“I don’t know,” Reuben said evasively.
“I truly hope so. Ceil has done wonders with those designs of hers. The most exciting thing in Venetian fabrics since Fortuny, seventy-five years ago. She deserves some success and I know she can use the money. Gianpietro, her husband, gives her nothing. What’s sadder, since he has all the money, he’s purchased the loyalty of the children. A boy and a girl, both adorable, in their teens. They’re mercenary and selfish, like all adolescents, so they’ve gone where the money is and live with their father and his second wife in Milan.”
Melissa Wheeler claimed Reuben’s attention once again as salad was served. She was eager to get away from Father Glynn, who was still talking, now about making goat cheese in Worcestershire. Reuben asked her if she planned to write about Venice’s environmental difficulties.
“I hope to. What I’d most like to do is a real exposé of the polluters, who they are and what hypocrites they are. I’ve begun some digging and I hope it works out. I’m a little worried about the Italian libel law, though.”
“Can’t assist you there,” Reuben said. “Why don’t you write your novel about the polluters?”
They discussed this possibility through dessert, a budino di riso, rice pudding, that they pronounced extremely tasty. Wheeler had been set on writing a novel about the Brownings in Italy—no wonder she had a block, thought Reuben, who found the Victorian Brownings tedious—but now allowed as how twentieth-century defilers of the environment might be promising subjects for fiction.
Then, following Erica, the guests returned to the living room for coffee and, if desired, grappa, though the sole taker for the latter was Martin Wilke. Reuben found himself next to Mrs. Wilke on the window seat.
“You know what I’ve missed this year?” Reuben asked.
“What?”
“The Communist fair. It used to be held every September on the Giudecca, practically outside the Cipriani back door. But not this year. I noticed on a poster the other day that they’ve even renamed the Communist Party. It’s now the Partito Democratico della Sinistra. The Democratic Party of the Left, indeed. It’s all too bad. The fair used to be hilariously funny.”
“Funny?” Marianne Wilke said, screwing up her face.
Another right-winger? Reuben wondered, recalling Mrs. Radley with a shudder. “Oh yes, didn’t you think so? Totally nonthreatening. Usually featuring an exposé with photographs of unsanitary hospitals or garbage dumps. Hardly the stuff of a very bloody revolution.”
“It was naive to think they weren’t a threat,” she snapped. “For my money, they still are.”
“As far as I could see, the most dangerous thing at their fairs was the faithful’s unbelievable consumption of food,” Reuben said. “No surprise the party failed. The salsiccie were clearly more important than Lenin or Marx—sausage above ideology.”
“I’m glad it amused you,” Mrs. Wilke said grumpily.
Given the contretemps, Reuben was relieved that the party had started to break up. He and Cynthia shook hands all around and thanked the Caroldos. They went outside to the Fondamenta and waited for the water-bus. Once on the boat, Reuben decided that it was a trip for which he would not pay, since they were only crossing the Giudecca Canal. The marinaio had a different idea, and nicked Reuben for two tickets, though not the 40,000 lire fine for fare evasion.
As they crossed, Reuben told Cynthia about Erica Sherrill’s dislike for Luigi Regillo and her characterization of his sex life. And Cecilia Scamozzi’s need for money. “If Tony Garrison hadn’t been caught, I think I would have found what Erica had to say about Ceil Scamozzi’s situation very interesting,” Reuben said.
“But, darling, it’s over,” Cynthia said. “So there’s no need to speculate any more. The only thing left to do is to enjoy what’s left of our vacation to the fullest.”
“You’re right, my dear,” Reuben said, as they looked up at a full moon in a clear sky.
CHAPTER
19
Case Nearly Closed
Frost was not surprised to find a message from Dan Abbott awaiting him after dinner: “I am in the bar. Must see you tonight.”
The bar was nearly deserted. Walter, the bartender, was struggling with the endless paper work that always seemed to need doing and Dan Abbott was sitting alone in one corner, a bottle of San Pellegrino in front of him. He nervously thanked Reuben for seeking him out and offered both Frosts a drink. Reuben declined, but Cynthia ordered an additional bottle of mineral water.
