“I was about to say how lucky I was to be a close friend when Gabriella and Alessandro married,” Agatha said. “It’s not surprising that none of his later attempts at romance worked out. And now . . . a man over sixty, especially a shattered one, and a woman of twenty-five have more to separate them than to bring them together.”
She waved to someone across the garden. “I’ve been neglecting my other guests! I’d better circulate a bit. Why don’t you two enjoy the paintings we’re showing today? All by local artists. Anna, do come back again, and I’ll tell you ways to escape the crowds and uncover the Venice behind the mask,” she said in a conspiratorial tone.
L’incontro, The Meeting
Tuesday, afternoon
“We’ll never find out a thing if we’re gawking at paintings,” Anna muttered.
“Don’t be so sure,” Margo said. “Sergio was a huge collector, remember. At least some of these artists are bound to have known him.” She steered Anna in the direction of a few flamboyantly attired men, one with a long, florid scarf, lounging by the canal. “Oh, there’s Andrew McMullan,” indicating a thick-necked man in a kilt.
His hairy knees reminded Anna of the furred spider legs dangling from a nest in the corner of her garage. She had hoped to avoid seeing the rest of the creature by asking Jack to get rid of it. That was a waste of breath. “You’re a grown woman,” he’d said. “Deal with it.”
“God, I can’t believe what he’s wearing!” Margo said. “He lives over on Giudecca, a character, but definitely up-and-coming. Even the national papers, like Corriere della Sera, are calling him the next big thing. He has a huge exhibition in Rome next month.
“Nice to see you again, Andrew.” Margo’s voice rang out like a clean, clear bell.
“And you, too,” Andrew said in a burly Scots accent, stopping them at a stone sundial.
As Margo made the introductions, Andrew gave Anna a glance before lingering on Margo. Heavy brows knitting together, he said, “You never showed.”
“Sorry. Things got wild at the count’s. I couldn’t get away.”
“What, with that layabout Favier? I dinnae believe it. You have to make it up to me.”
“Later,” Margo said. “But now, why don’t you show Anna and me your new work?”
Linking arms, Margo and Andrew strolled nearer the water as Anna followed toward a long array of easels that looked like the wattle of heron nests. Each displayed a painting. Andrew paused in front of a somber oil. “Yon is a girl from Cannaregio, a bonnie, shy redhead. She was only sixteen, but her eyes are much older, as old as womankind.”
Anna studied the gleaming red hair against a dark velvet cloak, the light, beseeching eyes, a gray sea behind her, stretching to the horizon.
“You did a wonderful job,” Margo said, pressing his shoulder.
“Aye. Belled the cat on that one,” he agreed.
As they rambled along a pebbled walk, Anna studied Andrew’s brooding canvases, mainly of people and still lifes in broad brush-strokes and swaths of color. Unlike most artists who had painted in the city, he depicted no Venetian landmarks. The art book on Nonna’s cocktail table had featured Francesco Guardi’s tempestuous skies, Canaletto’s camera-like renderings of the Grand Canal, the watery universe of Turner. Those images captured Venice’s ephemeral moods, from the pale light of daybreak to the riotous blues of midday, to otherworldly crimson sunsets to the ghostly mists of night. Andrew, on the other hand, revealed a strongly interior viewpoint. But the melancholy mood, the glistening fabrics, the gilded masks and feathered boas convinced Anna that Venice had seduced him as he projected his shadowy imaginings onto canvas.
He halted before a bold oil titled Il Redentore. Anna recalled the church from her guidebook, an ivory beacon, built by Palladio at the end of the plague that claimed almost one-third of Venice’s population. Andrew’s wrestling reds, umbers, and deep blacks made the church look smeared with mud—earthbound, corrupt, almost unrecognizable.
“Corrin wanted to nick this one,” he said.
“Sergio Corrin, the banker?” Margo asked, her pitch jumping an octave.
“Aye, the same sod.” Andrew grunted. “He’d lick the butter off my bread. After his lowball offer, I decided not to engage. He thought being rich gave him such great artistic taste, I should be honored by his attention. What an absolute laugh. Over the top with himself and his little hobbies. All he did was lose other people’s money making dodgy investments.
