quality of the air in Venice in February didn’t really suggest autumn in Minnesota. It had probably done him good to lose his temper. Worked off tensions. He wouldn’t forget it the next time he saw Francine, though. When he felt he could walk easily, calmly, calling no attention to himself, he got up. He’d be at Tom’s hotel in five minutes.

  ROLF MAKES A SUGGESTION

  Rolf leaned back and let the drone of Tom’s voice hover outside his ears. He had what he wanted: number one, permission to sleep on the floor of Tom’s room; number two, everything Tom had heard about Brian’s murder. Rolf knew Sally was staying with Count Michèle Zanon, and Francine claimed to have seen her, dressed in a señorita costume, at a masked ball just hours after Brian’s death.

  Rolf took a swallow of beer. He and Tom were in a pizzeria next door to Tom’s hotel. Outside, the crepe paper streamers the pizzeria had used for decoration were fluttering madly. Rain spattered fitfully against the window.

  Tom was talking about May of ’68, and how Brian’s murder had brought back those days— the sense of danger, the heightened tension. Tom was keeping a journal, he said, and he wanted to ask Rolf some questions. The problem with Tom was that he never shut up. At the next table a woman wearing a beige fur coat and a cat mask made of golden-brown crushed velvet and feathers stretched out long legs in tight brown leather pants. She eyed Rolf over the hulking shoulder of her companion, but Rolf had other things on his mind. Maybe later, Babe. He gave her his half smile and watched her smile back, but then he lost interest.

  “So I was wondering if you had any ideas about who killed him?” Tom was asking. Tom’s voice sounded hoarse.

  “Who knows? Some maniac, probably.” Rolf wanted to get off the subject. He turned to Tom and said, “Why did you shave off your beard?”

  Tom stopped talking. His hand strayed to his face. “Various reasons,” he said tightly.

  “Doesn’t your face get cold now?”

  Tom seemed to cringe before he said, “A little, yeah. A little more than before.”

  Rolf lit a cigarette, expelled smoke, and looked at Tom. He’d never realized what heavy jowls Tom had. “Was it a self-mutilation thing?”

  From the way Tom looked, Rolf could tell he really had him going. “Jesus, Rolf, could we drop it?” Tom said.

  Rolf put on an expression of deep sincerity and leaned across the table toward Tom. “I mean it,” he said. “You suddenly decide to cut off your beard. That’s a serious move. It’s got to mean you’re not happy with the way you are, doesn’t it? Are you mad with yourself about something?” He gave his voice a note of quiet, psychiatric concern.

  Tom was rubbing his face. “I said, drop it.”

  “Yeah, we could drop it, but then it would fester inside you.” Rolf leaned even closer. “You know, they say facial hair is connected to your idea of your manhood. If you look at it that way, shaving your beard could be tantamount to—”

  “I’m warning you—”

  “Castration, couldn’t it?”

  “God damn it, Rolf!” Tom stood up violently, rocking the little table. Rolf could see him quivering.

  Rolf shrugged lazily. “Same old Tom,” he said. “You love to dish it out, analyze everybody else’s problems, but you sure hate to take it, don’t you?”

  “That is an unfair, unjust—”

  “Give me a break, Tom, all right?” Rolf turned his attention to the end of his cigarette, watching the smoke curl and the ash grow. He’d go back to the palazzo. Now he knew the score, and he’d be prepared. By the time Tom sat back down, Rolf had almost forgotten about him.

  “Maybe you’ve got a point,” Tom said in a chastened voice. “Maybe I should talk about it.”

  Disappointed that Tom hadn’t left, Rolf assumed a pontifical mien. “The whole subject hinges on one important question. How’s your relationship with— what’s her name?”

  “Olga.”

  “Right. Olga. Nice lady, attractive lady.”

  Tom stared. “Do you really think she’s attractive?”

  “God, yes.” Rolf tried to summon up a picture of Tom’s wife. Gray hair, tired-looking. “Hell, I don’t know why you’re sitting here, when you could be at home banging her.”

  Tom eyed him. “You’re putting me on again, you bastard.”

  Rolf sat upright, sketched a cross over his heart and then raised his right hand. “I swear. I get turned on every time I see her. That’s why I don’t visit your place very much.”

  Tom’s face was flushed. “There is an unexpected side to her. A kind of tigerish, ferocious side.”

  “See? I could sense that from just looking at her.”

  Tom slouched down disconsolately. “You could be right about that self-mutilation stuff,” he said.

  Rolf was really bored now. If Tom had any pride, he would have stomped off earlier instead of staying around to whine. He glanced at his watch. “You need to get laid,” he said briskly. “If it isn’t so good with— what’s her— Olga right now, well, the world is full of women.” He nodded at the cat-lady at the next table. “There’s one right there.”

  “You must be nuts. I couldn’t—”

  Rolf had a great idea. A true inspiration. “What about Francine, then? Or have you had a thing with her already?”

  “No, but—”

  “That’s the solution. Francine.” Rolf finished his beer and stood up. “Can you get the check? I have to go. I’ll pay you later.”

  “Rolf, can’t we talk a little—”

  Rolf leaned on the back of his chair, bending toward Tom. “Francine. She’s hot for you already. She told me.”

  Tom shook his head. “She hates me.”

  “Not at all.” Rolf moved backward a step. “She just puts that on because she thinks you don’t like her.” He raised a hand in farewell. “Ciao.”

  Tom’s hurt, baffled face receded quickly from Rolf’s consciousness. God, people always wanted to waste your time. He walked along briskly, stretching his legs. Now at last he could give his attention to the subject that had been gnawing at him.

  To find out that Sally wasn’t the simple, unsophisticated girl she seemed should’ve spoiled her for Rolf. What had excited him, after all, was the dumb timidity, the uncertainty verging on fear, that she exuded. Lose that and, theoretically, her attraction was gone.

  It wasn’t working that way. That Sally could be simple Sally and at the same time a p
erson who could dress up in a mask and ruffles hours after her husband’s murder— the thought hit Rolf in his solar plexus and he could scarcely breathe. He wanted to stretch her out, examine her, see how much she was one thing and how much the other, find out what her breaking point might be.

  None of this was like Minnesota. The rain started coming down harder, and Rolf picked up his pace.

  TOM’S FANTASIES

  Tom wished Rolf hadn’t left like that, without giving Tom a chance to explore his emotions. They had been getting to something. Tom could feel it welling up. Now he tried to swallow it with the last of his beer.

  Rolf had given Tom a few things to think about, anyway. The self-mutilation, castration business, for instance. At the thought, his scrotum pulled up a little, looking for someplace to hide. Jesus. Why would he want to castrate himself? He was sure he didn’t. He wanted to shave off his beard, for reasons he didn’t care to explain to Rolf, and he shaved off his beard. It would grow back. It felt as if it had started to grow already, the bristles longer than they had been even an hour ago.

  And the other stuff— about Olga, and Francine, and getting laid.

  It was easy for Rolf. Tom remembered the careless way Rolf asked if Tom had already had a thing with Francine, the way he suggested Tom get involved with the attractive cat-woman at the next table.

  Tom gazed at the woman, with her leather pants and fur coat. Her gold-feathered cat mask covered only the top half of her face. She was drinking Campari. She wore several gold bracelets and a couple of heavy gold rings.

  If Rolf wanted that woman, he’d have her— despite the fact that he’d never seen her before, despite the fact that she was sitting with a burly man who looked capable of throwing any interloper through the window. How would Rolf do it? Wiggle his eyebrows at her? Drop a note on the table giving her his phone number? If Tom tried that, the cat-woman would scream for help.