Stealing Venice

by Anna E Bendewald

  “Oh, no.”

  “Uh-huh. Then Reynaldo disappears, only to be found with his head bashed in.”

  “Maybe he was mugged.”

  “Nope. Reynaldo was found wearing an expensive watch and had a wad of cash on him.”

  “Why should I be surprised? I felt like Scortini wanted to kill me the other day.”

  “Let’s get this job over with and never see Scortini again.”

  “What do you think I’m trying to do?” Alphonso stood up.

  “Okay, let’s get over to the haunted mansion and give Scortini the dirt.”

  “Ah, Santa Maria,” he sighed. “Here we go.”

  Salvio was in his secret passage listening to the conversation that was taking place in his office. He’d installed listening devices in strategic areas around his palazzo to monitor his staff, his wife, and his visitors. The mongoloid private detective and his associate were waiting to deliver their findings, and he hoped his eavesdropping would help him ascertain whether they were hiding anything from him. Oddly, their conversation seemed to be about how much pressure to apply to pasta with the tip of your index finger when making tortelloni. Salvio was growing impatient, but he willed himself to remain attentive to their rambling. Could it be some sort of code? How could they be thinking of anything but the sins of the Veronas? As the two operatives segued into whether or not a coffee filter could effectively be used to strain grit from porcini mushrooms, Salvio impatiently snapped the control panel switch to the “off” position.

  When he performed his usual trick of popping into the room from behind the tapestry, he was irritated that his appearance didn’t frighten the two detectives. The disappointment was not complete however, because the associate did utter a startled sound. What sounded like an expletive, ended up just being unintelligible. Salvio saw their eyes flicker to one another in a sly, knowing exchange. Obviously the fathead detective had warned his look-alike associate about his surprising entrances, and the look was “I told you so.” Moving silently around his desk he sat down and stared at the two longhaired bulls seated before him.

  “You’re twins?”

  “We’re cousins.”

  “Let’s not get sidetracked from the grave matter at hand. Tell me what you’ve found.”

  The detective leaned forward and cleared his throat. “The family allows Giselle Verona to have a lover that she spends time with alone at her château in France.”

  Salvio didn’t react. It was an impossibility, and therefore incomprehensible to him. He looked from one man to the other, and then back.

  “Speak man! Make sense! What do you report?”

  “I’ve seen Vincenzo’s wife in the arms of her Russian lover, and the Verona family is allowing the affair.”

  Salvio stared blankly. “A wife taking a lover? A wife of a Verona giving her body to a man who is not her husband?” The concept hit him with a noxious punch, and he bit his tongue in an attempt to avert a wave of vomit from rising into his gorge.

  “Sì. And signore, we believe Vincenzo is homosexual, and that he has a male lover here in Venice.”

  Salvio flung himself up from his chair and raced to the window. He yanked it open and launched a sluice of vomit out into the canal below. Then he took in gulps of air, his body heaving involuntarily. Spinning around, he turned to face the detective.

  “Cuckolding, whoring, and sodomy?”

  The fatheads nodded. Salvio’s slack jaw was replaced by a genuine smile. He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief and gurgled, “Well, well, well, gentleman. You have indeed earned your money. Now, I need proof of these repugnant sins.”

  “Sì, and to continue digging into their activities, we’ll need substantially more money, signore.”

  “You’ll have it.” Salvio sashayed over to his safe, reached inside, and produced a shoebox-sized packet of euros. He cleared his throat, then pulled out his handkerchief and spit into it. “Get me everything on these unpardonable sins.” He shoved the money across the desk.

  The detective and his partner rose to their feet. The fathead took the packet. “How much do we have here? We’ll need to pay some pretty big bribes or, um, personal donations, of course…”

  Salvio was fairly hugging himself in ecstasy. “Oh, that’s a hundred thousand euros. Go put it to good use, you fathead!”

