Stealing Venice

by Anna E Bendewald

  He opened the faucet and water came into the basin with considerable force. When he pulled a chain, he laughed in surprise as the swan began pouring great streams of hot water from its mouth overhead. Spectacular! He stepped beneath the shower and let it invigorate him.

  Alphonso had been staked out in front of one of the ritziest apartment buildings in Venice for two hours now. Vincenzo and his bodyguard, Petro, had arrived in Venice that morning via private jet, and gone straight to this residential building with expensive views of the lagoon. Alphonso’s phone rang. Recognizing the ringtone, he kept his eyes on the front of the building as he answered.

  “Hey, Zelph. I’m on Vincenzo right now. He just flew in from Paris. What have you got?”

  “Nada. Just checking in to tell you that I’ve been tracking Gabrieli as he casually goes to meetings and presses the flesh with everyone who wants to shake his hand.”

  “Yep, that’s all I saw him do. Stay on him.”

  “Will do. But if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to make some subtle inquiries as well.”

  “Just make sure you keep them subtle, Cuz.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Vincenzo’s on the move. Gotta go.”

  Alphonso pocketed his phone as he watched Vincenzo and Petro exit the building and walk down the calle. He needed to find out what Vincenzo had been doing there, and if possible, the number of the apartment he’d been visiting. So instead of following him, Alphonso walked inside and approached the portiere.

  “Ciao,” he said casually. “I swear Vincenzo Verona just walked past me. I have an appointment with him later today at his office. I wonder what he was doing here.”

  The concierge’s face lit up. “Oh! Signor Vincenzo! Sì! He was upstairs working with Signor Leonardo.”

  “Oh, right.” Alphonso nodded as if this made perfect sense to him.

  The portiere continued proudly, “Of course, Vincenzo and Leonardo are old friends. Leonardo has the largest suite in the building, number three oh seven, where he lives and has his private accounting office.”

  A man sitting on a lobby sofa nearby folded his paper and chimed in, “My nephew went to primary school with Vincenzo and Leonardo. He was on their sculling team.”

  “Leonardo Trentori is the best tax man in all of Italy,” the portiere continued, as if he were bragging about his own son. “Who does your taxes?”

  Alphonso deflected. “My father.”

  “Well, you can’t fire your father,” the seated man tut-tutted. “That wouldn’t do.”

  “I wonder where Vincenzo’s going,” Alphonso fished.

  “We heard him on his phone saying he was going to the Hotel Valmarri for a meeting in the Chalsasoni banquet rooms.”

  “Ah, nice hotel. Okay, have a good day.”

  “You, too.” The portiere nodded. “We just love Count Verona…”

  “…like a son,” the other man added as he disappeared behind his paper.

  Alphonso walked out of the building and headed for the Hotel Valmarri, chuckling at how easy it was to get information about the Veronas. He didn’t even have to use his cover story. This was an easy job in some respects, but none of this information would be helpful if he couldn’t uncover anything to report to Scortini.

  Arriving outside the Chalsasoni banquet rooms, Alphonso walked past some people milling about and peeked inside. The men at the accountant’s building were correct. There sat Vincenzo, deep in conversation with someone. Alphonso took advantage of the opportunity to really observe Vincenzo. He seemed to be enjoying himself—not just pouring on charm—and he was extremely good looking. Some men had all the luck.

  A helpful hotel employee identified the man Vincenzo was sitting with as a spokesperson for a confederation of tribes in Somalia. Alphonso also learned that Petro was called an “aide,” but he knew Petro’s primary purpose was to make sure no one harmed or snatched the Verona heir. Nothing queer about honest people having guards; it only made good sense if you thought about the ransom that could be asked for a Verona. He wondered if the rumors were true that the Vatican protected them; Scortini had professed to be spying on behalf of the Pope. He then wondered what the Vatican’s policy was on paying hush money or ransoms. Had anyone ever kidnapped a big Catholic muckety-muck? He’d never heard of such a thing.

