A Beautiful Crime

by Christopher Bollen

  Clay caught the night train back to Venice. It had been barely an hour after his return when he received a text from West. Could I bring my wife and niece over this afternoon? West’s impatience thrilled him. He decided to encourage it by writing back that today wasn’t good because the realtor wanted to show Il Dormitorio to an interested buyer. This fake threat worked. West responded immediately with a message of polite panic. You already have it on the market?? PLEASE, Clay, let us have a look today. West sent a follow-up message thirty seconds later promising that he had an exceedingly generous offer in mind—plus it would spare Clay shelling out for lawyers and the agent’s commission. Let’s keep Palazzo Contarini among family, West implored. After all, up until the van der Haars, the house always belonged to one family. And I like to think it still does today. Maybe West didn’t realize how much the van der Haar family despised one another. Or maybe he did.

  I’ll hold the agent off until tomorrow, Clay wrote back. How’s 4pm?

  The four heavy knocks behind the bookcase told Clay the time. He’d spent the day trying to get the house in order—which meant not so much cleaning as throwing out. He tossed several boxes of Freddy’s inane flea-market finds, books encased in a blanket of mold, nearly a hundred broken picture frames, and half a dozen mouse bodies stuck to strips of glue. “Coming,” he called, hurrying to unlatch the walnut door in Freddy’s bedroom.

  The sunlight pierced the gloom. Although Clay had cleared a path to the outer rooms, West entered with timid steps. The action seemed designed to communicate respect for a dead man whose bedroom walls he was anxious to tear down.

  “I hope we aren’t interrupting.”

  “Why would you be? We said four o’clock, right?” Clay refused to play along with the phony show of concern. But such small wins against West might not reflect positively on the final sale price. Clay stretched out his arm to mimic neighborly welcome.

  The others followed, one at a time through the doorway, as if slipping through the crack in a border wall. Battista came first, uttering a frigid “Ciao” without making eye contact. His phone was already extended, ready to document every frayed wire and cracked tile. Clay wondered if Battista knew that he had also served as West’s assistant. He considered whispering West’s suit size to see if it worked like a secret code among inferiors. But it was evident that the young Italian had already been turned against him. Halfway into the bedroom, Battista muttered in rapid Italian, “You’re asking Mr. West to pay way too much for this place.” It seemed a test of Clay’s fluency more than anything else. Clay fired back in Italian, “I guess that depends on how much he wants it.”

  Eva and Karine came next, the latter wearing a pair of beetle-black sunglasses. “It’s embarrassing it’s taken us so long to meet,” she said kindly. There was nothing on the surface to loathe about Karine or Eva; it might be impossible to warm to any prospective buyer who trudges through your house, inspecting every wall stain and broken cabinet hinge as if it testifies against your personal character. But for Clay they nonetheless failed as deserving inheritors of Freddy’s domain. Neither would understand the ugly romance of Il Dormitorio. No doubt the first thing they’d do would be to strip it of any lingering character, confusing hygiene with enhancement. Clay had grown up wary of people like the Wests; they were always desperate to save public parks by kicking out the people who actually needed them. Today, however, he did his best to make them feel at home.

  Eva rushed through the bedroom to reach the common area. Clay heard her moans before he could follow her into the kitchen. She was orbiting the counter, staring up at the Blue Madonna.

  “Ohhhh, it’s magnificent. And it’s a total wreck!” Both of these remarks were uttered with ecstatic delight. “My god, it needs so much work to bring it back to life. It’s basically going to chip off in the next ten minutes!” Her small hands bunched into fists. Her skin was so pale Clay could see the blood running underneath it, like water under a frozen lake. Nick had said how much he liked Eva, but Clay didn’t get the appeal. “What year was the fresco done?” she asked.

  Clay cleared his throat. “Sixteen ninety-eight. It was painted for—”

  “More than three centuries old!” Eva rhapsodized. “Before America was even invented. And if we don’t restore it soon, gone forever. It feels like our duty, doesn’t it?”