  Alphonso stood, nodded to Scortini, and left the office with Zelph close on his heels. The butler intercepted them and moved along at a stately pace until he had ushered them out the front door of the palazzo. Once they were walking down the calle, Alphonso muttered, “We don’t have a single person to pay off in this case. I say we take this money over to Pim. No one who knows anything about the Veronas would ever take a bribe, no matter how much we offered. And Giselle’s countrymen would sooner drag me to a guillotine than betray her. I tell you, that family is loved by everybody except Scortini.”

  Zelph looked uneasy after his first meeting with their client. “If I’m right, Scortini isn’t going to pay us our final fee. I get a strong feeling that when we give him the final report, he plans to kill us so we can’t tell tales.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know if he’s scarier when he’s enraged, or when he’s pleased. What a scumbag.”

  “What have you gotten us into, Cuz? Seriously, I’m not meeting that Scortini again without leaving a note in case I don’t make it out alive. And I’m bringing a weapon next time.”

  “Why does he say I have a big head? I’ve never heard anything like that before. I don’t have a big head. And mongoloid? Who says that?”

  “Alphonso, we don’t have oversized heads. I think he sees what he wants to see, and it’s ugly.” Zelph chucked him on the shoulder. “You know we’re both good looking guys. Women throw themselves at us all the time. You’d be getting laid every night if you didn’t have such impossibly high standards.”

  “Don’t start on my taste in women. Okay, so I’ll head back to France to get the proof on Giselle. You get what proof you can on Vincenzo.”

  “I’m gonna keep digging on Scortini, too. Knowledge is power, and in the interest of self-preservation I’d feel safer if we had something to blackmail him with to ensure our long, healthy lives.”

  “Before we go to dinner, let’s go buy a camera with a really powerful telephoto lens. I’ll need it for getting proof on Giselle. Wait till you see what she and Ruskie do when they’re working together. You’re not going to believe your eyes.”

  “How can it be that hot if they’re not having sex?”

  “It’s the stuff of fantasies.”

  “When are you going back to Gernelle?”

  “As soon as I can.”

  CHAPTER

  11

  The next day, Alphonso flew back to France, rented a car, and drove straight to Henri and Fauve’s hotel in Aiglemont. The whole time, his mind struggled with the Scortini/Verona situation. As a private investigator he’d made a good living finding out where the bodies were buried—sometimes literally—and who was fucking whom—sometimes figuratively. But now he was struggling to find a way to extricate himself from his dangerous client and put an end to spying on these good people.

  He was also struggling to keep some proper perspective where the Verona women were concerned. Giselle was his fantasy woman, and Juliette was the mother he’d always longed for. The notion of being responsible for humiliating either woman made him uncomfortable, at the very least.

  But how bad could it really be if Scortini divulged some marital indiscretions to the Pope? Wasn’t the Pope in the business of hearing confessions and forgiving people? How powerful was this Verona blackmail ammunition? Wasn’t it just personal sexual matters that didn’t hurt anyone? So Vincenzo was allowing his wife to have a discrete dalliance when she was away in the country. So what? And what of Zelph’s impression that Vincenzo and Leonardo were doing more than accounting together? Whose business was it to care?

  Alphonso entered the hotel lobby and headed straight for the check-in desk wit
h his cover story already on his lips. Rolling his little suitcase behind him, he waved to Henri, who looked up from his work.

  “Bonjour, Alphonso! This is a surprise. What are you doing back so soon?”

  “Bonjour, Henri. I’ve made my recommendations for the restaurant’s champagne order, and now I have some time for a vacation, so I’m back to relax. I think maybe I’ll see if there are any homes for sale around here.” He placed his hands flat on the old wooden counter and looked squarely at the proud Frenchman. “This is my kind of place.”

  “Mais bien, sur. There are some good houses for sale nearby.” Henri nodded. “Everyone who visits wants to move here.”

  “Maybe I’ll get a few of my relatives together and buy a big place. I hear the Veronas have a home out in Gernelle. We could be neighbors.”

  “Ha! There’s nothing for sale out by that property.”

  “I imagine it’s a nice place if it’s anything like their palazzo in Venice.”

  “Oui, very beautiful. They don’t make estates like that anymore. The château was built by Giselle Verona’s ancestors before this town was even here—just rolling hills and forest.”

