Stealing Venice

by Anna E Bendewald

  “Now let’s both lean back a bit, Markus. I’m going to flick one of them, and it should be just enough to cause a hairline fracture at the joint.”

  He gave her a meaningful look as he withdrew his hands and leaned backward. “Then the glow appears?”

  “Oui.”

  There wasn’t a trace of fear on her face as she gently flicked a spindle. He heard the click of her nail against glass, and there in the early evening light he saw all four spindles blush with iridescent light that was as bright white as it was peach as it was rose. His mouth dropped open and he admired its glimmer across Giselle’s enraptured face. The glow was extraordinary, and so was her response. She was transfixed. She wrapped her legs tighter around him, her hands floated away from her glowing star, and then she ducked under it to hug him tightly.

  “Voila,” she whispered into his ear.

  “Incredible.”

  He wrapped his arms around her and stared up at the star, feeling transfixed as well, and then realized he was about to go over a line she’d never given him permission to cross. He had to set her down. The urge to kiss her was now unbearable, and in another second he would be unable to resist. Lowering her to her feet, he knew his self-control was at its limit.

  “Now that the test is a success, we put your chemicals away for the night. Okay?”

  She nodded and followed him over to the greenhouse tables to lock the spindles away and clean up. They worked in silence, stealing looks at the glowing star mounted in the sculpture.

  That evening in the cold stone château, they ate dinner in front of the fire and talked. Both felt satisfied that the glowing stars were being realized, and he was beginning to understand the potential of such a remarkable piece of art on the world. After their meal, Giselle lay stretched along Markus’ body on the floor as they shared their personal reactions to the great art they’d seen. Markus was conscious that he was hovering just on the edge of heaven. He was relaxed and warm, but the heat of longing was a dull ache that drained him. When he returned to the stable house, he went straight for a cold shower before he fell headfirst into the feather mattress and lost consciousness.

  Alphonso packed up his meager stakeout supplies and started slinking back behind the trees to his car. This had to be the strangest job imaginable. He knew better than to believe his eyes. As a private detective, he knew better than anybody that often things were not what they appeared to be. But he also had to be honest that he’d fallen in lust with Giselle the moment he’d set eyes on her, so his judgment was slightly impaired. He’d been sneaking out to her property every chance he got, and he’d tried to get some intel on this mystery man from Fauve one morning as she served him breakfast in the café.

  “So is Giselle working on any new art?”

  “Uh-huh, a really big sculpture.”

  “Big, huh? She must have assistants.”

  “Mais non, she likes to work alone. But this time she’s brought the sexy Russian with her.”

  “Sexy Russian? Really? Does her husband mind?”

  She’d simply waved her hand in a bored fashion. “Non.”

  So he sat for hours hiding in that field in Gernelle trying to understand this piece of the Verona puzzle—trying to make sense of what he was watching. Ruskie, as he now called her shaved blonde assistant, had a body of steel, and focus to match if he could stay unaffected as he held Giselle. Other men would have risked getting slapped or scolded with a “Not now! We’re working!” just for the thrill of running their hand up her thigh. Alphonso was a red-blooded man, and the sight of her body was driving him mad. He wondered what her wardrobe was made of, because each dress seemed to be made of water that shimmered over her curves. She moved with gymnastic grace, and watching them climb up into the sculpture, and hold positions wound around each other—they crackled with sexuality. He was watching the most smoldering flirtation, and yet neither of them was acknowledging it. He could feel their chemistry from across the field. And he had to bite his thumb to try to remain present when his mind wanted to take off in flights of fantasy about what the two of them did together inside the château after a day’s work. What he wouldn’t give for Zelph’s lock-picking talent! Now that his stakeout was coming to a close, he’d arrived at his conclusion: unless Ruskie was a eunuch, they were lovers. He would bet on it, if he hadn’t given up gambling.

  He was disappointed he hadn’t caught them actually having sex, but he had to get back to Venice. He was leaving France in the morning, certain of what was going on between Giselle and her Russian stud. True, he had no solid proof…yet. He just prayed to God that Zelph had something on the Verona men. They were going to have to make a detailed report of their findings to Scortini. If worse came to worse, Alphonso could tell him that Giselle had a lover. Would that be “evil” enough for his taste?

  He touched down in Venice’s Marco Polo Airport the next day and went straight to his uncle’s to find Zelph. They sat down to lunch and volleyed bits of information back and forth.

  “So Giselle has a Russian lover that she keeps at her château in France?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you didn’t get any photos?”

  “No. There was no way to get close enough to get anything with the camera on my phone. I had to stay way out in the field or behind trees. It’s a risky stakeout, what with all the other buildings on that property. I had to constantly keep on the lookout, couldn’t take for granted that they were all empty. I couldn’t be exposed in case someone came popping out of a stable door or opened a curtain on the back of the château.”

  “It didn’t look like anyone else lives out there?”

