The Complete Mystery Collection

by Michaela Thompson

  Francine pushed her hair out of her eyes and tried to focus on the page in front of her. What a ludicrous situation. If only Brian hadn’t ridiculed her. The antagonism between them had been palpable from the beginning, when Jean-Pierre, bursting with pride, brought Brian to the Café du Coin and introduced him. Brian had stood there, in all his beauty, like a prince awaiting homage, and at that moment Francine had determined that he would get no homage from her. She had given him a brief glance and a cursory greeting, treatment he was surely not accustomed to receiving from anyone— lovely, truly lovely, as he was.

  Unaccountably, Francine’s eyes filled with tears. Sartre’s words swam on the page. What could she be expected to do? Submit without comment to Brian’s teasing and denigration, his ignorant attacks on her passion for Sartre? Surely she could be excused for defending herself, since no one else would. When Brian made outrageous statements, Jean-Pierre sat by dotingly, Rolf was indifferent, and Tom ignored him and went on to another subject. Francine couldn’t ignore him. He was like a dark angel, whispering in her ear that she was absurd. How she had longed to be free of his galling mockery!

  Francine dug the heels of her hands into her eyes. She would get out of this. She would. The next step was to go back to the palazzo.

  She turned to her book once more, but shouts of laughter at the next table disturbed her concentration. She tried again, and read, “But I know neither what I am nor what is my place in the world, nor what face this world in which I am turns toward the Other.”

  Outside, it was still pouring. Francine closed her book and reached for her coat.

  Watching The Fire

  Tom leaned against the sofa cushions, sipping his brandy and watching the fire. Ursula hadn’t returned after her stormy exit scene, and he felt no inclination to go after her.

  Ursula’s assertions that Francine was investigating Brian’s murder and (or) having an affair with Count Zanon had disturbed him badly and made it even more imperative that he see Francine as soon as possible. He couldn’t, he could not, let her muck around in this. As for Ursula’s violent accusations of betrayal— Tom could only conclude that Ursula was the wronged lover of Michèle Zanon.

  If that were the case, Tom admitted feeling a kinship with Ursula, strange as she was, because Tom felt wronged also— by Francine.

  It wasn’t rational. His romance with Francine had so far taken place in his fantasies. She was free to have affairs with twenty Italian counts, if that’s what she wanted.

  And yet— the fantasy had been so real, so sweet. Tom and Francine had talked, in quiet voices, about their deepest thoughts. Tom had reached over and stroked Francine’s hair, or touched her shoulder, and she had responded. Maybe she bent her head against his hand, and through the cushion of her hair he felt the skull beneath. The moment took his breath away, even now.

  He sensed a presence, and looked up to see Ursula glowering in the doorway. She was still wearing the nun’s habit. She crossed to the brandy, poured herself a glass, and slumped into a chair next to the fire. She stared at the flames with a brooding expression, rolling her glass between her hands. Tom’s best course, he thought, was to keep quiet.

  “So. We are both fools.” Ursula’s voice was constricted.

  “I guess we are.” Even as he assented, Tom felt uncomfortable. He had been called a fool more than once lately, and he hadn’t liked it. His hand strayed to his face. Under his fingertips he felt bristles. Long ones. “Actually, I don’t know why you say that,” he amended.

  “Betrayed, abandoned—” Ursula stretched out her arms in a gesture of hopelessness, then tossed back her brandy and put down the glass.

  “Maybe it isn’t as bad as all that,” Tom ventured. “Maybe the thing between Francine and Count Zanon isn’t serious.”

  “Ha! Of course it isn’t. Michèle Zanon was never serious about anything in his life.”

  Tom wondered why, if Ursula knew Michèle Zanon was never serious, she hadn’t been better prepared for his betrayal. “Is Count Zanon married?” he asked.

  Ursula’s answer was more than Tom had bargained for. She stood up, buried her hands in her hair, and let out a piercing howl. “My God, how many times must I answer that question!” she shrieked. “Yes! Yes! Yes! He is married! His wife lives in Milan. I curse the day she left him. Why do you ask? Do you, too, want to try to cure his impotence?”

