The Complete Mystery Collection

by Michaela Thompson

  He drank his coffee and ate bread and butter, watching as, her back turned toward him, she continued with her work. She seemed to shift her weight rather often from one hip to the other. Watching the outline of the movement against the back of her skirt, Rolf started to smile to himself.

  When he’d finished eating, he made a great show of taking his dishes to the sink and starting to wash them. Noticing what he was doing, she protested, “No, no! I do!”

  “Si, sì, I do!” he mocked, grinning, running hot water in the dishpan to make a soapy froth.

  “No!” Laughing, she grabbed at his cup and saucer as he slid them in the dishpan.

  “Si.” He caught her wrist and, with his other hand, picked up a pile of soapsuds and blew them at her. A few bubbles landed on the front of her sweater.

  She gave a cry of delighted outrage, picked up her own handful of bubbles, but was laughing too hard to blow them at him. Rolf took that wrist too, and blew them back at her. Bubbles flew around them, clinging to her dark, curly hair.

  “Terrible! Very naughty!” she gasped, her face glowing.

  “Very naughty,” Rolf agreed as he slid his arms around her extremely warm body.

  Yet even as he tasted Rosa, held her, pushed himself against her, murmuring what he hoped was the Italian word for “upstairs,” Rolf found himself thinking of Sally. The image of her skinny, cold, dead body only increased his need and desire.

  The Pierrot Costume

  The sun sparkled on the green expanse of the Giudecca Canal and reflected brilliantly off the white bulk of an arriving cruise ship. Rolf, on the way to get the vaporetto across from the Zattere, thought it was a nice enough day to have a coffee outside. Maybe he’d do that at one of the cafés near the Accademia Gallery.

  Rosa had been disappointed at his leaving her so soon, but Rolf had never understood what was so appealing about the cuddling, the tracing the outline of nose, lips, chin, with a forefinger, the sticky, worn-out kisses and soft murmurs afterward. A cigarette, or even two, was fine. After that, he started to feel moody just lying around, and somebody’s eyes brimming and a few hurt looks weren’t going to make him stay.

  Besides which, Rosa might be a little pissed at him now, but he knew she was going to be at him every minute Gianni was out of the house, because she had been so ready. When they were ready like that and you got them going, they couldn’t stop even if they wanted to.

  A boat was approaching, and he ran for it. Even this early, a clown with a painted face, wearing a red fright wig, was among the passengers. The clown wore an overcoat on top of his costume and carried a trombone case. Looking at the clown’s exaggerated mouth, bright red against white greasepaint, and his heavily outlined eyes, Rolf felt that his own face was naked. If he was going to stick around Venice, maybe he should get another mask.

  The clown had dark brown circular freckles drawn across his nose and cheekbones. The freckles reminded Rolf of Sally. He shifted his eyes from the clown to the churning water beside the boat, watching it until they reached the Zattere.

  He got off and looked around. A couple of places were serving coffee at outside tables, but he didn’t want to sit looking back across at the Giudecca. He’d rather put a little more distance between himself and Rosa. He wandered along the Rio di San Trovaso across from the gondola works, cut behind a palazzo, and emerged into the campo in front of the Accademia Gallery, with its newsstand near the foot of the Accademia Bridge and a couple of cafés overlooking the Grand Canal.

  He wondered if there would be anything in the local papers about Sally’s death. He couldn’t really read Italian, but he could pick out enough to make it worthwhile to buy a paper. He wandered toward the newsstand and had almost reached it when he saw Jean-Pierre entering the campo from the opposite direction. Rolf was sure it was Jean-Pierre, even though Jean-Pierre was wearing one of those yellow cardboard masks that were given away everywhere.

  Rolf shrank behind the wire rack of postcards, next to the banks of magazines in four languages, and peered out at Jean-Pierre. Jean-Pierre gave no sign of having seen him. He was carrying a white plastic bag under one arm. The bag was stuffed full. As Rolf watched, Jean-Pierre turned and began to climb the steps of the Accademia Bridge.

  Lingering by the postcards, Rolf debated what to do. He hadn’t hailed Jean-Pierre because it was possible that Jean-Pierre was his enemy, the author of the Medusa poem. Rolf couldn’t trust any member of the group, and he would stay away from them until he was sure of his next move.

