“What is he to you?”
“I’m helping Margo with an article she’s writing, giving her some financial insights. She’s on a short deadline.”
“So it would seem. That’s too bad. Sergio was a complex man.”
“Meaning?”
“Many interests.”
“Such as?”
“First you attend the ball where he is murdered, now you ask many questions, trying to uncover things. I tell you what. If you come to lunch, I will be happy to share what I know.”
“That sounds tempting.” At least I’ll have chaperones, she thought.
Anna surveyed the crowd. Dudley was in deep conversation with Fanfarone. Margo was sitting, legs crossed, with Gratti. Agatha stood by the entry gate, chatting with a woman in a sombrero. Andrew and Sean were talking with a group of women, pointing to their artwork.
With some luck, she might be able to sneak into Dudley’s study.
“Right now, I need to powder my nose,” Anna said. “Would you excuse me?” She handed Roberto her wine glass.
“I’ll be waiting. Be careful, Anna. Some things are best left alone.”
Wanderings
Tuesday, late afternoon
When Anna stepped inside the cavernous palazzo, she wasn’t sure where to go. The ground-floor rooms, looming behind etched-glass doors, resembled a warehouse, occasional crates piled high. Did Dudley ship his own books?
She climbed a marble staircase, seeking the piano nobile. Wandering down the hallway on the Grand Canal side of the palazzo, Anna crossed paths with a maid in a trim gray uniform and asked where the bathroom was. “Il bagno?”
“Lì.” The maid pointed to the end of the corridor and disappeared down a stairway.
Creeping along, Anna peered into the rooms: a music chamber complete with upright piano and gleaming lute; a living room whose walls were garnished with winged lions; a glowing octopus of a Murano chandelier hovering over a baroque dining table, reflecting light onto oyster-colored, silk-clad walls.
Beyond the rear staircase, she spotted a room with a genealogy chart on a Venetian plaster wall. A large breakfront, displaying a collection of oriental fans, hunkered next to it. Pausing, Anna swiveled her neck from side to side, surveying the empty hall before rushing into the room and shutting the carved-wood door. After nearly tripping on the curved leg of a mammoth couch, she reached a massive desk. A framed photograph claiming one corner showed a youthful Dudley and Agatha embracing aboard a gondola. Papers sat in the middle of the desk, in two neat stacks. Anna took off her glasses, leaning them against the picture frame, hoping that she’d find some clue but steeling herself for failure.
Kneeling on the floor, she tried the drawers on the left side of the desk first. All locked. In the top drawer on the right, she found notes on doges, the Council of Ten, the Gran Consiglio, torture devices in ancient prisons, all written in longhand. Drafts of book chapters, littered with cross-outs and editing, dominated the middle drawer. Crammed into the bottom drawer were a series of personal and professional folders. Anna grabbed one labeled “Investments.” Inside, all she found was a 1986 note about a million-dollar investment in a Liechtenstein company in Vaduz, showing the interests of Agatha, Dudley, and Sergio. No indication as to its business.
Then Anna went through the bulky correspondence folder, holding critiques and letters from readers spanning decades. Many praised Dudley’s work, while others faulted his portrayal of a piece of Venetian history or a certain doge. A letter sent from Dudley’s publisher in 1962 informed the author that he would be receiving a ten-thousand-dollar advance for his next book. How Dudley’s fortune had changed over the past thirty years, Anna marveled. Under the letter, she spotted a leaf of cream-colored stationery engraved with animals crossing a stream, jagged mountain peaks in the background. Below that lay a torn black-and-white photo of a woman in profile, an arched window behind her.
Anna hadn’t noticed the family cat ensconced in an oversized chair. Now, with a soft meow, the cat sauntered over and jumped on the desk, bumping the framed photograph, which crashed onto the parquet floor.
The sound of footsteps intruded.
Nudging the drawer closed, Anna darted behind the sofa and crouched, barely breathing as the door squeaked open. A male voice shouted, “Tutto bene? C’è qualcuno là?”—“Is everything okay? Is someone there?”
