Venetian Blood

by Christine Evelyn Volker

  Anna had smuggled a cake knife into her purse, and now she brandished it. When she leaned over and stabbed Sergio, he fell sideways and hit his head against the hard wood of the boat. A halo of blood crowned his white hair. The palms of her hands turned red.

  Laughter and crying flowed together, reverberating in Anna’s ears before becoming a stream of cathedral bells, awakening her once again. Lying in bed with aching feet, hiding her head under her pillow, she told herself it was only a dream. But this was the second time she had had it.

  La Notizia Bomba, The Bombshell News

  Wednesday, early morning

  Anna strode past a newspaper kiosk, her ankle feeling stronger after a night’s rest. With her backup pair of glasses, she noticed a headline, “Una Notizia Bomba Cade Sulla Società Alta Veneziana—La Domenica,” promising bombshell revelations about Venetian high society on Sunday. That might shed light on a few things, she thought. In Campo San Fantin, a mélange of centuries-old buildings greeted her: A former guild school, a gothic palazzo, historic caffès and restaurants ringed the cozy square. Standing since the year eleven hundred, the now unused parish church of San Fantin, patron saint of vendors of biscuits and sweets, faced the star of the plaza: Teatro La Fenice, the famed golden phoenix, or fenice, stretching its wings over the portal, transfixing Anna. Like the mythical bird, the Fenice Opera House had risen from ashes. In a way, she had as well.

  She imagined a dulcet voice breaking into song. “È bella in ciel sereno, la luna il viso argenteo . . . dolci s’udiro e flebili . . . un trovator cantò.” A maroon tapestry hanging from the balcony heralded the piano recital of Aldo Ciccolini, performing music by Satie. A passerby murmured in Italian, “Stupendous concert last year. When he caressed those keys, he cast a spell.” Eager music lovers were assembling for tickets, their excited voices and laughter filling the square, reminding her of happier times. She felt a spark of hope that her broken marriage would not define her future.

  Crossing the plaza, Anna spotted Dudley seated alone at an outdoor caffè, lit by the morning sun and consumed in thought. He happened to glance up, nodded, and pulled out a chair. She sensed his hand brush by her hair as she sat down.

  “I’m glad you wandered by,” he said with a winning smile. “I’ll order a cappuccino at the counter for you. Would you like that?”

  “Sure. Thank you.”

  Dudley stepped inside, affording her a few moments to consider his soured relationship with Sergio. How was it that Dudley, who still had a photograph of Sergio on his wall and had traveled with his buddy decades ago, hosted a party after his murder? Clearly, there was little mourning or caring. Was that everyone’s reaction to Sergio’s death?

  Perhaps Sergio had saved truckloads of Venetian art but not warmed any hearts, even of those attending his monthly soirées.

  Anna was scanning the upside-down title of a thin volume with a beige cover when Dudley slipped back into his chair.

  She jumped. “You’re so quiet. You gave me a start. What is this you’re reading?”

  Dudley’s hazel eyes shone as he patted the book. “It’s by Joseph Brodsky, the poet who won the Nobel Prize five years ago. These are his impressions and recollections of Venice. This edition’s in Italian: Fondamenta degli Incurabili. That’s the part of the Zattere bordering the Giudecca Canal, where the old hospital was.”

  “I went by there last night.”

  “He paints unforgettable reflections of Venice,” Dudley paused, “through the eyes of an exile.”

  Anna couldn’t make up her mind about him. A snob, yet kind and solicitous of her though she was a nobody in his world, a defender of the Venetian upper crust, yet tolerant of roguish artists, and an intellectual writer and art connoisseur who had been the author of an accounting textbook.

  “What have you been up to?” he asked.

  “Attempting to relax.”

  “But having a hard time. Agatha and Margo. They talk.”

  Anna squeezed her thumbnail under the table. Knowing that Margo hadn’t drawn any line with Agatha, she’d be foolish to deny what happened. “How can they possibly think I killed him?”

  “They’re bonkers. I wish I could do something. Truth be told, Alessandro has more pull. To local people, I’m still some foreign writer.”