“You know,” Andrew’s voice dipped, “an artist friend of mine was at that party last weekend, goosing buyers for his paintings. Matter of fact, he’ll arrive in awee. He told the constables about a woman running from the scene. They kept him back as they were searching the bushes. Seems they found something and put it in a black plastic bag. A waiter, poor chap, looked ill when he told Sean that Corrin had been mutilated. Refused to say one more word.”
Anna turned away for a moment. Wasn’t killing him enough?
“How awful,” Margo said.
“Aye, but that bloke had been out of control.” Andrew’s face shook like pudding.
“Hardly deserving to be murdered, though,” Margo said.
“He could have been gutted like a haddock, and it wouldna matter to me.”
“Sounds like you hated him,” Anna said.
“Aye, and I’m not alone.”
Anna feared Andrew might bite. Best to leave him to Margo. And how much time remained before his friend, Sean, would arrive? She felt like making a mad dash to the gate.
When they reached the last of Andrew’s work, abutting the brick wall, Anna paused to admire a delicate painting of porcelain dolls as the artist pulled Margo into an alcove. “I want to paint you,” he said, caressing Margo’s temple with a ruddy hand. “I can make you look even lovelier with a wee bit of light. You’d be immortal.”
Anna imagined those sausage fingers on her skin. How were they capable of such grace and delicacy on canvas?
“Naked. That’s it. That’s it,” he shouted. “You must pose for me in the morning.”
“I’ve never done that,” Margo said.
“It would be brilliant. And I should tell you now, I’m sure you would love . . .” Andrew murmured into Margo’s ear. She pulled free and blindly rushed past Anna.
This is awkward, Anna thought. “I, uh, understand you live on Giudecca, Andrew. Do you come this way often?”
“Only when the alley cats are making too much noise shagging,” he replied. “Are you wantin’ one?”
Now Anna hurried away. “Margo,” she cried as she caught up with her friend near a whitewashed pergola. “It’s a shame that pig has so much talent. He’s beyond crude.”
Margo gave Anna a beatific smile. “Oh, I don’t know.”
“Come on, the man is so vulgar. He’s trying to bed you, and not doing it tastefully, either. What did he say to you?”
“I really had been thinking of posing for him. I must attract weirdos.”
Anna felt the weight of someone’s stare and looked up. A compact blond man with intense blue eyes stood on the other side of the pergola. He meandered over and greeted Margo in Italian. His voice was deep and sonorous, like a cello.
“What a surprise,” Margo said. “I thought you’d be in Milano by now, working, or cycling up Monte Grappa.”
“We Venetians never forget the way home.” He kissed Margo lightly on the cheek. “The canals, the sea, they’re part of us, so we don’t stay away for long.” He tilted his head toward Anna. “Who is your friend?”
“Anna. Ma lei è sposata,” Margo said. “And her husband is a handsome, jealous Neapolitan. Anna, this is Roberto.”
Anna could hardly believe that Margo was portraying her as happily married and to a loving Italian, yet, who sounded like he just got off the boat. Ignored and abandoned was more like it. She let it lie; a Latin lover was the last thing she needed right now. Roberto grasped her hand and kissed it. Anna pulled away, fingers brushing against his whiskers. But wh
en she found herself gazing into the cerulean innocence of Roberto’s eyes, she stood there, paralyzed, sensing his voice but not hearing his words. Floating in a vast sea, sheltered by an infinite azure sky, she felt herself drift away.
“So, you do not wish to answer; you must be shy,” he was saying. “Well, let me introduce myself properly. My name is Roberto Cavallin.” He waited, unblinking, concentrating on her.
“I’m . . . I’m Anna Lucia Lottol.” Anna collected herself by backing up a comfortable distance. “So tell me, er . . . Roberto, what do you do?”
“That’s what I’ve always wanted to know.” Margo laughed.
“Very funny, Margo. You mean, besides go to parties, hide behind statues, and kiss the hands of beautiful women?” He turned back to Anna. “I’m an investment banker. I advise Italian companies on acquisitions, and I invest as a principal. More of this is happening today, before European unification. I work in Milan, but from time to time I come back to Venice to relax. And to enjoy its charms with friends.” Roberto opened his arms wide and said, “You both must join me for a ride on my boat.”
