Venetian Blood

by Christine Evelyn Volker

  On the morning Gabriella fled the palazzo, perhaps Gaetano had called Dudley for advice, giving him the opportunity to unleash a savage revenge. But even Dudley could not bring himself to kill an innocent child. In his crafty way, he might have tricked Agatha into believing it was all her idea to deliver the girl to her grandfather. As a false friend to both Alessandro and Gabriella, he would have known how her father felt about Alessandro. Through the years, while Agatha suffered from her guilt, was Dudley quietly relishing the double dose of pain he’d inflicted on his unwary rival? A vicious, complex story, Anna thought, hard to believe but entirely plausible.

  And what about the severed hands of Gabriella and Sergio, and Angela’s mutilated ring finger? Could this be Dudley’s punishment for rupturing their marriage vows? Anna looked up with a start and realized she was the last person on the veranda. The uniformed staff was standing by the door, too polite to rush her.

  Leaving the hotel, she took off her shoes again and walked along the sand, dipping her feet in the frothy water, feeling its energy as the breakers cast their salty white cloaks in the air. Two sets of prints led up from the sea, a human’s and a dog’s. She saw them in the distance on the shiny shore, the dog with its front paws down, wagging its tail, begging to be thrown a ball. Nearby, flocks of oystercatchers sporting bold black-and-white markings drilled holes in the sand with their flaming red bills, seeking tiny crustaceans.

  As sunset approached, the azure sky gave way to streams of crimson and tangerine. Two passenger ships bound for other ports sailed by, their lights soon twinkling from afar. On the horizon, one passed beyond view as if it had fallen off the edge of the earth.

  Near the church of San Nicolò, Anna peeked through the locked gate into the ancient brick-walled Jewish cemetery. Established in the late thirteen hundreds, surviving alternating waves of abandonment and attention, the cemetery and all its dead lay forgotten among the weeds and ivy. The centuries-old gravestones were asunder, some piled in a corner, their carvings of trees of life eroded by salt, sand, and time. How long, indeed, Anna wondered, would anyone be remembered—one, two, three generations? With or without descendants, none of the dead had visitors anymore. Better to spend a God-given span with purpose, truth, and grace, she thought.

  Dusk descended as Anna meandered through the streets, bound for the quay. She was reluctant to leave the Lido, the air fresh off the sea, the broad and open streets where nobody knew her.

  Drawn to a snug portside restaurant, she ordered the grilled branzino, risotto with radicchio, a glass of Amarone, secretly celebrating her solution to Sergio’s murder at her last dinner in Venice. She attempted to turn her back on the misery of her vacation and sensed a light glimmering. After she talked with Biondi, he’d declare her innocent and release her passport. In California, she would gather up the pieces of her life: Roberto would vouch for her, and instead of arranging for her arrest, the Treasury Department would reward her. If Leslie wasn’t transferred, Anna would demand to be. In any case, she’d get Brian reinstated. Her divorce would soon be final, and she’d be free to start anew. She relished a tiramisu, and then caught the ferry back to the heart of Venice.

  Calle dei Assassini

  Tuesday, night

  Sitting on the ferry’s upper deck, Anna took in Venice’s gleaming shoreline, from the Public Gardens, where they had found Angela, past the Arsenale, where Dante and Dudley had roamed, centuries apart, and onto the gracious curve of buildings along the Riva. She needed to call Biondi. After they talked, she’d return to the real world and leave this watery illusion behind.

  The ferry gently bumped the edge of the dock, and Anna soon disembarked, making her way to the pointed-arch perfection of Hotel Danieli, its fine stone balconies offering a bird’s-eye view of the lagoon. Anna sought a phone in the gray-and-white-marble lobby, where filigreed walls towered as staircase arches and balustrades cascaded toward earth in an Arabian dream. When told Biondi would be unavailable for a few hours, she left a message asking him to meet her at La Pensione Stella. Hesitating before dialing Roberto’s number, she hung up when she reached his voicemail. A third call let Giuseppe know she was on her way back to the hotel.

