Little Life Lesson 21: If you are in the middle of crime fighting but have had a particularly harrowing day, avoid breathing deeply the sweet, sweet air of freedom.
Little Life Lesson 22: Especially while closing your eyes.
Little Life Lesson 23: And lying in bed.
The next thing I was aware of was a weird cramp in my leg from having fallen asleep in my cowboy boots. I raised my eyelids and saw that it was light outside, and the clock on my nightstand read 6:32.
Then I heard the noises. Getting up–type noises. Coming through the wall of my room that adjoined Dadzilla and Sherri!’s.
If I was going to get to Arabella’s apartment, I’d have to do it before Dadzilla was in his full upright-and-unlocked position. Which meant right that second. Which meant no changing out of leather pants.
Le sigho.
I grabbed the map and took off.
It was molto more foggy outside now than it had been the night before so spotting the street names, when they were posted, was a super-fun game of hide-and-seek, minus the super fun part. Even with the map, it took me almost an hour and a long discussion with a garbage man to find Arabella’s address. Cannaregio 5524 turned out to be next door to Cannaregio 2230 and across a canal from Cannaregio 618. Naturally.
Little Life Lesson 24: Garbage men = urban heroes.
It was an ancient-looking corner building with the front facing the fondamenta that ran along one canal and the side rising directly up from the water of another canal. A marble balcony jutted out from the second floor of the facade with a statue of cupid precariously perched on the corner. Sitting next to it was a black cat who stopped cleaning itself as I came closer. It was a perfectly nice-looking cat, shiny with a fancy collar, and yet something about the way it was watching me through the mist could have been used as a teaching aid for the words SINISTER INTENT in a language textbook. I hoped this was not the funny look Arabella had been talking about.
Beneath the marble balcony was a massive wooden entrance door with flaking green paint. There was a row of six brass buzzers next to it that could have used some polishing, and the one next to apartment 2 had the initials AR in swirly writing taped above it.
The biggest key on I-Heart-Hotcakes worked the lock on the entrance door. Behind it was a crumbly stone courtyard with a water gate opening onto the canal at the left. The sound of the water lapping outside gave the space a kind of tranquil feeling that my accidentally letting Big Door slam behind me didn’t really add to. But no one threw open their shutters to see what was going on, so I crept up the marble staircase with the lions’ heads carved into it which wound along the right side of the house, to the second level where I could see the number 2 on a door without anyone seeing me.
Or so I thought.
Chapter Eleven
I’d sort of figured Arabella just sent me her whole keychain without bothering to weed out the ones I’d need, but when I got to her door I saw that actually there was a reason for all the keys, or at least most of them. There were five locks on the door, four of them shiny and new. In case I’d needed more proof she was terrified for her life. Or, anything to add to the knot of guilt for not believing her growing in the pit of my stomach.
My first thought when I opened the door was, if eyeballs could talk, mine would be squealing, “WOW!” Also, “HELLLLLLLLLLLP US!” My second thought was that I really hoped she’d rented the place furnished and hadn’t done it herself because otherwise I would be required to believe she was completely insane and capable of anything. It looked like what I imagined a Keebler Elf brothel would look like (not that I’ve spent a lot of time imagining that).
There was only one room, which appeared to function as a living room–dining room–bedroom–kitchen. It had dark wood walls and a dark wood-beamed ceiling but every object that could have a red-and-black-lace ruffle did, from the vent over the stove to the curtains, dining-room chair cushions, side tables, kitchen sink, soap dispenser, coffee table, coffee pot, garbage cans, massive armoire, sofa, and candy dish. Any parts of the room not suitable for Ruffling were filled with porcelain statues of pugs wearing red ribbons around their necks in a variety of appealing poses like “sitting,” “begging,” and “sitting and begging.” There was one supremely awful one on the (ruffled) desk next to her cell phone and laptop with a plaque below it that I think said THE RUNT, but I could only give it a quick look before my eyeballs started to twitch uncontrollably. All the furniture except the armoire were smaller than normal, which would have been fine for Arabella because she was pixie size, but it made me feel like a visitor from Planet Gigantor.