“Can my cousin Angela come, too?” Margo asked.
“Certo, of course. We leave tomorrow around noon-thirty from Florian’s. We will go to Torcello for lunch.” He took off his jacket.
“Where is that?” Anna asked, distracted by the solid contours of his chest and shoulders.
“An hour to the northeast. The original Venice, the island where it all began. It’s a little wild, like me.” He gave out a low laugh. “But largely forgotten. It is one of my favorite places. You have not really experienced Venice until you see it from the water, like my ancestors did.”
“You’d like it, Anna,” Margo said.
“I don’t know if I should go,” Anna murmured. She spotted Andrew McMullan, his barrel chest bursting through the gate, with a gangly, curly-haired man wearing a cravat, and carrying a big leather portfolio. Quickly, she turned her back to them.
“Why do you say that?” asked Roberto.
“Because I’ve seen how Italians drive cars. It has to be worse in boats. No rules. Pure anarchy.” Anna felt the rush of fear, of accidents on the water. Of sloppy irrationality. Of loss of control. Fear that something might upset the order of her life while underneath it all lurked the fear of getting what she wanted, when her parents had not even gotten to see her grow up.
“Italians! We are Venetians here,” Roberto said. “It’s true that we like to make our own rules, but we are very careful on the water. There’s more courtesy . . . chivalry, you might say. After all, boating is an ancient tradition. Besides,” Roberto lightly touched Anna’s arm, “I would be very careful with such precious cargo.”
“Spare us the crap,” Margo said. “The truth is you’d be delighted to be alone with three women.”
“Sometimes, Margo,” Roberto’s eyes danced, “I think you know me too well. Anna, you would regret not going.”
Margo lowered her voice. “You heard about Sergio, didn’t you?”
“Of course. Sad. Very shocking. But,” he glanced over his shoulder, “his life was not without complications. Would anyone like a glass of wine?” he asked. “Valpolicella, Pinot Grigio, Montepulciano?”
“I’ll have Sagrantino if they’re serving it,” Margo said.
“Montepulciano, thanks,” Anna said.
“Don’t you think he’s big-time sexy?” Margo asked as Roberto moved toward the bar.
“Not really,” Anna said.
“Oh, come on. Are you blind? You’ve spent too much time with science textbooks. Just look at the physics of that rear end.”
“He’s not my type,” Anna said. “Much too smooth.” In truth, she didn’t know what she thought. She’d felt a consuming longing in the early years with Jack. She had no idea if she could or even wanted to feel it again. “Do you think he knows more about Sergio?”
“I’d bet on it. We need to divide and conquer. I’ll corner Fanfarone and Gratti. We can try to talk with Agatha together. Why don’t you see what you can pry from Roberto? He seems to have taken a shine to you.”
“I’ll do my best, but I don’t trust him. And I may have to leave early. Someone arrived who could identify me—Andrew’s friend—the police sketch artist.”
“Oh, no,” Margo said, clicking her tongue. “Then we’d better start working.” She sauntered away, leaving Anna to contemplate her next move.
Several clusters of people reveled together between Anna and the bar. She’d be less conspicuous in their midst, rather than standing in the open with a target on her back, like a mourning dove caught in the gaze of a red-tailed hawk. Starting to seek cover, she heard Andrew booming out in a rich brogue as he said, “Let me introduce you.” She hoped he was referring to an art patron.
Andrew planted himself in front of her, alongside the man with the portfolio.
She turned to leave.
“Stay a moment, Anna,” Andrew said. “This is my friend, Sean.”
Anna tried to look at ease as she noted Sean’s aquiline nose, tiny, alligator-green eyes, and thin lips, his somewhat reptilian look softened by an unruly abundance of sandy-colored hair.
“You look familiar,” Sean said with a proper British accent, peering at her.
“Lots of people tell me that. I . . . have one of those faces.”
“And American to boot.” He cocked his head. “I say, you’re the one! You’re the woman who ran down the steps from the gardens at the Belvedere Hotel. I sketched you for that detective.”