  “After all these years?”

  “Forty-three to be exact, but they’ll never see me as a Venetian, only a quirky American. It’s understandable. I’d still rather be here.” He took a sip of coffee.

  “What made you come originally?”

  Dudley rested his gaze on La Fenice, his lips slightly upturned. “Came for a long holiday. Wanted to stay three months, trace the paths of famous writers, see what they saw, hear what they heard, feel what they felt: James, Browning, Dickens, Goethe, Proust, Lord Byron, Mann, Hemingway—actually used to see him a lot at Harry’s Bar back in ’49. The list is even longer. Then I fell in love. Though Agatha and I split our time, each year we stay here longer.”

  The waiter set down her cappuccino, and Anna savored the rich aroma. “Grazie. Due bicchieri d’aqua, per favore,” she asked. As the waiter turned away, Anna said to Dudley, “Margo showed me an old photo of you in Alessandro’s library, with Yolanda, Pablo, their baby, Sergio, and another man.”

  Dudley nodded.

  “How is it you and Sergio grew apart?”

  “We met at a Cultural Council meeting back in the fifties. Both of us fretted that Venice, always on the brink of another flood, would lose all the glories of her past one day. After we lived through the flood of ’66, we got serious. Sergio could contribute, was born wealthy, and Italy’s economic boom only made him richer. But money also filled some hole in his soul; that’s if he had one. By the mid-eighties, he had twisted into a monster, always pursuing one ploy or another. And what a bloody ego. Even formed his own art society, and he could never be feted enough. Always wanted more—of everything. Agatha and I began to find him unbearable.”

  Unfortunate she hadn’t known this before she was seduced by him, she thought. “Is that when you pulled away?”

  “A hundred kilometers an hour in reverse.”

  “All that investing . . . what did he invest in, anyway?”

  “Once he ceased the financial takeovers, it was real estate, art—tangible things.”

  “Outside of Europe?”

  “I wouldn’t know. And he did have his own gallery of African art. Clearly, he must have been paying foreign artists.”

  Anna mulled over the smattering of information that Brian had dug up and sent her the previous night. Last year, Sergio had transferred twenty million dollars from his New York account to a Klatoki gold mine in Mara, Tanzania. “What about companies or any businesses in heavy industry, like mining, for example?”

  Dudley pressed his lips together. “I don’t think so. Not glamorous enough. He was above all that.”

  “Did you lose any money through him?”

  “I was too smart. I did have some familiarity with figures.”

  “Yes, your background must’ve helped. How’d you ever switch from being an accountant to a writer of history and even some fiction?” Unlike Dudley, she had stayed faithful to numbers. Their perfect, crystalline structure remained unchanged. Now she just applied them differently, in algorithms, instead of in astrophysics. Dudley had deserted them and their logically imposed strictures, balance sheets needing to foot, depreciation needing to tally, accounting rules requiring obeisance. He had chosen a universe in which he made the rules.

  He reddened. “Who told you about that?”

  “Agatha. In passing.”

  “Accounting was an early, fruitless part of my life that I’d just as soon forget. And we’ve talked about Sergio and me too long already. Now it’s your turn.”

  The waiter plunked down their waters.

  Anna fell silent, rearranging her napkin.

  Dudley leaned his elbows on the table. “You have a degree in physics, of all things, had a flirtation with a
stronomy or some such, and then you veered into a government job. You’re now working at the Treasury Department, combating money laundering, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Looks like you do your homework.”

  “I must admit I check on all the attractive women who come to our parties, heh, heh,” he chortled. “Can you blame me?”

  Actually I can, she thought.

  “Do you do any undercover work?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Field work, anything that gets you out of the office and face to face with criminals, maybe even entrapping them. Could be fascinating.”

  “No way. I’m in the office doing boring calculations. Has Margo been embellishing things, or is your artistic imagination at work here?”

  “You’ve found me out. The latter. Do you have plans today?”

  “Meeting up with Margo and Angela at Florian’s. Then going with Roberto on his boat over to Torcello.”

