“If you know so much, you should be able to tell me.”
“Oh, I can tell you, but I’d rather hear you admit it.”
She clamped her lips in a tight line.
“All right, if you insist. You summoned Cesare as a sacrificial lamb. Like all murderers, you wanted to have your cake and eat it, too. You wanted your rival dead, but the consequences if you were caught—facing the gallows—terrifying. What to do? The ill-tempered glass master had made no secret of his desire to see Alessio married to one of Venice’s oldest families, and his feckless son was about to ruin everything by displaying Zulietta from his box. Not many would be shocked that he would resort to murder—especially since Zulietta was a Jew and he’d never hid his hatred of that race.”
“Really, Signor Amato. I have no time for this nonsense—”
“You don’t consider your jewels nonsense.”
“My jewels were safe in the Banco Giro.”
“You signed a contract to relinquish them if Zulietta won the wager—Zulietta and Alessio could take you before the magistrate—what an embarrassment. If there were even one tiny mouse who hadn’t heard of your galling loss, it would once the gazettes competed to publish every detail. Instead of being acknowledged as Venice’s leading courtesan, you would be our biggest joke.”
“Ridiculous!” La Samsona braced her muscular arms on the edge of the tub and created a miniature flood of bathwater and soap bubbles as she pushed herself up. I saw a goddess rising from the waves. Her flesh was smooth and firm, but this woman was no demurely smiling Venus. Images of Diana preparing to skin a deer or some bloodthirsty pagan goddess of war sprang to mind.
“Hand me a towel,” she commanded, fury flaring in her eyes and tone, fury barely controlled.
I did as I was told, refusing to avert my eyes as she rubbed herself dry before the fire. It was not because I wished to view her nakedness, but to prove that none of her weapons could turn me timid.
Once she had donned a dressing gown of green silk, she paced the larger chamber. Her reflection jumped from mirror to mirror, sometimes full on, sometimes at an angle that made her appear grotesquely misshapen. She finally paused. Whirling to face me, she shouted without a hint of Venetian graciousness, “Your accusation is absurd. Mad. You understand nothing.”
“Do you deny summoning Cesare Pino?”
“No, I admit sending the note. I also admit I didn’t want to lose the wager.” She gave a mammoth shrug. “Who likes to lose? Not you. Your battle of vocal cords with Emiliano is crushingly obvious to everyone who follows the opera. Haven’t you ever wished your rival would drop dead in the middle of his cadenza? Be honest.”
I took a deep breath. Just last week Emilio’s claque had booed me unmercifully. My rival had rolled his eyes and laughed behind his hand, spurring the audience to further humiliations. Be honest, the courtesan had said. “Well,” I muttered, “wishes don’t kill.”
“Neither do I. I hoped that Cesare would arrive at the theater in time to talk some sense into his son. Or at least threaten him with something dire enough to stop the culmination of the wager.”
“You never give up, do you? I suppose you don’t realize that I’ve uncovered the other half of your plan. Cesare could hardly talk to Alessio since you sent a woman to make sure his gondolier was in no condition to row across to Venice.”
“What are you talking about?” Her tone turned raspy.
“Alessio’s gondolier had a cup of wine with a woman who slipped something in his drink. With Alessio out of the picture, all you had to do was dispense with little Pamarino and overpower your petite friend. Did Zulietta ever realize it was you, I wonder.”
A shadow crossed La Samsona’s face. She appeared genuinely mystified.
Another thought struck me. “You sent your maid, didn’t you? Your Marietta is certainly saucy enough to interest a lonely gondolier.”
The courtesan pulled her chin back and crossed her arms. “Did this saucy woman converse with the gondolier?”
“Of course. Her golden tongue seduced the simple man with lies and promises.”
“Well, aren’t you smart. Quite the expert at detection. Nothing gets by you.”
I shrugged modestly.
La Samsona surprised me with a horse laugh that must have started at her toes. Her entire body jiggled with the hilarity of it. Still gasping, she said, “I wonder, then, how you failed to notice that Marietta is mute.”