  The throngs of tourists had vanished by the time she reached the basilica. Finding an open door, she went in, struck by the soft sheen of the floor, the patina of the golden walls, the domes floating high above the Byzantine mosaics. Figures stared down on her from their perches on ceilings, in alcoves, above the grand altar: Saint Mark in a boat, lapped by wavy white lines of water; Noah lounging under a canopy; Adam and Eve in a lush garden. At the center of the main dome was a mosaic of Christ ascending into the blue heavens, gold stars that looked like daisies dotting the sky behind him. If she spun around on her heels, the stars made trails.

  Anna thought of her rosary, hanging above her childhood bed. She found a cluster of votive candles and lit seven, for Nonno and Nonna, Pappa Antonio and Mamma Elena, Angela and her baby, and her own unborn child. Reciting snatches of prayers for each, she pondered the fates of the dead and of Angela, still fighting for life. Then she knelt there and cried for them all.

  St. Mark’s oldest bell, the Marangona, tolled in its ancient voice as Anna left the cathedral. At this hour, the famous piazza was empty; Caffè Quadri and Caffè Florian, on their opposite sides of the square, were silent. Heading toward a far arch, Anna passed the pond of bobbing gondolas and found her way along the Frezzeria. No one knew she’d be coming back to her pensione now, especially after being away last night. But still, returning there might be a mistake. It would be safer to walk to the Favier palazzo and stay overnight. The waning, luminous moon floated above the rooftops, just as it had above the garden at the Belvedere, reminding her to stay alert to every shadow and sound.

  As she reached Calle Fuseri, a gang of costumed revelers bore down on her, laughing, singing, beating drums, carrying tridents, and cutting off the path she had intended to take to Margo. Some wore Bauta and Columbina masks; others were hidden behind creepy plague-doctor masks, with the long beak and skull of a ghostly bird. The noisy procession spilled like a torrent into the tiny alley. Anna had to flatten herself against a building and wait for them to pass.

  As a red-haired joker with bells went by, he cranked his head in her direction. Then he bumped against her, rubbing up and down before slowly withdrawing. Anna was too shocked to scream, not that anyone would have heard or cared in all the tumult. Shaken and upset with herself for not kneeing the pervert in the crotch, she wanted to crumple up in the nearest doorway. The crowd did not thin and she gave up waiting. She darted across the alley and headed to her pensione, then retreated into a notch between buildings and waited for her emotions to settle.

  Just five minutes away from the pensione, she thought—almost there, the nightmare almost over. Making halting progress, she studied the pavement around her. Shrouds of mist covered moored boats and arched doorways as she strained to discern any furtive silhouette. A few musical notes glided overhead. When a shadow darted across her path as she passed a store selling marbled paper and diaries, she almost screamed—a mouse. She tried to laugh at herself as she traversed the deserted campo. At the next corner, the neon star of her pensione came into view. In another hundred feet, she’d be safe. If Giuseppe hadn’t moved her to another room, she’d make sure he did so now, and she’d push the armoire against the door for good measure.

  Almost tiptoeing alongside dim, narrow Rio Verona, she hesitated by an antique store as she scrutinized her pensione. All looked quiet. As she crossed the bridge over the peaceful canal, the lapping water seemed to say that nothing would harm her here, on her last night in Venice. Basking in slumber, the placid buildings bordering the canal accentuated the mood, as if evil were also sleeping. She decided to walk for just a moment along the fondamenta. Pausing at a lamppost, she looked at her reflection in the shining water and wondered exactly how she’d reassemble the shards of her life. What redress for Leslie’s decision would she pursue? How wo
uld it feel to be single again?

  When an older woman’s face appeared in the mirrored surface, Anna let out a small scream and then turned, embarrassed.

  “I’m so sorry,” the woman said, pushing her thick glasses back. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. But I thought you looked familiar. Aren’t you Anna Orsini?”

  “Not my name now,” Anna replied, puzzled.

  The woman’s lined face contrasted with the lustrous blonde hair tucked under a wide-brimmed hat, and the smiling red lips that revealed yellowed teeth. “My name is Gloria Orseolo. I’m a relation of the first doge of Venice. I saw you at Dudley and Agatha’s party.”

