Death in the Floating City

by Tasha Alexander

  I resisted the urge to ask her why she hadn’t killed Angelo’s mother instead of Paolo’s father. “Signora Vendelino is in good health, is she not?”

  “Good enough, but she is frail,” Donata said. “Angelo had been afraid to tell me the truth because he thought I wouldn’t wait so long for him.”

  “You were willing to wait, though?” I asked.

  “Of course. You can set no time limit on love. But then—then that Barozzi man came to my father. Looking for help with his collection of illuminated books. Papa was busy with a customer, so Barozzi sat with me, telling crazy tales about how the Vendelino family owed him their fortune.”

  “Surely you didn’t give his claims any credibility? He was nothing more than a deluded old man.”

  “He wasn’t,” she said. “I grew up in the Vendelino household, remember. There were stories, rumors that the servants still joked about. They said the Vendelinos had stolen everything from the Barozzis.”

  “That’s nothing more than idle gossip,” I said.

  “Nicolò’s letters weren’t idle gossip.”

  “You found the letters he wrote to Besina?”

  “No,” she said. “I found a pledge, tucked away in an old copy of Dante’s Divine Comedy. Two men, one identified as N.V., the other as L.B., initialed it, promising to end the feud in a manner that would forever join the families in a way more powerful and lasting than a marriage ever could.”

  “When was this? And where is it now?”

  “I found it when I was a girl. I’d been reading the book and came upon it, and I always remembered it. At first because I liked the smell of the old paper and the feel of the ink on the page. Later, because it seemed romantic.” She spat the last words.

  “Yet this still proves nothing,” I said.

  “It was enough to give credence to what Barozzi was claiming. Enough to tell me I could not risk waiting to see what evidence he would find.”

  “Where is the letter now?”

  “I burned it,” she said. “I burned it with the letters Signor Barozzi was holding when I killed him.”

  My heart sank to learn that I would not be able to read the letters. “Why didn’t you do the same with the page of Dante he had?”

  “I didn’t know he had it,” she said. “Or I would have and we wouldn’t be here now, would we?”

  “Where did it come from?” I asked.

  “I have no idea,” she said.

  “What about the ring? Why didn’t you take that?”

  “I didn’t know he had that, either.” The creases in her forehead deepened. “I didn’t see it in his hand.”

  “How did you get the letter with the pledge from the Vendelinos’ library?” I asked. “Was it still in the book?”

  “It was,” she said. “I asked Angelo to give me the book. He didn’t mind. He remembered I had liked reading it, and he didn’t want me to cause any trouble.”

  “Did he worry you were going to?” I asked. “Didn’t he know you were content, that you trusted in his love?”

  “Yes, but the baby, you see,” she said. Her eyes grew wide and her lips trembled when her voice broke. “Our baby would change everything.”

  I tried to catch Colin’s eye but couldn’t get his attention. Donata was with child. That’s why her figure was so curvy. That’s why she’d had trouble fitting into my dress.

  “A baby!” I said, reacting in the only way that would both be appropriate and, if I were lucky, provide just the distraction I needed. “How wonderful! Donata, I am absolutely delighted for you. This is such joyful news!”

  This unnerved her. She lowered the gun, just a bit, and looked at me as if I were crazy.

  “I’m so happy for you!” I plastered an enormous smile on my face, opened my arms, and stepped forward, enveloping her in a warm embrace. Then, with a swift motion I’m not sure I could ever again replicate, I knocked the gun out of her hand. Colin pounced on it, covering it with his body and then rising again fluidly.

  He didn’t have to point it at Donata. Defeat was written all over her face.

  * * *

  The police immediately took Donata into custody. They secured her on the boat and waited while we searched the barn until we’d found the bag Paolo told us she’d had with her. She hadn’t hidden it, not suspecting anyone would invade the space before she’d forced Paolo to kill himself, but she’d flung it behind a moldering pile of wood. The manuscript pages were inside, wrapped in the long cloak she’d worn with the plague doctor mask, also in the bag. I felt something heavy in the bottom and reached nearly my whole arm inside to remove a ridiculously tall pair of cork-soled shoes.

