“Mi dispiace,” he apologized when he reemerged. He handed over her passport and the sack of personal items that the police had delivered as promised. Just as she finished paying the bill, Margo strode through the door.
“Anna!” she cried, hugging her tightly. “That SOB tried to—”
“Kill me,” Anna whispered.
“I’d never have forgiven myself.” Margo looked at Anna with moist eyes. “Thank God Biondi got there when he did.” Anna nodded as they sat down on the leather loveseat. “But why did Dudley come after you?”
“I figured out he was the killer from the money transfers,” Anna said, her voice squeaking.
“You can hardly speak. Did they send a doctor?”
“He said I’ll be fine. Somehow Dudley must’ve known I was going to tell Biondi.”
“How many ears did that bastard have around town?”
“You got me. How’s Angela? How are you managing?”
“I’m going back with Angela and Michael next week, now that there’s no hurry to leave for her safety. She’s starting to respond to commands. No one has told her about the baby, yet. Michael and I have been working through how to do it.” Margo gnawed at a ragged cuticle. “Unsuccessful, so far.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” Anna said, trying to whisper. “Do you know who she was planning to meet in the Public Gardens?”
“I think she expected to see Fanfarone, although it turned out to be Dudley, of course. Even after Fanfarone heard about the attack on her, it took him until this morning to go to the police with what he knew. Still protecting the leisure class.”
“What had Angela told Fanfarone?”
“That Dudley had been stealing from Sergio. She thought it involved artwork sold by the gallery.”
“How did you find all this out so quickly?”
“Biondi called Alessandro and filled him in. He also held a press conference this morning. All the papers are on it now—even the national ones have run special editions on the latest ‘Death in Venice.’ Ha ha. They’re calling Dudley ‘the snapping tortoise.’ The Italians love their nicknames.”
“I’ll say he snapped.”
“Yesterday evening, when the cops finally got a search warrant for his palazzo, they found a stash of wigs. Hairs from one wig were found at both crime scenes. And the knife he used on Sergio was on his library wall in a glass case. I remember seeing it! So evil and creepy. With an ivory handle, yet.”
The elephants’ revenge on Sergio, Anna thought, with a trickle of satisfaction.
“Murder ran through Dudley’s Venetian histories and his life,” Margo said. “He’s already confessed—on one condition.”
“Which is?”
“That he’s allowed to wear his doge’s cap in prison. Biondi and the prosecutor don’t care. This’ll bring justice more swiftly and save the state money.”
“Sounds like he’s gone crazy, or crazier. Did they say why he killed Sergio?”
“He cut Dudley off abruptly after he made some kind of mistake. Then the new accountant for Sergio’s criminal empire was going over the books and started asking Dudley questions about where millions of missing dollars went.”
“And how did Biondi zero in on Dudley?”
“The police were starting to look into money movements. Dudley couldn’t show Biondi evidence of investments he had made with Sergio or any legitimate services he had provided in recent years. There was nothing reflected in gallery or bank expenses. So what was he being paid for and why?”
Good questions, Anna thought. She and Roberto should get an award.
“Dudley made up some stories, but they were easy to check. One was that he’d been performing secret audits on Banco Saturno for Sergio, to ensure it was following all the regulations, and that Sergio paid him out of pocket. When the police dug into it, of course, they couldn’t find anything to substantiate it,” Margo said. “I have to hand it to Biondi. When he was certain, he pounced.”
“It sure took him long enough.”
“I know you felt he was only after you. He was after everyone, though, looking to see what would shake out.”
“Come on, Margo. He didn’t try to scare the hell out of everyone, interrogate them, or hit them with search warrants.”
“Well, you lied to him, and he had the sketch from that artist. And Dudley’s disguise threw him off.”
“Me, too. But Biondi did end up saving my life.”
“Also, when the police searched Dudley’s study, they found Gabriella’s diary, which you had told Biondi about.” Margo’s eyes glinted. “Do you want to know the clincher? Biondi reopened the Gondola Murders investigation! Maybe now Alessandro will finally find out what happened and get closure.”
Anna shut her eyes for a moment and saw small waves. “Poor man. Have you told him yet?”
“About?”
“His daughter.”
“Tonight. It’s all happened so fast—too much for him to process. I don’t want to give him a heart attack.”
“What are you doing this afternoon?”