Mute? I shook my head, momentarily bewildered. I had to admit the maid had shown me into the room without voicing a sound.
“But…but,” I stammered. “So the woman in the tavern wasn’t Marietta. You could have hired anyone who needed money—a courtesan down on her luck—there must be many in your acquaintance.”
La Samsona had stopped laughing. Her expression was perplexed and she chewed on a thumbnail. She said, more to herself than to me, “I suppose I’ll have to tell you, though he won’t be happy. If I don’t explain, you’ll spread your outrageous story all over town.” She drew herself up. “It’s like this, Signor Amato. I couldn’t have murdered my friend Zulietta because I was in Messer Grande’s box when she tumbled into the pit.”
I quickly reviewed that night in my head. As I had scanned the boxes, I noticed Messer Grande sitting alone in the second tier. His box had been one of the few with empty chairs. Also one of the few with curtains a quarter drawn.
“You’re lying,” I snapped. “I had reason to observe the house closely. I remember Messer Grande watching the opera on his own. I didn’t see you in his box while I was singing.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t have seen me.” She sent me a wide smile. “I was on my hands and knees at the time, well covered by his robe.”
***
Luigi was waiting for me among the gondolas bobbing at the painted posts of the nearest landing. Floating along the canals hardly suited my mood. I needed to move my legs, so I told Luigi his services wouldn’t be required until after that night’s performance. Skirting puddles and avoiding awnings still dripping from the recent rain, I wandered aimlessly. Or so I thought. My feet knew where they were going; they were carrying me toward the Piazza, toward Messer Grande’s office, away from the opera house where I would soon be expected to rehearse a scene from The Labors of Hercules.
Why hadn’t Messer Grande told me La Samsona had been in his box when Zulietta was murdered? He certainly expected me to report on my conversations with everyone from Maria Albergati to Cesare Pino. His silence wasn’t based on overdeveloped moral rectitude—that hardly existed in our society. It would be highly unusual to find a man of his status who didn’t have a mistress stashed somewhere. This friendly man had asked me to use his Christian name—Andrea—and had treated me as an equal in the murder investigation, yet he’d kept me in the dark about a central feature of the case.
Brooding darkly, I turned down an alley that would take me to the Mercerie and thence under the great clock that stands on the north side of the Piazza. A weak sun had made its appearance, but its milky rays didn’t penetrate this thin shaft. In the dimness, footsteps approached from behind, running lightly though there was no reason for haste. The alley was so narrow, one man couldn’t pass another unless they both flattened themselves along the brick walls.
I spun around. My heart had become a tiny hammer; I felt its blows as my fingers went to the bulge of my amulet bag. My follower drew up abruptly. It was a man in the loose yellow shirt and worn loden cloak of a gypsy. His skin was nut brown and an embroidered scarf was tied around his head. He kept his chin on his chest, refusing to meet my eyes.
I didn’t know whether to be relieved or disgusted. “Andrea,” I said. “You must have better things to do than follow me in your silly disguise. Your mistress is fresh from her bath and would welcome a visit, I’m certain.”
As the man raised his chin
, the whites of his eyes flashed through the gloom. “Che diavolo?” His hand flew to his sash and curled around a silver hilt. His accent was strange, his tone unfriendly. “What is this nonsense you say?”
I was staring into the exotic face of a wary, puzzled gypsy. No amount of cosmetics could transform Messer Grande’s features into these. “Scusi,” I muttered, nodding a small bow. “I thought you were someone I knew.”
With that I turned and strode quickly to the opening at the far end of the alley. My back tingled with each step, anticipating the slash of cold steel. On the Mercerie, the shops had just reopened after the midday siesta, and a swelling tide of humanity filled the street. I dove to my right and exhaled deeply when the corner of my eye caught my gypsy turning left. After pausing for a moment to watch his bright head scarf weave in and out of the crowd, I directed my steps toward the theater. Pushing my way through unyielding shoulders, gawking tourists, and hooded maskers, I reminded myself what I believed about loyalty and justice and wondered if anything in Venice was truly as it seemed.
***
“Master, where have you been?” Benito met me at the stage door, a frown on his thin face. “I thought you would be here long before now.”
