A Very Venetian Murder
A Reuben Frost Mystery
Haughton Murphy
MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
If every museum in the New World were emptied, if every famous building in the Old World were destroyed and only Venice saved, there would be enough there to fill a full lifetime with delight.… Venice with all its complexity and variety is itself the greatest surviving work of art in the world.
—Evelyn Waugh
CHAPTER
1
Getting There
“It’s like old home week.”
“What did you say, Reuben?” Cynthia Frost asked her husband as they stood in line at Charles de Gaulle Airport, waiting to board the Monday morning Air France flight from Paris to Venice. “You’re muttering and I can’t understand you.”
“I say it’s old home week. All these familiar faces.”
“What familiar faces?”
“Well, that tall brunette up there, for one,” Reuben said, pointing to a woman some eight places ahead in the queue. “Isn’t that Gregg Baxter’s Girl Friday—if I can use such a politically incorrect term?”
“Where? Oh, I see. The one with the florid complexion. Yes, that’s Doris Medford.”
“On her way to the party, I’m sure,” Reuben said, referring to the well-publicized dinner that Gregg Baxter, the designer of the moment in American fashion, was throwing in Venice on Wednesday. “She’s a great admirer of yours, as I recall.”
Reuben knew this from past encounters with Medford in New York, when she always claimed to be a fan of Cynthia’s, going back to the days when his wife had been a leading ballerina with the National Ballet.
“It’s not just me, she’s a fan of NatBallet,” Cynthia said. “She’s the one who persuaded Baxter Fashions to underwrite the Company’s tour last year. A million dollars plus.” The former artistic director of NatBallet, a post she had held for several years after giving up dancing, Cynthia remembered the details of contributions to the Company.
“The tall, fat guy she’s talking to is a lawyer named Cavanaugh,” Reuben said. “I was on the other side of a deal with him way back when. He looks like an Irish sumo wrestler, but he’s really quite genial.”
Cavanaugh and Medford were conversing in the friendly but slightly stiff way acquaintances do when they meet by chance. They both towered over a second man, who appeared to be traveling with Cavanaugh.
“Who’s the dried-up old fellow, do you suppose?” Reuben asked.
“‘Dried-up old fellow,’ indeed,” Cynthia said, after taking a closer look. “That’s Eric Werth.”
“All right, rich dried-up old fellow,” Reuben said, realizing that he was staring at the most successful marketer in the perfume business since Charles of the Ritz. “He looks like he’s on his last legs.” Reuben, a healthy seventy-seven and a happily retired Wall Street lawyer, had no hesitation in commenting on the aging process in others. “I assume he’s going to the Baxter thing, too. Though it does seem a bit odd to bring your lawyer along.”
Cavanaugh’s presence was explained after takeoff. The Frosts found themselves in the same row with him and Werth in the small business-class section of their Airbus A-320, the best seating available on the 100-minute flight. Doris Medford was in the aisle seat a row ahead, diagonally across from Reuben.
She had greeted the Frosts as they passed by. Now Jim Cavanaugh, formidable as he stood in the aisle, reintroduced himself to Reuben, then reached over to shake hands with Cynthia. Eric Werth, already settled, looked up and smiled at the Frosts.
“Vacation?” Cavanaugh asked, as he eased his bulky frame into his narrow seat.
“That’s right,” Reuben said.
“Ever been to Venice?”
Frost smiled. “Every September for the last twenty-two years. It’s our annual escape from Manhattan.”
“This is my first time. Never had any interest in the place. Those canals smell pretty bad, I understand.”
Ah yes, Frost thought. The uninformed Cavanaugh had fixed on one of the two most common misconceptions about Venice, the other of course being the unshakable conviction that the city is irretrievably sinking.
“Maybe in the hottest part of the summer, but not in September,” Reuben assured him.
Doris Medford, who had been listening to the conversation, turned and agreed with Reuben. “I’ve been there for two weeks now,” she said, “and I haven’t had any trouble with the smell.”
“You’re not coming from New York?” Reuben asked her.