“Have you heard what happened?” Abbott asked.
Reuben shook his head, though he knew full well what Abbott was about to say.
Abbott maneuvered his glass to his mouth with a shaking hand and took a drink. Then he blurted out that the police had arrested Tony Garrison for Baxter’s murder. “They came around eight o’clock. That guy Valier and three others.”
“Where did they take him, do you know?” Reuben asked.
“That police station where we were the other day.”
“The Questura.”
“Yeah. I wouldn’t have even known they were after him except I heard voices outside—they arrested him in his room—and Tabita was raising holy hell.”
“Where is she?” Cynthia asked.
“She took a Seconal and went to bed. We were both pretty shook up. I still am.” He looked morosely at Reuben. “Why the hell pick on Tony? He can’t be guilty.”
“Mr. Abbott, I know it must be a shock to you,” Reuben said. “And I also can appreciate that it’s going to devastate your business. But the evidence is pretty strong against Garrison.”
“Evidence?” Abbott asked belligerently.
Frost quietly told Abbott about the purchase of the glass dagger, about Baxter’s curses outside the Gritti before he was killed and about the vagueness of Garrison’s alibi.
“What motive did he have?” Abbott asked, when Reuben had finished. “There was no reason on God’s green earth for Tony to kill Gregg!”
“I’m afraid that’s the easiest part,” Reuben said. “There are almost too many possible motives.” He spelled them out, to Abbott’s discomfiture.
“Look, Gregg could be a sadistic son of a bitch, no question,” Abbott said. “And he was savage to Tony Thursday night. But Tony’d been through that a hundred times. He disregarded Gregg’s outbursts, just like we all did. And look at what Tony had at stake. I can’t believe he’d risk his career by anything as insane as killing Gregg.”
“I’d like to agree with you,” Reuben said. “But I’m afraid I can’t.”
“I thought you were on our side,” Abbott said crossly.
“I’m on nobody’s side,” Reuben shot back. “My only interest is seeing this drama completed and Baxter’s killer brought to justice. I believe that’s what’s now happening, unfortunate as that may be from your standpoint.”
“What’s next?” Abbott asked.
“I don’t know. I plan to call Valier in the morning.”
“We attempted to get to him earlier. I had the concierge try. The big one.”
“Gigi.”
“Whatever. He couldn’t track Valier down,” Abbott said. “I think we’ve got to get Tony a lawyer, and damn fast. Can you help us with that, at least?”
Frost ignored Abbott’s “at least.” “I’ll try my old firm in New York. It keeps a directory of recommended foreign lawyers. I’m not sure a name will show up for Venice, but I’m certain there’ll be somebody listed in Milan or Rome who can steer us to the right person.”
“Will you call New York to see?” Abbott asked.
“They’re six hours behind us. I may not be able to reach anybody now, but I’ll try when I get upstairs.”
“It’s none of my business, Mr. Abbott,” Cynthia added, looking over at their distraught companion, “but let me be a nursemaid and suggest that you get a good night’s sleep.”
“That’s not going to be easy.”
“But you must try.”
�
�I suspect that’s good advice for all of us,” Reuben said. With that, all three of them left, ignoring Massimo’s impassioned version of “Strangers in the Night.”
Reuben called Chase & Ward in New York from his room and was put through to Charlie Parkes, his old friend and now the Executive Partner of the firm. Frost described the circumstances, and asked if Parkes would check the foreign-lawyer file for a recommendation of Venetian counsel.
In less than half an hour, Parkes called back to report an absence of entries for Venice. However, there was a listing for a lawyer in Padua “who got that son of Rod Crutcher’s out of trouble in Venice three years ago. You know the one I mean?” Parkes said.
“Yes, I do,” Frost replied. “The lout.”
“He got absolutely shit-faced and pushed a complete stranger into one of the canals,” Parkes explained. “A native, not a tourist. So this fellow, Carlo Mancuzzi, had a real tough one, but he got Junior Crutcher off. I just talked to Rod and he said Mancuzzi did a first-class job. He was recommended by the American consul in Milan, speaks English, all that. The only problem is, he lives down the road apiece.”