  As Alphonso left the hotel to acquaint himself with Contessa Verona, he thought about what he’d learned from his background check on her. She was from one of the world’s oldest lineages, dating back to Richard II of Normandy, one of the forces behind the Norman conquest of Italy beginning in 999. Juliette was now forty-five years old, but as a young woman from royal blood, she had done what everyone expected of her when she married a dashing count from the oldest and richest family in Venice. She’d admitted in a magazine interview that, as a devout Catholic, her one disappointment in life was that only one of her babies had survived after birth.

  Fifteen minutes later, Alphonso was standing outside of her home, the first palazzo built in Venice, and by far the most magnificent. It had always been his personal favorite—so romantic and timeless that tourists took photos in front of it at all times of the day and night. He wondered how he was going to find out if Contessa Juliette was at home. Figuring he’d stick with what had worked so far, he headed over a bridge to an exclusive flower boutique on the corner. He walked past the flowers displayed on the sidewalk and into the tasteful little shop. The drift of fragrance was heady, even though most of the floral treasures were sealed in refrigerators. He smiled at the shop girl.

  “Buongiorno. Do you happen to know what Contessa Verona’s favorite flower is?”

  The young lady at the counter came to life at the name. “Certainly.” She was the very essence of youthful business chic, and with the pride of a museum curator, she walked him over to a refrigerator. “Hibiscus. They’re one of the oldest flowers of Venice, and she loves them in white and red. But it’s hard to make arrangements with just hibiscus, as you can imagine, so she lets us combine them with other local flowers. I have some pictures of the ones we did for Giselle’s birthday. Would you care to see them?”

  “I’d love to.” Alphonso quirked his head at the name of Vincenzo’s wife. “Giselle had her birthday here in Venice?”

  The clerk actually flushed and looked lovelorn for a moment. Then she laughed at herself. “Sì, the count and contessa persuaded her to leave France for a whole month this past spring, and she had her birthday here. She’s only celebrated one other birthday here since she and Vincenzo were married.”

  Scortini hadn’t mentioned tracking the Verona’s in-laws, but he was striking out in Venice, so he’d snoop into this lady’s affairs, too. The background check he’d done revealed her to be a hotshot artist from France, and Alphonso tossed his hook back to see if this knowledgeable girl would bite.

  “What’s that funny name of where she lives again?”

  “Gernelle, originally. I just heard this morning that she’s there working on a new sculpture right now. But she and Vincenzo spend most of their time in Paris, of course.”

  Alphonso was really starting to enjoy this job. He propped an elbow on the counter. “Of course. Hey, I almost forgot…um, what did you say your name was?”

  The proper little clerk wiped imaginary dust from her impeccably clean hand and offered it. “Gina.”

  “Well, Gina, Giselle loaned me an art book when she was here, and I would love to mail it to her in Gernelle. You’ve got that address, right?”

  Gina was writing down the address before he could move on to his next question. “And you wouldn’t happen to know if Contessa Juliette is home at the moment, would you?”

  Without looking up from her careful printing, Gina shook her shining head of perfectly bobbed hair. “No, she’s at Rifugia della Dignità cooking dinner for the residents. When the homeless live there they get the best meals of their lives, I’m certain.” Apparently a fan of the contessa’s cooking, she rolled her eyes in quiet ecstasy
.

  “Wow. I knew the Veronas owned the homeless shelter, but I didn’t know she cooked for the residents personally.” Alphonso was impressed. “That’s very nice of her.”

  “Oh, sì! The Veronas pay for the entire homeless shelter, one hundred percent. And la contessa says a big part of treating people with dignity is feeding them food that you make with love. Vincenzo teaches some of the classes. And do you know they provide job placement and medical, too?”

  Alphonso tried to estimate what all that must cost, and it tallied with the public financial records he’d pulled on the family. “Those Veronas are something else.”

  “Sì, they’re incredibly generous, and they care about everybody. Contessa Juliette comes in here every morning when she’s in town to say ‘buongiorno.’ And she even got me a scholarship to Università Ca' Foscari.” She handed over Giselle’s address in France, and he made it disappear into his jacket pocket.

