Both women froze. Harriet’s nails dug into the Contessa’s flesh.
“Let’s hurry,” the Contessa said. “We can’t be far from the mausoleum. I have the key.”
As they hurried along, the Contessa gave a shudder at the thought of seeking safety behind the heavy doors of the mausoleum.
5
His watch was smashed. Slowly, painfully, he got to his feet. How long had he been unconscious? One minute? Ten minutes? Longer?
He touched his head. His hand came away sticky. He smelled his own blood.
He stifled a call for help. Whoever had hit him hoped he was dead or at least unconscious. Better to leave it that way, better to stay off the paths. Moving with the slowness of a nightmare, never sure if his legs weren’t going to buckle, he struck out across the field of graves.
As long as he walked in a straight line between the graves he was fine, but he occasionally lost his sense of direction from the effects of the blow and the fog. He bumped into grave markers, flower urns, and concrete planters. The unmistakable squeal and scratching of rats assaulted his ears. They ran across his feet and plopped down from the grave markers. He both cursed and was grateful for the fog and darkness that hid how alive the field must be with them. He tripped and fell onto the damp, yeasty earth. He scrambled up as quickly as he could but not quickly enough. A rat grazed the top of his head. Shuddering, wondering if the blood was attracting them, he continued to creep along.
His eye was caught by scattered, flickering lights that burned through the fog. These weren’t votive candles or lamps. They were the fuochi fatui, fires fueled by gases from the decomposing bodies buried close to the surface. The coldness of their burning mocked him with what it seemed to say about the illumination the living might expect of the dead.
At one point he thought he had lost his way, had become turned around and might be going back toward the Baron Corvo’s grave or deeper into the cemetery. But the fog lifted and thinned to reveal a row of graves whose names he remembered recording in his journal for possible research. Yes, he was still moving in the right direction. He crossed a path and entered another field. He was only a short distance from the Da Capo-Zendrini mausoleum.
He should have been warned by the rubble that he knocked against and stepped on, that sometimes crunched beneath his feet or obstructed his way. Realization came a second too late as he tripped and fell into a shallow excavation filled with water. It was a disinterred grave. He now remembered seeing the graves in the process of being disinterred when he was here with the Contessa.
He scrambled up the muddy side of the grave. A woman screamed. He pulled himself out and grabbed a large piece of concrete. He ran toward the mausoleum. A sharp crack cut the air.
“Oh, my God!” came a voice he immediately recognized as the Contessa’s.
The crack came again, followed by the grate and bang of a metal door closing.
Fog wreathed the mausoleum. A votive candle on the steps shimmered and quickened the faces of the two stone saints. Urbino rushed up behind a figure with a gun, who was frantically searching the ground. Other figures ran in their direction from the fog. Urbino brought the concrete down heavily on the man’s head.
Flint dropped the gun and staggered toward the steps of the mausoleum. He grasped the statue of St. Nicholas with both arms and slowly started to fall backward. The saint, dislodged, came down massively on top of him.
From behind the closed doors of the mausoleum came the Contessa’s terrified, muffled screams.
EPILOGUE
Death in the Salon
“Couldn’t you have found the key more quickly!” the Contessa reprimanded Urbino for what must have been the fifth time since they had sat down in the Chinese salon. “I was absolutely frantic!”
Urbino remembered only too well the dazed look on her face when he had finally been able to turn the lock of the mausoleum doors. Her hands, her dress, even her face were smeared with Harriet’s blood.
The Contessa took a deep breath that seemed to savor a great deal: the deep repose of the salon, the smoke-free air, her near escape from death, and perhaps even the second plate of petits fours in front of her. She picked one up now, its pink frosting setting off the dove of her dress.
She noticed Urbino’s gaze and said: “Food is life, caro, and I intend to live!”
The chin she tilted at him showed a slight weight gain. She had remained secluded at the Ca’ da Capo-Zendrini for the past week, refusing to return phone calls or to see anyone except the police—and that only under sufferance. But today she had called him, saying: “It’s time to face the world.”
There wasn’t much of the world to face this afternoon, however, except each other and some unanswered questions, some pieces that each needed to put together for not only their edification, but their comfort as well.
With the air of clearing the table so that they could begin, the Contessa said: “I’ve sent Bobo packing.”
But Bobo had gone only as far as the Gritti Palace. His presence was required for a while longer in Venice.
“I’ve had the salotto blu and the room upstairs disinfected of his abominable smoke, and every single solitary volume of D’Annunzio is packed away!”
There were more subtle changes that she didn’t mention, among them a return to her old, familiar scent and less sunshine in her hair.
“It won’t be as easy to get rid of his memory,” Urbino said gently, now able to be more considerate of her feelings than he had been recently.
“I’m a stronger woman than you think, caro! And all the stronger for having been so weak. But I don’t want to forget! Not any of it! Not what he did to Helen Creel! Not what he wanted to do to that poor couple! Oh, he might not have killed them, but he wanted them dead! And I certainly have no intention of forgetting what he was doing to me! His and everyone else’s golden goose!”