“Has Maestro Torani been calling for me?”
My manservant flapped a flustered gesture toward the stage. “Not yet. He’s been drilling Romeo all afternoon. It’s Signora Liya. She never returned from the ghetto.”
“What?” The false starts and repeated phrases of a rehearsal in progress met my ears as I dug my watch from its pocket. I clicked the timepiece open. “A quarter after three. Liya was supposed to interview Todi’s cousin at one o’clock.”
“The girl waited an hour and I got an earful.” My manservant shook his head ruefully. “As if I could produce Signora Liya from thin air. I lingered at home as long as I could, hoping she’d come in the door with some good reason for being delayed. Finally I came on to the theater.”
I thought back to the scene in our bedchamber that morning. So much had occurred since then to push the details aside. I struck my forehead. Maddening!
“Signora Liya went off with several loaves of bread, warm from the oven,” Benito coached like a prompter feeding me forgotten lines.
Yes! Liya had been planning to deliver some of her special bread to Pincas. And something else. She had been worried over a possible encounter with her mother. I shivered as if cold water had been poured down my back. “I must go. Tell Maestro—”
“Tell Maestro what?” Torani was suddenly at my elbow. Romeo’s mellow tones no longer filled the theater.
“I must go. Liya is missing.”
“Missing?” Torani scratched his head, which was for once covered with a neat tie-wig.
“She went to visit her family in the ghetto,” I explained. “She should have been back hours ago.”
“I’d hardly call that missing,” Torani replied. “She’s probably caught up in her visit, forgotten the time. You know how women are when they get to talking.”
I pictured Liya’s mother, stern and taciturn with all her daughters. “It’s not like that. She may be in danger.”
“But it’s the middle of the afternoon, and Liya’s family lives only a few squares away from your house. What kind of threat could there be? You’re exaggerating, don’t you think? Besides, I’m ready for you.” He tried to press a sheaf of music on me.
I shook my head, backing toward the stage door, eager to be off.
“Tito, don’t put me in this position.” His voice was gruff. “You’re scheduled to rehearse and I need you on the stage.”
“I’m sorry, Maestro.”
“This has something to do with your sleuthing, doesn’t it?”
“It might. I don’t know.” With every breath, a sense of dread squeezed my lungs.
My old maestro stepped forward and reached up, as if to clap a hand on my shoulder. He let his arm drop without touching me. “I’m going to give you some advice, Tito, and I hope you heed it. A singer of your caliber can manage only one pursuit. Your life is your voice, and the stage allows no time for distractions. Let Messer Grande do his job while you do yours. Now send Benito to the ghetto if you must, but you come with me. We need to start knocking Hyllus’ aria into shape.”
“Hyllus is a thankless role and you know it.”
“Nevertheless, it needs to be rehearsed. I demand the best from all my players, even the silent youths who merely hand you a message or carry your train.” The look on the director’s face made it clear he wasn’t going to back down.
“I must go, Maestro. Give the role of Hyllus to Majorano. I’m sure he’s hanging around somewhere on the lookout for whatever crumbs might fall his way. I’ll take Benito with me, and if I can’t get back in time to sing Armida tonight, he’ll inform you.”
The musical scores trembled in Torani’s blue-veined hands. He shook his head in disbelief. Lunatic, I heard him whisper as I bolted through the stage door.
Cursing myself for giving Luigi his liberty, I trotted toward the nearest public gondola landing with Benito on my heels. Luck was with us. We found a boat for hire and were soon on the Grand Canal. On both sides, stately palaces rose from jade green water; farther on, the marble arch of the Rialto Bridge curved above us. Though the boatman plied his oar with vigor, the ride seemed to last forever. Benito tried to calm me by making conversation; I shushed him, somehow believing that small talk would hinder our progress. When the gondola finally turned into the canal that led to the Cannaregio, I felt like giving a cheer. We disembarked at the Ponte della Guglie and hurried down the pavement and through the gates of the Hebrew enclave.
