Pucci nodded. “You can send them to me via the Internet?”
Dan smiled. “Simply give me your address.” Then he reached into his pocket. “And I managed to palm this.”
From the inner pocket of his suit jacket, he pulled out something wrapped in a handkerchief.
It was the card that came with the bouquet. Still resting on the cloth, Dan slid it across the desk.
“Sorry I didn’t have an evidence bag at the ready. The bastard really caught us off guard — again.”
Pucci studied the card carefully, referring to some scans that were included in the package of information sent from Toronto. “This is the same handwriting as on the other cards you received.”
Dan and I both said, “Absolutely.”
“Do you know where Furci is staying while in Rome?”
I shook my head. “No idea. He did say something today about needing a good sleep before catching a plane home tomorrow morning. If there’s anyone left at the opera house, they may be able to tell you.”
The note taker was summoned by the wave of a finger, a few words were whispered, and he hurried out of the room with the note card. I looked at my watch: nearly midnight.
Pucci closed the file, then rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What you have told me is most interesting. If it had been me to have told this story, would you believe that your troubles and the death of De Vicenzo were connected?”
“I don’t know what I’d think. I’m an opera singer, not a police official.”
“But you are intelligent, are you not? Tell me. What would you think?”
“I would be happy to have this information if I had doubts about the death.”
“And so I am. But I did not have doubts until you came in and told me your story. With only what is in this file I received and what you have told me, I would have sent you away — except for two things.”
“What?”
“First, the fact that Furci received a bouquet this evening and that it was from you.”
“But it wasn’t from me!”
Dan shifted in his seat.
Pucci held up his hand. “If the conflict between you and De Vicenzo led to this, ah, madman taking his life, then why give the bouquet to Furci from you? Because of you, Furci got the engagement. Do you understand what I mean?”
My eyes opened wide. “I hadn’t seen it like that.”
“And the second reason?” Dan asked
“That is something known only to the police.”
“But you’re going to tell us?”
Pucci hesitated, but only for a moment. “You will not speak of this to anyone. I have your promise on that?”
We both nodded.
“At the restaurant where De Vicenzo had his late dinner with two friends, someone at another table bought them a bottle of very fine grappa and also champagne. Between the three people at that table, they consumed much alcohol — especially Signor De Vicenzo.”
I asked, “You’re thinking this man was trying to get him drunk?”
Pucci shrugged. “The two friends have also told us that this man said he was American, but they thought his accent wasn’t quite right.”
Dan and I looked at each other, saying simultaneously, “He’s finally made a mistake.”
Descent
Chapter Sixteen
The Italian countryside whipped by as I drowsily stared out the train window. I had every right to feel like the floor of a taxicab. Four hours of sleep after singing a three-hour Puccini opera, then enjoying another two hours of intimate chatter in the office of a police inspector will do that to a gal.
It looked cold outside, very un-Italian-like. The temperature had plummeted during the night. The tops of distant hills had a dusting of snow and the sky had the leaden quality that often means more white stuff on the way. It was nice to feel warm and snug as the Eurostar rocketed through the Tuscan countryside. After a stop in Florence, we would hang a right and continue to Bologna then bear right again for our ultimate destination of Venice. I glanced at my watch. It was nearly nine in the morning.
Thankfully, the police had given us a lift back to Via Flavia after my interview. I had any number of things I wanted to ask Dan but he gave me the signal to keep my mouth firmly shut during the ride.
Later he told me, “It’s amazing what people will say in the back seat of a car. Sitting in the front seat does not make the driver deaf. And if you really want to know, yes, I have bugged the back seats of cabs when I needed information for projects I was involved with.”
Once back in the apartment, Dan did a sweep for any newly placed critters before letting me speak.
My first comment was, “Are you checking for bugs placed by our friend or the police?”
“Certainly for our friend,” was his oblique answer.
Whatever. I had been completely forthcoming with the police as Shannon and Dan had instructed, so my conscience was clear.
I settled back in my train seat and shut my eyes, hoping sleep would come. But every time I started to drift off, a new thought would pop up and jolt me back to full waking.
Dan had disappeared as soon as we’d found our seats. I must have finally dozed off because I was startled awake when he jostled my leg as he was sitting down.
Struggling up from the depths, it took me a moment to realize where I was. Outside, we were crossing a high bridge with the Apennines all around us. Obviously we hadn’t reached Bologna yet, so I couldn’t have been asleep that long, but I had slept right through our stop in Florence.
“I brought you a coffee. Here.”
I pulled up one of the little table thingies on the central post placed between our seats and those of the people facing us.
For train fare, it wasn’t bad — a double shot of decent espresso, and nice and hot. Of course, Italians never put up with bad coffee the way we North Americans do.
“Where’d you disappear to?” I asked.
Dan had a cappuccino. I indicated he’d given himself a bit of a moustache, which he wiped off with a napkin before answering. “I had this wild idea that our friend might think it exceptionally clever to be on the train with us.”
“You believe we’ll hear from him again on this trip?”
