Liquid Desires

by Edward Sklepowich

  “How long had they known each other?”

  “About a year. She met Nicolina over in Mestre where my husband works. Nicolina was bringing him his lunch. Nicolina was a wonderful girl, signore—the best of daughters. We never had any trouble from her.” She took out a tissue and started to cry. “Excuse me, but to lose your child, especially like this, is the greatest pain a mother can ever have. And to think that it was Pasquale Zennaro, who ate at our table, who saw our Nicolina grow up! He was like an uncle to her! I know they say that God knows what He’s doing but sometimes I feel that He’s forgotten my family—and now there’s poor Flavia.”

  She wept openly for her daughter and her daughter’s friend, with deep sobs that wracked her small frame.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you like this, Signora Ricci,” Urbino said, getting up.

  “Don’t apologize, signore.” Signora Ricci took the funeral ribbon from his hand and went over to put it back in the drawer. “It’s good to cry. My husband doesn’t like to see me crying. He says it will make me sick. I tell him he’s going to get sick if he doesn’t.”

  When she turned around, she had an envelope in her hand.

  “Perhaps you can help me decide what to do with this, signore, since you knew Flavia. It is some money she gave me at Nicolina’s funeral. It’s a million lire,” she said, naming a sum close to a thousand dollars. “She said that we could buy Nicolina the plaque to put on her stone, one with Nicolina’s picture on it, but we want to buy it ourselves. Now that Flavia’s dead, too, perhaps the money should go to her family. She never talked about them but I’m sure they’d appreciate a little extra at a time like this.”

  “Flavia wanted you to have it, Signora Ricci. Use it for memorial masses for Nicolina, or flowers for her grave—something that will help you remember Flavia’s generosity.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Signora Ricci said, returning the envelope to the drawer. “The last time I saw Flavia I promised I would do something for Nicolina with the money.”

  “When was this?”

  “The day we buried my little girl, three weeks ago now, but my son Guido saw her after that. I’m not sure when. You could speak with him. He’ll be here after seven—or you might catch him on the vaporetto. He works on the Number One Line.” She glanced at a clock next to the votive candle. “His boat will be coming into the Sant’Elena landing in about ten minutes.”

  17

  A few minutes later a breeze blowing damply off the lagoon made Urbino feel uncomfortably chilled after the heat and closeness of the Ricci apartment. He went across the strip of park to the boat landing where the Number One vaporetto was pulling in from the Lido. Urbino got on.

  The young man in charge of guiding the vaporetto into the landing with ropes and opening and closing the metal gate had to be Guido Ricci. He had his mother’s dark hair and his sister’s large eyes.

  When the boat left the landing, Urbino introduced himself, saying that he had just spoken with Guido’s mother. He wanted to ask him some questions about Flavia Brollo.

  “Flavia? I don’t know anything about her death.”

  “It’s her relationship to your sister that I’m interested in. As I told you, I’m trying to learn as much about Flavia as possible in order to understand her death.”

  Guido Ricci looked at Urbino suspiciously.

  “Are you her boyfriend? I thought he was Italian.”

  “No, I’m not her boyfriend. Your mother said that you saw Flavia sometime after your sister’s funeral.”

  “And what if I did?” Guido cast a quick eye over the other passengers and at the approaching landing by the Biennale grounds. Venice was spread out in a broad sweep before them. The buildings looked monochromatic in the glare of the mid-afternoon heat. The cloudless sky and the waters of the lagoon were both a gray leaden color.

  When Guido looked back at Urbino, he had a guarded look on his face. “Is there anything wrong with that? It was right here on the boat in front of everyone. She got on at the next stop—at the Ca’ di Dio—and went as far as the Accademia.”

  “When was this?”

  “The day after that bastard Zennaro confessed to butchering my sister. It was a Friday. A week later she was dead herself. She kept saying, ‘I knew he did it! Maybe it’s my fault.’”

  “What do you think she meant by that?”

