Venetian Blood

by Christine Evelyn Volker

  Passing into the sanctuary of the majestic building, she was entranced by the dazzling sculpted rays rising above the main altar, which was covered in flowers. Immense displays enveloped the side altars as well, creating a tumultuous fragrance of lilies and incense that soon overwhelmed her. Was it the oppressive scent that weighed on her, or was it familiarity magnified by memory?

  Lilies had been Nonna’s favorite flower, particularly the pink candy-striped ones, their swollen orange stamens peeking out from their hoods. As a child, Anna had gathered armfuls of Oriental lilies from their garden. She recalled Nonno’s crackling voice, telling her that sometimes bees became drunk on nectar fermenting in the blazing sun. When that happened, they would be shut out of the hive by the other workers and die—the cruel discipline of a collective society. Nonna’s coffin had been heaped high with her beloved lilies. Nonno’s, too. Now Angela’s path to recovery was strewn with lilies as well.

  The rustling of Pablo’s jacket startled Anna as he sat down beside her. “I only come here for Angela, and those that love her. But this,” he pointed to the main altar, “I don’t believe. Prayer should be high on a mountaintop, a snow-covered apu, rising to the open sky. Rezar libremente. Far above the jungle, with its infinite shades of green, greener than the jaguar’s eye.”

  A rotund, spectacled priest stretched out his hands to God and began chanting in Latin, commending Angela to a full recovery and a blissful life.

  “After this morning, she needs more than prayer,” Pablo said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You didn’t hear? Disconnected from her tubes for many minutes at six a.m., when the policeman outside her door was taking a cigarette break.”

  “No! How is she now?”

  “Stable and assigned added protection. They must get her home. Too dangerous to stay in Venice. She is being hunted.”

  Anna nodded. A murderer was circling like a shark, and thanks to Detective Biondi, she couldn’t go home with Angela but was stuck in the same goddamn fish tank. She was sure the person who had murdered Sergio and Angela’s baby, tried to kill Angela, and attacked her was not some random maniac. The hair on her arms rose as a single word came to mind. Colpevole. Guilty.

  She felt the word like the plucking of a string. It was someone under the dome of this church.

  All the people she knew in Venice were in this crowd of solemn faces. Who was the murderer? It would be someone with circles under the eyes, exhausted after the diabolical exertions at the hospital and at her pensione. As her gaze whirled from one visage to another, the features ran together as if the faces were wax masks, melting: Alessandro’s hangdog eyes became Dudley’s froglike ones; Agatha’s aging face transformed into Yolanda’s catlike expression, which transmuted to highlight Pablo’s black-condor orbs. The art professor’s frown became Fanfarone’s worried look. Sullen-eyed Andrew McMullan stood in the shadow of a pillar, near an unmoving profile that hinted at Biondi. From the side, she spotted Margo. Only Dr. Zampone was missing. And Roberto.

  Her own fawn eyes blinked back at her, caught in a thicket of engraved words on the bronze plaque of the next pew, meaning: “Sea, Venice, Preserve All, donated by the Council.”

  As the singsong prayers at the altar went on, time seemed to stretch, like the taffy of theoretical physics. Anna was not sure how many minutes had elapsed. Her temple throbbed. She needed air. She made a brief genuflection and swiftly moved up a side aisle before breaking out into the sunlight.

  Bathed in astringent brightness, she settled onto a stone bench. Years had passed since she had been to church. First it was every Sunday and Holy Day of Obligation, eventually only Christmas and Easter. Then sometimes. Then never.

  Closing her eyes, she contemplated the roulette of fate that separated her from Angela and meditated on the motives of Angela’s attacker. To prevent Angela from passing on incriminating information that Sergio had shared? To end the potential scandal of carrying Sergio’s baby by finishing her off? Who had Angela planned to meet in the park? Was it the same person who had ambushed Anna, leaving the message to go to the Favier palazzo after dark?

  The church doors flew open and people streamed out, their voices rumbling. When Alessandro, Margo, and Michael descended the steps, a crowd quickly gathered around them.

  “Anna. We looked over at the end of the service and didn’t see you.”

  Anna squinted in the direction of the voice. Dudley was staring at her, hands on hips.

  “I didn’t feel very well in there. All those flowers.”

  “Where did Roberto take you? The boat or the hideaway? Or both?”

  “What?”

