Death Under the Venice Moon Read online

  Truth was, I was afraid—afraid I wouldn't measure up to Jennifer. Larry would have a chance to compare us. I thought for sure it would be his wake-up call, and I would be history.

  Coffee. I needed coffee something bad. Anything to fill the hollow place in my heart, anything to avoid facing reality. "I remember," I conceded. "How is Olivia?" Now I felt sorry for him.

  "I haven't been able to get in touch with her. The last time we spoke she was in Paris, said she was ready to come home. Lella, it's been over two years since I last saw my daughter. Her passport expired. I wired money and haven't heard from her since." He paused, then: "What's happening to me? To us?" He went quiet, the silence more disturbing than the words.

  What was happening to us? Had I been too hasty on passing judgment? All my decisions had been based on suspicions and paranoia, not facts.

  "Maybe, Larry. Maybe I can help you locate Olivia. I'm closer." Peace offering.

  "Where are you? When I spoke to Kyle he was driving between Rome and Venice. I didn't have the nerve to ask your exact location. It was hard enough having to ask how to get in touch with you."

  "I'm sorry." Why was I apologizing?

  "Maybe I should have given you more warning about Jennifer's moving back to California…my driving the rented truck."

  "Yes, you should have. We can talk about that later. I'm in a small coastal town near Venice. But Kyle may have some influence, and Carolyn is here. Let us help with Olivia." A chime in the background. I recognized Larry's cell. "Someone's calling you on your cell phone? What time is it over there?"

  "Three a.m. It may be Olivia. She may have been trying to reach me on the land line but we—"

  "Answer. Hurry. Answer. Call me back later. I'll be here."

  The line disconnected.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Corso del Popolo was a wide avenue flanked by older three- and four-story buildings, some with the ornate windows similar to those common in Venice. Countless churches sprang among the houses of Chioggia's main street. Interesting Victorian-looking street lanterns stayed in tune with the "little Venice" image. In spite of the cooler weather—by Southern California standards—charming tables and umbrellas were set outdoors on both sides of the corso.

  Transformed from residences into stores, restaurants, and cafes, the street settings invited locals and tourists alike to sit, sip, and smile. I accepted the invitation and made a short stop for a cappuccino and a cornetto, a croissant-like pastry filled with crema, the delicious Italian vanilla pudding.

  It was past noon, and I had given up on waiting for Larry's call. Many mea culpas had crossed my mind while I waited, and I was still unsure if we were on a mending path.

  Too many questions swirled in my head. Mostly, why did I run? He was right. I could have told him how much it hurt to know he was traveling with Jennifer. I said nothing. The old me would have pretended all was good while dying inside.

  I didn't pretend; I ran while dying inside. Passive aggressive. I read that in a book. It described my behavior perfectly. I didn't argue. I hid, thinking all the while I was going to show him. Yeah, I showed him, all right. I was the one who was a mess, and just because he hadn't called back.

  Grateful credit cards were now welcomed by most Italian businesses, I paid the bill. When I had left Dana Point, my plan had been to get money from my account at the American Express office in Venice. That never happened because the young woman sent by Kyle whisked me away from the airport and straight here. Well, no American Express office in "little Venice."

  Few people sat at the outside tables. October wasn't tourist season. Most locals had already headed home for lunch. I should have been doing something to keep busy until Kyle arrived, and returning to the condo wasn't on my agenda. The last thing I wanted to do was to face Augusta the concierge again, not after the look she'd given me when I'd stopped by her office to explain about the spilled wine.

  "Yes, I'm aware of last night's incident. It's being taken care of." She'd turned around, lips tight, and gone back to filing papers or pretending to.

  End of conversation. Wonder what kind of story Cruz had fed her.

  Maybe I could find the canal I saw from the back window of the condo's living room. I stood smack in the center of Chioggia centro storico, old town, and felt as if I had visited this town before, as a little girl. With my mother. Yes, it'd been here—well, at Sottomarina, the neighboring small town with the big hotels. That had been where I saw the sea for the very first time. We had traveled by bus, just Mom and me. It was such a long time ago. I hadn't thought about it in years, decades.

  I left Corso del Popolo and the center behind and walked down a long calle, a narrow street between buildings. The pedestrian bridge I reached was even more narrow than the calle. To cross or not to cross? It could wait. There didn't appear to be anything all that appealing at the other end, only old, neglected apartment buildings.

  I turned left, two marble steps down, and found myself looking at a row of small shops. I could close my eyes and pretend to be in Venice. The same string of arches framed the buildings on the canal edge, but this canal had no gondolas, and the buildings could use a fresh coat of paint.

  Colorful wooden boats tied and left bobbing in groups of two or three didn't look like they would be up for adventure or romance anytime soon. The rest of the boats, modest in appearance, were moored casually without any obvious order. Only a few had a small engine.

  Where was everybody? My steps against the stone sidewalk sounded like the clippity-cloppity of a horse.

  Oh, of course, siesta time. How about that? I picked the perfect time slot to stroll the town looking for something to do. If a foreign nation ever wanted to invade Italy without a fight, siesta hours would do the trick.

  I walked, keeping my eyes focused on the opposite bank of the canal, searching for the palazzo, and nearly tripping on a chair occupied by an old woman.

  "Oh, scusi, scusi, so sorry I wasn't paying attention."

  She raised her head from what she was doing. Her face was weathered but her eyes reminded me of the pale blue eyes of a kitten, the same sense of wonderment minus the neediness. Her nod acknowledged my presence. I stood next to her awkwardly, staring at her hands.