“Lord, no. I’ve been holed up at the Hotel Cipriani getting ready for this insane dinner Gregg’s having. Right now I’m returning from a crash trip to Paris to buy—don’t laugh—dried flowers. Gregg decided last Friday that he couldn’t deal with the florists in Venice—any of them—so it had to be dried flowers from Lhuillier in Paris. Good ol’ Doris was packed off to make sure the Frogs worked all weekend to turn out the centerpieces he wanted.”
“Are you going to Venice for Ms. Medford’s ‘insane’ dinner?” Reuben asked Jim Cavanaugh.
“We’ve been invited,” the lawyer replied. “But we’re really hoping to do some business with Baxter and Dan Abbott, his partner.” Then he added, irritably, “It’s a matter we could have wrapped up right on Seventh Avenue, but Abbott insisted we traipse over here.”
“Dan thinks that Gregg will be more relaxed in Venice and more receptive to making a deal,” Medford said. “I hope he’s right.”
“So do we,” Werth interjected.
“Nothing wrong with seeing Venice,” Frost added.
“Maybe,” Cavanaugh said skeptically. “You’ve been there so much, you got any bright ideas about restaurants?”
Given Cavanaugh’s girth, his interest in eating places was not surprising. Reuben reeled off thumbnail descriptions of two favorites and Cynthia added a third, the names of which Cavanaugh carefully wrote down. Medford, still listening, had been to all three and commended the selection.
“Where are you staying?” Eric Werth asked, leaning forward to see across Cavanaugh’s ample stomach.
“The Cipriani,” Frost said.
“Like it?”
“Absolutely! For my money, it’s one of the best hotels you can find anywhere.”
“I disagree with you,” Werth said. He had a deep and authoritative voice, out of proportion to his tiny size. “The Cipriani’s too far away. I feel marooned over there on the Giudecca, away from the action. You’re totally dependent on that boat of theirs to get anywhere. It’s the Gritti Palace for me—a first-class hotel right in the middle of everything.”
Reuben recalled a hundred debates over which hotel was better. “I can’t knock the Gritti, but the Cipriani’s unique,” he said. “It’s a well-run resort, but when you get bored with the resort life—as I do—you just hop on that boat you don’t like and five minutes later you’re in the Piazza San Marco, the greatest urban space in the world.”
“To each his own, Mr. Frost. I’d rather walk to St. Mark’s.” Werth smiled and sat back, all but disappearing behind his lawyer.
Cynthia and Reuben refused the food being doled out. They had decided to wait for lunch at the hotel; two airline meals in a row, dinner and breakfast aboard the overnight flight from New York to Paris, were quite enough.
“I’m surprised there aren’t more passengers heading for the party,” Cynthia said to her husband, once their companions turned to their lunch trays. “This crowd doesn’t look swank enough for Gregg Baxter.”
“He probably chartered a plane. Or the beautiful people came early to spend the weekend.”
“I still can’t figure out how we got invited,” Cynthia said.
“My bet is that Baxter’s p
eople asked the Cipriani who would be staying there Wednesday night. Your friend Ms. Medford probably saw our names and put us on the list. You know, even though we’re not beautiful people—for which we can be thankful—we do wear shoes and don’t smell bad.”
“Unlike the canals,” Cynthia whispered, provoking a laugh from her husband.
“Why do those who’ve never been to Venice always bring up the stinking canals? The garbage at night outside our supermarket in New York smells worse than anything I’ve ever come across over there.” While he was talking, Reuben noticed that Doris Medford had attracted the attention of a stewardess and commandeered a second of the splits of Beaujolais being served with lunch.
“We’ve never met this Dan Abbott they were talking about,” Cynthia said. “I’ve read about him, though—the smart businessman who keeps Baxter Fashions going.”
“Actually I have met him,” Reuben said. “Before he became so famous in the fashion industry, he was a banker. He worked at First Fiduciary until he hooked up with Baxter and got rich. I’m sure I worked with him on a couple of loan transactions where we represented the bank.”
“The long arm of Chase & Ward,” Cynthia commented, taking an affectionate dig at the Wall Street law firm where her husband had been a partner for over forty years, including eight when he was the Executive Partner presiding over its affairs.