  Jean-Pierre’s appearance, though, might be an opportunity to find out what was going on. Maybe Jean-Pierre was on his way to see Brian. Rolf was surprised, in fact, that Jean-Pierre wasn’t with Brian now, but maybe Brian had had a bad reaction to Sally’s death.

  Jean-Pierre had reached the top of the bridge. Seconds from now, he would be out of sight. Rolf left his hiding place and started for the bridge, following Jean-Pierre.

  Luckily, quite a few people were out by this time, enough so Rolf could lose himself among them. Still, he would have given a great deal to have a mask, as extra protection against discovery. He would get one the first chance he had.

  So where are we going, sweetie? Rolf sneered at Jean-Pierre. Rolf had had no respect for Jean-Pierre since he’d gone gaga over Brian. That slavish, sickening devotion was imbecility. Rolf might have his problems, he’d be the first to admit it, but slavish devotion had never been one of them. It was, in a way, the opposite in his case. He didn’t want to be anybody’s slave. He wanted to be in control. And if the woman— an innocent type like Sally— was scared, terrified—

  Rolf switched his mind off that subject and concentrated on Jean-Pierre. They had crossed the bridge and were passing a flower stand where bunches of yellow mimosa, iris, and salmon-colored roses sat in tubs on the pavement. Jean-Pierre plodded on, clutching his bundle, head bent and shoulders rounded. He was the very picture of a defeated jerk, although he should’ve been riding high with his competition out of the way.

  They moved into the airy Campo Francesco Morosini. Costumed children chased each other while their mothers, wearing dark winter coats and carrying shopping bags, stood talking. A couple of cafés here were serving outside, but for the moment Rolf had given up on coffee alfresco. He followed Jean-Pierre into the passage in front of the Santo Stefano Church, then down a little shop-lined street.

  And then, God damn it to hell, right to a dead end at a canal.

  Seeing Jean-Pierre stop abruptly, Rolf skidded to a halt as well. When Jean-Pierre turned around, which he was sure as hell going to have to, he’d be staring Rolf in the face if Rolf didn’t do something right now. Of course, this being the most inconvenient city in the world, there were no handy side streets or alleys. Rolf ducked into a little shop with sausages hanging in the window and waited for Jean-Pierre to pass on his way back.

  Rolf waited. A man wearing a white apron asked him something in Italian and Rolf gestured to him to shut up. He craned his neck past the sausages, watching for Jean-Pierre, but Jean-Pierre didn’t return.

  Jean-Pierre could’ve sat down on the stones to enjoy the sun. He could’ve jumped into the canal. Those were the only two alternatives Rolf could think of, because Jean-Pierre couldn’t possibly have come back without Rolf seeing, although Rolf began to feel that Jean-Pierre had managed it somehow.

  The man in the apron was right behind Rolf, talking in Italian again. His hand was on Rolf’s arm, giving Rolf a little shove. Rolf shook him off and went to the door. He’d take a short look to make sure Jean-Pierre was still there.

  As the man, still close behind him, began to yell, Rolf stuck his head out the door. He stuck it practically in the face of Jean-Pierre, who was returning from the canal. Jean-Pierre’s eyes were on the ground and he no longer held his plastic bag.

  Rolf jumped backward. He bumped into the man’s soft stomach, and stepped on the man’s foot. The man’s voice was raised even higher in what was clearly pain and outrage. Rolf turned to him
and said, “Can’t you shut up for a second?” He checked that Jean-Pierre wasn’t looking back, had apparently not noticed him at all, but was proceeding down the street at a steady pace. Then he slipped through the door, followed by the man’s cries, which were muffled as the door closed.

  Rolf was in a quandary. He could either follow Jean-Pierre, who would be out of sight very soon, or search for the plastic bag. Whatever was in the bag, Jean-Pierre had wanted to get rid of it someplace where it wouldn’t be connected with him. If it was garbage or something equally boring, why carry it all this way? Maybe he had given it to somebody. If he had, Rolf had better hurry if he wanted to see who it was. Rolf opted for the bag and rushed to the place where the street ended.

