Love Spirits: What Happens in Venice: Book One (What Happens in Venice: The Trinity Ghost Story 1)

by Diana Cachey

  With a wave of his head, he pulled away but didn’t walk away. He stayed close,close enough for them to feel the heat of each other’s bodies, even on a cold winter day. He looked as if he wanted to take her, right there. And he would make it wonderful, and she would let him.

  To torture me, thought Louisa as she bit her lip.

  “What do you want . . . me to say?” she said, as ambiguous as she could make her English.

  “I don’t understand you,” he sneered.

  “You don’t understand me or my question?”

  “I don’t understand nah-ting,” he said then thought better.“No, youdon’t understand nah-ting.”

  This time he didn’t just stand there. He gripped her around the waist, fingers clutching it, tender yet firm. Then kissed her deeply.

  Her body went limp and his body went hard. It held her up.

  “Why you here?” he asked, his body holding hers.

  Louisa didn’t know how to answer the question. In that moment, she wasn’t sure why she was in Venice or here with Matteo or why she met with Massimo. She refused to admit to Matteo that she was indeed a candle in the wind, or that his comment stung her. Bad.

  To her delight, Massimo appeared at her side and motioned for Matteo to leave.

  Matteo didn’t move except to bat eyelashes at Louisa over his cigarette.

  “I said move,” she thought she heard Massimo say but she didn’t see him move his mouth. Perhaps it was the strength of his look? His strong presence spoke those words? She wasn’t sure.

  She thought she heard Matteo reply to Massimo, without moving his mouth either,“She’s mine. Get out of here. This is no business of yours.”

  Louisa often thought she could read Matteo’s mind, especially if she was confused or distraught about something. Matteo had insisted he could read her mind and that she could read him as well. She wondered if she were doing so now.

  “Stop it,” Matteo said to Louisa.“Stop reading us.”

  “Shut up, fool,” Massimo told him.“Don’t you have somewhere to go, Matteo, like work,” which was not a question but an order said with volume and a tone that screamed“run along now poor boy.”

  Louisa wondered about the details of how Massimo knew Mattro, but she’d been told many times that Venetians knew everyone else in Venice. They loved to learn about their neighbors. Personal dramas were their favorites. She wouldn’t have been surprised if Massimo had witnessed personal drama between Matteo and Louisa in the past.

  More likely, Matteo’s previous run-ins with the law had familiarized them with each other.

  Louisa could see that Massimo’s command had infuriated Matteo. She’d seen fury in Matteo’s eyes many times before, but she’d never seen him keep it at bay nor follow another man’s order. Except his father’s and then only after much argument, threats or bribery.

  Yet he didn’t argue with Massimo. Matteo began to walk away and slowed only to say,“Watch yourselfLouisa.”

  “You might want to follow his advice,” said Massimo.“That man is danger to you,” she also heard Massimo’s voice say, but this time Louisa was sure his mouth had not moved. Then slowly, as if gliding, Massimo started to move away but not before he lifted his Prada hat off his head and handed it to her, grinning the most beautiful smile she’d ever seen in all of Italy.

  From afar, she then felt Massimo kiss her, strongly and squarely on the mouth.

  Neither his lips nor even his body had moved.

  **

  Quattro (4) All Play and No Work

  That Prada man, the mysterious one. He’d sent Matteo whimpering off with a wrist flick and a stare. He blocked Matteo from her but also stood between her and the information she wanted.

  Or thought she wanted? Did she care what happened to the dead glassmakers? Any more than as a passing curiosity? As a tourist hoping to engage in a murder mystery vacation?

  No. She didn’t care.

  Just because the San Marco bells rang when she was thinking about ghosts then rang again when she read the article about the deaths -- which seemed to tell her to look into the deaths and the ghost stories -- didn’t mean she cared. And just because Massimo, the Prada man, told her to stay away from the case, and Matteo’s brother-in-law worked for the same factory as the two dead men, didn’t mean that Louisa had acquired an interest, did it? It didn’t mean she wanted to investigate further. Did she?