  In the silence that followed Tom heard the door behind him open and, a few seconds later, close. He presumed the maid was looking in to make sure Ursula wasn’t being murdered. Or maybe the maid was used to these outbursts and just wanted to see how the brandy was holding out.

  “I’d better go,” Tom said.

  He was interested in the sexual aspersion Ursula had cast on Count Zanon, but her decibel level was getting to him. Besides, he needed to find out what was happening with Francine. He poured himself a splash of brandy for the road.

  As he drank it down, matters took another turn. “What am I saying?” Ursula breathed. “You are suffering as much as I am. Forgive me.” She knelt in front of Tom and rested her forehead on his knee.

  “Jesus. Get up,” Tom said.

  “Do you forgive me?”

  “Sure. I mean— sure.”

  She raised her head, but moved aside only slightly to sit on the floor next to his chair. Nobody had ever knelt in front of Tom and begged his forgiveness before. Clumsily, he patted Ursula’s disheveled hair, and through the cushion of her hair he felt her skull.

  In The Ladies’ Room

  Sally had been in the ladies’ room of the Fenice for an hour and a half. She had patted her stomach and said, “Sick,” several times to the pink-clad attendant, and the woman seemed to understand. After the crowd cleared, the attendant sat on a chair in a corner of the anteroom knitting something out of fluffy yellow wool. She paid no attention to Sally, who took off her hat, mask, and boots and lay down on the upholstered bench. The anteroom was warm to the point of stuffiness and smelled of stale perfume. Sally closed her eyes.

  Her parents would come, tomorrow maybe, and she would go home with them. Sally saw the sun sifting through Spanish moss, bursts of azaleas, a red-winged blackbird on a live oak branch. Her room would be the same as always, except that on the dresser Sally’s mother would have put an elaborately framed wedding picture of Sally and Brian. Sally would ask her mother to take it away before she moved back in. Slowly, she drifted into a doze.

  She shuddered and woke. The attendant, fingers stilled, was looking at her with mild apprehension.

  Sally shook her head. “It’s okay. Okay.” She rubbed her hands over her sweating face.

  The woman dropped her eyes to her work again. Sally thought things over. Considering everything, she had ended up in a pretty good position. The Medusa probably didn’t have a ticket to the performance, so it wouldn’t be able to come in to search for her. What it would do this time, probably, was what it had done before— wait in hiding until she emerged. Which meant she wouldn’t emerge just yet.

  She wouldn’t leave yet, but she couldn’t spend the night in the ladies’ room. If she tried to hide in here, she’d probably be discovered and ejected. And if she managed to stay, suppose the Medusa found a way to slip in after the performance, when the place was deserted?

  Sally thought she’d better remain Antonia a while longer.

  She sat up. In the mirror on the wall of the anteroom, she saw that the topknot she had hastily twisted back at the palazzo was listing to one side, and a lot of hair had escaped from it. Her face was a milky blob punctuated by shocked-looking eyes with deep circles under them, but her face didn’t matter. If anybody saw it, the whole plan would be ruined anyway.

  She was still gazing at her reflection when the outer door burst open and a group of laughing women entered. Intermission. The woman in white could walk in at any minute. She grabbed up her things and rushed to lock herself in a toilet stall. She put down the toilet lid and sat on it. She’d have to wait until everybody
left.

  Intermission lasted a long time. Sitting in the stall, Sally listened to the swirling chatter. She was afraid someone would make a fuss about her staying in the stall so long, but there were no knocks on the door, no murmured questions.

  When everyone had gone, she emerged. She had to work on her appearance. Antonia would never go around looking like a mess. She splashed water on her face and washed her hands, then extracted the pins from her hair, combed it thoroughly and put it up again. She fluffed and straightened Antonia’s dress, which looked wilted, but that wasn’t unusual, considering the rain.