  Dudley peered at her. “Roberto’s a charming fellow. Not always sincere. He’s a player who chats up ladies. They swoon. He harvests. Like clockwork.”

  “Thanks for warning me. It won’t be a problem. We’ll be in a group.” Just another reason for being careful with him, she thought.

  “Here in Italy, it’s different. And he’s not married, like you.”

  “Not for much longer.” Her gaze fell on the gray pavement. Three more months, she thought, with little to show for the past fifteen years. Anna took a gulp of coffee. “You and Agatha seem to have found the recipe for a long, healthy marriage.”

  “Mutual respect—that’s what it’s all about. Where did you meet your husband?”

  “At UC Berkeley.”

  “Are you from California, then?”

  “No. New York.”

  He stirred more sugar into his coffee, swirling his spoon. “What did your parents think of him?”

  “They never met. My parents died when I was young.”

  “Oh, no. Mine too, when I was a child. Hard to remember them, isn’t it? Sometimes an image surfaces, but I’m never sure if it’s a memory or a dream. At least you have pictures to remember them by, I would imagine.”

  She asked herself if he were a kindred spirit beneath all the pomp. “A few. Most burned in the house fire that killed them.”

  “How terrible. You were lucky to escape.”

  She tried not to think about the flames. Nonno had pointed to a home in the Bronx a decade later, a new house built where hers had been. “My grandparents were babysitting in their home on Long Island. Maria and Andrea raised me. They came from the old country, from Modena, in fact.”

  Dudley beamed. “No wonder your Italian pronunciation is impeccable.”

  “Thanks. Nonno taught me well. He didn’t like Jack, my husband, at all. I should’ve listened.”

  “Family’s important. I know my mother, in particular, would have loved Agatha, if she had only gotten the chance.” Dudley wiped one eye with the back of his hand.

  She pushed the water glass closer to him. “It’s been years.” He took a drink. “Tell me, what does your soon-to-be-ex-husband do?”

  “He paints.”

  “Ah, yes, the creative process. Very demanding, hard on a marriage. And your Nonno?”

  “He was involved in diplomacy.”

  “The world needs more of that.”

  Anna scratched the corner of her mouth. “You know, getting back to Sergio, I’m helping Margo with her article. What’s your take on his murder?”

  Dudley drew his brows together. “We’ve already spent more time on Sergio than I’d like. Margo’s the journalist with an intimate knowledge of Venice. Can’t she do her own research?”

  “She’s on deadline and asked me to help.”

  “I doubt her editors give one whit about Sergio. She’s over-sold her story. But, all right, one bit then. I don’t have any special insight, not having been close to Sergio for almost a decade, but I did hear that he had a special taste for ladies of the night.”

  Great, Anna thought. Lucky she had taken precautions.

  “Anyone could have snuck into the Belvedere garden that night.” Dudley fidgeted. “Listen here, Anna, don’t let Margo drag you into this, no matter what she says. It’s her job. After that episode with Biondi, you should be trying to enjoy your vacation. In all honesty, you’re getting in over your head.”

  Anna wasn’t sure whether his comments were aimed at throwing her off, warning her, or steering her toward her best interests. She recalled the torn photo in Dudley’s desk drawer. Soldiering on, she asked, “How about Arianna, Sergio’s ex. Did you know her?”

  Dudley swept off a few crumbs from the linen tablecloth. “Sure. She’s a pistol. Heartbroken when Sergio left her and the girls. She still loved the louse dearly. After all, she’s offering that huge bonanza to the killer of his killer.”

  “How strange is that? Besides, how would she ever know if someone found the right person and wasn’t just wanting to collect the money? Why not leave the police to solve it?”

  “They’re too slow and inefficient. They’ll never catch him—or her. That murderer should be taken down, even if we need the Mafia to do it.”

  Anna tapped the table a few times with her spoon, reconsidering who her pursuer might have been the previous night. Dudley shot her a quizzical look. “It’s not you. I’m a little shaken today.”

  “Why, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “After your party, I took a long walk and someone . . . I think I was followed. Chased, really.”

  “Where?”