As the tabby lounged amid Dudley’s toppled papers, Anna spied a decorative mirror in a niche, holding the image of two men in the doorway. One was the big-eared man from the vaporetto, whom she had reckoned was a cop. The other, young and thin-faced, she had never noticed before. She held still, wishing she were lying flat on the floor, knowing if she could see them, they might spot her reflection as well.
“Vado a vedere da dove viene il rumore,” said the man from the vaporetto in a deep voice. He took a step closer.
What would he do when he saw her? Arrest her? For what? Invading Dudley’s privacy? More likely, he’d get her kicked out of the party after portraying her as a thief, guaranteeing that no one would ever furnish her with information and making her quest perfectly unattainable. He’d report everything to his boss, of course, who already was pulling out all the stops by siccing not one but two undercover detectives on her. Biondi was primed to suspect her of any nefarious scheme, and nabbing her here would only serve to underline her guilt in Sergio’s murder. She asked herself if combing through Dudley’s study had been worth it. She couldn’t assess the value of any one bit of data. Each fragment so far was an unfathomable puzzle piece.
“Carlo, non essere stupido,” said the young man. “È soltanto il gatto.”—“It’s only the cat.”
As they left the room, Anna overheard them discussing a woman asking a lot of questions. She wondered what they had heard and if they were talking about Margo, her, or could it be someone else? She hadn’t spotted them hovering near her in the garden, but maybe they were skilled at their work.
When the door clicked shut, the green-eyed cat, having finished licking itself, sought refuge in a velvet easy chair. Dashing back to the desk, Anna reopened the correspondence file, anxious to conclude her snooping before the maid or Dudley himself appeared.
The young woman in the torn, yellowed photograph wore her dark hair long. Her forefinger pressed to her lips suggested she had just told a secret. She didn’t resemble a young Agatha at all. Could she be an old girlfriend of Dudley’s? Or someone’s wife? Who was the woman looking at? Her partner, or if not, certainly someone or something that Dudley did not wish to see.
She shoved the folders back into place before glancing at the papers on the desk. Peeking from under the pile of rubble was a thick green book entitled Intermediate Accounting, published by John Wiley & Sons in 1960, its author none other than Dudley Filbert. She pondered what had prompted him to write about doges instead of debits.
An array of murrine glass paperweights on a copper console table caught her eye, the iridescent glass rods resembling the delicate tentacles of sea anemones. Above the table hung two pictures. The most recent one showed Agatha and Dudley at the Great Wall of China. The older one was of a group: Pablo, with a boy holding his hand, Dudley, and Sergio on a dangling rope bridge. An emerald forest sliced by a wide waterfall lay behind them.
Anna pried open the door and squinted into the hall. When she was sure no one was about, she hurried down the back steps and slipped out through a side exit.
Looking across the garden, she saw Margo, next to a rose bush, waving at her. “Where have you been?” she asked.
“I’ll tell you tomorrow. I have to leave.”
“What’s your hurry? I have a few things to share.”
“I’m on the lam from Roberto and the cops.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Easy for you to say. I’m getting found out around every corner.”
“You need to stay. Agatha can talk to us now.”
“I didn’t want to put a damper on everything, but God, what
about Sergio’s murder?” Margo shuddered, putting an arm on Agatha’s shoulder.
Agatha raised an eyebrow at Anna.
“She’s helping me,” Margo said.
“Let’s go where it’s quieter.” Agatha led the two women to a stone bench framed by a jasmine-covered bower on the far side of the palazzo. “Others will think we’ve gone to share some juicy gossip,” she said in a hushed tone as they sat down. “Dudley and I have been shaking with the news. Dreadful. New York is one thing, Venice quite another. To have Sergio murdered, just like that,” she snapped her fingers. “We’re in total shock.”
“We were surprised you were still holding the party,” Margo said.
“I thought about postponing, but Dudley would not hear of it. Frankly, Sergio had drifted away from us over the years. Became more of an acquaintance. Dudley would see him at an occasional meeting of one charity or another, but I can’t remember when we last socialized with him and Liliana.”