Beyond the main room was the bathroom. It was covered—walls, floor, and ceiling—in tiles with red roses printed on them, which went nicely with the black-and-pink-lace skirts on the toilet, bathtub, and soap dish.
The place was a little dusty but, apart from a pillow and comforter stacked next to the couch, tidy. At least as tidy as an apartment stuffed with Pugs-n-Ruffles could be. I was surprised because with her crazy fashion sense and swirly writing, Arabella didn’t seem like the a-clean-house-is-a-happy-house type. It was definitely not the apartment of someone whose signature scent would be called TROUBLE (unless that was followed by “WITH HER VISION”). But from the fake eyelashes carefully lined up on the vanity table to the boxes of stationery neatly stacked on the dining room table, order prevailed. Everything seemed to have its place and be in it.
Except the one thing I had come for: There was no goldfish. Not even a sign of a goldfish. No fish food, no indentation left by a (possibly ruffled) goldfish bowl. Nothing to suggest that the Elf House of Pleasure had ever harbored any water-dwelling animal in its walls. So it had to be some less obvious, more figurative form of goldfish.
I decided I would work methodically around the apartment searching for it. I started in the kitchen, checking through all the drawers (no fish), the cabinets (no fish), the garbage can (two used tea bags, three squeezed lemons, an empty Sweet’N Low envelope, but no fish), and the refrigerator (box of milk, distinctly non-fishy). I thought I might have hit on something in a drawer filled with odds and ends in the kitchen but although it held a bag of change, a ten-year-old Venice phone book, and a tide chart from six months earlier, there was nothing fish or fish related.
Moving to the bathroom, I examined the bathtub (no fish soap or fish-shaped tub stopper), the shower curtain (slightly ripped in the corner but not in a fish shape), beneath all the ruffles (no fish, although I did find a bright blue shirt button), and the garbage (empty). The ruffle around the bathtub was slightly damp, and for a second that made my heartbeat pick up—Who showered before they committed suicide?—but I could already hear the lady detective telling me nicely but firmly that you couldn’t use logic when people killed themselves.
Along the side wall there was a dressing table with jewelry on it (no fish). There was a square that was less dusty than the area surrounding it, showing that something had been there and been moved, but it was too small to have been a fishbowl.
The only thing in the laundry hamper was a pair of argyle socks. Fishy in their own way—argyle, Arabella? Really?—but not fish.
As I looked in vain for anything with a fishy cast, I registered other things. Like how in the sink in the kitchen area there was just one glass and one bowl and one spoon. One napkin in a gold (non-fish-patterned) napkin ring on the counter. I’d always assumed Arabella had tons of her own friends outside of class, but now I began to wonder. Maybe she had been as lonely as I was.
There was only a single shelf of books, most of which looked like they’d come with the apartment because they were all in Italian and mainly travel guides to places with deserts (ergo: no fish). The only ones in English were three paperback mystery novels and Grieving for Dummies. I spotted something sticking out of that one and got excited in case it was a picture of a fish or marking a passage about “Grieving for Your Lost Fish.” Le not.
The bookmark was a photo of Arabella and three people
: a dashing-looking gray-haired man, a bitter-looking scruffy guy, and a very put-together dark-haired woman in her twenties. It looked like it had been taken during a party and everyone except the young guy seemed to be having fun. The section it was marking was titled “After a Parent Dies.” Parts of it were underlined, but what struck me most was that from the way the pages were warped it looked like someone had been crying when they read it.
It talked about how there’s a period after a parent dies when you try making a lot of deals with God, even if you don’t believe in God, begging for a sign or gesture, anything, that shows you they are still near you. That it’s a phase to believe that every shadow in the night is the parent’s ghost, or every flicker you see out of the corner of your eye is your late parent, watching you, missing you, wanting to be close to you to make sure you are okay.