  In the middle of these reflections, Louisa realized she’d been standing at the desk of the secretary to the Venice police chief, staring into a bowl of fancy-wrapped chocolates.

  “Let me know if you’d like one,” the perfect woman behind the desk said in that subtle manner that Louisa had come to believe was her clever way of making all her words belie their meaning. Thus, in offering the chocolate to Louisa, she offered her nothing. First, she’d emphasized the word one, only one, as if to say,“Don’t you dare take one, but if you dare, it better be only one, if that.” Second, why would Louisa need to let her know if she’d like one when the chocolates sat on the desk being offered to anyone? Third, and most important, she’d curled her upper lip when she said it in obvious disapproval of Louisa eating a chocolate and of Louisa, period.

  Whichever way Louisa responded, it was a defeat. Louisa wanted that chocolate, the gourmet Swiss milk variety, the gooey caramel centered expensive chocolate you could rarely find. Yet no respectable perfect Venetian woman would herself eat a piece of chocolate in front of another woman. Especially an American woman, a lovely and intelligent professional American woman who outranked her in the police department because of her legal education and outranked her in the Italian male-acquiring department because she’d been born in that superpower country, that most superior of all the superpowers, the almighty America. Therefore, a super powerful American woman could never eat chocolate, ever. Especially not in front of a perfect Venetian woman.

  She looked up at the police chief’s secretary, whose name Louisa knew but by which she would never call her because the police chief’s secretary would be forever referred to by Louisa and her friends as“that perfect woman” or more appropriately“that perfect bitch.”

  Louisa stood there, hoping to look tough, powerful. Wanting to be seen as an even bigger bitch than the police chief’s secretary. To show no emotion, no shame, no insecurity, guilt or even cockiness and to simply be a blank slate. Yet the best she could muster was a squeamish smile, a smirk. Luckily, as always in Venice, an admirer rescued her.

  A young man pressed his muscular chest against Louisa's back. He said,“Si, si, si, signorita, va bene, vabene,” as he placed one hand on her shoulder then picked up a chocolate with the other hand, deftly peeled off its golden wrapper with the same hand he held it in, let the wrapper drop onto the perfect woman’s desk and popped the chocolate into Louisa’s eager awaiting mouth.

  “Good eh?” he said.

  Louisa shook her head in agreement and with eyes closed, she tilted her head into his hand on her shoulder. She didn’t chew. She let the chocolate melt between her lips and imagined the perfect woman’s face with mouth agape and horrified eyes. Louisa also envisioned pouring the entire bowl of candy onto the perfect head then watch as the gilded packaging toppled over and about her impeccable body like an unwelcome rain shower.

  When Louisa opened her eyes, the woman’s eyes were not full of horror but glee. While staring into Louisa’s eyes she scooped up the wrapper, crumbled and tossed it behind her then turned and smashed it into the marble floor with the knife-like pointed toes of her designer stilletos. To make sure the wrapper was dead, she twisted her heel into it too.

  “Is that the best you have?” Louisa said, her renewed power heightened by the handsome rescue. When she said it, she glanced at both the murderous shoes and the crushed, killed wrapper.

  “Scusi?” said the chocolate wrapper murderess. Louisa had insulted her overpriced shoes. She muttered a Venetian profanity that told Louisa to go wipe her ass on the side of a canal. She rustled pa
pers, slammed desk drawers. Then she vanished with all of the chocolates.

  Only her once perfectly heeled, now offensive shoes remained. In the trash.

  **

  “Detective Menetto,” said her rescuer. He introduced himself while he kept a brisk pace away from the police chief’s office.

  “Louisa Mangotti.”

  “Bella. Italiana?”

  “Si,” she lied. She was not full Italian. Her father’s grandfather did immigrate from Italy but her mom was German.

  “Mrs. Mangotti,” he began.

  “I’m not married,” Louisa corrected. Detective Menetto had addressed her earlier as signoritabut perhaps he’d only referred to her by that title to further annoy the keeper of the chocolates, a woman who stood guard outside the door of his domineering boss. Or maybe he’d used that title because he hoped Louisa was single and wished it to be confirmed.