  “Ah well, I’m looking forward to a nice, relaxing vacation. It’s good to be back.” Alphonso grinned. “Do you have my same room available by chance?”

  “Oh, mais non.” Henri clucked his tongue and reached into a cubbyhole for a key. “You’ll have the blue room in back this time. It’s a nice room with its own entrance. More private. You’ll like it.”

  “Okay then.” Alphonso bent to sign the form that Henry slid toward him with the key. The room sounded perfect. With his own entrance, he wouldn’t have to sneak as much as last time. If he hurried, he could get back to Giselle’s property by late afternoon and get some photos of them in their smoldering embraces.

  In less than fifteen minutes, Alphonso was speeding toward the isolated château, armed with a new Nikon camera and a telephoto lens. Assuming Giselle and her Russian were keeping the same schedule, he had every expectation of seeing them at work. It was so quiet, he hadn’t encountered any cars on the roads by the time he swung onto the deserted lane. He rolled to a quiet stop behind the bank of bushes, grabbed his spy gear, and got out of the car. He skirted along the forest, taking care to stay in a low crouch, and then trotted across the field, dodging from shrub to shrub on his way toward the back of the château.

  He was running to a break in the little orchard when he caught sight of something so incredible, he tripped and went flying face-first into the uneven soil. Stupefied, he lay in the fragrantly loamy dirt as if he’d had a stroke. He’d taken a hard fall chest-first onto the Nikon, which hurt like hell and knocked the wind out of him. Trembling, he rolled onto his side and tentatively sipped some air into his lungs. God that hurt! He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, and took another look at the spectacle that had stunned him.

  There in the courtyard, Giselle Verona was wound around her Russian consort. Her dress was open, and her magnificent naked body was on display. She was gripping the sculpture above her with both hands as she rode her lucky assistant. Ruskie was naked to the waist, and his pants were pulled down to mid-thigh, revealing perfect abdominals and a sculpted butt. Christ! The sight of Giselle’s spectacular body and erotic pleasure was so much more than he’d expected. He wondered if he’d hit his head and was unconsciously having another fantasy about her. He actually pinched himself. Now, afraid of being seen, he got down a bit lower to peer at the two making love in the open air. Well, there was certainly no conjecture now. Giselle really was cuckolding her husband with her Russian assistant, who was currently trapped within her luscious thighs.

  Alphonso reached for his camera and raised it to his eye, but the settings were blinking in an erratic jitter across the screen. He turned the power off and on, only to receive an error signal. Shit! He fiddled with the buttons, then took the battery pack out and put it back in. No luck. Damn it! Giving up on the camera, he snatched his phone out of his pocket and quickly took several photos and a short video of the lovers. But the photos only registered a blurry smudge in the foreground of some shadowy buildings. The video looked like a blurry piece of playground equipment. He was too far away to get a decent shot with his phone. He’d have to get his camera repaired in town, or buy a new one, and return to photograph them tomorrow. If they weren’t having sex outside again, he’d see about pushing his luck to get photos through a window under cover of darkness.

  He watched them finish, then wantonly kiss each other with such passion he wondered what on earth he’d been doing with women his whole life. He’d certainly never shared kisses like these. Then, in various states of undress, the two climbed off the sculpture, walked over to the stable house, went in, and closed the door. Giselle and Ruskie were apparently taking their fun to that big wooden bed he’s seen inside. Okay, time to call Scortini.

  The moment Scortini answered, Alphonso blurted, “I’ve just seen it with my own eyes. I’m here at the French estate where Vincenzo’s wife is having sex with her Russian lover right now. They’re in a stable house that they use as a love nest. It’s situated right behind her château.”

  Scortini made a gagging sound and the phone line went dead.

  Alphonso suddenly felt ashamed. I hope no one ever finds out what I’ve just done.

  Salvio hung up on his detective and doubled over. The rush of relief was so powerful it made him light-headed. “I knew it! I knew it!” He looked upward, raising his hands to the heavens. “Grazie Dio!”