  “That is taking fashion to an extreme,” I said.

  Paolo, who hadn’t stepped more than six inches from my husband’s side since we’d saved him, cleared his throat. “They’re called chopines,” he said. “Venetian women wore them during the Renaissance.”

  Colin shook his head. “Far be it for any gentleman to try to understand ladies and fashion.”

  The trip back to Venice was tense and uncomfortable. As there was nowhere else to put her, Donata sat with the rest of us, a policeman on either side of her, her arms bound. Paolo kept as far away as possible from her.

  “Emily, could I please have a word with you?” she asked. Her eyes were watery, and though I despised what she had done, I had once counted her among my friends. I asked the policemen to give us a few feet of space so that we could talk with some semblance of privacy.

  “I know how terrible what I’ve done is,” she said. “I wish I could go back and stop myself, that I could find some other course.”

  “If only such a thing were possible,” I said.

  “You have been so kind to me, far kinder than I deserve. I cannot help but think if I’d had a friend like you from the beginning, none of this would have happened.” She turned her head to the water, where, in the distance, we could see the first signs of Venice. Tall bell towers rose over the red-tiled roofs of houses, and the domes of St. Mark’s were coming into view. “I know I have no right to ask for more kindness from you or anyone, but I beg you to let me do one thing before I’m taken to prison.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “I want to speak to my father,” she said. “I want him to hear what I’ve done from my own lips, with my own explanation. He deserves far better than what I’ve given him. I lied to him so often—I wrote the letter you thought he’d sent to your husband, and I made sure he was expecting to hear from you about the ring so that when you came to the shop my manipulation would not be revealed. I stole out of the house so many times when he thought I was in my room. And then there’s the murder. I must confess everything to him. Please let me shield him from the pain of having to listen to a stranger—or even you—tell him these terrible things.”

  It was a reasonable request, and one that would spare her father some measure of grief. “I will see if I can arrange it.”

  We looked at each other with tear-filled eyes.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “For how I betrayed you.”

  “You have my forgiveness,” I said. “I just wish that it could do you more good.”

  * * *

  No one objected to Donata speaking to her father. We stopped at the shop on our way to the cell where she would be held until her trial. The policemen waited just inside the front door. Colin and I came in farther, as we couldn’t let her out of our sight, but we gave her enough space that she could have as much privacy as possible in the situation.

  The old man, who still believed we were returning from a celebratory picnic, greeted us with a smile, standing and opening his arms to his daughter. As she started to talk, his shoulders slumped. He listened, bowing his head to hide his tears as she continued. Soon he was holding his head in his hands and Donata had put her arms around him. They were both sobbing.

  I didn’t care what I’d promised the police. I couldn’t bear to watch anymore. I turned away, letting Colin make sure D
onata did not try to escape. She didn’t, of course. Eventually, we had to fetch her, tell her it was time to go. She cried all the harder, clinging to her father, but only for a moment. Then, resigned to her fate, she stepped away from him.

  “I am ready,” she said.

  Un Libro d’Amore

  xxiv

  Besina knew she was dying. The fact did not trouble her except in regard to her son. Poor Tomaso. She hated to leave him so totally, even though she could neither see nor speak to him. She had tried, again and again, to write to her son, but Uberto intercepted all of the letters, even those carried to the house by Lorenzo, and sent them back to her. He wanted her to know Tomaso would never read her words. He didn’t want her to have the comfort even of false hope.

  Nicolò and Lorenzo were changing that. Lorenzo had explained it all to her, though she found it hard to follow his words. Everything was difficult now. Pain blinded her to nearly everything else.

  “I have named Tomaso as my heir,” Lorenzo said, “and Nicolò is bestowing upon him the same honor. He will inherit the fortunes of both families, as he should, coming from them both as he does.”