  Karine snorted loudly. She was standing apart in the corner of the kitchen, her arms crossed and her sunglasses still on, despite the lack of sunlight on this side of the palazzo. She seemed to be reminding everyone that it was not Eva who needed to be convinced of the property’s selling points. Eva ignored her, seeking out her uncle, who was currently running his hand down a piece of drywall.

  “Uncle Richard, it’s a masterpiece! It’s exactly what you’ve been looking for! Can’t you see how badly it needs to be resuscitated?”

  For the first time, Clay experienced a touch of empathy for Richard West. His eyes kept scuttling between his niece and his wife as he tried to shape his mouth into an indeterminate line that would appease them both.

  Clay suspected that Eva had probably colluded with Battista, because he filled the silence by gazing up at the murky blue fresco and piping out, “It is very beautiful, yes.”

  “Isn’t it!” Eva agreed.

  West strolled to the counter and stood next to his niece. He listened as Eva waved her fingers skyward and muttered to him about chemical compounds and plaster purifiers. It took a nudge from Battista to bring West’s eyes down to the legal documents laid out on the countertop.

  “Sorry,” Clay said, stepping forward. “I put those out for the agent. It’s the documents needed for the sale.”

  “Ah, perfect!” West said. He gave a cautious glance in his wife’s direction. “If it’s okay with you, could Battista take a few quick pictures of them?”

  “Oh . . .” Clay demurred, although that had been the very point of leaving them out.

  “It would move the process along, should we find ourselves settling on a price.” Battista was already clicking away on his phone.

  “Are there any other frescoes?” Eva asked greedily. Clay explained there were a few of lesser importance behind the drywall, along with some traditional stucco moldings.

  “Pull down those walls!” Eva cried like a conqueror. “What a waste to keep them covered like this!” Clay wasn’t at all charmed by West’s niece, but he did appreciate her presence. She was practically selling the house for him.

  Eva wanted to explore the other floors, and West walked over to his wife to coax her into joining them. “Come on, dear. You have to give it a chance.” He threaded his fingers into hers and kissed her knuckles. It was impossible to gauge Karine’s reaction through the buffer zone of her sunglasses, but as they mounted the steps Clay heard her whisper a clipped warning about their finances. “We can afford it,” West whispered back. “When the new investments kick in, we’ll be up again, higher than we were before.” Battista jogged after them, and Clay was left alone in the kitchen to put away the documents now that they’d served their purpose. After ten minutes touring the house, Karine reappeared alone. She had removed her sunglasses and was squeezing them in her hand.

  “Thank you for your hospitality,” she said. Even without the sunglasses, Clay still couldn’t read a verdict on her face. “It is a lovely house. And I’ll admit it would add some needed space to our situation. God knows I need it when Dick gets on his conservation kicks.”

  He wondered if he’d misjudged West’s wife. He liked the way she spoke to him—plainly, without artifice, as if she lacked hidden motives. She paused by the door to Freddy’s bedroom. “It’s a shame you’re selling,” she said.

  “It wasn’t an easy choice. But as much as I love Venice, it’s, well—”

  “—not a place for the young,” she answered with a nod. “Or maybe it is. Maybe that’s precisely why Dick likes it here so much. It’s an adult playground, isn’t it?” She glanced tiredly upward, not at the Ricci fresco bu
t at a brown water stain on the ceiling. “You know, the clinic where I worked in Leipzig was devoted to cognitive neuroscience. My particular research was on the nature of the distracted mind, how the brain shifts in consciousness between immediate focus and wandering thoughts. The drift, the lag, the daydream,” she said. “I had a lot of big ideas about what the brain was doing back then.” She smiled, as if thanking Clay for indulging her. “It seems sometimes, in coming here, I’ve traded in for the daydream full time. Try as I might, I can’t seem to shake myself into a lucid thought. It’s all just drift and beauty.” Karine abruptly slipped on her sunglasses. “I’m sure you’ll receive a fair offer from Dick. Good luck with everything.” Before she left, she gave him a pained smile, one that Clay felt sure she’d wear for the rest of her marriage.