  When she thought the performance must be drawing to a close, she donned her mask and hat and pulled on her clammy boots. The attendant continued to knit. Sally felt a pang at the thought of leaving this haven and the woman who had been so conveniently and quietly indifferent.

  Although the attendant wasn’t looking at her, Sally waved. She said, “’Bye,” and left her sanctuary.

  A Masked Ball

  At the edge of the shoving, babbling crowd around the coat-check stand, Sally stood on tiptoe and craned her neck. The performance had been over for ten minutes, and there was no sign of the woman in white or the man who checked Sally’s umbrella and shawl. If they didn’t show up soon, the crush might have thinned enough so conversation would be possible, and that would be a disaster.

  Meanwhile, Sally wasn’t poor little Sally, her husband murdered, pursued by a Medusa. She was Antonia— Michèle’s beautiful, lost Antonia.

  The thought made her stronger. A few seconds later she saw the woman in white in her ostrich-feather mask and waved energetically, the way she thought Antonia would. As she pushed toward the woman and her friends, she made the lavish shrugging gestures with which Antonia might indicate amused dismay at their separation during the performance.

  An unexpected charge of energy hit her, burning away her enshrouding fear. The confident, carefree gestures she was making seemed to have unlocked reserves of daring. Had Sally actually absorbed Antonia’s spirit by sleeping in her room and wearing her costume? Or had this lively creature been inside Sally all the time, waiting to be called on to show what she could do?

  As they were jostled from all sides, the woman grasped Sally by the shoulders and yelled something. Sally gestured airily at her ear and shook her head. She felt completely in command, as Antonia would have been— Antonia, who was vivacious and had friends who were always happy to see her.

  A minute or two later, the man in the tuxedo was helping Sally with her shawl and handing her the green umbrella, and soon the party was once again on the steps of the Fenice. The rain hadn’t stopped, which meant they’d be walking fast, and since Sally had her own umbrella she needn’t be too close to anybody. Walking with the laughing, chattering group, Sally looked around for the Medusa. She didn’t see it, but it could be hiding in any of these dark side streets.

  As they walked, the woman in white, who had been talking animatedly, began to sing. There were calls of “Brava! Brava!” and others joined in. Everybody seemed to know the words. Sally felt almost as if she too knew the words, and she hummed along with the vigorous chorus.

  The song ended. They began another and were still singing when they turned down a passage onto which, a moment later, a door was flung open, pouring out light and the sound of an orchestra. Sally would go in with them, of course.

  Inside, she again surrendered her shawl and umbrella, this time to a man wearing an embroidered waistcoat and white gloves. With the others, she climbed a marble staircase, passed through a room filled with orchids, and entered double doors into a ballroom.

  People in masks, wearing costumes or evening dress, danced under huge, glittering chandeliers. Painted on the ceiling was a scene of people riding through the sky in a chariot. Cupids, thick as a swarm of bees, flew toward the chariot from the ceiling’s four corners. Cupids carrying flags, cupids carrying garlands, cupids carrying bows and arrows tumbled through the sky.

  Sally forced herself to stop gawking. Antonia wouldn’t gawk.

  A couple of people nodded and said, “Ciao,” and Sally nodded back. The woman in white and her party had melted into the crowd. Sally wandered to the buffet. She ate lobster salad and small, frosted cookies and drank champagne, thankful that she could eat without taking off her lace-hung mask. Later, dizzy from the champagne, she sat on a spindly chair of gold-painted wood and watched the dancers— fairy princesses, vampires, Egyptian pharaohs, Greek goddesses— whirling under the painted cupids.

  There was a flurry at the door, not far from where she sat. She looked up and saw Michèle.

  He was dressed once again as the Harlequin, in his costume of pale silk lozenges and lace, bicorne hat, and black mask, the wooden baton at his belt. He surveyed the room from just inside the doorway, ignoring the greetings of the people near him.

  Sally stood up. When they were face to face he said, “Antonia. Carissima.” The next moment they were dancing.