Margo took a deep breath. “Seeing Angela, of course. And doing a jailhouse interview. Dudley asked for me. What a gift! Maybe he wants to be the dark, misbegotten star of my story. The Italian papers are falling all over themselves to try to get to him, but I’m the only one that’ll get the real scoop. The Chronicle will love it.”
“He would have murdered Angela if those workmen hadn’t heard her screams.” Anna raised her voice, which broke. “And if your story runs anywhere in the United States, you’ll hurt her family! How could you want to spend one minute of your time with him? Don’t you think that evil rubs off?”
“Why should I let this plum go to someone else? I’ll keep the affair out of it. My questions will be doused with honey, but they’ll be daggers, and I’ll plunge one into that scumbag for Angela and her baby. Dudley doesn’t get to decide how I portray him, just what he says to me. I see him in two hours.”
“I still think—”
“Oh, and they nabbed Liliana. The Guardia di Finanza caught her racing to the border in one of her fast cars. Trying to stash money in Switzerland.”
Anna pictured Roberto pulling her over. “I’ll bet she’ll be looking at serious time, given everything else. Have you heard from Roberto?” Anna scoured Margo’s face for a sign as Dudley’s invective weighed on her. What was the word of a murderer worth?
“No, why would I?” Margo shrugged. “One more thing. The papers reported a big raid on Sergio’s warehouse a few nights ago, coordinated with raids in Palermo, Rome, and Milan. Seems that Sergio’s warehouse contained illegal animal parts from Africa, like elephant tusks and rhino horns.”
“Yes, Sergio made a fortune from massacring them. Dudley must have figured out where to hide the proceeds.”
“Disgusting. One paper quoted that Tanzanian artist, Sabodo, who said Sergio used him to steal the wild legacy of his country.”
“What an abomination.” Anna rubbed her temples. “Instead of highlighting the beauty of Africa for the world to see, a lot of the art Sabodo created was nothing but packaging for animal parts.”
“How do you know all this?” Margo asked.
“Part of my job. Listen to me,” Anna tapped Margo’s arm, “do not get into the cell with Dudley. He’s stronger than he looks. If he’s crazy, he could kill you—with his bare hands, like he tried with me.”
“I’m sure we’ll be talking through a window. Oh, I forgot one bit,” Margo said. “During the raid in Venice, two Guardia di Finanza officers were badly hurt. One might not make it.”
Anna felt a sudden tight pressure in her abdomen. “What hospital are they in?”
“I don’t know. How about staying in Venice for a few more days to recuperate, instead of rushing back to problems that can wait?”
“I’m not sure.” Anna visualized Roberto in a hospital bed, like Angela, connected to tubes. She’d figure out a way to get in touch with him. “I need to get home soon
to help someone who helped me.”
“And Alessandro wants to see you. He can bring you to the airport, if you insist. But please, don’t leave yet.”
Anna leaned over and gave Margo a kiss. “I’ll think about it. If I go, I’ll see you soon anyway, back in California.”
Margo waved back at her as she left the pensione.
Finishing her coffee, Anna mulled over her immediate plans. Seized by a desire to view the abandoned palazzo up close, she hurried out to the sidewalk. She arched her neck to admire the balcony, the intricate brickwork; when she blinked, she could imagine when the palazzo had been a home. Hearing faint music, Anna knocked on the door, then turned the handle and wandered in. The terrazzo floor was bare. What had she expected, a room hung with oil paintings and thick, soft drapes to keep out the winter’s cold? A woman was singing, operatic notes emanating from a cassette deck on a console table. A bottle of perfume, Fiori di Capri, lay beside it. When she ventured into the next room, the light floral scent followed her and made her think of spring. Strangely, there was a framed photograph on the plaster wall. Anna moved closer, transfixed.
Suddenly, she heard an explosion of barking, followed by frantic scratching noises. Nero trotted into view, followed by Alessandro and Gaetano.
“What are you doing here?” Anna croaked.
“I still own this palazzo,” Alessandro said. “We were just on our way to see you before you leave, to see how you are.”
Gaetano nodded and smiled.
“Were you friends with my parents?” Anna asked.
“Your parents? I never met them,” Alessandro said, giving her a blank look.
She turned back to the old black-and-white photograph: her father with his full moustache smiling into the camera, her mother glowing in a white tunic, holding Anna in her lace baptismal dress. Anna could almost feel the warmth of her arms. She had read their names in the cemetery: Elena and Antonio Fortunato. Anna had seen so few pictures of her parents. Her grandparents had talked about her mother with such love; her father, hardly at all.