  He heard Eva and West descending the steps. “Did he have any relatives?” Eva was asking. “A boyfriend or a partner? Because it sounds like a great lawsuit.”

  “I’m sure there’ll be a lawsuit!” West cried. “I’m guessing the last time that elevator was inspected was sometime right after World War Two, give or take a few months. It’s typical Venetian negligence. They pass a zillion codes jamming everything up in bureaucratic traffic, but no one will actually show up to do the work. Honestly, the one good thing about that development in Mestre is that it’s being overseen by foreign investors, which means it stands a chance of being built properly.”

  They rounded the corner into the kitchen, their arms interlocked. If Clay squinted, they would have looked like newlyweds shopping for their first home. “Nothing good should be said about that tourist development in Mestre,” Eva chirped.

  “Well, anyway,” West conceded, changing the subject. “We can’t blame the hotel entirely. I’m sure Dulles had about ten bottles of vodka in his system when he stepped into that elevator shaft. Accidents happen. You can’t pad humans in Bubble Wrap!”

  Clay froze upon hearing the name Dulles. It rang with a familiarity he couldn’t pinpoint.

  “He downed an entire bottle of vodka at what, noon?” Eva said. “I’m surprised he made it back to the hotel in order to fall down that shaft. It’s a shame he did. There are so many canals that would have taken him.”

  “Dulles,” Clay repeated aloud, trying to trigger his own memory.

  West glanced over at him. “He was an acquaintance. Actually, you might have known him through Freddy. Dulles Hawkes, the antiquarian? They once did business together.”

  “He died two days ago right here in Venice,” Eva added eagerly, as if boasting of her proximity to a tragedy. “He was visiting us, having a drink in our living room the day before he died!”

  “Dulles was here?” Clay asked. “In Venice? In your living room?”

  West flinched. His eyes nervously roamed the kitchen as if he’d blundered into a trap. He must have noticed the anxiety on Clay’s face, because he reached his hands out beseechingly.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Clay,” he said coolly. “But I promise I did not summon Dulles here to do an appraisal of Freddy’s silver. I hope we trust each other that much. I didn’t hire anyone to do an assessment before I made you that offer. I had no certified knowledge of their value. That was our deal, and I wouldn’t cheat you on it.” Like a cunning little boy, West made sure that none of his sentences could technically be called out as a lie.

  “We trust each other, don’t we?” West went on. “We need a level of trust in order to move forward. Otherwise, it’s probably wise to forget the proposal I had in mind for this house.” He spun his wedding ring around on his finger while carefully gauging Clay’s reaction. “Listen, Dulles happened to be in Venice on his way to Rome. He came by for a drink. He did have a peek at the van der Haar pieces, but that was after I bought them. Naturally, he raved about them.” West made an attempt at an honest smile.

  But it wasn’t West’s duplicity that had frightened Clay. When he heard Dulles’s name, his mind flashed to Nick—specifically to the little problem over silver that Nick said needed taking care of. He had called it a glitch. Could Dulles Hawkes have been that glitch? Clay tried to imagine Nick as a murderer, getting rid of the drunk antiquarian in order to ensure his silence. But Nick wasn’t capable of murder, and the harder Clay tried to picture his boyfriend in a series of homicidal poses, the more preposterous the enterprise became. Murder was too lonely a place for Nick. There was no way he’d resort to murdering someone over money.

  “You said Dulles died in an accident?” Clay asked just to be sure.

  Eva nodded. “The elevator at his hotel was out of order, and he fell from the fifth floor to the lobby. That’s what the newspaper said.”

  “God, how awful,” Clay moaned in relief.

  Battista entered the kitchen, making a full panorama sweep of the common area with his phone. West clapped his hands at his young companions. “You two head back. I’d like to talk to Clay alone.” Eva was already beaming in triumph as she and Battista made their way into the bedroom. West joined Clay at the counter.

  “Thanks for letting us have a look,” West said, his eyes on Clay, warm with possibilities. It reminded Clay of the moment they had met on the rooftop of the Peggy Guggenheim, after Clay had saved him from falling over the ledge.