“At least he’s a known quantity,” Reuben said. “Give me his phone number and address.”
Parkes added that he had predicted that Frost would get involved in the Baxter affair. “I knew you were on your usual Venice holiday, so when I read about Baxter in the papers—with the tabloid war we’re having, there was much coverage—I said to Betsy, ‘I’ll bet Reuben stirs up this pot before he gets through.’”
“I hope your wife defended me,” Reuben said. “If I remember correctly, you ingrate, I’ve stirred up a couple of pots on your behalf in times gone by.”
“I can’t quarrel with that, Reuben. But now you be careful,” Parkes said as he rang off.
Frost decided that it was too late to call Dan Abbott; there was a chance that he had followed Cynthia’s advice and gone to sleep. They could discuss Avvocato Mancuzzi the next day.
Wednesday morning, Reuben was getting dressed when the telephone rang.
Cynthia answered. “Yes, he’s right here,” she said to the caller. Putting her hand over the receiver, she whispered, “Tabita.”
“I must see you, Mr. Frost,” Tabita said, sounding upset.
“Have you had breakfast? Why don’t you meet me in the dining room in ten minutes?” Reuben asked.
“No! I don’t want to see you at the hotel. Can we go somewhere where we won’t be seen?”
“Well, there are the gardens over near San Marco, where we talked the other day.”
“That’s too close,” she replied.
“How about the public gardens?” Reuben suggested after a moment’s thought. “They’re isolated and practically empty. It’s mostly people who live in the neighborhood who use them.”
Tabita agreed, and Reuben gave her directions to the Giardini Pubblici, and to the memorial statues near the Viale Trieste in particular. “I’ll see you by the bust of Richard Wagner at ten-thirty. You can’t miss it.”
“Busy day,” Cynthia commented, as Reuben hung up.
He told her of his appointment to meet Tabita. “Now I’ve got to decide what to do about this damn lawyer in Padua. It will be awkward to give him orders over the phone, but we may have to.”
“This is my day to visit Ceil Scamozzi’s workshop.”
“Will you be back by lunchtime?”
“Oh, I think so. I can’t imagine I’ll spend much over an hour, and there was no mention of lunch.”
“Then I’ll try to see you back here around one. All right?”
“Unless Tabita casts a spell on you and spirits you away.”
“One can always hope.”
Before heading downstairs, Frost tried to reach Valier. He was told that the Commissario “è in riunione,” which Reuben puzzled out to be the Italian equivalent of that great American excuse, “He’s in conference.” Reuben left a message and said he would call again later.
After breakfast, Reuben ran into Dan Abbott in the lobby.
“I was trying to call you,” Abbott said. “But your wife said you were down here. What have the police got to say?”
“I can’t get hold of Valier,” Frost replied.
“How about a lawyer? Did you get Tony a lawyer?”
“I’ve got a name. Unfortunately he’s in Padua.”
“How far away is that?”
“A half-hour on the train.”
“Damn.”
“This fellow comes well recommended, and he supposedly speaks English.”
“How do we get in touch with him?”
“I have his office number.”
“Let’s get him over here quick. We’ve got to spring Tony.”
“I haven’t any idea about Italian criminal procedure, but I suspect that’s easier said than done.”
“Let’s call the guy.”
“He may not be in his office. The other thing is, he may want someone—you or me or both of us—to come to his office in Padua.”
“For the fee I’m willing to pay him, he can damn well get his ass over here,” Abbott said.
Reuben sighed. “Shall we use your suite?”
As luck would have it, Carlo Mancuzzi was at his desk when Frost and Abbott called. Yes, he was familiar with the police—and their methods—in Venice. He even knew Commissario Valier. Yes, he would be honored to work with an American lawyer from the fine firm of Chase & Ward, which had a worldwide reputation of the highest merit. Yes, he would come to Venice. No, he could not meet before early afternoon as he had an important appointment with a notary in Padua that morning.
