5 - Her Deadly Mischief

by Beverle Graves Myers

  A gentle voice spoke up. “My dear, you’re not being fair.” Pincas was wringing his hands. Fortunata looked on with a flush climbing her white neck. Liya’s father continued, “Tito is not responsible for the terms of the condotte that bind us. He’s a virtuoso, an artist far removed from the workings of government.”

  “A singer. A prancing peacock.” Signora Del’Vecchio’s tone was scathing. “This is what my eldest daughter has turned her back on us for.”

  Reyna’s jaws bulged as she ground her teeth. “At least Aram was providing for his family as best he could. Now we’re all likely to starve.”

  “Hardly,” I replied. “Your late sister’s bequests should put meat on your table for years to come.”

  Reyna chose to ignore me, instead asking Liya, “What does Signor Capon provide for you, except a shameful living? He can’t even give you children.”

  My mouth flew open, but Liya pressed my hand tightly between her palms. She said, “There is no shame in our house. Tito is a respected star of the opera, and he has claimed my son as his own.”

  “Your bastard brat, you mean.” That was Signora Del’Vecchio. “The boy that this eunuch can’t even legally adopt because you’re not married in the eyes of our god or his.”

  Liya gasped, obviously taken aback by the attack on Titolino. “Mama…” she faltered. “That’s your grandson you’re talking about…” Confronted by Signora Del’Vecchio’s implacable stare, Liya’s voice broke and faded to nothing. I squeezed her arm, but she seemed not to notice.

  “Please—” Pincas began, extending an open palm to his wife.

  “Hold your tongue, old fool. The child with the Christian name is no grandson of mine.” With rapid steps that belied her age, Liya’s mother took the knife from the bread board and waved it in our faces. “Because this is no daughter of mine. She thinks she can worm her way back into the family with pretty speeches and fresh-baked bread? You may play along, Pincas, but not me.” She wielded the knife as Maestro Torani did when he beat time with his baton. Her hard black eyes flashed a warning. “You’re not welcome here, girl. You made your choice years ago. Since that day, you’ve been dead to me and forever will be.”

  Pincas gave a loud moan and Liya a smaller one. A flicker of pain raced across my wife’s face, and she swayed on her feet. Together Benito and I half-carried her down the dark, tight staircase, through the shop, and into the alley.

  “Home. I want to go home,” she murmured.

  “Yes, right away—” I stopped with a jerk, feeling a tap on my shoulder. It was Fortunata with Liya’s cloak bundled in her arms.

  “Tito, Liya. I didn’t know Mama was fetching Reyna. You must believe me. If I’d known she planned to carry on that way, I never would have urged you to stay.”

  Liya roused herself and stood very straight. Stroking her young sister’s cheek, she said, “I know, little one. It’s not your fault, but don’t expect to see me for a while. For Titolino’s sake, I may never enter the ghetto again.”

  Fortunata’s face fell.

  I covered Liya’s shoulders with the cloak. “Don’t say that, my love. Time will pass and…” I fell silent, dismayed.

  Liya was glaring at me as if I were the one who had just disowned her. For a moment she said nothing. Then I heard her make a very faint sound: “You…”

  “My love?”

  “You encouraged me to come to Papa, to ask questions about Zulietta’s murder even though I had my doubts.” She raised her chin with a gesture that recalled her raging mother. “I shouldn’t have listened to you. I should have returned in my own good time—when the cards would have foretold a warm welcome.”

  I looked around for support, but Fortunata had retreated back upstairs. Benito merely shrugged helplessly. I grasped my wife by the elbows. “Liya, how can you blame me? I’m your husband, remember, the one who’s on your side. I’ll take you home now. We’ll talk this out—”

  “No.” She broke my hold and stepped away. Holding my gaze for a moment, she said, “I can’t talk about it now. I must think. I’ll see you tonight. After the opera.”