  “Isn’t it rather late in the evening?”

  “Not for me. I love walking in Venice at night. Keeps me young. I was born in New York, but I live here now, around the corner, actually. A lot of time has passed, I know, but you’re related to Andrea Orsini, right?”

  “My grandfather. Did you know him?” Anna asked in an uncertain tone.

  “We worked together for the Italian government in Manhattan.” The woman wore a simple cotton skirt and blouse under an unbuttoned raincoat, and when she took a deep breath, her large breasts pushed against the fabric. “You used to live in the Bronx, then moved out to the Island.”

  Anna nodded.

  “He was such a nice man, and he loved you very much. You’re a lovely girl,” the woman added, patting her shoulder.

  “Thanks. I’m hardly a girl anymore.” Anna wondered how much this old woman could tell her.

  “Well, you were always your grandfather’s little girl. I feel terrible that I lost touch with him. Is he still alive?” She gave Anna a kind look.

  “No.”

  “And your grandmother, your Nonna? Maria, wasn’t it?”

  “Gone, too.”

  “Sad to hear.” The woman pulled at her scarf with gloved hands. “I remember how upset he was when your parents died. He took a lot of time off from work then. He had the most beautiful picture of you and your mother. You know, you have the same eyes. Do you remember her?”

  “Just a little.”

  “Your grandfather confided a lot in me then.” The woman looked as if she had more to say.

  Odder things have happened than this midnight encounter, Anna thought, thirsting for information on the missing pieces of her life. Maybe it would give her more to hold onto. And yet, glimpsing a police skiff landing in front of the palazzo on the corner of Rio di San Luca, she began fidgeting.

  “I need to go,” Anna said, trying to walk around the woman.

  “Oh, no, please! Have some consideration for your elders. Young people are in such a hurry these days.” The woman paused. “I knew your mother, too.”

  Anna pivoted. “You did?”

  “I can tell you all about her.”

  Anna’s gaze went to the officers scrambling out of the boat.

  The woman didn’t seem to hear the clamor.

  Biondi must have received the DNA and blood results and was coming to arrest her. Dudley had framed her, breaking into her room and contaminating her raincoat. Anna could envision how she’d be treated now—shackled and hung upside down. Her pipe-dream of a happy ending would turn out to be just that.

  Anna turned to flee, refusing to be arrested and handcuffed in the middle of the street. But the woman reached out and clasped her arm with a surprisingly fierce grip. “Memories can come back at the strangest times,” she said, her voice sounding deeper than before. “When you least expect them.”

  Anna strained to pull away, but the woman tightened her hold as, with the other hand, she pulled an object from under her raincoat. When Anna caught a glint of steel, she yanked her arm free but lost her balance, slipped on the slick walk, and fell into the canal. Murky water covered her before she knew it. Then she heard the clang of metal against stone, and a loud splash.

  Strong hands were pushing her down, squeezing her throat. She tugged at the woman’s fingers, trying to loosen their grip while kicking at someone she couldn’t see, but nothing stopped the pressure. Desperate, Anna tugged at the blonde hair, then, unbelieving, watched it float off like a cloud of seaweed. Still kicking, she tried to jab her elbow into the woman’s face. She could sense her field of vision darkening, her mind purged of every thought except the need to breathe. Soon she would run out of air.

  A dazzling light penetrated the water. Anna sensed a commotion on land, heard a faint voice saying, “Ferma! Stop! I order you to stop, or we shoot.”

  The woman continued to choke her from above. A shot rang out. A crimson trail stained the dark green water, and with it, the pressure on her neck ceased. Giant splashes and bubbles followed. Anna swam to the surface, gasping and coughing, almost sensing hands from below supporting her, a woman’s long fingernails digging into her, thrusting her upward as if to say, ‘Live,’ like the mother whale shoving her newborn calf into the air for its first breath. That is not here, that is not now, that is not real, Anna thought.