“I’d be shocked if he just gave up and went home. I’m sure he believes he’s untouchable. So, by the way, does your friend, Lili.”
“You don’t think the police here and in Toronto might have spooked him?”
He stopped mid-sip, looking at me over the rim of his Styrofoam cup. “Do you?”
“I guess not. So, did you see any likely suspects?”
“A few. I took a number of discreet photos, which I’ve sent back to Shannon to see if they’re any help.”
The thing that most concerned me was that this all had to be kept hush-hush. There are some singers I know who’d be only too pleased to benefit from the notoriety accruing to them for being part of a murder investigation. I wasn’t one of those. If I thought it would have done any good, I would have met with this bozo, had a nice chat, given him whatever the hell he wanted, and sent him on his way if he promised to just leave me alone.
Leaning closer to Dan, I asked, “So what do you make of what Pucci told us last night?”
“You mean someone plying De Vicenzo with wine and booze was a big mistake? No, in thinking about it, I don’t believe that was it. He had to have known that either the two dinner companions or people at the restaurant would have mentioned him to the cops and that they might want to check it out.”
“So beyond the obvious reason, why did he do it?”
“Either he felt completely secure there would be no blow-back or he’s toying with everyone some more. Still, he did have to give up some valuable information in order to do what he did.”
I thought for a moment because I didn’t see it initially. “Okay. They can get his identity from the credit card he used.”
Dan shook his head. “No way. He’d be a fool if he used anything but cash.
And he’s most definitely not a fool.”
“Hmmm … They’ll get a description of him from De Vicenzo’s friends or the restaurant staff?”
“You can be sure Pucci’s men are all over that angle, and we may get lucky, but I doubt it. You’ve been on the lookout for this person for well over a year now. How has that gone?”
“You mean disguises?”
“Is the Pope Catholic?” Dan put down his empty cup and wiped his mouth again, just to be sure. “Stands to reason, doesn’t it? This jerk enjoys toying with people. Of course he’d be into playing a bit of dress-up. This isn’t completely about you, Marta. This is a power trip. He’s out to make fools of everyone involved. That’s where he really gets his rush. It’s having power over all of us, but you most of all.”
“So what is the valuable information he’s given up?”
“First, we can be certain he is male, not that we really had any doubts about that. The other bit of information is more subtle. He’s wearing disguises, of that we can be fairly certain. Why would he wear disguises?”
“To keep us from seeing him around all the time.”
“Certainly, but I’m betting there’s more to it than that. Try this on for size: you might recognize him because you’ve actually met him someplace before.”
“Oh my God….”
Dan excused himself to make another phone call somewhere out of people’s hearing. Alone again, my mind was flooded with all kinds of angles and possibilities. It took me well past Bologna to sort through everything that had happened in the past forty-eight hours, based on what Dan had told me. In the end I came back to the very first question I’d had for over a year: why me and what did he want?
I’d been in Venice only twice, the first time to spend a week of R&R with Gerhard and once by myself, for much the same reason. This visit I was there to perform and it was the dead of winter, not that winter here approaches anything like what I grew up with in Ottawa and Montreal. Even Toronto weather is awful by Italian standards, and the rest of Canada makes fun of the way we go on about the weather there.
Both my previous visits had been in June when the weather in the lagoon tends to be about as good as it gets. But even in the warm sunshine and gentle breezes of that time of the year, something has always struck me that Venice is a sad place: breathtaking in its beauty, striking in its individuality, but ultimately aware that someday it will sink from sight beneath the waves. Venice is sailing along in a boat of its own building, every inhabitant bailing for their lives to stave off its inevitable watery grave.
Dan and I stood on the wide concourse in front of Venice’s modern train station for a few minutes, just watching the world float by. In front of us was the Grand Canal, the main street of a city built entirely around its relationship with water. It’s as busy as any street in Manhattan, London, or Paris, simply vehicles on wheels being replaced by boats of all sizes and shapes.
“So what do you think?” I asked.
“I’ve seen it many times in photos and movies, but to actually stand here looking at it in person, well, it’s pretty damned amazing.”
“I think Venice has that effect on everyone. There’s no other place like it on the planet.”
“So how do we get to where we’re going?”
I raised an eyebrow. “I thought that would be your call — seeing how you’re my spy and security expert.”
He shot right back, “But you’ve been here before. I’m the new guy in town.”
Looking at my small mountain of luggage, I said, “I don’t know about you, but I don’t feel like struggling with all this on a vaporetto. This calls for a water taxi. Wait here, I’ll get one.”
Dan looked sort of disappointed at my mention of water taxis. The famous Venetian gondolas are a wonderfully romantic way to get around the city, but since they’re now used nearly completely by tourists, they’re frightfully expensive. And unless you’re ready to make a substantial commitment of time to go with that money, they’re no good to travel any distance. I made a mental note to treat him to a gondola ride, preferably at night, before our return to Toronto.
Another reason I wanted to shake a leg was because I’d had so little sleep the previous night. I needed a good lie-down before the six o’clock supper meeting with the cast and crew of the TV production in which I was involved.