  Part IV

  INTERLUDE

  Tonight, there are masked balls all over Venice. In a palazzo, dancers whirl beneath the painted antics of cupids. Across town, on the basketball court of a high school gymnasium, teenagers in Halloween masks contort their bodies to deafening music. Revelers who are too drunk, too carefree, or too wet already to mind the rain dance in the Piazza, where the streaming domes of San Marco loom over all.

  On this night, St. George and the dragon may join hands and waltz, a priest and the devil drink each other’s health, a lion and a lamb embrace, full of the fevered knowledge that they will soon lie down together.

  During it all, the tide is rising. Parts of the Riva degli Schiavoni have been washed by occasional waves for some time now. Across the Bacino, water slops against the steps leading to San Giorgio Maggiore. It threatens the fondamenta of the Giudecca. The Venetians who have not joined the tourists in dancing, drinking, falling in love, and making mistakes they will repent for the coming year and perhaps longer, turn on the weather report. Yes, the Adriatic tide is molto sostenuto. They dial a telephone number to hear the same news: The tide is high; by tomorrow, there may be acqua alta.

  The Venetians are accustomed to this by now. In the closet are their high wading boots of sturdy, olive-green rubber. Platforms for those without wading boots stand ready to be assembled. If there is indeed acqua alta, everyone will know when the sirens go off.

  In the lobbies of chic hotels, preparations for the high tide are under way. Staff members roll up carpets, leaving the terrazzo floors bare. They ready planks to be put down for guests to walk on if the Grand Canal, which is now licking at, even encroaching on, the landing stage outside, should slide inexorably under the doors and spread across the terrazzo, creating a treacherously slippery pool, washing against the lowest step of the wooden staircase where former tides already have left a high-water mark. Curtains must be tied up, antique tables and chairs moved to safety, signs put out saying Attenzione.

  It is all routine. Tomorrow, cold Adriatic water may flow through the streets, stand in the Piazza and the campos. A few hours later, it will be gone. The inlaid patterns on the Basilica floor will dry. Venice will not sink under the waves before the end of Carnival.

  In The Ballroom

  Because she was Antonia, Sally was able to dance, her feet in the damp, clumsy boots as nimble as if she were wearing satin slippers. Michèle’s hand barely touched her back, and his grasp on her fingers was so light she was hardly aware of it. Together, yet barely connected, the two of them moved across the floor. Drops of rain shimmered on the delicate leaves and flowers of the Harlequin’s lace collar. The drops spread out and turned warm under Sally’s hand. Sally’s joy at seeing Michèle alive and unhurt overwhelmed yet disturbed her. Nothing had changed, nothing at all. She was bereft, in danger, alone. And yet to be here dancing with Michèle, breathing the music like air, to be Antonia, dancing in this Venetian ballroom, was a moment of magical suspension.

  They danced without speaking un
til the music ended. When Michèle had bowed an elaborate bow, almost a parody of courtliness, he said, “They called and told me you were here.”

  He had spoken in English, so he didn’t think she was Antonia after all. She wondered, bleakly, if she had actually fooled anybody — except herself. “Who called?”

  “My friends who met you at the Fenice.”

  “What did they say?”

  Michèle smiled. “They said Antonia was here, but she seemed very quiet and sad. They urged me to come dance with her and cheer her up.”

  So she had pulled it off. She had been Antonia. “What did you think?”

  “Why, of course, I thought Antonia had come back to me,” he said in a mocking tone.

  The music began again. Michèle kissed Sally’s knuckles. “We must go,” he said.

  She followed him through the crowd and at the door took a last look at the dancers under the cupid-crowded sky. She wanted to stay, to be the one Michèle had hoped to find here. She turned away, and let him lead her down the marble staircase.

  “I was sure you had been abducted,” said Michèle as they redeemed his coat and her shawl and umbrella. “I had to go out unexpectedly, and when I returned, both you and Sandro, the doorman, had disappeared. I was frantic, and became even more so when I found Sandro in a storeroom, bound and gagged. He said he had been attacked by your friend Tom, who was dressed in a Pierrot costume.”