  “But Uberto,” Besina said, her voice weak and scratchy. “He will stop it.”

  “He cannot stop a legal inheritance.”

  “Tomaso,” she said. “He must know. He must know why this is happening.”

  “We will tell him, Nicolò and I, when he is old enough to understand.”

  “He must know,” she said. “He must.”

  “I promise you he will,” Lorenzo said, pressing his hand softly on his sister’s forehead. She could not survive many more nights, and he knew what he must do.

  Besina had great faith in her brother. Nevertheless, she felt she, too, must do something to ensure her son would know the truth, even if something happened to Lorenzo. She called for her confessor and told him her story. She made him promise Tomaso would know.

  The next morning, just after the sun had risen, Lorenzo came to the gate of San Zaccaria and demanded to see his sister. His request was rebuffed. He was not alone, the nun explained, he was with someone not from the Barozzi family. It could not be allowed, she said. Lorenzo had anticipated this response. He asked to speak to the abbess. When she came to the gate, he and Nicolò both gave her heavy bags of gold.

  “I do not care what my father told you,” Lorenzo said. “You are well aware that my sister is dying. Have you seen any of the rest of my family come to offer her comfort and love in her final days? This man cares about her. He will be allowed to see her.”

  Nicolò never was sure if it was the gold or Lorenzo’s appeal that convinced the woman. Whatever the cause, she unlocked the door and ushered them both inside.

  “She had a very bad night,” the woman said. “I do not think she slept at all. Prepare yourselves.”

  Lorenzo went to Besina first. Today he did not read to her from Dante, as he usually did on his visits. He did not regale her with stories about carnivale or the latest gossip. Instead, he told her he loved her, and that no man could have a better sister.

  Then he said good-bye.

  He kissed her on both cheeks and on her forehead and backed away, his heart heavy. Nicolò stepped forward. Lorenzo retreated to the small window and stood facing it, wanting to give Besina as much privacy as possible.

  Nicolò had not seen Besina since that last day in Santa Maria Miracoli, so many years ago. To him, even in sickness, her face was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and he prayed, thanking God for letting him lay eyes on it one more time before she was called back to heaven. He sat on the bed and took Besina’s hands, her tiny, bony hands, in his.

  “Being with you now, at this moment, is the most important thing in my life,” he said. “I would give up everything else for it.”

  “Nicolò.” Her voice was so weak he could hardly hear her, but he saw the muscles in her face moving. She was trying to smile at him. “My love.”

  “Never before has a woman been loved the way I love you, Besina,” he whispered to her, leaning close, “and never again shall one be. I regret so much that I could not do more for you, that I let you down so terribly.”

  “No, Nicolò, you have never let me down. You’re the only one who never has.”

  “This should have ended so differently,” he said. “You should be surrounded by our children in a house that was always full of laughter.”

  “I can ask for no more than having you with me now.”

  Besina’s breath caught in her throat, and it was hard for her to draw another. The sound alarmed both men in the room. They knew it would not be long. Nicolò looked at Lorenzo, his eyes sending a question, asking permission. Lorenzo nodded.

  Nicolò gathered Besina’s frail body into his arms, wrapping around her the soft blanket that covered the bed. He pulled her sideways onto his lap and held her close to him. He showered her face with gentle kisses and spoke, reciting from the poet they both loved.

  You’ve seen the temporary fire and the eternal fire; you have reached the place past which my powers cannot see. I’ve brought you here through intellect and art; from now on, let your pleasure be your guide; you’re past the steep and past the narrow paths. Look at the sun that shines upon your brow; look at the grasses, flowers, and the shrubs born here, spontaneously, of the earth. Among them, you can rest or walk until the coming of the glad and lovely eyes—those eyes that, weeping, sent me to your side. Await no further word or sign from me: your will is free, erect, and whole—to act against that will would be to err: therefore I crown and miter you over yourself.