  “Dudley, that has nothing to do with you,” Agatha said, pulling on his elbow.

  He shook his arm loose and marched closer as Agatha hurried to keep up. “Don’t you know that you’re just one in a long, long line? That his cleaning lady and his secretary occupy space ahead of you, and behind will be almost every attractive woman in Venice? Roberto needs a revolving door to his bedroom. He was just slumming with you.”

  Anna cowered briefly, as if hit by a phantom punch. When she struggled to her feet, she sensed her cheeks were wet. Why did he care? Why try to hurt her? There was nothing to say to a man like this. Despite Agatha’s presence, she slapped Dudley with all her strength before darting away.

  Shouts mingled with the blare of a docking vaporetto before blurring like the alleyways as she ran through them. She wasn’t sure if anyone was chasing her, but she was determined to not take chances. Escaping any would-be pursuers, she darted across the Rialto Bridge, zigzagged down the streets leading to St. Mark’s, and jogged to San Zaccaria before folding into the mass of people boarding the Line 6 ferry for the Lido. That would be the last place anyone would look.

  The Golden Lido

  Tuesday, morning

  Anna calmed herself by meditating on the shoreline of the Lido and recalling details from her guidebook. The Lido’s seven miles of barrier sands had long shielded the lagoon and core of Venice from the fury of the sea. As the centuries passed, the Lido had seen its share of glory and tragedy. In the twelve hundreds, the island had sheltered Crusaders bound for Constantinople. In the eighteen hundreds, Byron and Shelley had ridden horses along the Lido shore. Earlier in the month, the Moorish-inspired Excelsior Hotel had glittered with film-festival stars as the Venice Casino’s roulette wheels spun, while to the south, the pine-tree sentinels of Alberoni and the ancient ducal seat of Malamocco lay ignored.

  After walking half a mile down Viale Santa Maria Elisabetta, Anna had found a row of tiny green-and-white cabanas facing the Adriatic, almost by instinct. Too distrustful to check into a hotel, and having no passport, she climbed into an unlocked cabana at the far end, covered herself with a towel she found, and fell asleep to the sound of the surf.

  Awakening near dawn, pacing on the cool sand, she watched the gentle tide rise as plovers peeped and skittered on their orange legs. Feeling safe here, she took her time puzzling over Sergio’s killer. Roberto had identified a Sicilian connection to the tribal-art aspect of Sergio’s art business. If professionals, Mafiosi or otherwise, were behind the attacks, both Anna and Angela would also be dead. The attempt on her own life had seemed amateurish, hardly the mark of hired killers.

  She considered Liliana, offering a pittance as a reward. Perhaps Sergio really had been preparing to leave her for Angela, taking his fortune with him. If she had murdered her husband to inherit his fortune, why not offer a bigger sum to throw off suspicion and stop tongues from wagging? On the other hand, if she didn’t care about him, why try to eliminate a rival? That would only make sense if Liliana’s real obsession was her own standing in society which gossip about a cheating husband with an out-of-wed-lock baby would tarnish. From what Margo had said, Liliana knew about Anna and Sergio; she likely was the person who had mailed the photographs to Biondi. But if Liliana had been Sergio’s partner in crime, she would be aware of Anna’s profession and might be impelled t
o stop her.

  What about Arianna, Sergio’s first wife, or their daughters, already despising him for breaking up their family seven years ago, killing him once they learned that Angela could be carrying a half-sibling to share in the Corrin fortunes? But why attack Anna, an incidental fling?

  Pablo, the animal lover and naturalist, might have eliminated Sergio before his forays into Peru swelled the jaguar death toll. What better way to stop this modern-day conquistador than to turn the tables on him and hack off his hand, as his Spanish forebears had done to the Inca warriors? Pablo might have believed that Angela had been helping Sergio somehow. Pablo still bore the scars from the mudslinging of the Italian press, so vengeance could also be a factor. But Pablo’s hatred seemed so principled and righteous; Anna couldn’t bear to think that he had sunk to Sergio’s level. And putting Anna, who labored to catch the Sergios of the world, on his list of victims made no sense.

  Fiercely protective of her husband, Yolanda must have suffered during his prosecution in the Peruvian courts and persecution by Italian media. She loved her country’s wild as much as Pablo. Perhaps she took action and killed Sergio when Pablo wouldn’t? But why harm Angela and Anna—to throw Biondi’s bloodhounds off the scent?