  “No, not in the big main castle. I checked out some guesthouses on the property, way down the lane on the back of one part of the estate. I think two women live in one of the houses, but they have guard dogs in a kennel that went crazy when I pulled into the driveway. I pretended to be lost and turned right around when an old woman came out onto the porch to check me out. Then a young woman came outside, too. She rides a motorcycle, and was in and out of the château a number of times. I saw her around town too, but she never spotted me.”

  “That’s it? Just two women on the estate?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, well, here’s what I’ve got. Count Gabrieli has been doing his usual rounds of meetings.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He goes to the Verdu Mer neighborhood, which is completely vacant now, to meet the demolition teams who have started tearing the buildings down section by section. Plus he has regular meetings all around the canals on the deserted calles with some famous underwater expert named Chizzoli and his team of guys in scuba gear.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And every night the count walks around his sestieri talking to his neighbors and anybody else who walks up to him.”

  “Yeah, I saw that. Everybody comes out of their homes to greet him.”

  “Right. A man of the people.”

  “Anything unusual?”

  “Yeah. So the other day he had what appeared to be an impromptu confession over at a church that’s known as the Little Church.”

  “Oh? It doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “It’s small and non-descript, located between the count’s office and Scortini’s palazzo.”

  “Oh, yeah. Really old? Sort of reddish stone?”

  “That’s it.”

  “So the count went for a confession?”

  “Yeah, hurried out of his office and made a beeline for the Little Church with Tiberious moving fast at his side. And instead of confessing to a priest, Gabrieli was having a private conversation with Cardinal Americo Negrali. I’m sure my instincts are right on this. I did some checking on Negrali, and he’s the most powerful cardinal in the world. Top honcho in the Church, considered next in line to be pope if something were to happen to Pope Leopold.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, not a stretch since Gabrieli has such strong ties to the Church.”

  “Yea
h well, the count has a reputation as sort of a super Catholic.”

  “Who’ve you been asking?”

  “Every priest I could find.”

  “Oh.”

  “They all consider him to be their best friend.”

  “All of them said that?”

  “Yeah, and that was the term they used. ‘Oh, Count Verona is my best friend.’”

  “Hmmm. Friendly guy.”

  “Yeah. There’s no way he’s not getting into heaven.” Zelph laughed at own his joke. “Anyway, I’m going to tail Vincenzo when I leave here, and let you have the pleasure of watching Gabrieli.”

  “Do me a favor, and pray we find something before we meet with Scortini.”

  It was just past nine p.m. and Zelph had been standing in the shadows outside the Verona office building for hours when he saw Vincenzo and Petro come out the front door. He tailed them to Leonardo’s building, and while Vincenzo disappeared inside, Petro fell into his usual routine of doing sweeps around the property and sitting in the lobby. Zelph got tired of standing outside in the shadows. He consulted the surveillance notes Alphonso had given him, slipped around the back of the building, and climbed a fire escape to the third floor. He had no problem eluding Petro, because he’d been spying on him, too. From the fire escape, Zelph eased the hallway window open and dropped silently inside. Then he made his way down the hall to Leonardo’s apartment door and listened. He could hear male voices, but couldn’t hear anything of use.

  He eyed the adjacent apartment, walked over to the door, pressed his ear to it, and listened. Silence. He hadn’t seen any lights in this apartment from outside the building during his recent stakeouts. If he could get inside, he could open the window next to Leonardo’s apartment, and hear what they were saying. Perhaps he would hear a third voice.

  Making up a cover story in case someone was inside, Zelph knocked lightly on the door. When there was no answer, he took out his lock-picking kit and was inside in less than nine seconds. He closed the door quietly behind him, and with the lights off, he swept the apartment. No one was currently living in this partially furnished unit. He eased the lock on the window and silently pulled the French-door style windows inward. Then he made himself comfortable with his head resting in the shadows just outside of the accountant’s apartment. He heard Leonardo and Vincenzo talking.

  “We’ve always known that Salvio’s emotionally off-kilter.”

  “Well, my father feels that for all his social faults, he’s still a good Catholic.”

  “There’s no innocent explanation for him to say what he said to the College.”

  “No. Maybe the death of his parents was too much for him.”

  “A mental breakdown doesn’t cause you to slander a person to the Holy Council for getting a job you wanted. No, there’s no way Scortini actually believes your father is evil. It’s a plan to cut him off from the Vatican as a power play for Verdu Mer.”

  “We’ve agreed that our best strategy is to proceed with care—not to reject or inflame him. If Salvio forces a confrontation, we’ll calmly respond to his accusations.”

  “Should he ever become desperate enough to make any.”

  Zelph didn’t hear a third voice, and he had no problem hearing the conversation between Vincenzo and Leonardo as they went on to discuss business deals, Verdu Mer, charity, opera, clothes shopping, rowing, and wine. They were very relaxed, so this was no business marathon, just two old friends making dinner together and relaxing.

  “I have a meeting at nine tomorrow morning, then I’ll be off to Gernelle for the weekend.”

  “We have the meeting with the lawyers tomorrow late afternoon.”

  “Let’s have that meeting by phone. I’ll call when I get settled at the château.”

  “I think their attorneys are close to agreeing to our terms.”

  “Me too. Can you set up the call?”