The producers had arranged for everyone to stay at the Danieli, one of the more famous hotels in Venice, which was right on the water near Piazza San Marco. But with my current situation, Dan had decided it was more prudent to get rooms as close to the opera house as possible. Fortunately, there’s a sweet little hotel right next to La Fenice, so close in fact, it shares the same name.
Our rooms weren’t quite ready when we arrived, so we dumped our luggage at the front desk and went in search of food. The desk clerk recommended an osteria just the other side of the small piazza in front of the opera house, and it turned out to be a very good suggestion.
“I’m so hungry I could eat a horse,” Dan said after we’d both ordered grilled fish.
“Me, too. I’ll never be able to get used to the continental tradition of starting one’s day with coffee and some bread-like object, although I will admit I adore a good croissant.
Dan grinned. “Where on earth would you find something like that in Italy?”
“You don’t,” I replied with mock sadness. “That’s one of the reasons Paris is my favourite city.”
“Even after what happened to you there? I hate to admit it but that’s the first time I heard the name Marta Hendriks.”
He was referring to my horrible experience as I searched for a husband who I thought had died in a house fire.
“I know. I’m the person who caused the destruction of a beloved Paris landmark, the death of three people, and, oh yes, I also sing opera. It was a bloody cock-up from the get-go. I’m lucky to be alive myself.”
Our appetizers arrived.
“Sounds as if you’re pretty bitter.”
“You could say that. My motto now is ‘be careful what you wish for.’” I stabbed salad with my fork. “Still, I’m getting lots of singing engagements, and since leading sopranos have a limited shelf life, I should be grateful. Take this week’s gig. I still have no idea why they hired me. It’s not as if there’s a lack of great Violettas in Italy, let alone Europe. It was probably a case of ‘get that infamous soprano. She’ll bring in some extra viewers.’”
Dan raised his wine glass. “Then, to success in Venice!”
I clinked glasses with him. “Wasn’t there a famous book with that title?”
He surprised me. “I think you’re referring to Death in Venice.”
We laughed at my little joke, although a better response might have been to shiver.
I looked over his shoulder at nothing. “After Rome, let’s hope that doesn’t happen.”
The group that had been assembled for this television performance was indeed impressive, echoing the pan-European production. I was the lone North American in the cast. As we sat down to eat at a long table at the Hotel Danieli after the producer (Italian), director (French), and conductor (German) had welcomed us with “a few suitable words,” all telling us unnecessarily how huge the potential audience could be.
The person sitting across from me (the broadcast’s lighting designer) said, “Let’s hope our little show does better than the premiere of this blasted opera here at La Fenice.”
We all laughed, but he was right. The original production of La Traviata was a major flop, greatly disappointing Verdi — and his backers, I’m sure. The subject matter, as well as the casting, offended the audience, with hisses and jeers greeting the final curtain.
I spent the rest of the evening getting to know everyone. The imported production was the one I had been part of at the Paris Opera two years earlier. Despite my words to Dan that afternoon, it was probably the reason I’d been hired. Since mine was the biggest role in the opera, I was more familiar with what was neede
d than anyone else and would need only a quick refresher. With the talent of the rest of the cast, I was pretty excited about my involvement. Beamed around the world, this performance would be seen by millions of opera lovers. My manager in New York was over the moon about that.
During the meal, everyone spoke of various productions of Traviata we’d been part of. No one was crass enough to mention it, but I could tell from the way people looked at me that everyone was aware of my star-crossed history with this opera.
Costume fittings were scheduled for early the next morning with a blocking run-through in the afternoon, so we all made an early night of it — except for the crew, who stayed at the restaurant to discuss details into the wee hours. They didn’t have to worry about their voices after a late night of boozing.
Dan had been somewhere nearby and I phoned him as the party was breaking up. He met me at the front door of the hotel.
Since the evening was reasonably pleasant, it would have been very enjoyable to walk back to Hotel La Fenice. It was Carnevale time and the city was filled with people in costume.
Dan nixed the idea. “A water taxi would be wiser.”
“You’re probably right,” I sighed.
“That’s a good girl. Always listen to your security expert. I hear Venice is a dangerous city.”
I smiled. “Not since the last doge.”
From a musical standpoint, the next seven days went by in a complete blur. Everyone in the cast agreed that the pace made it feel more like repertory theatre where you have to mount a production every two weeks. Fortunately, the crew had their end down to a fine art due to the earlier performances in Naples and Rome. Everyone in the cast had played their roles a number of times, so we felt confident that we’d pull this off well when we went live on Saturday evening.
The cast bonded quickly, and since everyone spoke Italian at least reasonably (and the majority of the crew was Italian), it became our production language.
The lone exception was Tobias Ebler, our conductor. They were using a different conductor for the four productions in the series, each of a different nationality. There was no doubt he was a very competent man with a stick, but he was definitely old school, expecting instant obedience from everyone. His Italian was so minimal that I was surprised he’d been considered. I learned later he had seldom conducted in this country.
Masques and Murder — Death at the Opera 2-Book Bundle Page 42