5 - Her Deadly Mischief

by Beverle Graves Myers

  “What happened then?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t ask me. My head was taking a nap while my arms and legs were still awake. I don’t remember Signor Alessio finding me in the lane, don’t remember nothing ’til I woke in my bed the next morning with a head the size of a watermelon. If I hadn’t been so easy to gull, Signor Alessio wouldn’t have been forced to row the cockle boat to Venice and none of this would’ve happened.”

  “You don’t know that. Someone went to great lengths to make sure that you couldn’t pilot his gondola. If the object was to stop your master from reaching Venice on time, you both might have suffered more direct harm.”

  “But why?” Guido beat a fist on the side of his gondola. “Who would want to make trouble for Signor Alessio? A finer man never existed.”

  “I don’t know,” I answered in truth, though I had a few ideas.

  ***

  Cesare Pino’s factory was a half-hour walk from the boatyard. Luigi could have rowed me there in half that time, but I wanted a few minutes to sift through Guido’s information before I faced the contentious glass master. Under gray skies, I passed fine dwellings and lovely, vine-draped gardens without really seeing them. Instead, I concentrated on a series of questions I posed to myself.

  It was obvious that the killer intentionally delayed Alessio to provide a clear field for mayhem. As part of the plan, Cesare was also summoned. Who could have managed both? Umberto Albergati? Perhaps with the help of the other brother, Claudio?

  Money, or the promise of it from one of the patrician class, can arrange almost anything. It could buy a woman to pose as a lustful lady’s maid; it could buy a messenger to deliver an anonymous note. It could also bribe the house manager to loan out a key for time enough to have it copied. But the key to the Pino box hadn’t hung from a peg in the box office. That key had been in the possession of the family for many years. How could Umberto, or any of the Albergatis, have laid hands on it? I wondered if they had ever visited their future brother-in-law in his opera box. I’d heard of using warm candle wax to make an impression from which a clever ironsmith could fashion a replica, but asking for a man’s box key defies both logic and good manners. I suppose it could work if Alessio was in the habit of leaving his key lying about instead of slipping it in a waistcoat pocket as most men do. I would have to raise that possibility with the young glassmaker.

  I trudged on, still deep in thought. It was more likely that La Samsona had arranged to copy the key. What had Alessio said when describing La Samsona’s efforts to attract his notice and win the wager? She couldn’t keep those huge hands off me. The courtesan had once entranced carnival crowds with feats of strength. Had she also mastered the techniques of picking pockets? If so, she wouldn’t be the first traveling entertainer to add to the till by fleecing the audience as they watched her compatriots. With a key that fit box D-17 in her possession, she could have sent one of her fellow courtesans to delay Alessio. By then, La Samsona would have realized that tempting the high-minded Alessio would have been a fool’s errand, so she set her friend on his gondolier instead. Summoning Cesare by anonymous note would have been child’s play.

  I halted suddenly, startling a yellow cat from its nap on a stone wall. Hadn’t it been La Samsona who first drew my attention to Cesare’s presence at the theater? Yes, of course. The wily courtesan had wanted to make sure I knew that someone else who had good reason to kill Zulietta was lurking nearby. I walked on, more slowly now because I was nearing my destination.

  Messer Grande refused to consider La Samsona, but I thought he was merely falling in line with the prevailing chivalry. From maidservant to mistress, the much-admired women of Venice were demure, coaxing beauties. They achieved their goals with charming smiles and gay conversation. Not by force and violence. There had been the odd poisoning or two over the years, but overall, it was difficult to conceive of a typical Venetian woman stabbing a rival and hurling her to her death. But La Samsona was far from typical. Why couldn’t Messer Grande see what I did?

  As I arrived at the pylons that guarded the path to the Pino glassworks, I put that question aside for the moment. The time had come to beard the old lion in his den, and I wasn’t expecting a warm reception. I had searched my brain for a clever stratagem that would push Cesare Pino into a frank discussion. Finding none, I reluctantly decided to approach Alessio’s formidable father as I would my own, if Isidore Amato were still alive.

  I followed the path to the graveled yard and up to the door of weathered oak. There was no bell cord, so I banged politely with outstretched palm. I was admitted by a boy carrying a heavy basket. He made no inquiries about my business and none of the workers involved in various tasks stopped me as I crossed the spacious workroom.

  In the bright glow from the conical furnace, Cesare sat on a low bench that supported a long pipe. A second man, squatting on the floor, blew into the pipe that he rolled continuously back and forth between his palms. Tweezers and shears flashed through Cesare’s hands as the master shaped the molten glass at the end of the pipe. His well-timed, graceful motions reminded me of an intricate ballet: press, snip…snip, press, snip…then a scoop of pigment that instantly melted into a vivid slash of purple. There was a third worker I recognized as Zenobio, the inventor of the petal-scope. His job was to gather additional blobs of molten glass on a solid rod and attach them to the main piece so Cesare could work them into the shape he had in mind. The three men worked together so seamlessly, they had no need for speech.