  “I’m not sure, but Flavia was supposed to stop by and see Nicolina the day she was murdered. Nicolina wasn’t feeling well and didn’t come with us to Lago di Garda. She had some new fashion magazines Flavia had brought her a few days before, and Flavia was coming by when she got back from Asolo. Flavia said she never came that day. I guess she thought that if she had, Zennaro wouldn’t have murdered Nicolina. And maybe she was right, but that doesn’t mean she was responsible. If you think that way, then my mother and father and I are, too, for having left Nicolina alone.”

  Guido started to prepare the rope as the vaporetto approached the landing at the Giardini Pubblici. He threw one part of it over the metal stanchion. As the boat drew closer, he looped the rope twice over the boathooks. The rope creaked as pressure was exerted on it from the boat moving against the landing.

  As Guido slid the gate across to let the passengers off, he said, “Flavia had a good heart. She deserved better than to end up the way she did in the Grand Canal. My mother says the two of them are together now—if you believe things like that.”

  Guido bent down to lift the front edge of a baby stroller onto the boat. Urbino asked him if Flavia had known Pasquale Zennaro.

  “She met him a few times at our apartment. She didn’t like him. I guess she saw something that we didn’t.”

  18

  After leaving Guido, Urbino called Commissario Gemelli from a café.

  “Flavia Brollo and Nicolina Ricci, the girl who was raped and murdered on Sant’Elena, were good friends,” he told Gemelli. “I have a hunch it might have some bearing on Flavia’s death.”

  “A ‘hunch’! Old habits die hard, don’t they, Macintyre? You can’t leave well enough alone, even when your Contessa seems free and clear. But I suppose she’s not going to rest until she’s convinced that she had a perfect marriage after all—or that her husband had a daughter he never told her about! In either case, it’s no concern of the police. We get involved only in less genteel family squabbles. As for Pasquale Zennaro, he was in police custody when Flavia Brollo died. There’s absolutely no sign of foul play with her as I’ve told you before—and even if there were, Zennaro couldn’t have been involved.”

  “I’m not suggesting Zennaro was, not directly, but Nicolina’s brother said that Flavia never liked Zennaro and seemed to be uncomfortable around him.”

  “Brollo and Ricci are two separate cases. We have Zennaro’s confession and a knife that’s got his prints all over it. Your hunches have worked out before, Macintyre, but you’re way off the mark this time around. You should know that the substitute prosecutor says there’s absolutely no case to answer as far as Flavia Brollo’s death is concerned. I’m writing up my own report now. It was suicide.”

  “What about the toxicology report?”

  When there was silence on the other end of the line, Urbino sensed that it was a question Gemelli wished he hadn’t asked.

  “No trace of the medication was found—or of any other.”

  Urbino made no response.

  “It doesn’t prove anything, Macintyre! Flavia Brollo was probably too distraught to remember to take her pills. When you’re considering killing yourself, you don’t think about picking up your laundry or taking your medicine. The fact that there wasn’t any of the medication in her system could be construed as a sign of just how emotionally disturbed she was.”

  “You can’t have it both ways, Commissario. Have you found any record of Flavia Brollo being prescribed the drug? And what about a note? Did she leave one?”

  “We haven’t come across any record of the drug in her name—yet. As for a suicide note,
not every suicide leaves one, Macintyre, and when they do, the family often doesn’t care to share it with the authorities. Her mother never left one either, from what we know. Yes, we’ve gone to the trouble of looking into Flavia’s mother’s death, too. The carabinieri sent us all their records. I suggest that you confine your inquiries to the Contessa’s personal problem. That should be enough to keep you busy. By the way, I hear that you were mugged in San Polo. With your imagination you probably think it was set up by whoever murdered Flavia Brollo.” But Gemelli’s tone became less light when he added, “Be more careful, Macintyre. Some of the muggers this summer are carrying knives.”

  After talking with Gemelli, Urbino went to catch the train to Bassano del Grappa, where the Contessa’s car would meet him and take him into Asolo.

  19

  On the train to Bassano del Grappa, Urbino turned over in his mind everything he had learned during the past two days. Ladislao Mirko, Bruno Novembrini, Lorenzo Brollo, Nicolina Ricci’s mother, and her brother—they had all given him information about Flavia, but they hadn’t brought him much clarification.