“Whoops, we have to buckle up,” Reuben said, as the seat-belt announcement was piped into the cabin in impeccable recorded French, Italian and English.
Cynthia fastened herself in and squeezed Reuben’s hand. “We’re almost there, darling, and I can’t wait. Except for Gregg Baxter’s extravaganza, I’m looking forward to a quiet, restful vacation. It will do us both good.”
“D’accordo, signora.”
The confused hotbox terminal at Marco Polo Airport had been improved since the Frosts had first begun coming to Venice. When a full planeload of tourists arrived, the lines at passport control could still be slow, but at least now there were more than two luggage carts to be fought over.
The Frosts always checked their bags through from New York, which meant there were sometimes anxious moments at Marco Polo when they feared the transfer had not been made in Paris. This time their suitcases were among the first to appear on the baggage carousel. Reuben pulled them off under the alert gaze of Sacco, the drug-detecting German shepherd of the guardia di finanza. On every arrival he half expected the placid canine to turn into a fearsome monster, savagely—and mistakenly—attacking the Frost luggage, but so far it had never happened.
Reuben wheeled his cart toward the exit without incident, stopping only to invite Doris Medford to share a water-taxi. She declined, saying she had to wait for her boxes of dried flowers to come off the plane. He and Cynthia also paused to wish Eric Werth and the less than excited Jim Cavanaugh a good trip.
“We’ll see you Wednesday night for sure,” Reuben told them. “And since Venice is really such a small town, we’ll probably run into you ten times before that.”
Outside the customs area, Gianni, the smiling greeter from the Cipriani, waved to the Frosts, rushed to shake their hands and maneuvered them outside to the motoscafo he had reserved. He told Reuben that the cost of the water-taxi would be charged to his bill at the hotel. Reuben knew from experience that this was more costly than shelling out lire directly, but it meant that he did not have to worry about whether he had enough Italian money left over from the last visit to pay the $75 fare. It also lessened the initial shock of having a dollar price multiplied by 1,200 or so to get a lire equivalent. The absurd result—a 90,000-lire fare for the twenty-minute water-taxi ride, for example—required getting used to all over again.
Reuben and Cynthia sat in the open back of their motoscafo, drinking in the September sunshine as it sped along. They were exhilarated, realizing that again they had confounded the actuarial tables and the health statistics. Venice cheered them up; and, as Reuben had remarked when he turned seventy, “Forget Thomas Mann and Death in Venice. Titian lived and worked here until he was a hundred and three. That’s the place for me.”
Now he observed to Cynthia that “it looks like the gabbiani had a good season,” as he pointed to the plump seagulls comfortably perched atop the wooden channel markers they swept past.
The belching industrial plants of Marghera on the mainland came into view far on the right, followed by the garbage-strewn landfill at the end of the island of Murano on the left. Then the scenery improved vastly as the spires and steeples of the clustered, interconnected islands of Venice proper, the centro storico, appeared in the midday haze: the campanile of the Madonna dell’Orto, then the tallest ones of all in the Piazza San Marco and at the church of the Frari, then the steepled bell tower of San Francesco della Vigna to the east, then six, eight, ten more.
Their motoscafista slowed down as he maneuvered into the Rio di Santa Giustina and across to the Riva degli Schiavoni and postcard Venice: the Doges’ Palace and the Piazzetta di San Marco on the right, Santa Maria della Salute and the Dogana da Mar, the triangle-shaped customs house, on the other side of the Grand Canal, and the island and church of San Giorgio straight ahead.
Reuben observed his own personal Venetian talisman, the statue of Fortune atop the Dogana, turning in the breeze, as they again picked up speed in open water and crossed to the front landing stage of the Cipriani on the Giudecca.
Virgilio, the crew-cut, bass-voiced doorman (if that is what one calls the attendant at an open entrance on the water), showered the Frosts with words of welcome as he helped them from the water-taxi.
Alfredo Cavallaro, the black-suited reception manager, added his greetings once the Frosts were inside the lobby. He apologized for the absence of Dr. Rusconi, the managing director, away at a sister hotel in Portofino.
“I’m sorry we can’t give you the room you had last year, 301,” Cavallaro explained. “But we have 201 saved for you.”