“Wasn’t he running around with someone?” Margo asked.
“Yes. But dears, if that were cause for murder, many men in this city would be dead.”
“Not Dudley, though,” Margo said.
Agatha’s eyes twinkled. “A friend of ours attended that masquerade ball,” she told them. “Toward the end, Kitty and her husband took a walk to the gardens. All of a sudden, a waiter rushed out at them, screaming at the top of his lungs about a dead man, a knife, and someone running away. The police descended from everywhere. Our friends were frisked. Later on, one of our artist acquaintances arrived there, too. All were forbidden to say anything until the police announced the murder in the press.”
“So he was stabbed,” Margo said. “The papers never revealed how he died.”
Agatha paused and blinked. “I hope I haven’t gotten poor Kitty in trouble.”
Margo shook her head.
“The article will take time to write,” Anna said. “And Margo may need to talk to Kitty to get the scene straight.”
“Ask her in a day or so,” Agatha advised. “She was still too unnerved to come today.”
“Do you think Sergio was connected to organized crime?” Margo asked.
“Some swear he held hands with the Mafia. They’re always trying to figure out a new business, you know, doesn’t just have to be burying toxic trash in Naples. In Italy, you’re never very far from the Mafia, the Camorra, the ’Ndràngheta. Some shadowy figures visiting his place, who knows? Just like Falcone and Borsellino, those poor Sicilian judges killed a few months back.”
“Those were bombs,” Margo reminded her.
“For those they can’t get close to,” Agatha said. “Otherwise, an easily hidden knife will do. With these tangenti, I even wonder if Sergio played hardball and threatened to expose a politician.”
“Not tough to imagine,” Margo said.
“On the first Wednesday of every month, Sergio would hold investment-club gatherings at his palazzo,” Agatha said. “He’d give tips. Sometimes they’d meet at the Gritti. Social climbers would be jostling each other to get in.”
“Why was that?” asked Anna.
Agatha looked askance at her. “Obviously, to show everyone they have arrived. An invitation from Sergio gave them bragging rights. They could crow about having his phone number here in Venice, at his vineyard, at Asolo, wherever.”
Measuring their distance from Sergio as if he were the sun, Anna thought. Empty heads and empty lives.
“You’re better than that,” Margo said. “Have you heard anything else?”
“One interesting tidbit. Sergio’s first wife, Arianna, is working the other side of the aisle from Liliana.”
“What do you mean?” asked Margo.
“Liliana offered that pitiful reward for information leading to Sergio’s killer,” Agatha said. “Meanwhile, the rumor mill has it that Arianna, a hot-tempered bottled blonde with connections, has put out a ‘contract’ on the murderer himself.”
“What? Reaching out to criminals?” Anna asked.
Agatha shrugged. “Who knows if it’s true?”
“She’ll easily beat the cops,” Margo said. “Inspector Clouseau is heading up the police effort here.”
“Doesn’t that make me feel secure,” said Agatha. “Margo told me about the police suspecting you, Anna, before you even came to town. How incompetent can they be?”
“Yeah, unbelievable,” Anna said, trying not to clench her teeth.
“Clearly, they’re out of practice.”
“How about enemies?” Anna asked her. “Did Sergio have any?”
“He was such a cutthroat in business and in life—always wanting to win, at any cost. Could be it was payback time. Don’t know of any specific haters, though.”
“Did he invest only here in Italy?” Anna asked.
“No. All over. At least that’s what I heard.”
“Diversification might be tempting for people, even for you and Dudley,” Anna said. “Do you know many others who invested with him? Sergio wasn’t killed by accident.”
Agatha focused her cool orbs on Anna. “Are you two researching an article, or trying to solve a murder?”
Margo shot a steely glance at Anna. “For a great piece, I need specific details, not just general pabulum.”
“We already met someone who disliked him,” Anna said. “Andrew McMullan.”
“Andrew wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Agatha said.
Maybe so, but Anna could easily picture Andrew strangling alley cats, if not people.