  “Come, come. Here, take my hands,” a man’s accented voice shouted. Anna could just make out a blurry figure kneeling at the side of the canal. She flailed at the extended arms before grabbing them and being hoisted onto the pavement. Too weak to stand, Anna shivered and clutched her throat before focusing on the face of her rescuer.

  “I am happy to see that we arrive in time,” Biondi said. “You are safe. A minute more, and the assassin would have won. We just came from his home. I am very sorry for all this has caused you, Signora Lottol. We get your statement once you are warm and dry and have calmed yourself. A doctor will visit to examine your injury. Officer Palma will accompany you to the pensione. If you excuse me, I must go now with the prisoner.”

  Anna coughed and nodded. Her voice had deserted her.

  Biondi joined the knot of policemen around her attacker, who was facing a stucco wall. A drenched officer was pressing a large white bandage against her assailant’s bleeding shoulder. Anna noted disjointed features: a mop of white hair dripping onto a heavily padded bra. Rivulets of water running down hairy calves.

  “Dudley Filbert, you are under arrest,” Biondi shouted. “You are a disgrace.”

  “Keep your filthy hands off me,” Dudley growled. “You almost killed me.”

  “It is a flesh wound.”

  “I was here doing research.”

  “Liar. Bestia! Take him away.”

  With policemen on either side, Dudley left a wet trail, not unlike the slugs in Anna’s garden, as he was marched to the police boat. He boarded without a backward glance.

  Officer Palma helped Anna stand up and wrapped her in his dry jacket, then guided her back to La Stella.

  Il Sogno, The Dream

  Wednesday, early afternoon

  Anna stared ahead, feeling numb in the daylight. She could finally leave Venice and go home. But to what? Charges from the Department of Justice? Seeing the divorce through? Collecting unemployment insurance? She doubted Roberto had ever contacted the Treasury Department. He still wasn’t answering his phone or responding to the message she had finally left in her raspy voice. Where the hell was he?

  At least she was alive. The horror was behind her. She had signed her legal statement against Dudley and, she hoped, would not have to return for his trial. The doctor had predicted her vocal cords would fully recover in a week. Giuseppe had brought brunch to her room: fresh fruit, a basil and tomato omelet, a croissant, and an exquisite cappuccino capped with foam. It was time for her to relax and heal. With Dudley imprisoned and normalcy reigning once again, she felt sure no more trouble could befall her before she left Venice later that day.

  Giuseppe’s gaze slipped away from his book as Anna descended the stairs, her suitcases bumping each step. “Vorrei pagare il mio conto, per favore,” she said in a hoarse voice, wanting to pay her bill.

  He proffered his uneven, toothy grin. “Sì, carina, lo so.” He scurried over and helped her with her bags, calling her a dear.

  An urgency to leave, to b
e gone, overwhelmed Anna. To go away—va via. Not a minute more, she thought. It was already two o’clock. Once entranced, like many others, by Venice’s beauty, she thought now only of murders, rancid canals, crowds of tourists, cat feces, and vanishing lovers.

  Dudley had tried to draw her in, so he could kill her more easily. Margo had likely passed on the facts about her grandparents and where she’d grown up. But Anna felt he seemed genuinely afraid of what she might recall, not just what she had recently uncovered. Through his work, had her grandfather been privy to something, or was it possible he had met Dudley and shared . . . something . . . with her, years ago, that might have implicated Dudley in the old murders? She concentrated but bumped into an infuriatingly solid wall. She just couldn’t resurrect the memory. When she got home, she’d make a list of Dudley’s odd behaviors, assign probabilities to their origins, and solve for the most likely one, similar to her logic at work. On the other hand, she considered whether she should cast off her habitual way of thinking and attack this problem differently.

  “Fra poco, fra poco, carina.” As she stood there watching him fumble with a calculator, Giuseppe held up his thin, age-speckled hand. “C’è un piccolo problema,” he said, telling her there was a problem, and rushed into the back room. Anna heard him on the phone, mentioning that it was “urgent.” Just her luck to hit a mechanical breakdown, she thought.