  “Of course.”

  “And for putting us ahead of tomorrow’s buyers. Did they see pictures of the place or—”

  “No, I didn’t send any pictures yet,” Clay replied. “The realtor just described it to them. French retirees, I think they were, looking for a place to fix up.”

  West spun his wedding ring again. “I’ve given the matter a lot of thought. To tell you the truth, we don’t really need more space. But additional square footage isn’t the reason for my interest. I feel I owe something to the legacy of the palazzo to bring it all under one roof again. I’m afraid of someone coming in and turning it into another rental for weekend travelers. That’s not what these grand homes deserve.”

  Clay nodded. He would let West feel that he was doing something noble for Venice.

  “Plus,” West added, pointing to the fresco, “I know it isn’t your fault and I don’t want to speak ill of Freddy, but he should have done the work to preserve that Sebastiano Ricci. You have a responsibility to prevent treasures from turning to dust.”

  Clay nodded through this indictment too. He would nod through almost anything until he heard a figure tossed out.

  “Now, I know you have these French retirees lined up,” West said, “but I’ve asked a few real-estate friends for their advice. They told me, in its current condition, Il Dormitorio couldn’t be worth much more than three and a half million on the current market. Your agent was flattering you by quoting a price of upper five.” He laughed at the sheer absurdity of it. “Come on. No one’s going to pay that much on top of all of the work needed in here in order to make it habitable. You could get a place so much larger for that amount. It’s just not feasible. I think you’ll find my proposal quite generous.” He licked his lips and arched his pale eyebrows. “I’m offering four million euros even.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Clay balked. “Maybe I should wait a month or two and do a few open houses. See what interest there is.”

  “I thought you wanted to be out of Venice before summer?” West countered. “Look, I’ll do one better. We can wrap up the sale as quickly as you’d like.”

  “It would have to be really quick and painless, because, honestly, the realtor swore to me that I could get at least—”

  “I’ll pay for the inspections and I’ll even handle the legal fees. If it all goes through, that’s four million euros in your bank account within the week. That’s four million with no agents or outside intermediaries taking a cut. We’ll do it the old Venetian way, fast and private. What do you say? You’re not going to find a better deal out there. I promise you that.”

  Clay should keep haggling and hold out for more. He’d been too quick in accepting the lowball offer for the silver, and West was no do
ubt trying to fleece him again with a far lower bid than the house was worth. But he was tired of conning, tired of the lies and the tricks, and he didn’t want to wait around for more glitches to appear that would threaten to take them down. Four million euros was an obscene amount of money. It was enough to start a brand-new life.

  “Okay,” he said. “All right.”

  West thrust out his hand, and they shook on it. “Excellent! I’ll book an appointment with a notary.” It felt like an ending, which is what Clay might have wanted out of it most.

  He walked West into Freddy’s bedroom. “I know this place holds a lot of memories for you,” West said once he had crossed through the doorway, his eyes staring down at his own patch of terrazzo. Clay could already imagine that expensive flooring spreading like water through Il Dormitorio. “Whatever our differences, you’re putting this house in safe hands. I’ll take good care of it.”

  Clay shut the door and returned to the kitchen. He sat on the counter and stared up at the fresco. After Eva finished her restoration, the swimming Mary might survive another three hundred years. In that time she’d witness the rise and fall of many other families and sea tides. In three hundred years, all their names would be equally meaningless. Van der Haar, West, Guillory—just people who’d been here once.

  Clay texted Nick, We’ll be gone soon.

  The next day was crowded with visitors. West sent two engineers over in the morning to inspect Il Dormitorio for repairs. A plumber arrived at noon, along with a city energy inspector who West had bribed for a last-minute appointment. As promised, West was doing his best to fast-track the sale. Eva dropped in unannounced at one thirty to take photographs of the fresco. Clay stayed out of everyone’s way, busy notifying the interns of their impending eviction and dealing with the last of Freddy’s possessions.