“My letter said we wanted 201 or 301,” Reuben said. “Either is fine with us.” Many years earlier, a friend, Neal Protest, had given Frost a tip that the end rooms on the second and third floors—201 and 301—were slightly longer than the hotel’s standard double.
A young woman assistant manager showed the Frosts upstairs. Reuben inquired whether the hotel was full.
“Completely,” she replied.
“People here for Gregg Baxter’s party?” Cynthia asked.
“Yes. We’re fully booked to Thursday with the party guests, and il signor Baxter and his colleagues as well. Then we have for three days some American bankers. Plus very many of our old and good friends, such as you, signora, and you, signore.”
Room 201 was exactly as the Frosts remembered it: light and comfortable, with twin beds and two windows looking out on the Venetian lagoon. They changed their clothes as soon as their bags were brought up and went downstairs for lunch.
“I don’t know about you,” Reuben said as they finished, “but it’s now thirteen hours since we left New York—twenty-four hours since I’ve been to bed. It’s pisolino time.”
Despite his intention of taking only a little nap, Reuben slept until six o’clock, when he groggily agreed with Cynthia that they should dine at the hotel. They had an early and quiet dinner, and then retired immediately.
“As my Pakistani dentist says, ‘very excellent,’” Frost remarked as he readied for bed. “It’s wonderful to be back.”
“No argument about that,” Cynthia replied.
CHAPTER
2
Peace and Quiet: Tuesday
Tuesday morning, Reuben ate a light breakfast on the terrace outside the Cipriani dining room, delighted to take in the view of San Giorgio and the Lido.
He and the other September regulars had often joked about spending so much money at the hotel that they really had bought a part of it. If they did not have an actual financial stake in its operation, they had an emotional one. After breakfast Reuben took a stroll about the grounds to make sure
unwelcome changes had not been made. He was pleased as always to see the garden in the front, with its absurdly but somehow attractively clashing masses of color: explosions of pink begonias next to flaming red salvia, pink and white petunias at war with orange impatiens.
Reuben had decided to take a swim, so he went through the lobby to the pool at the opposite end of the building. Here again he was satisfied with what he surveyed: a lawn studded with flowering trees and evergreens, surrounding the enormous pool itself; the fading red brick walls of the church of San Giorgio in the distance; the terrace where he and Cynthia had lunch most days; the landing stage on the Canale della Grazia used as the main entrance at night; the balconies and skylights of the luxury suites tucked away behind trees at one end of the pool. Bearing out what he had said to Eric Werth, the place had the look of an elegant, immaculately kept resort. It was a quiet, private enclave.
He tipped the pool boy (actually a longtime retainer whose boyishness was giving way to baldness) for bringing him a towel and setting up a chaise longue in his favorite spot, near a cluster of purple-flowering acacias. It was secluded, yet afforded a clear view for seeing anything of interest that might be going on; Reuben gladly ceded more visible perches to those more concerned with being seen.
After a half-dozen laps in the warm water, he put on the white terry-cloth robe furnished by the hotel and settled down to work on the vacation project he had thought up for himself. He believed firmly that each year he should have a definite agenda of places to visit; otherwise there was the risk that he would spend far too much time lazing where he was right now.
He and Cynthia had agreed years before that they would do their Venetian sightseeing separately. Each had a different pace and much preferred to view art objects in silence. Which was not to say they didn’t exchange reports on—and discuss and argue about—what they had seen. But sightseeing was, by their preference, a private, independent affair.
On Reuben’s part, he loved to walk in the city’s automobile-free byways. Years before he had done the walks described in Giulio Lorenzetti’s exhaustive Venice and Its Lagoon. It had taken three vacations to finish the author’s twelve itineraries, but at completion Reuben felt that he knew Venice well. Then he had done the four walks outlined by J. G. Links. (He was a great admirer of Links, a London furrier who became an amateur expert on Venice and wrote the splendid Venice for Pleasure.) Next he had used two vacations to view (as best he could in the unsatisfactory light) the mosaics in the Basilica di San Marco, spending a large part of the year between the two holidays reading the remarkable commentary by Professor Otto Demus, who had studied them for the better part of his adult life.
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