  “Past the Guggenheim.”

  “That’s odd. I’d say it never happens, but then I wouldn’t have said murder did, either. Did you get a good look at him?”

  “Too scared. I almost stumbled at one point.”

  “Poor dear.” He took her hand for a moment. His hand felt cool, dry, and calloused. “Ask Pablo to check your right ankle.”

  Her muscles contracted. “How’d you know that?”

  “It’s what we writers do, or try to, and that’s to keenly observe. You were favoring one leg ever so slightly when you came toward me today, yet at the party, you walked normally. I was wondering why, but didn’t want to pry.”

  Anna sipped her coffee. “I’ll be fine.”

  “If not, you know where to find him. Getting back to the party, I need to tell you something.”

  She twisted a lock of her hair and prayed for a breakthrough.

  “Someone went into my study, rifled through the papers on my desk, smashed a picture of Agatha and me, and left their Italian-made eyeglasses behind.” Anna’s jaw went slack.

  “Can you believe it?” he asked.

  “You’re kidding. Did he take anything?”

  “Not that I can tell. Judging by the type and size of the glasses, I’d wager that he’s a she. Not only do we have a murderer of Sergio out there, we have a female intruder. Could it be the same person?”

  Anna willed herself to imitate a rock or a tree, overriding her impulse to squirm in her seat. She took a few slow breaths.

  “Maybe she was trying to steal my next book,” he said. “You can’t believe how jealous some authors are. I keep the drafts of the new one secured.” Dudley’s eyes held a spark of recognition as he nodded curtly to someone.

  Anna felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up to see Detective Biondi, scowling. “Anna Lucia Lottol,” he said. “You come with me now.”

  Her stomach fluttered.

  “Anna, don’t worry,” Dudley shouted as Biondi led her away. “I’ll call Alessandro and Margo. We’ll help you.”

  In the Police Station

  Wednesday, midmorning

  Anna noticed the curious stares from officers trying to look busy and jostling one another as she passed. Biondi signed her in at the front desk, where she relinquished her passport, then took her into a wood-paneled room with a mirror along one side.

  “I have been busy,” he announced as they sat down at an o
val table.

  “Me too—trying to figure out who killed Sergio Corrin.” Anna had done her best, but now a sense of resignation overcame her. She felt as if she were standing on a beach, witnessing the enormity of the oncoming swells, incapable of outrunning them but oddly calm in the seconds before they hit shore. Biondi would have at her now.

  “Let us strip away your lies and get to the truth.” He flipped open a pocket-sized notebook. “You never spent overnight at the Grüner Baum in Zürich. Instead, you leave a few hours after check-in. You board the train for Venice, arrive here on Saturday evening, and pay cash for a room in a fleabite hotel. We have the clerk’s statement.”

  The ceiling lamp seemed to vibrate, its light brightening and dimming like a distant pulsar. Anna felt a little woozy.

  “So I ask myself why would she lie to me?” Biondi was droning. “And now I know. In January this year, you flew into Malpensa in Milan and you stay at the Principe di Savoia at the same time—surprise, surprise—as Count Sergio Corrin. Computers, credit cards . . . data lives forever, Signora Lottol. His room-service breakfast was for two persons, and we speak to the server. You made quite an impression. Expensive dinners at Savini and other top Milano restaurants, ditto.” He gave her a tight smile.

  Anna stared into space and thought about the nights with Sergio that set in motion this disastrous chain of events. “But I had nothing to do with his murder.”

  “Your denial would carry more weight if you were not a proven liar.” Biondi slapped the table. “So you know him. You start an affair, maybe it goes on, maybe not. You fight at Caffè Orientale, hard for staff not to notice. An artist identifies you at the Belvedere gala, running away. He called us again, as a matter of fact, having spotted you, and told us things we already knew. We come to the conclusion that Anna Lucia Lottol had the motive and opportunity to kill Count Sergio Corrin.”

  Biondi’s words were running together, sounding disembodied, like a sentence descending from the sky. Anna’s chin trembled slightly. “What . . . what motive would that be?”