  There was the canal, glinting in the sun. Steps led down to water level. And on those steps were piled quite a few well-filled white plastic garbage bags.

  Rolf wished he could get his hands on Jean-Pierre. He would shake Jean-Pierre until his teeth rattled. How was Rolf going to find Jean-Pierre’s plastic bag among all these plastic bags? A Coca-Cola can that had escaped the cleanup lay at Rolf’s feet. He picked it up and hurled it into the canal, taking some satisfaction at how ugly it looked floating there.

  Then he got an idea. Jean-Pierre’s bag had looked much like these bags, yes, but it hadn’t been nearly as large. These bags were neatly closed at the top, so Jean-Pierre probably hadn’t opened one to shove his bundle inside. Perhaps he had simply pushed it in among the others. Rolf approached the pile and began tossing bags aside. In barely a minute he uncovered the bag that Jean-Pierre had been carrying.

  Here was a bonus: Printed in small black letters on the white plastic was the name of a hotel, Hotel Romanelli, and an address. More than likely that’s where Jean-Pierre was staying. Rolf opened the bag. Inside was a mass of white satin and black net that turned out to be a Pierrot costume. Along with the pajama-style trousers and billowing top with its black net ruff were a black satin skullcap and a Pierrot mask with a fake-diamond tear.

  Jean-Pierre had dressed as Pierrot? On the face of it, that didn’t make sense. And why had he walked across town to get rid of his costume— or gotten rid of his costume at all?

  Thoughtfully, Rolf stuffed the costume back in the bag. He put the bag under his arm and strolled toward the Campo Francesco Morosini. He was ready for his coffee.

  Sally Packs Up

  Sally sat on the bed where Brian had made love to her the night before he died and stared at the two open, empty suitcases. She was wearing jeans, running shoes, and her sweater with the geese flying in front of the moon. Her hair, no longer piled in the señorita’s topknot, hung past her shoulders. Her clammy hands, palms together, were pressed between her knees.

  Brian had been murdered. A policeman with luminous dark eyes had explained how it happened, with a lot of translating help from Michèle. The policeman had acted grateful to Michèle, very deferential.

  Brian had been hit in the face, a blow hard enough to break his nose despite his mask.

  “He is hit— so,” said the policeman, making a chopping motion across the bridge of his own nose. “He is stunned, you know, he stumbles forward—”

  Michèle, soberly dressed in a dark gray suit, a yellow rosebud in his buttonhole, interrupted with a flood of Italian.

  The policeman answered in an apologetic tone, still looking at Sally.

  “I have asked if you can be spared the pain of these details,” Michèle said.

  “No. He can go on,” said Sally.

  At a nod from Michèle the policeman proceeded. “He stumbles forward, falls into the canal. His mask is cracked, but it does not come off. He is wearing on his head this— these snakes, which are heavy. His face, you see, is in the water.”

  Sally stared at a blue crockery mug on the policeman’s desk. Brian fell into the canal. Dazed, his nose broken, wearing a heavy headdress, he couldn’t lift his head. His mask filled with water and blood, and he drowned.

  It was horrible. So much worse than she’d thought. She’d imagined an accident, maybe. Or suicide. But she couldn’t imagine Brian killing himself, no matter how bad he felt. To think that somebody hit him, hit him deliberately— she bent her head into her hands.

  Michèle spoke sharply, in a tone of command, and someone brought her water in a paper cup. After she had taken a swallow she said, “It couldn’t have been that he stumbled? He hit his face on the edge when he fell in?”

  “We do not believe a fall would produce sufficient force for his injuries.”

  “What hit him, then?”

  The policeman shrugged slightly. “Very possibly the staff that was found there, although we have no conclusive proof that was the weapon.”

  So it could just as easily have been the bat a Harlequin wears tucked in his belt, Sally thought. She didn’t look at Michèle, but she could feel his presence, not two feet away.