  “Mi scusi,” he said as he bowed. Next hedouble-air kissed her cheeks, which kisses found more of her cheeks than air.“Can I help you find something?”

  The question could refer to many things but, like many English phrases that Italian men uttered, above all else it conveyed a sexual connotation. Louisa thought about the answer for a moment. Oh yes he could help her find something, like the discoteca, which she’d learned did not mean the disco at all but more accurately translated to a frolic. Not necessarily a frolic at a disco either but wherever most convenient for one to make merry. Perhaps in a disco, perhaps not, but more likely, in a car. There being no cars in Venice, then a boat. Really just about anywhere could be a discoteca.

  She knew he could help her find a disco and more but what she couldn’t say was that she wanted him to help her find out who might’ve wanted the glassmakers dead or who may’ve sent her messages disguised as ghost missives because she didn’t know yet if she could trust him. A look of pleasure graced his face at the pause in her answering him and he cocked his head and raised his eyebrows in anticipation of helping her with whatever she needed. She realized he probably thought she was a tourist, possibly there to report a pick-pocketing or lost passport.

  “You don’t know, do you,” she asked in Italian. This intrigued him. An American woman who spoke Italian with a very good accent and who knew something he didn’t know. A secret. The equivalent of a Venetian jackpot.“No?” she asked again.

  A secret? One which he could be the first to tell everyone, to release it into the foggy Venetian air, to feed and fill the mill. Unlike normal gossip mills, Venetians didn’t change the stories they heard as they retold them. Like their home town itself, stories stayed mostly the same throughout the centuries. This secret would be a veritable tape recorded deposition when passing through Venetian circles. That is why secrets were adored by Venetians. Secrets could never be gossip for they were always the truth.

  “Dimmi, dimmi tutto,” he requested and indeed she planned to tell him everything just as he had asked for but not yet.

  He thought about what the secret might be and imagined it moving through the circles: Louisa Mangotti, Signorita Mangotti, una bella Americana, padre Italiano, madre Italiana. So on and on, word for word it would go. No detail left out, no amplification of any part, except for those that made the storyteller look better. For example, in Detective Menetto’s version of the events that had recently transpired, he would pop not one but many chocolates into her mouth. He would dance around the desk and pop a few more into the mouth of the perfect woman. Then he would wait patiently while the two women fought over him until he was forced to whisk away Louisa and respectfully bid adieu to the scorned one who would slump into her chair in disgust. To Italians, embellishments such as these were considered closer to truth than falsity.

  “I’m here in Venice to help with the Interpol database,” she said in a tone that sounded as if she’d said she’d been elected the new president of Italy, which was quite a common occurrence in that country. He reacted in a manner as if being elected president was what she’d reported too.

  “Translation,” he announced. Rather than try to explain that she knew not enough Italian to translate the entire Interpol database, but simply knew more Italian than anyone in the office knew English, she simply nodded affirmatively.“We must have it. Gracie Dio,” he said with hands in prayer position.

  “Thank God? Why?” she said.

  “Because the problems in the world is coming to Venice. No, those problems are here now, dottoressa.”

  She didn’t ask what problems he referred to or if there was one in particular that concerned him. She did better than that for she nuzzled him and said,“You are from the South, correct?” Of course he was from Southern Italy. Most Italian policemen were southerners and many were politically connected dark-haired beauties named Menetto.

  “Si,” he said.

  “Naples, Calabria or Sicily?”

  “Tutti.”

  “You are from all of them?”

  “Si, yes.I move.”

  She nuzzled further. Saying he was from all of those places was sort of code for saying my family just about owns this country.

  “My mother’s family was from Calabria,” she said.

  “Si, si, Americani e mezze Calabrese.”

  “Yes, half of America is from Calabria. No, not half, all. We move,” she said.

  More laughter ensued until the perfect woman walked by. Her magnificent over-the-knee leather boots tucked into black jeans caused their instant silence. If there was one thing worse than an Italian woman with a beautiful outfit, it was one who wore two beautiful outfits before noon. Not that Louisa hadn’t done that before, but she had never done it so well.