  Quite the opposite. On the one hand, there were Brollo’s assurances that he was Flavia’s father and Novembrini’s claim that although Flavia had apparently hated Brollo, she had never mentioned the Conte da Capo-Zendrini to him. On the other hand, there were the argument at Lago di Garda and Regina’s revelation to Flavia that Alvise was her father. Ladislao Mirko, however, was the only source for these two crucial items. Flavia was no longer alive to corroborate his stories.

  Gazing out at the quiet, sunbaked countryside, Urbino wondered how the rape and murder of Nicolina Ricci fit in. He had to know more about Flavia’s friend, the girl she had considered her little sister. He would try to see Nicolina’s father as soon as possible.

  Now that the toxicology report had found no trace of the controversial drug in Flavia’s system, Urbino was even more sure that Flavia hadn’t committed suicide. Had she ever taken the drug at all?

  As the train pulled into the Bassano station, where Urbino saw the Contessa’s chauffeur, Milo, waiting on the platform, he decided not to tell the Contessa what Mirko had said about Regina Brollo. Not yet, not until he knew if Mirko was lying or innocently passing on Flavia’s own lie—or her delusion.

  20

  Even if Urbino hadn’t made this decision on the train, he would have made it as soon as he saw the Contessa’s face at La Muta. She looked as if she hadn’t slept in the past forty-eight hours. She was trying to put a brave face on her pain—this was her way, even with Urbino, her closest friend—but he saw through it to the raw emotions beneath.

  No, he couldn’t tell her that Regina Brollo might have revealed to Flavia that Alvise was her father or about the argument at Lago di Garda. If there was any doubt that Mirko was lying or mistaken, he owed it to the Contessa to protect her, at least a little while longer.

  The Contessa and Urbino were now sitting in the yew-embraced giardino segreto with its wrought-iron table and chairs and pots of flowers. In the short time he had been in Asolo, Urbino already felt refreshed. A gentle breeze blew across the hills from the Dolomites. During their light supper with Eugene, Urbino, trying to downplay the real danger he felt he might still be in, had told them how he had got the bruise beneath his eye. He hadn’t shared anything else with the Contessa, however, until they were alone in the giardino segreto. Eugene had gone into town to see Occhipinti’s Browning memorabilia. When the two men returned, Milo would drive Urbino and Eugene to Venice. The Contessa and Occhipinti would come along for the ride.

  “Eugene and Silvestro have become as thick as thieves, caro. I really think your ex—brother-in-law—a nom de divorce I find myself getting fond of—is seriously considering taking a place here, maybe Villa Pippa after Lennox leaves, and the sooner she leaves the better, as far as I’m concerned. There’s something that goes to the core of her that’s pure unadulterated artifice—and not the kind that makes us all live our lives more smoothly.”

  She looked at his bruise and her face tensed. When Urbino had told her about the mugging, the Contessa hadn’t seemed surprised, but she had been concerned, wanting her Asolo doctor to look at the injury.

  “You think you’re invincible on your walks, don’t you? Oh, I refuse to believe that you were attacked because of Flavia! To think that it was anything but just another mugging would put me in a perpetual state of anxiety. To think of you wandering around in the most out-of-the-way places! I wish I could break you of the habit. Eugene has got me thinking. Why shouldn’t I have my own gondola? If I did have one, I think you’d find yourself less interested in walking, and we could float around everywhere together, maybe even get a felze to hide behind! I might as well go the whole way if I’m going to have people talking about me.”

  She gave a deep sigh after saying this and looked off toward the entrance to the giardino segreto. Urbino mentioned again how upset he was to have lost the scrapbook.

  “But I’m surprised you didn’t tell Brollo about the scrapbook, Urbino. Legally it’s his, isn’t it?”

  “I imagine so, but that’s for him and Mirko to work out if it ever turns up.”

  “You know, Urbino,” the Contessa said, slowly picking off some brown leaves from a zinnia plant, “I’m beginning to breathe a little more freely—about Alvise, I mean.”

  Urbino stirred uneasily in his chair.