  Before I could come up with an argument to dissuade her, Liya gathered her cloak and skirts and darted down the alley like a caged animal suddenly set free.

  “Should I go after her, Master?” Benito shifted his weight, ready to race away at my command.

  “I don’t know,” I answered, all at once befuddled and forlorn. Events were happening so fast. Too fast. “Should you?”

  He gave me another wordless shrug and spread his hands. Benito struck speechless—an ill omen, indeed.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I sang poorly that night, but it was of little importance. Armida had been running for so many performances, it was no longer fashionable to listen to the music.

  My arias competed with an atrocious din. A few songs inspired the pit dwellers to raise a unified voice and sing along, but afterward, they quickly reverted to their muddled shouts, laughter, and invective. In the lowest tier of the crimson and gold boxes, the minor courtesans and faro dealers enjoyed a busy trade, paying no attention to the stage whatsoever. The wealthy box holders above played chess or cards, took refreshment, or had their curtains closed altogether.

  I was especially interested in Messer Grande’s box. Each time I glanced his way, the chief constable was slouching on the rail in mask and robe while surrounded by a gaggle of excited ladies in their middle years. They kept up a marathon of talk and gossip and also trained their glasses on persons of interest and pointed with closed fans—a breach of fan etiquette that would have embarrassed any true lady. Did I only imagine that Messer Grande stared at La Samsona’s darkened box with longing?

  After the opera I was anxious to leave the theater behind, as much because of Maestro Torani’s very obviously displayed cold shoulder as the inattentive audience. Benito and I had completed my change to street clothing and were strolling along the water landing toward Luigi’s boat when I saw Messer Grande handing his twittering, screeching party into a large, two-oared gondola. If a flock of chickens could don human form and spend a night at the opera, that is exactly how they would conduct themselves, without a mite of decorum. Turning my head away, I walked a little faster, hoping to reach Luigi before the constable caught sight of me.

  I wasn’t fast enough. I heard my name called and turned with a sigh.

  “I was hoping to run into you.” Messer Grande had pocketed his mask. His naked face regarded me forlornly, and he gestured toward a sleek boat with the Lion of San Marco emblazoned on the felze. “My party is taken care of and I have my own gondola waiting. Please join me.”

  “I must get home. My wife is…unwell.”

  “I’ll see you back to the Cannaregio…after we’ve talked.” His manner was stiff and uneasy.

  Benito questioned me with a raised eyebrow. “Go on,” I told him. “Tell Liya I’ll be with her soon.”

  Luigi and Benito headed north. I watched their gondola recede until its lantern became just one floating firefly among a multitude of others. Then I ducked under the canopy of Messer Grande’s boat and settled back on the velvet cushion. Facing me across the shadowy space, the chief constable was merely an uncertain silhouette. I suppose I must have seemed the same. A tense silence was the third passenger in the boat. It lasted as the gondolier picked his way through the canals and guided us into the choppier waters of the basin.

  “Where are we going?” I finally asked.

  “The Cannaregio, as I promised. But the long way round.”

  “Oh.” Looking left, toward the Piazza, I saw scattered torches glimmering at docks and the dark outline of the Campanile against a blue-black sky filled with stars. The soaring tower seemed to shudder as a cascade of bells tolled the hour. Midnight.

  The boat had navigated the eastern tip of the island a
nd was coming up on San Pietro before Messer Grande spoke again. “You’re angry.” He shifted uneasily. “I don’t blame you. You think I’ve been hoarding information.”

  “You must have spoken to La Samsona.”

  In the gloom, I sensed his nod.

  “But your mistress wasn’t at the performance tonight…unless you had her under your robe again, hidden from your party of females.”

  He slid forward on the slick cushion until I could see his face. His expression was as close to chagrin as I had ever seen. “That was my wife, her favorite aunt, and a sampling of cousins. My box would never accommodate the total number. Let’s just say that I keep La Samsona as far away from my wife and her numerous relatives as possible—she told me about your visit when I stopped by her casino before the opera. You must understand that I’d already let you in on the important part of the story. I assured you that La Samsona couldn’t have murdered Zulietta and that was perfectly true—you should have left it at that.”