  The two artists, Andrew McMullan and Azizi Sabodo, weighed in the back of her mind. Sergio might have cheated both of them. But she didn’t have enough information to come up with a connection between them, Sergio’s murder, and the attacks on Angela and herself. From there, Anna’s thoughts alighted on Fanfarone. Clearly obsessed with the cream of society, he felt it was his job to shield them. Since she knew of no motive or financial connections, he was off Anna’s list, at least for now, along with Margo, Roberto, and Gaetano.

  As rays of sunlight began warming her, Anna scanned the opalescent sea and its rhythmic swells, hinting at creatures swimming below, and thought of Angela, bawling as she listened to the song about the captive dolphins being freed. In the end, Sergio may have decided not to swim toward the horizon with her. Angela could have killed him when she realized that, unlike Silver and Missie, they would never be together. Proving herself a good actress in front of Margo and Anna, she had remained calm but displayed acute interest in the reports of any witnesses to Sergio’s murder. After her deed, someone who cared for Sergio could have tried to murder her—perhaps Liliana or even Arianna. Could Arianna still care that much about him? Would jealousy cause either woman to try to harm Anna? And how would they have known Angela was his killer?

  Starting to feel hunger pangs, she recalled she hadn’t eaten since the day before. While walking beyond Lungo Mare d’Annunzio and over to the Hotel des Bains, she pictured the beach in full summer, with children building sandcastles and playing in the surf. Once she arrived at the hotel’s overflowing buffet, the tide was high with well-heeled tourists. Anna filled a plate and sought a table on the cozy veranda, continuing to ponder her list of suspects, fretting that she had forgotten an important detail.

  Could Alessandro have killed Sergio for double-crossing him in a business deal? Turning to the darker line of speculation she had discussed with Margo, Anna envisaged Sergio blackmailing Alessandro after somehow discovering that he had murdered Gabriella and Piero. That would explain all those sizable checks to Sergio with no corresponding income. Alessandro had mentioned joint real-estate investments, as if to supply an alibi for the payoffs. Yet seeing him so shaken after the attack on Angela, Anna found it hard to believe that he was a murderer. In any event, he wouldn’t have tried to kill Anna unless he was part of Sergio’s illegal empire, and the recent funds flows she had discovered did not point his way. She still viewed him as a melancholy soul, wandering in the mausoleum of his life.

  As Anna chewed on her vegetable frittata, she recalled her conversation with Armando Tota and wondered about the gondoliers. They were so sure that Sergio had killed Piero and Gabriella, as ordered by Alessandro. But the questions remained: Why now, why not kill Alessandro instead, and why include Angela and Anna?

  Margo had helped enormously by recognizing Agatha’s handwriting on the old love note to Alessandro. Agatha had unmasked herself as a prisoner of her emotions and desires, which seemed to still be going strong at age sixty-five. Who was to say that she hadn’t gotten a late crush on Sergio, even been seduced by him at some point, and become possessed by jealousy? Had Agatha stumbled in telling Margo and Anna that Sergio had been killed with a knife? Supposedly, she had learned about it from her friend Kitty.

  Perhaps Agatha had even killed before. After all, she had never even hinted at her talent in rowing to Margo, in all the years of their friendship. Back in 1955, she could have been the family friend whom Gaetano called in desperation that morning. Instead of helping the family, she might have murdered Gabriella. But why choose that particular time, when she’d have to confront Piero as well? She would have had plenty of opportunities to get rid of Gabriella in less risky ways. Better yet, why not let Gabriella flee with Piero and wait for Alessandro to abandon his love for his wife? Agatha had motives, yes. But the timing made no sense. And why include Anna and Angela?

  Thinking of Alessandro and Gabriella led Anna to the mysterious group with the trident, the “Pride Council” referenced in Alessandro’s complaint to the police before Gabriella died. Anna wondered if this council wrought death on Venetians who brought dishonor to society. She had read about the Signori della Notte, the Lords of the Night, who, starting in the twelfth century, had patrolled Venice each night until dawn, seeking out illicit activity, whether by bigamists, thieves, or assassins. These lords used a “torment” chamber in the ducal palace for their interrogations, questioning the accused while disguising their identities. Anna dismissed the thought of their lurking in the shadows for centuries, not just killing sinning locals but punishing errant tourists like Angela and herself. If that were the case, there would have been an epidemic of murders by now.