***
Pincas’ shop had acquired a bewildering inventory of clothing over the years. We found shelves laden with shirts, waistcoats, and breeches; shoes and boots piled on their own counters; and gowns and coats suspended from wires that crisscrossed between joists. My father-in-law could usually be found lounging in the doorway watching the world, or his little corner of it, pass by. If Fortunata wasn’t helping a customer, she would be in a sagging elbow chair by the window, depending on its light to mend a never-ending series of ripped seams.
But today neither father nor daughter tended the shop. Somehow I sensed the commotion upstairs before I heard raised voices.
“Someone’s upset,” Benito remarked dryly.
“Come on,” I replied, making for the back of the shop. Behind a tattered curtain, the low, slanted ceiling of the staircase forced me to remove my tricorne and duck my head as I climbed to the Del’Vecchio living quarters.
A cramped chamber served the family as both salon and dining area, but no one was sitting or eating. Three women stood in a cluster beside a scrubbed pine table that held the remains of two loaves of bread and a carving knife. Liya and Reyna Pardo were staring at each other like she-cats with ruffled haunches and flattened ears, while a gray-haired woman who possessed Liya’s firmly chiseled nose and determined chin kept up a forceful diatribe. I recognized Signora Del’Vecchio. Liya’s mother had aged since I’d last seen her, but her tongue was as sharp as ever. Across the room, at the double casement window, Pincas wore a miserable expression. Fortunata made a small shadow at his side, the youngest daughter, always there to comfort her father.
I cleared my throat—loudly—and the three women spun around. The first person to speak was Signora Del’Vecchio. “Ah,” she declared. “Just what the situation requires—performing capons.”
Liya and I exchanged lightning glances. She seemed to be all right. No blood. No broken bones. “Tito!” she cried. “What are you doing here?”
I took a few steps forward, motioning for Benito to stay by the doorway. “You didn’t return home for your appointment. I couldn’t think what had delayed you.”
My wife flew across the room and tucked her arm under mine. “M
ama wasn’t here when I arrived, but Fortunata said she wanted very much to see me. I waited and waited and finally Mama showed up with…her.” This last was said through gritted teeth and accompanied by a slit-eyed look toward Reyna.
Zulietta’s sister approached us in slow, deliberate steps, gathering her black shawl to her bony chest as she came. As before, her black hair was scraped into a tight bun held in place with silver pins. Her eyes were bloodshot, more from anger than crying I thought, but her voice was steady.
“So here is your famous husband, such as he is. At least you still have him. If you hadn’t poked your nose in where it didn’t belong and asked questions all over the ghetto, I would still have mine.”
“Reyna—” Liya began, but the black-clad woman went on in a strained voice.
“Aram would be at home with his family instead of sharing a cell with Venice’s rabble. Do you have any idea how a Jew is treated in the Doge’s prisons? My husband will be fortunate if he even lives to stand trial.”
I watched Liya’s face as she gulped and blinked back tears. I hoped she wasn’t crying over Aram Pardo. “Your husband got no more than he deserved,” I said to Reyna. “Thievery is a crime and demands punishment.”
The angry Jewess tossed her head.
Liya found her voice again. “And don’t pretend you didn’t know what Aram was up to, Reyna. You probably helped him plan the whole string of robberies. You’re just lucky Messer Grande didn’t arrest you, too.”
“How dare you criticize this good woman? The daughter of our dear friend!” Signora Del’Vecchio entered the fray with her characteristic venom. “At least Reyna respected her parents’ wishes enough to marry a man of the ghetto.”
“A thorough villain!” I cried.
“A family man,” Signora Del’Vecchio tossed right back, “an intrepid businessman trying to survive under your country’s stifling regulations. You see the red hats and kerchiefs we are forced to wear outside these walls, but do you see the rules that bind us like chains and set prosperity forever out of reach? Pincas’ family has lived in Venice for four generations, but are we citizens of your jealous Republic? Can we claim the rights of the filthiest, laziest Christian lout on the Piazza? Bah!” Ending on a rattle of phlegm, she pursed her lips and spat on her own spotless floorboards.
5 - Her Deadly Mischief Page 23