  He snatched his father’s address book off the desk and found the number for the Pope’s private Vatican residence. After a few short rings, it was picked up.

  “Ciao, residenza…”

  Salvio cut in, fighting to sound calm. “This is Salvio Scortini. I must speak to Sua Santità immediately. I have urgent news regarding a tragedy in the Verona family.”

  “Tragedy?” The secretary gasped. “What has happened?”

  “Is happening! I can only tell this to our Holy Father personally.”

  “But Signor Scortini, the Holy Father is not in residence at this time. Will you allow me to connect you to his personal security’s cell phone?”

  “Do it! Hurry!” Salvio listened to clicks on the line as he was transferred. He was ready to play his winning hand, and the excitement was too much. He got up from his chair and paced behind his desk.

  “Your name is Scortini? What’s the problem?” a curt voice demanded.

  “Who is this?” Salvio’s lips curled inward and he began nibbling them.

  “You don’t ask me questions, you answer mine.”

  Pushed beyond agitation, he felt on the verge of a tantrum. “I have the most urgent news for Sua Santità! Who are you? Are you connecting me?”

  “I’m head of security, and you haven’t answered my question.”

  “This is a private tragedy I can only tell the Holy Father!”

  “Are you in your right mind? You sound…”

  “Upset? Sì! If you don’t put me through to Pope Leopold, it will be too late!”

  After a brief, muffled exchange on the other end, the unmistakable voice of Sua Santità came on the line.

  “Scortini?”

  The effect of being personally spoken to by Pope Leopold himself sent a thrum through his entire body and galvanized him. He stood ramrod straight and blurted into the phone, “Holy Father? Sì it’s me, Salvio Scortini. Forgive me, but I’m calling with grave news. The Veronas are wretched debauchers who mock God’s law! I have proof!”

  “What?” He sounded angry. “How can you say such a thing?”

  “They pervert the sanctity of marriage by allowing Giselle Verona to have an extra-marital affair with a Russian. He is at this very moment using her body for his gratification at the Verona château in France.”

  “Say that again?” The Pope coughed. “How can you know this? Have you ever even met Giselle Verona?”

  “I know what everyone k
nows, that she is a blonde French woman. But no, I haven’t met her. My man there in France has just informed me that she and the Russian are in flagrante delicto—in a state of forbidden sin as I am speaking to you. She is having unholy, filthy, wicked sexual congress in a stable house behind her château at this very moment.” He sputtered, and then caught hold of his tongue between his teeth to wait for a response.

  “Your concern is noted. I will pray on the matter. And may God be with you.”

  The line went dead, and when Salvio hung up he was too excited to sit down, so he paced his office. He forced himself to take deep breaths. It wasn’t the regular time, but he went over to the servant’s bell cord and gave it a long pull. Within moments, pounding feet approached and Guiseppe appeared at the office door.

  “Signore?”

  “Have my wife’s maid begin preparing her for her marital duties.”

  His valet closed the door and rushed off down the hall.

  Finally Salvio sat behind his desk, enjoying the deep satisfaction of knowing that his plan was working perfectly.

  Alphonso was caught by surprise as three vehicles zoomed up Giselle’s normally deserted driveway. Coming to a hasty stop were a Jaguar, a Lexus, Henri’s Range Rover, and a delivery truck. He ducked low and zipped from tree to tree trying to make it to the outbuildings to get a better look. Skidding to a stop in the shadow of the horse stables, he saw the woman who lived on the property heading toward him on her motorcycle. He jammed his body behind a grain bin to hide, and within moments she flew past him, drove through the courtyard, and disappeared around the corner to the front of the château. A fully dressed Giselle exited the stable house alone and crossed the courtyard to one of the château’s back doors. Keeping to the shadows, but still exposed to anyone looking from an upper window, he made his way along the outbuildings until he could see the front of the château. People were exiting the vehicles and carrying boxes of supplies up the front steps. It looked like flowers and groceries. A woman in a pinstriped pantsuit was directing at a team of people. Not the same vibe as the casual dinner party the other night.