Abbott, on the telephone with the two lawyers, did his best to persuade Mancuzzi to come sooner; he sounded like a sick patient pleading to see a busy doctor. Mancuzzi, in turn, resembled the jaded medical receptionist who had heard it all before. He would meet Avvocato Frost and Signor Abbott at the hotel at two-thirty.
“Guess we have to sit tight until then,” Abbott said.
“Not me. I’m going to town. I’ll see you later,” Frost said. He did not reveal the nature of his excursion and saw no reason to.
CHAPTER
20
A Busy Day: I
Arriving at the Giardini vaporetto stop, Reuben strode the short distance to the rendezvous point. He had half expected Tabita to be on the same boat with him, but she had not been, so he sat down to wait. Very soon he saw her approaching fast along the waterfront. A fence blocked her way to where Reuben was sitting, but she found an entrance and walked down the Largo Marinai d’Italia toward him.
He was startled when she embraced and kissed him. He felt her bony model’s body, encased this morning in dark slacks and a denim shirt, as she held on to him while thanking him for meeting her.
“Let’s go over there,” he said, pointing to a red wooden bench that would give them an unobstructed view of the water. When they were seated side by side, he asked her why she wanted to see him.
“Mr. Frost, there’s something I want to tell you, but I’m almost too frightened to do it.”
Reuben gave an encouraging grunt that was meant to keep her talking. It worked.
“The person who killed Gregg Baxter is still loose here in Venice. I don’t want to be the next victim.”
“The police have made an arrest, as you know,” he said evenly.
“I don’t care. Gregg Baxter’s killer is still at large. It is not Tony! He owed everything to Gregg. Like he always said, he’d probably be a crack dealer on Forty-second Street if Gregg hadn’t picked him out and made something of him.”
“I appreciate all that, Tabita. But you can’t deny that Baxter had been behaving badly to your Tony.”
“Sure, I know,” Tabita said. “But Tony was very mature about that and took Gregg’s abuse. There was too much at stake not to. If Tony left, that would have been the end of Baxter Fashions.”
“That’s a pretty big statement.”
“It’s a true one, though. Gre
gg was losing his touch and getting more dependent on Tony. Tony knew it, too. He didn’t need to kill Gregg to take over. All he had to do was be patient and wait.”
“He was near the scene of the crime,” Reuben said, as gently as possible.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean just what I said. Garrison—and you—were having drinks at the Gritti Palace an hour or so before the murder. Drinks with Eric Werth and his lawyer.”
“How do you know that?”
“Tabita, there’s a full-fledged investigation of Gregg Baxter’s murder going on. Many things have been found out, and I’m certain even more will be. By the time this is over, there aren’t going to be many secrets left.”
“That meeting—Tony thought a deal with Werth was a good idea,” Tabita said. “It would have meant money for everybody. All Tony was trying to do was figure out a way to make it happen.”
“Even though Baxter was firmly against it?”
“Tony hoped he could bring him around.”
“Another thing has come out, Tabita,” Frost said. “The glass dagger that Garrison bought.”
“I see what you mean about secrets,” Tabita said. “It’s about the glass dagger that I want to talk to you.”
“I’m listening.”
“Okay, then. The glass dagger. Yes, Tony bought it. Not to kill Gregg with, for God’s sake, but as a souvenir.”
“Odd souvenir.”
“On one of his trips here, Tony heard the story of the glassblowers who fled from Venice being assassinated with a glass dagger. He thought it would be a kick to own one. Said he might use it on anyone who tried to pirate his designs. So he shopped around and finally located a dealer who had one—not three or four hundred years old, but still an antique and an imitation of the knives they used to kill with. But then, after he’d bought it, someone stole it from our room at the hotel.”
“What! When?”
“We don’t know. When Tony bought it, he made a joke about how he should hide it from me, in case I might want to use it, but he just threw it, in its paper wrapping, into his suitcase. Then, when we heard how Gregg had been killed, he looked and it was gone.”
A Very Venetian Murder Page 17