  Alphonso paid cash for a small bouquet of hibiscus. Then he thanked Gina, took the flower shop’s card, since she was a rich source of intimate Verona information, and wished her a good day. He set off for Rifugia della Dignità, which was just a five minute walk toward Piazza San Marco. Perhaps Scortini was right. No one could be this squeaky clean. These Veronas sounded too good to be true.

  Upon his arrival at the homeless shelter, Alphonso charmed the lady at the front desk by handing over his bouquet and presenting himself as a volunteer for the kitchen. He was escorted to the dining hall and pointed to a door helpfully labeled cucina. When he stepped into the kitchen, he heard a woman’s voice cheering on the kitchen staff.

  “Andiamo! Come on, let us make this a delicious dinner!” The woman clapped her hands in a catchy little rhythm. “Now we begin the preparations like I showed you.”

  She was slim, stylish, and a powerhouse of enthusiasm. A man called to her, “Juliette,” and she turned to inspect the mushrooms he was holding. So, this was the matriarch of the Verona family. Fantastic! She looked up from the funghi and smiled at Alphonso.

  “Come! Roll up your sleeves! Today we make la pasta degli amanti. You will be good at this. I can see you have an abundance of love in your heart.”

  Alphonso normally didn’t interact directly with people he was investigating, but he couldn’t retreat from this charismatic woman. And, what the heck, he could learn something about the lady herself for his report. Stepping forward and rolling up his sleeves, he found himself walking up to Contessa Juliette Verona.

  “Ah, you smell of hibiscus! So nice! You and I will make good pasta together.” She produced an apron from a shelf, slipped it over his head, spun him around, and tied it neatly at his waist. Then she spun him back around and pinched one of his cheeks with the gentlest tug. “Wash your hands, and then we begin.”

  “Sì, Contessa.” He was nervous about trying to cook, since he tended to buy ready-made pasta and rely on jarred sauces. Could he get away with pretending?

  “You will not call me by my title.” She pivoted on her stylish pumps to look him in the eye. “No. You will call me Juliette. Eh? Always. Got it?” She smiled so charmingly, he found himself grinning at her like a fool.

  “Sì. Got it, Juliette.” While he washed his hands, everyone in the kitchen began chopping vegetables, grating cheese, and heating pans. While they prepared dinner for the city’s homeless, Juliette positioned Alphonso at a long wooden table and worked beside him, showing him how to make pasta dough and then roll it into smooth sheets. Her instructions were mixed with gentle encouragement and the occasional song that he hadn’t heard since he was a boy.

  One hour later, after having his hand smacked repeatedly, he was making perfectly uniform tortelloni with just the right amount of mushroom filling plumping out the dough in the most pleasing way. When Alphonso and Juliette placed the final tortelloni on a tray, he was surprised to be spun toward her. She rose up onto her toes to bestow a little kiss on each of his cheeks. As the shelter residents assembled in the dining hall, Alphonso and most of the volunteers were shooed out of the kitchen. The last thing he saw was Juliette hovering with the serving ladies over simmering soup pots that were about to receive his tortelloni.

  That evening, Alphonso braced for a confrontation as he arrived at Scortini’s palazzo to give Salvio an update. The continued lack of dirt would not make him happy. Gabrieli spent his days talking to the citizens of Venice and working to repair a slum, Vincenzo was busy being a philanthropist, and after meeting Juliette, Alphonso knew she was a good woman, through and through.

  The staid old butler ushered him into Scortini’s office, and Alphonso settled into a chair. While waiting for Scortini, he thought about his own mother. His grandmother had raised him with the help of various family members, because his mother had run off shortly after he was born, and his father was in prison. He’d always fantasized that his mother was a good Catholic woman who loved him more than anything. He was just realizing that Contessa Juliette Verona had all the qualities he would’ve wished for in his own mother.

  Suddenly Scortini popped up at his elbow, causing Alphonso to startle and fall off the edge of his chair. Catching himself hard on his knee, he yelped, “Shit! I didn’t see you!”

  “Don’t you ever curse in my home!” Salvio flushed red. “Do you hear me?”

  “I’m sorry, it slipped out.” Alphonso lifted himself back onto the chair and rubbed his smarting kneecap.

  “What do you have on Verona?” Salvio harrumphed.

  “Nothing new today.”