But the book was wrong, because it wasn’t only a phase, at least not for me. My mom died when I was six, which was a long time ago, and I still sometimes did those things. Even though I knew it was irrational, I still woke up in the middle of the night hoping to catch a ghost hand caressing my cheek, still felt jealous when I heard people talking about being haunted by ghosts. Because if they could be, why wasn’t I? Where was my mom? Didn’t she love me enough to haunt me?
I stood for a long time staring at the wavy pages and imagining Arabella alone in her apartment, reading and sobbing and missing her parent so, so much. I must have been allergic to something on the bookshelf because my eyes got a little teary then and I had to wipe my nose on my sleeve.
As I did that, I had the strangest feeling of being watched, and looking at the window, I saw the black cat sitting there, staring at me, with huge green eyes. This wasn’t surprising given my superpower, but it was a little disconcerting. It tilted its head to one side, like it was curious about me, then got interested in something outside and jumped away. When it left I noticed that although the windowsill was dusty on the sides it was clean on the middle and I wondered if Arabella had sat there playing with the cat.
I went to slide the book back onto the shelf and something fell out of it, a pamphlet entitled “MAKING MEMORIES: HOW YOU CAN BECOME PART OF THE ‘YOUR NAME ON RICE’ FAMILY, AMERICA’S #1 GRAIN-BASED SOUVENIR!”
Okay, who would kill someone whose life fantasy was to have a kiosk at the mall and make the “gift they’ll never re-gift”?
Themselves, a voice in my head that sounded a lot like Alyson’s suggested. Seriously, with life dreams like that, why not just end it all? Have you considered that perhaps the reason you have no evidence she was murdered and the police don’t think she was murdered was because she wasn’t murdered? Happy Friendly Hench Voice said. Why do you think you’re so smart? It’s after 8 A.M., which means you’ve been here almost an hour and you’ve found what? Oh, that’s right, NOTHING. Not even the goldfish.
HELLO WORDS OF ENCOURAGEMENT WHEN I NEED YOU MOST! It is always cheering to know that you can count on your own head to be supportive.
But the truth was, Evil Hench Voice was kind of right. I was fighting the good fight against Creeping Doubt, but as I turned to tackle her desk I would have given anything for some confirmation, some sign, that I was on the right track about Arabella’s death.
Right when I thought that, her cell phone started to vibrate.
Le Creepy, adj. 1. having a dead person’s phone ring immediately after you’ve pretty much begged the heavens for a clue. 2. having that happen at 8:10 A.M. on a Sunday.
It rang again. I stared at it. It rang a third time.
Picking it up carefully by the edges, I flipped it open. “Hello?”
There was a slight pause on the other end, like someone was surprised and then a woman’s voice said in English, “Hello? Is that you, Bella? It’s Beatrice. Look, I’m sorry to call so early but I know you’re always up and—”
I cut her off. “I’m afraid this isn’t Arabella.” And, with a sinking feeling, I realized this probably wasn’t my clue.
The voice said, “Not Arabella? Oh. I see. I’m sorry. May I please speak to her, then?”
“She can’t come to the phone right now. Would you like to leave a message?”
“Who am I talking to?” the woman asked.
“Who am I talking to?” I asked back.
There was another pause and then the woman said in a professional tone, “This is Miss Portinari, Arabella’s father’s secretary. Would you please ask Arabella to phone me at her earliest convenience? She has the number.”
“I’m afraid—” I started to say, but she’d hung up.
Only after the call was over did I realize how weird it was that Arabella’s phone was even there. I mean, like any person who had a cell phone (NOT THAT I WOULD KNOW, THANK YOU, DADZILLA), she always carried it with her. The fact that she’d left it behind when she went out that night disturbed me because it suggested that she’d known she wasn’t coming back. Like she would have if she’d planned to commit suici—
The sound of heavy footsteps stopping outside Arabella’s apartment interrupted these cheery thoughts. They were followed by the jingling of keys and one of the locks on the door started to turn.