The Contessa’s image was certainly appropriate, not only because of all the ruffled feathers she was now displaying but because of one of the many things Harriet had told her about Flint. He had asked Harriet, from her privileged position as the Contessa’s live-in secretary, to be on the lookout for anything about the Contessa or Urbino that could be turned into money. Then, when Bobo’s secret fell into his lap, Flint schemed to have the Contessa pay, unwittingly, for the keeping of that secret, perhaps forever.
The Contessa closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. Surely she was also thinking of what Bobo might have ended up doing to secure as much of her money for himself as he could. She looked at Urbino and, straining for a tone of normalcy, said: “So tell me, caro, how was it that you finally realized it was Flint?”
Urbino knew that the Contessa wanted—she needed—to have her mind focused on the facts, on what had really happened, so that she could begin to heal. It would make little difference to her if he—or she herself—repeated things they both already knew. They needed to do this together. Urbino was more than willing, but he was afraid of one or two aspects that might have to surface.
“It was partly thanks to the acoustics of your garden,” he began, knowing that this area held no dangers. “Before the procession I was at the window of Harriet’s former room and heard Bobo and Livia’s conversation in the pergola as clear as anything, even though they were talking softly. It wasn’t what they were saying but the fact that I could hear them so well. I suddenly realized that Harriet could have overheard whatever Moss and Quimper were talking about the night of your reception when she went up to her room to get one of Bobo’s publicity photographs. I figured that there was a good chance they were talking about Bobo and Helen Creel.
“Right after turning from the window I discovered the envelope with pages torn from fashion magazines. All of them were fashion layouts in which Flint figured, and he had signed each one. I didn’t piece together anything like the whole picture, of course, but it struck me that the two of them could have conspired to blackmail Bobo and that somehow they were responsible for Moss’s and Quimper
’s murders. I was already leaning toward Flint because he had had the most contact with the couple and was desperate for money. As for Harriet, she didn’t have an alibi for the time Moss and Quimper were murdered.”
“Because she was walking around in a daze after leaving Marco’s!” Obviously, whatever Harriet had done to harm the Contessa had been forgiven and would have been even if the woman hadn’t died in her arms. “She wasn’t comfortable with the idea of blackmail, and she never would have gone along with anything like murder! She thought for so long that—that Bobo had killed Moss and Quimper. Flint told her that he had set up a meeting with the couple while she was at Marco’s to work out an even better plan to blackmail Bobo and that, after he left them, Bobo killed them.”
“Flint was determined to convince them that night—one way or another—not to tell you about Helen Creel. Once you knew about her, once you knew the kind of man Bobo was, Flint lost his power over him because he knew Bobo would do almost anything to keep you in the dark. Moss and Quimper were in a perfect position to make a lot of money for them all, but they refused. Moss wanted revenge—to ruin everything between you and Bobo, for the way Bobo had destroyed his family. So Flint murdered them.”
“I don’t know why the Substitute Prosecutor can’t make a case against him for murdering them!”
“What Harriet told you is hearsay.”
“It’s the truth! All of it practically her dying words! Unless it’s my word that’s in doubt!”
“You know how these things work. Unless someone saw him do it or he confesses, he won’t be charged with their murders.”
“But he killed her because she knew he was the murderer—and tried to do the same to me!”
“Her murder may be the only thing he’ll be prosecuted for. Thank God, they found most of the money in his room. But what isn’t hearsay is speculation.”
“What about Orlando then? Isn’t there any way it can be proved that Flint killed him?”
“Flint didn’t kill Orlando.”
“He didn’t? Who did then?”
There was panic in her eyes. She was afraid of the answer. He didn’t keep her in suspense.
“No one.”
“No one? But I don’t understand.”
“He seems to have committed suicide.”
“‘Seems to’? Don’t play with me!”
“But I’m afraid I can’t do any better than that—and neither can the police. Flint definitely didn’t kill him though. Although Oriana admits she lied about Flint being with her the night of the murder—he convinced her he’d be needlessly hassled if she didn’t—she swears they were together when Orlando died.”
“Someone else could have emptied his pills into the toilet and thrown his inhaler out the window and not even been there when he had his attack.”
“If someone had done that,” Urbino said, “he would have had to be pretty sure not only that Orlando was going to have an attack but also that it would be severe enough to bring about his death. Only one person could have been so sure—and also thrown away the pills and the inhaler. Orlando himself. It’s completely possible he induced his attack. When I visited him, he mentioned some of the things in the suite that could trigger one. Dust, tobacco smoke, and newsprint.”
“And he was found grasping newspaper!”
“The newspaper, or one of the other things, or a combination of them, probably brought on the attack—by his own intention. Who knows? He might even have wanted it to look like murder—to make some people uneasy. I’m sure that he didn’t want to live. Obsessed as he was with his sister’s death—and suffering from the same illness—he probably found a grim appropriateness in dying on the same day. And he tried to kill himself at least one time before that we know about.”
“When Bobo saved him from drowning at Taormina!”
“Exactly.”