  Once the elaborate vase had been transferred to the cooling oven—how odd to think of an oven as a place to lower temperature—Cesare stood and stretched his bowed back with a groan. His scarred, pink cheek glowed slick with sweat, and the lines around his mouth and eyes seemed more deeply etched than I remembered. He acknowledged me with a curt nod.

  I executed a low bow. “I must speak with you, Signore.”

  “About what?” he asked harshly.

  “About your son.” This was met with a questioning frown. Seconds slipped away, but I refused to elaborate. I held his gaze, only vaguely aware of the heightened attention displayed by Zenobio and the other glassmakers.

  “Come on,” Cesare said after an uncomfortable interval and led me to a private chamber that served as both study and studio. The glass master sat on a backless stool behind a sloping desk covered with sketches of goblets and other drinking vessels. He motioned me to a similar seat. There was not one comfortable armchair in the room. Cesare would probably consider such an item an abominable concession to laziness.

  He said, “Are you here on your own or under Messer Grande’s auspices?”

  “Both.”

  “Well? What news do you bring? Has my boy been found?”

  “I haven’t come to Murano as a messenger.” I shook my head. “Alessio is still at large. I came to talk about the note you received the night of the murder.”

  Cesare threw his chin back and slammed his hands on his sketching table. Several translucent sheets of paper went flying. “At my factory, we have better things to do than retread old ground. I’ve already answered your lawman friend’s questions about that damned note.”

  “My questions will be different.”

  He plowed on, unhearing. “I should complain to the Ten—I really should. Wasting a good citizen’s time. What—”

  I shut his mouth by leaving my stool and bracing my hands on the top edge of his desk. Refusing to let his pugnacious scowl intimidate me, I said, “I have a story to tell you—about a father and his son. A father who saw himself as the star of the show that was his life. And the son he treated like a puppet character he could manipulate for his own gain.”

  Out came the story of Isidore Amato’s enslavement to cards and dice, his growing debts at the state-run Ridotto and private gaming holes, and the terrible bargain he made to pay those debts. By the time I had reached the par
t where my father was facing imminent death, begging my forgiveness for his sins against me and my sister, Cesare had slumped down with his chin on his chest.

  “You have talked to Alessio,” he said softly.

  “Perhaps,” I answered carefully.

  The glass master’s silver head bobbed up. “I know my son has been unhappy, restless. He disagrees with my decision about not promoting our workmen to master level. But”—he spread his hands, exposing leathery palms—“why should others share in what I’ve spent my sweat and strength to create? All I’ve ever wanted was a respected glassworks to entrust to my son in good time. And a son who was worthy of that treasure—a son I could be proud of.”

  “Zulietta aside, aren’t you proud of Alessio?”

  He grimaced like a man who has just stepped in something soft and smelly. “To run a furnace, a man needs tender hands to shape the glass and a hard heart to make the business pay. My son has always had it the other way around. He’s clumsy with the pipe and shears—I have to toss out half of what he makes—but just let the workers come with their whispered complaints and he’s all ears.”

  “I tell you, Signore, I admire your son. Alessio may not have the talents you respect, but he is steady of mind and stalwart of character. If we had met in other circumstances, I would be proud to call him my friend.”

  “Humph.” Cesare crossed his arms. “Even if Alessio manages to get out of this mess he’s made, he’ll never be a master glassmaker. He sees the work as obligation and drudgery.”

  “Perhaps he’s not meant to be a master. Have you ever asked Alessio what he wants to do?”

  “The boy hasn’t experienced enough of life to know what he wants. He talks a noble philosophy, but what does he really understand? Nothing! Look at the woman he took up with. I can’t even imagine a more irresponsible escapade. When I ordered him to give her up, he defied me outright.”

  “Alessio loved Zulietta,” I replied simply. “For a man of unbridled principle, he was placed in a terrible position. Filial obedience versus the promises he’d made to the pride of his heart. It hurt him to rebel against you, but he felt he must.”

  Cesare winced. But in his good eye, I saw a glint of hope. “Does Alessio judge me as harshly as you judge your father?”

  “I don’t know. Only he can say.”

  “Tell me,” the glass master said with a longing look that made his face appear almost gentle. “Did you forgive your father?”

  “He died before I was given the opportunity.”

  “But…would you have?”

  I heard my own voice as if it came from a great distance. The words were as cold as iron: “Once I thought I would have given my forgiveness, but now that I have a son to call my own—I who thought I would never be a father—no. Not in a thousand years.”

  Cesare glanced in the direction of the furnace workroom and sighed. “What do you want of me, then? How can more questions about this note help Alessio?”

  “I believe a woman sent it. I want you to think back. Was it written in a feminine hand? Were the pages perhaps perfumed?”

  Instead of answering, the glass master swung around on his stool. A cabinet containing numerous small drawers, much like an apothecary’s, stood against the wall. Cesare opened a drawer on the bottom row and plucked out a folded paper. When he handed it across to me, I saw that the wax seal had been broken.

  I quickly unfolded the message and scanned its contents. Written in an unschooled but firm hand, the note told me what I already knew: Everyone attending the opening of Armida would soon know that Zulietta Giardino and Alessio Pino were lovers.