  That brought Anna to the person she’d had in the back of her mind the entire time. Dudley had already revealed himself as a master of deceit—most recently, yesterday, in front of the church. Anna sipped her coffee and closed her eyes, sifting through Dudley’s words and actions. Not only was he a prig, he had lied to her at least twice. He must have told her his own parents had died young in the hope that she’d feel a connection, let down her guard, and he’d discover what she had learned about Sergio. From what Agatha had said, Dudley had never been able to meet his mother’s expectations. A man like that could never amass enough wealth or acclaim to feel successful. Was his description of greedy Sergio a self-portrait?

  And Dudley had claimed that accounting was far in his past, while he had won an award for his accounting acumen just five years ago. Why would he want to hide this impressive accomplishment, particularly from Anna, working in finance? Dudley certainly could have designed the ridiculously complicated patchwork of Sergio’s worldwide accounting. She couldn’t imagine Sergio being so patient and meticulous. Thanks to Margo, Dudley had learned Anna’s position in the Treasury Department; undoubtedly, he had also heard that she was researching everyone’s bank accounts. Knowing that Anna was a money-laundering expert, he’d be doubly sure to hide the skill he had used to help Sergio evade the law.

  Dudley’s fortunes had jumped in the mid-nineteen-eighties, with a million-dollar investment and the purchase of his Grand Canal palazzo in 1988. The timing coincided with Sergio leaving his old employer and his first wife. But why kill Sergio instead of continuing to rake in the riches? Must have been money. Either Dudley had wanted more and Sergio refused, or they had broken apart, slashing Dudley’s financial fortunes. How much Dudley earned from his books was anyone’s guess. The twenty-five thousand dollars a month that Sergio had deposited in Dudley’s account in the United States had ceased a couple of months ago. Two days after Sergio’s death, had Dudley orchestrated the transfer of a fifty-million-dollar nest egg to Panama, a haven beyond the scrutiny of both Italy and the United States? With the money sent from the Luxembour
g company, Le Pont Neuf, to the Panamanian construction firm, Nuevo Puente, he’d have a new bridge to retirement. Anna hadn’t noticed earlier, but that was the name of each firm in English—New Bridge—a writer’s little play on words.

  If Dudley had been at the banking conference in Milan—the “surprise” attendee whose name Brian had never had a chance to tell her—he’d have known about her and Sergio, or Sergio could have boasted later about using Anna to win against the authorities. Dudley could have taken the photos from Sergio’s body and sent them to Biondi in an effort to frame Anna for the murder. When that didn’t work, he tried to scare her away and then eliminate her. While Dudley was a skilled liar, he wasn’t a pro at breaking-and-entering.

  He had also revealed himself as utterly vindictive, possessed by a strange jealousy of Roberto or, more likely, by a Lord of the Night prudery. What a price Angela had paid for her affair. Did Dudley fear Sergio had confided in her? During their visit to the Gazzettino, Fanfarone had discounted Margo’s description of Angela’s mood, which suggested that he had recent contact with her. Had she told the society writer about Dudley, perhaps a story that Sergio divulged of Dudley stealing from him or being fired? That meant she’d ruin Dudley before all of society before turning him in. Anna remembered the newspapers promising a Sunday bomb-shell. Perhaps for once wanting to learn the two sides to the story, Fanfarone might have interviewed Dudley first and let him know that he planned to meet Angela in the Public Gardens. Dudley had dismantled the bomb before it exploded. Speaking to Biondi near death, Angela could hardly have discerned whether it was a man, woman, or animal that had attacked her.

  Anna still believed in a connection with the Gondola Murders, all those years ago. Let’s say when Dudley came to Venice, he fell in love with Gabriella before marrying Agatha. Yearning to enter Venetian society, Dudley could have achieved it by marrying this beautiful woman from a respected family. Instead, his love object married another, whose image Dudley tore from the picture of her he kept hidden in his desk. Dudley was observant, imaginative, and an excellent liar. Cloaking his jealousy and envy in feigned friendship, he eventually poisoned the love Alessandro had for his wife. Gabriella dashed Dudley’s hopes by seeking affection from Piero—a gondolier, so far beneath her, beneath them both—instead of him. That would have made him seethe.