What he didn’t voice about Bobo’s act of bravery was that it might have been less to save his brother-in-law’s life than to give himself a chance to get his hands on the money Rosa had left her brother. If Orlando had died then, none of his money would have gone to Bobo. Bobo had needed time to work on him, but his efforts had failed. The closest he had come to Orlando’s money was through Livia.
“It will make me feel better if I just get it straight in my head what was going on the night of the murders,” the Contessa said. “You must have figured it out by now.”
“With the help of what we know for sure and what seems probable. We know from Bobo that Moss was going to tell you everything, that he was finished toying with him with things like the accusations. Moss was probably no longer getting satisfaction from only making Bobo dread being exposed. Bobo called him and Quimper on the Flora house phone and said he wanted to meet them. An attempt to dissuade Moss from his plan. They walked together, Bobo and Moss argued in Campo San Luca, and then the couple must have gone to see Flint, probably at his apartment, while Bobo and Harriet were on their separate walks. Moss told Flint they were definitely not going to blackmail Bobo through you. Given the time involved, Moss must have called you from Flint’s phone to show him he meant what he was saying. Flint, seeing his scheme falling apart, tracked them to the Erberia on their way to see you, and shot them. From first insinuating himself into their plan of revenge against Bobo, with Harriet as the essential liaison between them all and you, Flint made sure that the whole game became his. And then he played it just the way he wanted. He—”
“I can’t tell you how good it makes me feel to see that you’ve thrown yourself back into the fray, Barbara,” interrupted a woman’s deep voice.
The Contessa and Urbino had been so absorbed that they hadn’t noticed the approach of the speaker. It was Oriana, dressed in black and purple. With her was her husband, Filippo.
“We can’t punish ourselves forever for having made a mistake. Filippo understands, don’t you, dear? He’s made quite a few in his time! And I’m sure Urbino understands.”
“Why don’t you join us?” Urbino said.
“We wouldn’t think of it! You two need to be alone together for a long, long time. We’re off to a Vivaldi concert. But we thought we’d stop by to say hello when we saw you in here. Give me a call, Barbara. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
Filippo, whose only reaction to all this had been a benign, if slightly strained expression, smiled his good will as the two of them left the salon.
“Well, she’s certainly bounced back!” the Contessa said, staring after the departing couple. “I wish I had her resilience!”
“Is that what you call it? She’ll be on the prowl again before too long.”
The Contessa pretended not to hear him and went on: “She gives me encouragement. No matter what I’ve been through, at least it’s not as bad as what she has. Maybe I’ll be able to start feeling that everything isn’t my fault.”
“Your fault?”
“If I were a beggar maid—or a beggar matron—there would have been no money to tempt any of them, is what I mean. Not Harriet. Not Flint. Not anyone!” She went on in a calmer voice, staring out into Piazza San Marco: “When I was just a girl at St. Brigid’s, I believed there were answers to everything—unless they were the Mysteries of the Church,” she added with a little laugh. “But I’ve learned that there aren’t. It’s a delusion. A trap.” She started and her eyes widened. “Well, I never! Can you believe this!”
What the Contessa meant was evident as soon as Urbino looked out into the Piazza. Bobo and Livia Festa were hurrying across the square under the same umbrella. Peppino, pressed against Festa’s ample breasts, was wearing an emerald-green rain jacket that matched his mistress’s. They stopped when they reached the arcade in front of the Chinese salon and Bobo folded the umbrella. Festa was the first to see the Contessa and Urbino. She nodded, poker-faced. Bobo shot them a twisted smile, then grabbed Festa’s elbow and hurried her toward the entrance of Florian’s.
“So brazen!” the Contessa said, as if both of them had been parading sta
rk naked through the square. “But they wouldn’t dare come in here now that they’ve seen us!”
They did, however, going through the passageway behind the Chinese salon to one of the larger rooms. Neither Bobo nor Festa looked in their direction, but Peppino stared into the salon with an almost human curiosity.
“I have something to tell you about Livia,” Urbino said.
“I hope her fat ears burn like fire!”
“They very well might. It’s about Orlando’s will—his other will,” Urbino emphasized.
“Another one besides the one he left Livia all that money in?”
“Made out shortly after he came here. He added Livia’s share to his original bequest to the medical school. The will was witnessed by two employees of the Flora who didn’t mention it until the day before your procession. Livia must have found it and destroyed it. Maybe the morning she discovered his body. She called his room first. There was no answer. She must have assumed he was out and let herself in with the key she had made. Certainly Orlando never gave her one. She probably searched his room from time to time. She couldn’t help but have noticed that Orlando didn’t think of her in the same way anymore. He might even have taunted her with having drawn up a new will recently. I think he had just found out something about her that turned him against her completely. Maybe he hired a private detective. His address book was missing. She must have taken it so that when the police went through it they wouldn’t find the name of this detective—and been led back to her. She destroyed the new will and the address book. We’ll never find them—but what she didn’t think about was that Orlando sent a certified copy of the new will to his avvocato in Rome. She’s smart, but not as smart as she thinks.”
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