“What!”
“Wearing a raincoat to a formal ball. What were you hiding underneath?”
“Are you accusing me of something?”
“The artist’s eye doesn’t lie,” Andrew said.
“I should call Biondi right now and turn you in.” Sean’s voice rose with excitement. “There must be a reward in a big case like this. In fact, didn’t the widow offer one?”
“I’ve already spoken to Detective Biondi,” Anna said. “Obviously, he let me go.”
“He made a mistake. I’ll make a positive identification right now—of you in the flesh, not just from a sketch.”
“You’ve got the wrong person.”
“Not a chance.”
“I was just rushing down to the boat,” Anna said.
“You’re lying,” Sean said calmly.
As heads began turning in their direction, Anna felt someone brush against her shoulder. It was Roberto with her wine. “Here you go,” he said, handing it to her with a smile. “You’re right,” he said to the men. “What did you say your name was?”
“Sean.”
“Millbrook?”
“Correct.”
“Sean, she is lying,” Roberto told him.
Anna took a sip of wine, resisting the urge to quaff the entire glass. She couldn’t bear the gloating look on Andrew’s face.
“She was rushing back to me.” Roberto gave Anna a quick kiss on the lips. “Weren’t you, dear?”
Anna nodded energetically.
“Why did she have a raincoat on?” Sean demanded.
“We decided last minute to attend the party—how do you say, on a lark, and were in the process of departing,” Roberto said. “I told her about the lovely gardens, and she wanted to peek at them before we left.”
“Oh,” Sean said. Anna couldn’t tell if he believed Roberto or not.
“I’ve heard about your artwork,” Roberto said, glancing at the satchel. “Nice to see you’ve brought some pieces with you. I’d like to take a look at them later. At your work, too, Andrew.”
“Come on, Sean, let’s put yours up,” Andrew said. “Maybe you’ll get some offers.”
The two artists strolled toward the exhibition space and commenced placing Sean’s watercolors on some empty easels. Anna exhaled with a huge sigh. “Are you all right?” Roberto asked.
“Thank you,” Anna said fervently. “Even if you did take a liberty.”
“I couldn’t resi
st,” Roberto said.
“Why did you help me? Couldn’t this make trouble with the police for you?”
“You needed it. As you say, the detective released you. You aren’t exactly hiding. I’m sure he could find you if he had more evidence than a drawing. If I am correct, I have embarrassed Sean Millbrook, and he will not broadcast his mistake further. Neither will Andrew McMullan. In any case, I was at the ball.”
“Really?” Anna asked.
“And so were you. I went because I wanted to contribute money to save Venetian art,” Roberto said. “What was your reason?”
Offering a bland smile, Anna tried to concoct an explanation without revealing the tawdry details of why she had gone to the Belvedere. Analyzing numbers was her forte, not fabricating deceptions. Maybe she could just stonewall him.
“My work.”
“What kind of work?”
“Treasury work.”
“You mean the United States Treasury Department?”
“Yes.”
“What is their interest?”
“I can’t share that.”
“Who are you, the Mata Hari of the Treasury Department? Do you wear a holster on your thigh?” He grinned.
Anna rolled her eyes. “It’s not funny. You’re a smooth talker. That talent must come in handy.”
“As a matter of fact, it does help me close deals. But I’m curious. What is your nationality, I mean, ancestry?”
“Italian. I still go by my married name but not for much longer.” Anna had always disliked the truncated Lottol with its dropped vowel, courtesy of Jack’s WASP-wannabe father.
“I can’t say I’m sorry to hear that. Do you mind me asking your maiden name?”
“Orsini.”
“Much better,” Roberto said. “Little bears. Cute. More Italian.”
Roberto turned as Dudley approached.
“Thank you, sir. Here is my glass.” Roberto placed it on the painted tray Dudley held out. “Dudley, you must relax and let the waiters do their job. After all, you are the host.”
“Quite right,” Dudley said. “I’ll go and put my feet up.” He retreated to a bench.
“What can you tell me about Sergio Corrin?” Anna asked Roberto.
Venetian Blood Page 10