  “Still finessing?” He made the word a sneer. “What did you find out about his son and wife?”

  Alphonso let out an involuntary laugh at the thought of Juliette having a dark side.

  “You find this funny?” Salvio turned purple. “When His Holiness, the Pope himself is relying on full disclosure of their sins?” Spittle flew from his mouth.

  “No. I don’t know why that came out. I take my job very seriously. But I haven’t found anything yet on either the wife or the son. I have a good man on the count, and tomorrow while I head to France to check out Giselle, Zelph will expand his surveillance to Vincenzo and Juliette. Anything this family does, we’ll find out about.” Then he made a dangerous mistake. “As far as I can tell, the Veronas are good people.”

  Salvio sprung like a coiled snake and screamed, “Get out and find me evidence to the contrary, you colossal-headed charlatan!”

  Caught off guard by the lightning-quick change from anger to hysteria, Alphonso got the hell out of there and headed straight to see Zelph. Holy fuck! Scortini is bat-shit crazy!

  Half an hour later, they were sitting in his uncle’s kitchen having a drink. After he’d brought Zelph up to speed on what he knew, Zelph was cautious.

  “I gotta tell you, if the Veronas are doing anything illegal or dirty, they’ve got a really good cover. The count appears to be totally credible. Acts like he doesn’t have a secret to hide.”

  “Okay, while I’m in France, do your best to tail Gabrieli and Vincenzo. Without calling any attention to yourself, ask people for an explanation for everything they do, and see if you can find any hidden motives. Or, like, any place they shouldn’t be that they are.”

  “So we’re taking la contessa off the list?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll eat this glass if that woman has anything to hide.”

  “How much money are you taking to France?”

  Alphonso took a swallow of his drink and thought about it. “We haven’t had to pay any bribes for information here in Venice, but it may be a different story in France. I’d better take half of it. I have no idea what I’ll find there, but if the daughter-in-law has anything to hide, maybe she’ll be as careless with her movements as her in-laws.”

  “Well, I’m not gonna need any bribe money here in Venice, so I’ll give Pim the other half as a down payment on our debt.” Zelph jotted some notes in his ever-present notebook. “You’re flying to Paris?”

  “No, I land in Reims. I’ll rent a
car and drive to Aiglemont to find out what I can about Giselle. Aiglemont is the closest town to where she lives in a place called Gernelle. I Googled her, and she’s really photogenic. Like a supermodel.”

  Zelph set down his pen and got up to make himself another drink. “Well, a guy as good looking as Vincenzo wouldn’t marry an ugly ragazza, now would he?”

  “I dunno about these Veronas.” Alphonso sucked his teeth and mused. “I got no feeling about these guys. And unless I was some sort of accounting investigator, I wouldn’t know if they give as much money to charities as everyone seems to think. But I really like Juliette.”

  Zelph tasted his drink and sat back down. “So you call Contessa Verona ‘Juliette’ now, do you?”

  “Sì, Juliette asked me to call her by her Christian name.”

  “Oh yeah?” Zelph made a haughty face.

  “Yeah. She’s the kind of mother I wish I’d had.”

  “Nice lady, eh?”

  “She taught me how to make tortelloni.”

  “Says you,” Zelph mocked. “What did they look like? Could anyone else tell they were supposed to be tortelloni?”

  Alphonso started making the same delicate movements with his big hands that Juliette had taught him. “Shut up, ya jerk. Juliette insists on perfection in the kitchen. She did every step of making the pasta dough with me. And with our fingers—no forks for her!”

  “Oh, so you’ll be changing professions to work in a kitchen with the nonnas now?”

  “Hey, it’s a real skill. And sure, she slapped my hand a lot when I was doing it wrong. But then I relaxed my fingers and stopped trying to kill the pasta.”

  “Right, I’ve heard that,” Zelph teased. “Everybody knows you gotta relax your fingers.”

  “‘Non li strangolare, Romeo,’ she kept saying.”

  “She calls you Romeo?” Zelph laughed and then became serious. “Listen Loverboy, we gotta come up with something on these Veronas, or it’s not pasta that’s gonna get strangled.”