  “Sure. How’s Giselle?”

  “Oh, you know. Now that she’s working, it’s hard to get her to put two sentences together.”

  “What’s she working on?”

  “Some very secret piece that’s really big.”

  “Really big? Selma’s keeping an eye out to make sure she’s safe?”

  “Uh-hun, and she took that artist whose process she’s been studying. He’s helping with the assembly.”

  “Do I know him?”

  “No, we haven’t met him. It’s Markus, the Good Samaritan from the Metro.”

  “Oh, yeah. He made that cool little glass sculpture on your mantle in Paris.”

  “That’s him.”

  They took their dinner farther into the apartment and it became difficult to hear what they said. The conversation slowed during dinner around muffled dining sounds and laughter. Something was apparently hilarious over there. Then the two moved off into a room still farther away, and he could no longer hear them. Odd. Where had they gone? He glanced around at the floor plan of the apartment he was in. Looking down the hall of this empty unit, he judged they’d headed to a bedroom. But his notes said Leonardo had the biggest place in the building, and that he also kept his office here, so Zelph was just guessing at what type of room they’d gone into. He poked his head out the French door, and looking into the glass reflection from Leonardo’s open windows he could see Vincenzo’s briefcase, confirming that he hadn’t left. There was nothing definitive Zelph could point to, but he was forming a strange impression that he was eager to discuss with Alphonso.

  Vincenzo finally left the apartment at two a.m. After following him to the Verona palazzo, Zelph called it a night and went home to bed.

  CHAPTER

  8

  While Giselle seemed to have a level of comfort with the hideous vials, Markus found it nerve-wracking as they went about creating the illicit stars. They would work together for hours within the sculpture performing their intimate dance. Giselle wound around Markus for support, and each silent sixty-second pause culminated in the tiny flick of her fingernail, and a beautiful glow. They assembled Giselle’s vision with total focus, thighs encircled, arms laid against arms, holding perfectly still.

  When taking breaks, they stretched out on cushions in the greenhouse massaging each other’s necks, backs, and feet. They grew more engrossed in the sculpture as it materialized. Once after hours of work, Giselle lost her focus for a split second, and tapped a spindle a bit too forcefully. Alerted by the irregular-sounding crack, Markus reacted faster than a muscle twitch. He rocked to the side swinging Giselle feet-first off the scaffold as irrodium fluid trickled out of a hairline crack. The smoking liquid evaporated immediately in the wind and blew away from them as he landed beside her on the ground, scooped her up, and carried her over to the greenhouse. He set her down and ran his hands all over her checking for signs that she’d been splattered. Finding none, he took her face in his hands.

  “Giselle, there is no place for any mistake in this.”

  She nodded, shaken, and he pulled her into an embrace, hugging her protectively.

  “I am not mad at you. But from now on, I will tell you when you need a break. You push yourself too hard.”

  “That’s what everybody tells me,” Giselle said into his chest. “Let’s take a break.”

  “Da.”

  When they got back to work, Markus balanced on the scaffold, and Giselle balanced on Markus. They had just touched the spindles together for the glass to begin fusing when she got an urgent itch on her nose. Panicked, she gritted her teeth and whimpered, “Ah merde! Shit! Markus! My nose! I have an itch!” Her eyes began to tear in frustration as she tried to stay focused on the spindles above.

  “No!” he warned, as if he could command the itch to disappear.

  “Oh! Iee-eh!” She gritted her teeth in fear.

  “Do not move. I will get it.”

  He eased his head forward a few inches and rubbed her nose with his own to satisfy her itch. It felt like the initiation of the most seductive kiss. She kept her eyes on the fragile glas
s above them, but she could feel their breath mingling, and couldn’t be certain that she wouldn’t lean in a fraction closer and press her lips to his. What am I thinking? Focus, girl!

  The sound of car tires crunching gravel broke the spell, and Markus eased his head away from her. She tapped the glass tube, and the glow blushed over their faces, already rosy with the intensity of their almost-kiss. She looked beyond the stable house toward the driveway, and felt weakened with longing. Markus wrapped his arms around her waist, and pressed his face against her neck. Unthinkingly she responded, grinding herself against him. Then she heard a hearty shout from the front of the château.

  “Gigi? Where’s my gorgeous wife?” Vincenzo’s voice grew louder as he came in their direction. “Are you in the greenhouse?” She climbed off Markus, and they both jumped down from the scaffold. She ran toward her husband’s voice, banked around the greenhouse, and spotted him.

  “There she is!” His face broke into a grin.

  She jogged toward him waving her shoes, and then stopped to put them on.

  “I thought you were working with metal and glass.” Vincenzo looked skeptical as he took in her shoe situation. “Please tell me why you’re not wearing proper footwear.”

  Giselle had just gotten back to her feet as he trotted over and tackled her, then swung her around, making her clutch at her dress hem as one of her shoes fell back off. He was peppering her face with little pecks as Markus walked around the greenhouse and stared at them.

  “We have to climb the sculpture to affix the glass spindles…” She swatted away his playful assault, embarrassed that he would do this in front of Markus.