  “An important lunch date,” the woman said. Her dismissive scan of Louisa’s suit said, You’renot invited because you don’t have the right clothes.

  To Louisa, important lunch date meant that while she worked all afternoon for a pittance, this overpaid snotty bureaucrat would sip wonderful wine, feast on fabulous food and laugh about the stupid American slaving back at the office over ancient computers and office machines that either didn’t work or were so slow they seemed to be completely stopped. Also it meant that her important lunch date would wear an Armani suit, Hermes tie, highly buffed Ferrigamo shoes, a Versace shirt and would have the deep blue eyes of a Hawaiian sea, the physique and jaw of a Dolce and Gabbana cover model and would kiss both of her hands between courses then licked her fingers after lunch.

  “Very important,” said Louisa as she pretended to scribble some fake notes on an invisible notepad, allowing the woman to interpret what this odd comment was about. Louisa looked at the young Menettoand faked more note-taking like a school yard guard soliciting witnesses for a later report to superiors. Louisa watched while the woman straightened her back, which thrust her chest forward and her rump up, and took a deep breath as if preparing to spew flames of fire at Louisa’s face. She put on her matching hot pink cashmere gloves, hat and scarf, cinched tighter her short leather jacket belt and didn’t dare breath hot air or fire for fear it might add a smidgeon to her waistline. Pleased with her silent display, she iced her luscious lips with frosty, hot pink gloss.

  Both women knew who’d won this battle. It was the woman who’d win every battle, always, involving anything to do with fashion. Not Louisa. When she turned back, Menetto was gone.

  **

  Cinque (5) Two Many Men

  When Barbara exited the plane at Venice’s Marco Polo airport, she noted that the wolves followed. First one handsome man, then two, then two more, then another two, until there was a pack of Italians of which she could approve, never disapprove. All were grouped together, bound as one for maximum effect, this pack. Not that she hadn’t noticed them on the plane, but they were now in parade formation.

  Unlike most American males Barbara knew, Italian males and, in particular, Venetians, were not averse to being viewed as mere objects, eye candy, works of art. The Italian heritage, genealogy, duty, birthright demanded to be admired like a fine chiseled
statue sculpted by Michelangelo. Although a bit offensive, their conceit enticed her, or at least it did today. It’s playful, it’s fun, it’s light and airy, thought Barbara. It is like cotton candy. Yummy.

  It felt like only yesterday Barbara was playing with her cats outside her home in Seattle. Oh yea, it was only yesterday, she reflected as she left the trail of men behind her, found a new one at the Alilagunaboat dock and boarded the ferry for Lido, one of many lovely islands off Venice. Barbara picked a hotel on Lido across the lagoon because she wanted an escape, a little breather, from the crowds of St. Mark’s Square and Venice proper. She also wanted a buffer zone from Louisa, who didn’t know that Barbara arrived a day early and she could rest before the rush began -- the run around with Louisa over bridges, different islands and campos, churches and cemeteries looking for ghosts.

  Lido, which means beach in Italian, boasts not only a beach that runs the length of the island, but unlike Venice, it has cars, bicycles, a golf course, roads for motor vehicles and the famous film festival. Like Venetians, people who live on the Lido possess a flawless appearance, maybe more so because they don’t have to walk everywhere and they can wear finer threads than the Venetians who must battle the elements.

  The men seemed familiar to her, not in a local way but in a New York City boroughs way, N.Y.P.D. brawny cop kind of way, their American cousins. Slicked-back dark hair battled with shaved-bald soccer heads, long-lashed bedroom eyes topped plenty of the universally sculpted noses displayed over full lips and of course, there were the ubiquitous tight pants and hunky, macho walk that said,I’m too sexy for my pants, to anyone who looked, which was everyone. These men all silently screamed,I’m a Latin lover,in their very body language, their torso led by their crotch. Barbara chuckled remembering what her friend used to say about men in Italy,“They’re always touching themselves down there, I think to draw the eyes in that direction.”