  I looked up. “Messer Grande told me you’d burned this.”

  “That’s what I told him.”

  “Why?”

  Cesare shrugged. “Let’s just say I don’t like the way he marches in my factory acting as if that red robe makes him the master of all he surveys. The message was delivered to me. That makes it my property to do with as I please.”

  “Who delivered it to the island?”

  He shook his head. “A man in a gondola. It was handed from messenger to messenger until the details were lost in the telling.”

  In the end, the details didn’t matter. When I held the creamy paper to my nose and took a deep breath, the odor of attar of roses was faint but unmistakable.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Once I’d reached Venice, my first stop was the Procuratie, the long office building on the Piazza where Messer Grande kept his headquarters. A black-clad clerk raised his head from his ledger long enough to tell me that the chief constable was out. No, he had no idea when he would return.

  I wasn’t daunted. I could complete my mission on my own. With a swell of pride, I imagined returning to Messer Grande’s office and presenting him with the solution to the case on a silver platter.

  A few questions in the right ears, ears well known to any gondolier, directed me to La Samsona’s casino. The same footman who attended her at the theater answered the jangle of the bell cord. His haughty features were unmistakable, even through the grated rectangle of the peephole. He recognized me, as well.

  “Ah, Signor Amato. Do you think I’m deaf? Everyone in the building must have heard your ring.”

  “I need to see your mistress, Lelio.”

  “She is dressing. You can come back later, or better yet, see her tonight at the opera.”

  Dressing was a process that could take several hours, involving as it did a visit from the hairdresser with its invariable exchange of gossip; lengthy application of cosmetics and fixing of patches; then donning layers of hoops, petticoats, and gown. My visit wouldn’t wait, and I still had a rehearsal and a performance to get through.

  “I must see her now.”

  “How desolating for you.” The little door behind the grate slammed shut.

  I pumped the bell cord up and down. The noise reverberated through the wall: loud, rude, clanging, insistent. Yowls of protest came from neighboring apartments.

  The main door swung open. I produced my card, but Lelio waved it away. In a manner so cold that frost could have dusted his shoulders, the footman took my cloak and hat. “You have uncommon luck, Signor Amato. My mistress is quite capable of letting a man ring for hours, the neighbors be damned. But when she heard it was you…” With a world-weary sigh, he passed me to a bouncy maid with apple cheeks and pointed chin.

  Her manner was as warm as Lelio’s was chilly. She didn’t speak, but communicated volumes with her appraising glances and saucy shrugs. When we reached an unheated antechamber, she motioned for me to sit and disappeared into her mistress’ bedchamber. I had barely settled myself on one of the slick, striped-satin chairs when the door opened again. The maid summoned me with a curled finger.

  La Samsona’s most intimate chamber was a pink and white confection, daintily pretty in the early afternoon sun that had finally chased the fog eastward. Drapes the color of ripe cherries hung at the windows and the wide four-poster bed, while the wallcovering featured garlands of pink roses supported by gamboling cherubs. A nest of matching sofa and chairs surrounded a table laid with a French porcelain coffee service. All was reflected two and three times over in the procession of mirrors that marched around the walls.

  From the doorway, I looked toward the dressing table that was also draped in cherry-colored silk, expecting to find La Samsona in robe and chemise being fussed over by her hairdresser. But, no.

  The maid led the way to a raised alcove set at right angles to the main chamber.

  I stopped the minute I turned the corner. It was much warmer here, thanks to a crackling fire under a marble mantel. A good thing, I thought, since La Samsona was in her bath, as naked as the day she was born. Her gold-tinted chestnut hair was pinned up loosely; a few tendrils snaked over her damp shoulders that shimmered above th
e soapy water.

  Ignoring me completely, she leaned back in the tin tub and stretched her arms above her head. Rivulets of water coursed over her rounded muscles and formed a confluence between her breasts. “More oil, Marietta,” she ordered in a husky voice. “And hot water, too.”

  It was only after the maid had fetched a steaming pitcher that sat before the fire, poured its contents in the tub, and topped it off with a stream of fragrant oil that La Samsona sent me a smile of smug contentment. “You were very anxious to be admitted, Signor Amato. Did you think of something I could do for you?”

  “No, Signora.” I approached the tub so I could look down into her flushed face. “I thought of another question.”

  She heaved a dramatic sigh, then tapped a finger against her chin. “How boring you capons are. It makes me wonder how you stand yourselves. Well then, ask your question so I can get on to more important things.”

  “Why did you feel it necessary to summon Cesare Pino to the opera house?”

  Her mouth opened, lips stretching in a tight circle. “Marietta,” she called toward the maid who was freshening bouquets of roses that brightened the chamber. “Leave us.”

  Once we’d heard the muffled thud of the door closing, La Samsona continued, “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You do. I’ve just come from Murano. Cesare Pino kept your note. You might have expected him to dispose of it, but he didn’t. And it reeks of your scent. You knew that Zulietta was going to join Alessio in his box that night, that her triumph was secure, and you wanted Cesare on the scene. Why?”