  They were the last words spoken to Dante by Virgil as he made his way through Purgatorio. Besina, who had listened with a look of such peace on her face, opened her eyes and tried to smile. “Are you releasing me, Nicolò?”

  “I am, my love.”

  He held her closer still, not letting her go until long after he felt her shallow breathing stop and her body go slack. When the abbess, who had watched it all from the doorway, came into the room, she laid her hand on his shoulder, tears streaming down her face. Nicolò nodded, knowing he had to put Besina down, but he could not bear it. He pulled her close again and kissed the top of her head.

  Then, with the gentlest touch, he lowered her back onto the bed. He placed the blanket on top of her. He smoothed her hair. He closed her eyes, and he wept until he could weep no more.

  There would never again be such beauty in the world.

  25

  After leaving Donata in the capable hands of the police, Colin, Paolo, and I returned to the Danieli, where Emma, still prostrate on our bed, burst into tears at the sight of her husband. Paolo’s face and his white linen suit were covered with dust, but as soon as Emma was convinced he was unharmed, she demanded fresh clothes; I had left her with a nightgown into which she could change.

  “I’m perfectly healthy,” she said. “My head hurts a little, but it doesn’t trouble me much. Not now that my lecherous husband has returned.”

  I couldn’t decide if she was being facetious.

  “Emma, cara, my love.” Paolo took her in his arms. “I have never loved any woman but you. I may have made a mistake here or there in the past, but my heart never strayed—and you must believe me, Caterina Brexiano was never my lover.”

  “Then why were you spending so much time with her?” Emma asked. “Why were you with her the night your father was killed?”

  “Because I actually did believe the things she’d told him,” he said. “I think she can communicate with the dead.”

  “What about Margarita da Fiori?” Emma asked.

  “She doesn’t exist,” Paolo said. “She’s an invention of Signor Polani, who uses her whenever he needs a convenient excuse. I borrowed her from him because I was panicked.”

  “Did Caterina tell you about Besina’s letters and the ring?” I asked. “Did you know she’d given them to your father?”

  “No,” Paolo said. “She kept those to herself after she
’d found them in the hotel, but she used some of the information in them to tempt me with the idea of possible fortune in my future. I’m sure she had done something similar with my father, though I can’t find any record of him having paid her beyond what she required for the séances she staged on his behalf.”

  “Did she ever tell you anything useful?” Emma asked.

  “Not really,” Paolo said. “It’s a hopeless business.”

  “It’s not hopeless anymore.” Brother Giovanni had come out from the suite’s second bedroom as soon as we’d returned but had not spoken until now. “I’m nearly done with the pages the villain left behind. There is a significant connection between the Barozzi and Vendelino families. Dare I hope you have found the rest of the manuscript?”

  I smiled. “In fact, we have.” I handed it to him.

  “If I could trouble you all for some help, extra hands would mean we could finish this far more quickly than if you leave the job to me alone.”

  Colin and Paolo followed him at once. I helped Emma into one of my dresses but refused to call for the maid to do her hair. Some things can stand being delayed, and while being properly dressed is not one of them, catering to one’s vanity is. We joined the others as quickly as we could and found that Caterina and the Polanis, responding to our summons, had also arrived. Colin had wanted to personally tell them they were no longer under suspicion, but we also had questions we wanted them to answer. Neither of us liked loose ends.

  Brother Giovanni had reorganized the room considerably. The bed was pushed into a corner, and he’d asked for and received a larger table. It was around this that we all sat. Colin and Paolo were already hard at work, as were Caterina and Florentina. Signor Polani was doing an excellent job looking industrious, but he did not seem to be making much progress. Brother Giovanni gave Emma and me each a paintbrush and instructed us to dip them in the opaque mixture in a bowl in the center of the table.

  “Do not work too quickly,” he said, “and do not let your brush become too wet. You will soon get a feel for what you are doing, and then as one set of words disappears, you will be rewarded with another. You may use these rags to blot as you go.”