  “Both Violetta Volpi and Brollo consider it ridiculous that Alvise—or anyone other than Brollo himself—was Flavia’s father,” the Contessa went on. “And Novembrini said that Flavia never even brought up the topic with him. I agree with Lorenzo Brollo. This idea about Alvise started somehow with Ladislao Mirko,” the Contessa said with an air of forced confidence, making Urbino feel increasingly uncomfortable. “Flavia trusted him. Adolescent bonds are almost impossible to break. He might have been able to get some power over her by planting that lie in her pretty little head. Drugs will drive people to do anything, and if he was in love with her—or whatever you want to call it!—it might have been his way of getting some kind of revenge when she wanted to be nothing more than his friend. Of course, there’s Annabella Brollo and her strange comment about how a mother should know the father of her own child. Somehow, though, I think that if you spoke with Annabella she would say that it was Violetta who poisoned the girl’s mind just as Violetta said about her.”

  The Contessa got up and went over to the fountain with a statue of the flutist of spring by Antonio Bonazza. She took out a lace handkerchief, dipped it in the water and, after wringing it out, applied it to her temple. When she turned back to Urbino, tears were in her eyes.

  “I’m so ashamed of myself, caro! All I seem to care about is Alvise. You must find me a monster! It’s Flavia I should be thinking about—and the person somewhere out there who killed her for whatever twisted reason! Now that we know that none of that drug was found in her system, it’s become even more clear to me that she didn’t commit suicide. I don’t know what’s the matter with the substitute prosecutor and Gemelli!”

  “I don’t think Gemelli is quite so sure about suicide anymore.”

  “What is he waiting for? Does he want you to make a fool of yourself or—or worse?” she said, glancing nervously at his eye. “He should be looking into what Lorenzo Brollo or Violetta Volpi have to gain from Flavia’s death. It’s obvious from what you’ve told me that both of them are afraid to show any guilt even though they say that they believe she committed suicide. I ask you! Is that normal? They should be ravaged with guilt. I think they’re afraid to show it because one—or both—of them are guilty in a worse way.”

  “I agree with you, Barbara.”

  “So go after them!” she said, as if she were talking about foxes on a hunt.

  “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

  Footsteps sounded on the pebbled path. A few moments later the Contessa’s maid, Rosa, came into the giardino segreto.

  “Milo has returned, Contessa.” />
  With a quick glance at Urbino, the Contessa got up.

  “Grazie, Rosa. Could we go back to the house, Urbino?”

  She gave him her arm and, with Rosa hurrying ahead of them, they walked in silence back to the house. While the Contessa was talking to Milo, Urbino went to the balcony outside the salotto verde to join Eugene and Occhipinti. The birdlike man stared at Urbino’s bruise but didn’t say anything.

  “I guess the time has come to drag me back to Venice!” Eugene said. “I won’t be leavin’ without regret. It’s not just all the peace and quiet and fresh air. It’s the Countess. She’s a mighty fine woman. We’ve enjoyed our confabs. Your ears were probably burnin’ back in that little palace of yours, Urbino!”

  “Eugenio loves to talk, yes,” Occhipinti came close to chirping. “I’ve learned many new English words.”

  “Listen to him!” Eugene said. “There’s nothin’ he can learn from me! He’s always spoutin’ that English poet! He even taught me some. How did it go, Sylvester? ‘Dust and ashes, dead and done with’—then something about Venice.”

  “‘Venice spent what Venice earned,’” Occhipinti finished for him.

  “By the way, Signor Occhipinti,” Urbino said. “I thought I saw you in Venice yesterday in the San Polo quarter.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Occhipinti said, eyes blinking behind his round spectacles. Perspiration gleamed on his bald head. “I haven’t been in Venice since last week. You’re not trying to blame your bruise on me, are you? Ha, ha! Eugene said they were much younger men than me. I don’t even have the energy to walk Pompilia these days.”

  “Come on there, Sylvester. You’ve got a powerful lot of strength! By the way, Urbino, why are the two of you so formal with each other? It didn’t take Sylvester and me all that long to get on a first-name basis. What’s this ‘Signor Occhi’ and ‘Signor Macintyre’ all about anyway?”