  I grunted. “I would have if Cesare Pino hadn’t produced the scented note. Or did your mistress leave that part out?”

  “No, she admitted summoning Cesare.”

  “And?”

  “And…what?”

  “No apology for impeding an official investigation? Doesn’t that transgress some statute of the public code?”

  He hesitated, staring at me steadily, nostrils flaring with each breath. The sour smell of wine filled the space between us. Finally he said, “Let it be, Tito. It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re at an impasse. We’ll never know who delayed Alessio’s gondolier or find the duplicate box key that’s probably been tossed away. You’ve done me a great favor, letting me parade my suspects before you and asking questions that would never be answered if I’d asked them. But we still haven’t caught our fish. Nor are we likely to.”

  My thoughts wandered as the gondola slowed to navigate the canals of the Cannaregio. At one time or another the patterns of my internal petal-scope had pictured the killer as Cesare Pino, Aram Pardo, La Samsona, or even Alessio Pino himself. Now, none of them made sense. But…

  “Wait,” I cried. “What about Maria Albergati’s brothers?”

  “They’re out of it.” Messer Grande shook his head. “If you had been a fly on the wall of the Albergati kitchen this morning, you would have seen me peeling a basket of potatoes by the fire. My efforts earned me a seat at the servant’s table where I fell into conversation with the footmen. When Zulietta was killed, Umberto was gambling and Claudio was paying his respects to the family of a wealthy, marriageable young lady.”

  My curiosity was instantly aflame. “What disguise did you use?”

  He answered with a sketchy smile. “Veteran mercenary wounded at the Battle of Fontenoy—peg leg and all—now reduced to begging scraps at kitchen doors. Young men can’t resist trading stories with a soldier who’s seen battle action, especially one with a few medals on his jacket…” His words grew soft and seemed to meld with the night breeze. Smiling no more, he bowed his head as if the weight of the hour had suddenly overcome him.

  “This is the end, Tito. Zulietta’s killer remains hidden behind his mask, and there’s not a damned thing either of us can do about it. Even now the populace is near to forgetting—new scandals pop up with such regularity. By this time next month, no one outside of Zulietta’s family and friends will remember her name.”

  My lips parted, but what was there to say? Hearty words of false hope? Concern over the depths to which Venetian justice had fallen? I was spared from having to frame a reply by an insistent voice hailing us from the pavement. It was Benito. Our gondola had reached the Rio della Misericordia, and my manservant was running along the pavement, waving his tricorne.

  “Master! Master! I’ve been waiting for you. Urgent news.”

  “What on earth?” My voice was a trembling whisper. My stomach tensed. Had something happened to Liya?

  At the same moment, Messer Grande poked his head out of the felze and shouted to Benito. “Who’s that with you?”

  Then I saw my manservant’s companion—a boy of ten, or twelve at most, in the ragged trousers and jacket of a street urchin—a complete stranger to me. I pushed Messer Grande aside. “Liya?” I called. “Is she all right?”

  “Safe at home,” came Benito’s reply.

  Messer Grande’s boatman steered his craft alongside the fondamenta. Benito fell to his knees, heedless of silk stockings and silver shoe buckles. I stretched up. We were eye to eye.

  “What is it, then?” I asked in a more normal tone of voice.

  “The boy brings news of Sary. She requires your presence.”

  ***

  “But why?” I asked the boy for the third time. “What does Sary want of me?”

  As before, he merely shook his head and shrank farther into the corner of the felze. He eyed me with a mixture of curiosity and dread and tried not to look at Messer Grande at all. His thin cheeks could have used a good scrubbing, but he seemed intelligent enough. His name was Paolo, and he laid the fires and fetched water for the apartments in Zulietta’s building. Sary had dispatched him to my home with an urgent plea to come at once.