  Sally didn’t know if Michèle really believed she might have killed Brian, or if he’d wanted to test her by pretending he did. In any case, she had told the policeman the complete truth: about the game, and about Tom, Rolf, Francine, and Jean-Pierre. About Brian’s saying he was afraid, and the message in his glove, and finding the body, and seeing the mirror-man. About being taken away from the scene by a man dressed as a Harlequin, who had turned out to be Count Michèle Zanon. And how Count Zanon had summoned a doctor to give her an injection, and had insisted on taking her to Torcello this morning before they came to the police station. The policeman listened attentively, occasionally asking Michèle to translate something or other. Sally watched the policeman’s face, and she thought she could see her words disappearing into the policeman’s eyes, leaving no disturbance on the surface. When she finished, he thanked her very much, expressed his condolences, and asked her not to leave Venice.

  Michèle broke in with more Italian conversation, at the end of which he turned to her and said, “I have told him you’ll be staying with me.”

  “With you? But why can’t I stay at the hotel?” She looked from the policeman to Michèle.

  The policeman said, “Signora, until this matter is cleared up, we prefer that you accept the offer from Count Zanon. We are dealing with a murderer. You are alone in Venice, and it is entirely possible that you, too, are in danger. If you are at Count Zanon’s home, not far from here, we will know where to find you, and we will know that you are being taken care of.”

  “It will be no inconvenience to have you,” Michèle said with an air of sober sincerity.

  The policeman was nodding, his demeanor indicating that Sally was fortunate to have Michèle being so kind to her. Michèle was rich. He was a count. He had a palazzo. Sally knew the policeman was impressed.

  Sally had called her parents. Although she knew she should do it herself, she’d asked them to call Brian’s mother and father and break the news. Her parents were coming over as soon as they could get flights, which might not be immediately, because getting into Venice at the height of Carnival wouldn’t be easy. Sally didn’t think they had passports, either. She didn’t remember much about the conversation, but she knew her father had said, “You’ll come back here to Tallahassee with us, sweetheart.”

  Now, Sally sat on the bed in the Albergo Rondini. The police had been through the room. Whatever was left belonged to Sally.

  She stood up. This was going to be pretty bad. Trying not to think about it, she opened the drawer where Brian had put his things and looked at the jumble of underwear, socks, the white cable-stitch pullover his mother had knitted. She couldn’t do it. She closed the drawer and looked in the big, musty-smelling armoire that served as a closet. His jeans and jacket were on hangers, his running shoes on the floor below. Breathing shallowly, she took the jeans, jacket, and shoes and put them in Brian’s suitcase. Then she sat on the bed and put her head on her knees to wait until the roaring in her ears went away.

  As it abated, the telephone rang. When she answered, Michèle’s voice said, “Are you packed?”
<
br />   “Not yet.”

  “Can I help?”

  “No. I’ll be ready in a minute.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  She put the phone down and went to the drawer again. She took handfuls of Brian’s things and put them in the suitcase, not folding or straightening, trying not to look at them. When she went into the bathroom and picked up his razor, shaving cream, and deodorant, she started to cry. Her knees gave way and she sat on the side of the tub, shaking. Tears fell on the bathmat. When she tried to blot her eyes, the can of shaving cream was cold against her face.

  The eruption subsided, and she got up and finished packing Brian’s things. She closed his suitcase and rested her hand on it, thinking.

  Michèle was too smooth, and he changed too fast— a crazy Harlequin one minute, a proper, upstanding Venetian citizen helping the police the next. Sally had been railroaded into staying with him. She wouldn’t do it. She’d find another place. She began flinging clothes into her suitcase, including Antonia’s señorita dress, which Sally had hung neatly in the closet when she came back here to change before going to the police.

  She put her toothbrush in its plastic travel case, tossed it in her suitcase and closed it. She’d find another place. She wouldn’t argue about it with Michèle, either. She’d go down the back stairs, or something, leave him waiting in the lobby. She pulled on her coat, jamming her hands through the sleeves. She carried the suitcases to the door and put them down.

  Then she thought about her conversation with Michèle on Torcello. He had implied that she might have killed Brian herself. He had implied that the police could have that idea themselves. The police had directly instructed her to stay with Michèle. What could look more guilty than taking off, disobeying their orders, running away?

  She opened the door. Michèle was leaning against the wall opposite her doorway. He smiled slightly when he saw her and said, “You’re ready, I see. Shall we go?” The next moment he had the suitcases, and they were walking down the hall together.