Although I had a totally legitimate reason for being there, something in my head told me to hide! Fast! Pocketing the phone and the photo from the book, I considered both the Elf couch and the Elf desk, but there was really only one place big enough to hold me.
Little Life Lesson 25: Being tall can be an occupational hazard while detecting.
To leap to the armoire and wrench open one of the double doors was but the work of a moment. I just had time to nestle myself between a green fur vest and a zebra trench coat and catch a black wig that fell off the shelf before the last of Arabella’s locks unlatched to admit a woman who, judging from the number of ruffles swathing her, was probably the owner of the apartment.
Followed by a more-rumpled-but-not-any-less-mean-looking-for-it Officer Allegrini.
Which is the only reason I didn’t scream when something shifted in the darkness behind me and said in a male voice, “Stay quiet and you won’t get hurt.”
Chapter Twelve
Little Life Lesson 26: If you are really interested in making sure someone stays quiet, sneaking up on them in what appeared to be a perfectly innocent armoire and making threats is not the ideal method.
Little Life Lesson 27: Following that up with “Can you control your hair? I want to see too” is also not recommended.
For some reason this comment soothed me slightly, though. It didn’t seem like the kind of thing a Really Bad Guy would say. Which was good, because armoires are not exactly luxury suites and I was smashed against him. From this I could gather that he was about my height (he’d been spying on me the whole time!) and very fit (he’d seen me get all teary reading Grieving for Dummies!) and about my age (what kind of creepy person spies on you?) and wearing well-washed jeans (had I picked my nose? Please do not let me have picked my nose) and had really big—
Anyway, all of that would have been very distracting. But instead, I focused on Paying Attention to Other Things. Like how all the ruffles on the couch were pointing toward the window as though they’d been brushed in that direction. And what Officer Allegrini and the landlady were saying.
They were both talking really fast but as far as I could make out, their conversation went like this:
LANDLADY: This is a grandiose tragedy! She is one who always paid her rent on time.
OFFICER ALLEGRINI: (Flipping through notebooks on the dining table.) Grunt.
LANDLADY: Such a nice tiny animal was she!
OFFICER ALLEGRINI: (Opening boxes of stationery and rifling through them.) Grunt.
LANDLADY: Yes, I knew it from the commencement who she is even though she used a pretend name. I am very leggy like that.
OFFICER ALLEGRINI: (Bending to look under the sofa.) Grunt.
LANDLADY: I don’t reveal to her that I know. I keep the secrets like a store vault. In my opinion, if she is w
ishing to be false named, I will let her. I know of this for I once dated a very famous star of the cinema. Of course, I cannot tell you who.
OFFICER ALLEGRINI: (Glaring at objects on the dressing table.) Grunt.
LANDLADY: Even yesterday a reporter comes around asking about her but I play the stupid.
OFFICER ALLEGRINI: (Dragging dressing table away from the wall to look behind it.) Loud grunt.
I liked Officer Allegrini’s terse style. It suited him. Also, it was pitched to more or less exactly my Italian comprehension level.
While they’d been talking I’d been getting to know my new neighbor better. There aren’t that many different positions two people in an armoire who are both trying to see through the same thin crack can occupy, but we’d tried them all and finally settled into one that had me slightly bent at the knees so his chin rested just above my ear and my shoulder pressed against his chest. Just the kind of cozy posture you hope to assume with a complete stranger.
LANDLADY: What a firm, manly grip you have.
OFFICER ALLEGRINI: (Loping toward the bathroom.) Grunt.
What I hadn’t noticed was that they’d left the door of the apartment open and the black cat had wandered in. Naturally the first thing it did was stalk up to the armoire and stare at the gap I was looking through.
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