“He’s just sore about the twenty-five-thousand-dollar investment that Sergio lost for him. And then, his artist’s pride was probably wounded when Sergio low-balled him for a singular oil painting.”
“Il Redentore?” Margo asked.
Agatha nodded.
Given Margo’s slipups and Agatha’s command of gossip, Anna feared it wouldn’t take long for Agatha to piece together everything Anna had done in Venice—and when—and broadcast it.
“What kind of investment did Andrew lose money in?” Anna asked.
“Some Sergio import business, I think. You’ll have to ask Dudley, he’s the reformed accountant, as I like to tease him. I stay as far away from finances as I can.”
“What was Sergio doing in all those foreign places?” Margo asked.
“Always on the hunt—for women, most of the time, and art, of course. Beyond that, I don’t know. I walked into Sergio’s gallery near San Moisè last week to check out his latest exotica from around the world. What a collection. Oh, and on the way back, Margo, whom do you think I saw but your ex, Salvatore, sipping a macchiato at a caffè. He called me over, and we talked for a few minutes. Such a sharp dresser. Still has those big brown eyes, that dark, curly hair pulled into a ponytail. Just the picture of an angel, he is.”
“More like The Picture of Dorian Gray,” Margo said. “What a vile temper.”
“I still remember the headlines years ago about his grandfather,” Agatha said. “The only one in the family to die without shoes.”
“What does that mean?” Anna asked.
“Died in bed of natural causes,” Agatha said. “The rest of the men, I suppose, were gunned down or killed elsewhere, given their line of business. Salvatore was the black sheep of a bad family. We warned you not to go near him.”
“I have a hard head,” Margo sighed. “Those were the worst five years of my life. I still have the scars. All psychological, except this one,” she said, touching her forearm. She took a cigarette from her purse, lit it, and took a long drag before exhaling.
“I thought you quit,” Anna said.
“I’m having a relapse.”
“Kitty said Salvatore attended the party at the Belvedere, too,” Agatha said. “I just remembered. She told me the crowd got confused when Daniela, Preserve Venice’s vice president, made the announcements after midnight, substituting for Sergio at the last minute. No one on their staff knew where he was at that point. It’s funny, but Sergio had sent an invitation
to Dudley and me, even though we hadn’t been friendly for a long time. I really had wanted to go. I have a thing about masquerades. Very intriguing, like a secret affair. Who’s behind each mask? What mask do you don, and who are you underneath it? Dudley said no, he had committed to our party today, and one this week was enough.
“Honestly, besides being a tad envious of Sergio, he can be a little hermit. You probably can’t tell, but it takes a lot of energy for him to socialize. When his door is closed, I can’t get in, even after thirty-nine years of marriage. I don’t dare question him, or he clams up even more. Keeps his own counsel. Needs lots of quiet time to research and write, lots of space, lots of rowing, lots of walks. He shares only what he will.” Agatha shifted her gaze to the canal.
“On the art front, I’ve asked Angela to keep an eye out for Paco Rivera’s work,” Margo said, changing the subject. “He’s showing in Lima these days. I know Dudley wants the one with the big splash of yellow.”
“He’s gone mad for it. Calls it his Rising Sun.”
“How much of a premium will you pay Angela?” Margo asked.
“Whatever it takes. He just has to have it. Once Dudley gets something in that head of his, it takes a crowbar to get it out.”
After leaving Agatha, Anna and Margo huddled near the Grand Canal.
“Margo, what did you tell Agatha about me?”
“What we told everyone, that you arrived on Sunday.”
“Why even mention it? Roberto, Andrew, and his friend, Sean, know that I arrived Saturday. Sean boxed me into a corner.”
“How am I supposed to know that?”
“And being pulled into the police station?”
“It slipped out.”
“Don’t say anything more, please. The less anyone knows about me, the better.”
“Right.”
What was Margo thinking? Anna stared at her watch, its slim hand ticking silently, parsing through five seconds as she tried to keep from exploding. “I have to speak to my office in ninety minutes. Please say goodbye to Roberto and the Filberts for me. A stroll to the Customs House on the way back will help me clear my head.” And cool off, she thought.
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