  “Think, Paolo. What else did she say?” My impatient tone only deepened Paolo’s muteness.

  Messer Grande’s voice rumbled from the dimness. “Take your time, boy. We just want the truth. There’s no right or wrong answer.”

  Paolo gnawed at his lower lip, eyes darting toward the passing buildings and bridges. He finally whispered in a very small voice. “I think…”

  “Yes?” I breathed.

  “I think Sary has something to show you.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. While she was describing where I would find you, she kept one hand balled up in her apron pocket like she had a gold doubloon and wasn’t about to let anybody see it.”

  Messer Grande and I shared a quick look.

  That was all we could get out of the boy. Paolo rested his chin on his chest, giving a wonderful impression of a bone-weary youth, but when we’d tied up at the mooring near Zulietta’s casino, he shot out of the boat like a bullet.

  “Hold him,” Messer Grande shouted.

  The gondolier snagged Paolo by locking elbows, then taking a firm grasp on his collar. Once we’d disembarked, the chief constable took charge. “Not so fast, my good lad. I may need your help. We’ll all take a look at Signorina Sary’s gold doubloon together.”

  But when the three of us reached the first landing, the door was off the latch. It swung open at the first application of Messer Grande’s open palm.

  “Is this usual?” he asked, cocking his head toward Paolo.

  The boy shook his head.

  In contrast to the torch-lit stairwell, the gloom of the entry hall was almost impenetrable. Unease filled my belly and raced toward my throat. My feet wanted to shuffle back to the landing, but I forced them to move forward.

  “I know where Sary keeps the tinderbox,” Paolo announced in a hushed voice, but he didn’t move. Suddenly he seemed glued to Messer Grande’s side.

  “In a moment,” Messer Grande replied. “Tell me, where are the nearest candles located?”

  “By that mirror above the table. There.” Paolo pointed. “Take three steps forward and put out your left hand.”

  My eyes were adjusting. A pale wedge of gray spilled through the right-hand doorway, compliments of the dying fire in the sitting room. I saw Messer Grande’s wide sleeve unfurl like a flag, a shade lighter than the surrounding shadows.

  “Interesting,” he said, as he fingered the tapers in the girandole. “This wax is still soft. Someone was here quite recently. Now you may fetch the tinderbox, boy, and light our way.”

  Candles and lamps winked
on as Paolo flew around the apartment. Neither Messer Grande nor I bothered to call Sary’s name. Though there was no smell or other obvious sign of death, we both knew the maid wouldn’t be able to answer.

  We found her body on the floor in front of the sofa. She lay on her side with arms drawn tightly to her chest and hands clawing at the rope encircling her neck, cutting into her black flesh. Despite her being strangled with a common garrote, the maid’s bright yellow skirt, white apron, and red kerchief were barely disarranged.

  “Bring a light, Paolo. We must take a good look here.” Messer Grande went down on one knee. The boy approached with a three-armed candelabra. When he saw Sary, he clapped his free hand over his mouth and whimpered behind it.

  “Are you going to be all right?” I asked. The little fellow was practically a child, just a few years older than Titolino, too young to be exposed to violent death.

  Messer Grande answered for him. “Paolo will be fine. He’s a brave one.” And with a heartening nod toward the water boy, he continued, “Aren’t you, son?”

  Paolo stopped mewling then and held his light with a rock-solid arm.

  Though I knew it would haunt my nightmares, I forced myself to the floor to study Sary’s face. Her amiable, rounded features were distorted in a horrible mask of agony. Her eyes were black pools rimmed in red, and her lips had receded from teeth slightly parted to show a gray sliver of tongue. Or was it?

  “Andrea, there’s something in her mouth.” Grimacing, I touched my forefinger to the gray sliver. Metal!

  “What is it?”