“Then why do you have this picture of me and my parents on your wall? We had the same one in the house where I was raised. I took it with me to California.”
Alessandro gasped before she finished speaking. So did Gaetano.
“Did my Nonno, Andrea Orsini, give it to you?”
Alessandro searched her eyes as Gaetano took his arm. “If I lived to be two hundred years of age, I never thought I would see this day,” he said, his voice shaking.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Anna said.
Alessandro drew back to study her. “My family was taken away from me a lifetime ago. Many nights I dreamed of my wife and daughter, and each morning was bitter when I realized they would never return to me. That is how I have existed, if you can call it that. Sometimes I come here late at night, to listen to her singing, and I close my eyes. I pretend they are both here, sleeping upstairs.”
He put his hand on her shoulder. “But new life can bloom after tragedy’s great fire. You would have gone back to California, and I would have remained here. You would remember meeting an old, very sad Venetian man, and I would remember a bright and charming woman, nothing more. So I would have lost you again. Lost you twice, my daughter.”
Anna stood rooted to the floor. Daughter? Father? She looked up at Alessandro and burst into tears. All these years. All that pain.
When he hugged her, Anna felt a spark of recognition fanned by his embrace. Building sandcastles on the sunlit Lido beach, laughing and running among the cabanas; smelling incense in the glowing cathedral; playing hide-and-seek on the altana; splashing about in high boots during acqua alta; listening to music at La Fenice; riding in La Farfalla. Holding his big hand. Her mother singing, and reading to her in a melodious voice. The images combined in a rush, like water cascading through a broken dam, the river freed at last, each drop coursing through her carrying the sights, sounds, and scents of the past.
The aching void in her life she had expected to take to her grave was quickly being filled by this man. He seemed like a stranger when she looked at him. But the warmth of his hug, the vibration of his throbbing voice, erased all doubt. So did Gaetano’s tears.
“I have grand plans,” her father said. “We show you the playroom with the dollhouse Gaetano made for you, the upstairs rooms where we lived, everything. I will tell you all about your life with us, conceived in Capri, where we honeymooned. About your mother and how deeply she loved you. She can rest in peace now.”
Anna wanted to see her. She’d bring her lilies.
“We will have your bags brought over to my—that is, the other palazzo.” Alessandro raised his hands. “I forget, you are not a little girl anymore. Would you like to stay with us? At least for the next week or so?”
“Of course. We need to get to know each other again. I want to understand what happened to me. Then I can decide what to do. I must take care of a few things back in California.”
“Good. We will have a festa here in a few days, to celebrate, before Margo leaves. We pray for Angela and her lost baby. Biondi tells me that your friend Roberto,” Anna lowered her eyes, “may be out of the hospital soon.”
I will see him before that, Anna thought.
“In time, we renovate this palazzo, to regain the beauty it once had, make it gleam like an old family pearl,” Alessandro said.
Anna nodded and reached for his hand.
Acknowledgments
I am grateful to many individuals and organizations that left their mark on this book: Brian Bouldrey, my first writing professor, whose enthusiasm drove me forward; Patrick Zetzman, for reading imperfect drafts with a zeal that never faltered; Laura Accinelli, whose magical introduction to Venice gave rise to my imagination; Pamela Feinsilber, my skillful editor; the Path to Publishing Program of Book Passage, along with two highly talented mentors, Nina Schuyler and David Corbett; all those working to save wildlife and our planet; Phreda Devereaux, for her close review of money-laundering aspects. And to Stephan Volker, my informal editor and co-conspirator.
Thank you, all.
About the Author
photo credit: Ben Krantz
Christine Evelyn Volker became intrigued by foreign cultures at an early age, which motivated her to study Spanish, German, and Italian. After earning an MLS and an MBA, she was drawn to international banking and became a senior vice president at a global financial institution. Her career brought her to Italy, where she immersed herself in the language and made frequent visits to Venice. Venetian Blood marks a return to her roots in the humanities. A native New Yorker, she resides with her husband, Stephan, in Northern California, where she leads a local library non-profit organization and writes about environmental sustainability. Exploring both tame and wild places around the world, she is currently at work on her second international mystery, this one set in the rainforest of Peru.
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