  A bundle like a rolled-up fat towel was on her lap, a white piece of lace pinned to it. Her fingers moved so quickly it took me a while to realize she held a needle between the fingers of her right hand. Her left hand pulled a white thread. It all went on with incredible speed and precision. Did she sense my curiosity? With another nod, she pointed me to the old wooden chair with a straw seat next to hers. My mother had inherited some old chairs like these from her mother. I wondered which relative claimed them after Mom's death.

  "Where are you from?" She spoke without interrupting her work.

  "Son Veneta. I'm from the Veneto region." I said it in the Venetian dialect, on purpose.

  "You may be Veneta by birth, but you aren't from around here," was her shocking answer.

  "How can you tell?" I laughed it off.

  She pointed to the folded napkin sticking out of my pocket. A precautionary measure, in case of unplanned nature call. The logo from the restaurant where I purchased my cappuccino and cornetto was blatantly obvious. "Tourist's spot," she said with disdain.

  Observant old devil.

  "What are you doing? Your fingers move so fast, and yet I can't see any progress."

  "Lace." Not the talkative type.

  "Oh, you mean like Burano lace?" I had a tablecloth back home with delicate panels of the exquisite lace.

  "Look around," she said. "Does this place look like Burano?"

  I'd never been to the little isle outside Venice, but, seeing her so miffed, I dropped the subject. The stores on either side looked closed. The business behind us had the original look of the old buildings—no new glass front, no fancy windows or elaborate displays. A plain old door, bottom half of wood, glass upper half with a lace curtain that looked handmade. The work of my br
ooding new friend?

  "You're right. I'm not from around here." A little diplomacy to smooth things over.

  She ignored me.

  I thought perhaps it was time to go back to the condo. The quiet of the early afternoon felt surreal, with the shy autumn sun reflecting on the peaceful canal and no one but the two of us there to enjoy it. We might not be able to turn back the hands of time, but in that place it felt very much as if time had stood still.

  I gave another try at conversation. "Those are such colorful old boats."

  "Bragossi."

  "Excuse me?" Was she insulting me? I had no idea what the word meant.

  "That's what the old fish boats are called—bragossi, mostly used for boat parades, tourist photos, and struggling artists practicing their talents. The boats look so colorful because they are made of wood, and are often repainted in those basic, vivid colors: red, blue, and yellow." She glanced sideways at me. "It's all about money, and tourists bring money. We have to adapt our ways to meet tourists' expectations."

  "Oh, I see what you mean. That makes sense. I'm trying to remember Chioggia as it was when I visited. We stayed here in town, and my mom would ride the bike to Sottomarina. I would sit in the front. But those days are in the past, maybe forty-five years ago. I can't even tell where we stayed. I do remember that the building was about four stories high. There were narrow corridors between the buildings with laundry hanging from balconies and kids playing in the streets, kids without shoes, in shorts, eating juicy watermelon."

  As I spoke my memories came alive and carried me back. "It was hot, must have been summer, a sticky hot. Mom had a wet towel and she would wipe my face often. The apartments had no doors. Instead there were curtains made with strings of wooden beads that clicked like castanets when you walked through. And the smell of fried fish ruled the world." I snapped out of my trance-like state, looked at my new companion and shrugged.

  The old woman looked at me with—fondness? "Tende antimosche."

  "Oh! Curtains anti-flies? You mean those beaded strings they used to keep out flies when it was too hot to keep the doors closed." Italian-style screens?

  She interrupted her work, and some of the wonderment faded from her eyes. Her face softened. She reached out and covered my hand with hers while her other hand caught a rebellious tear channeling between furrows. "That world is still here, cara mia, but a little farther from the tourist area. If you stay far away from Corso del Popolo and Canal Vega, you're bound to find yourself in the middle of your memories. Sooner or later. I misjudged you. Welcome back."

  We sat without speaking. I thought of happier times, simpler days. Did she as well? I cleared my throat. "Do you live here?" I glanced at the door with the lace curtains.

  Her eyes shifted up toward the row of windows above the door. "Si," she said without joy. When her glance slid back to the storefront, she added, "My son's wife."

  Not my daughter-in-law. My son's wife. A small discernment, but I understood.

  "She sells old junk and antiques. I'm part of the display."

  I fought the urge to hug her. She seemed worn out by loneliness and maybe the indifference of loved ones.

  "Where are you staying?" A brief flash of interest crossed her face.

  "Oh, I'm a guest of my son's friend. Somewhere over there across this canal." I found myself once again searching for the palazzo, but had no idea what it looked like from the back. Most of the buildings on the opposite side of the canal appeared neglected or abandoned. There were closed wooden shutters over a few windows, no wilting geraniums on the windowsills, no lace curtains or crystal chandeliers in sight. How about the underground dock? Maybe it could be seen in daylight.

  "Are you a guest del Francese mato?"

  "Guest of the crazy Frenchman? Is that what you are asking me? No. As far as I know there aren't any Frenchman where I'm staying."

  Her shield was back up, and her fingers moved fast and furious.

  Just then the rumbling of a light engine broke the silence and an old, rusty motorboat passed by. "Well, I would have guessed this canal was off limits to motors. I would have been wrong," I said.

  She shrugged. "Around the corner is the open laguna. This type of craft is used for transport of goods. The canal is not that shallow, but engine noises are to be kept low."

  She had my full attention. "No speed boats, then?" Was I at the wrong end of town? Did I get lost? I didn't even have an address.

  "Speedboats? Rare, but we have some—el Francese, for example."

  Damn. There was that word again. The Frenchman. I felt her eyes on me, piercing my skull. She carefully removed the lace bundle from her lap and stood, laid the work in progress on the straw seat of her chair and took my hand. "Come."

  We walked toward the direction where the rusty boat had disappeared from view. We passed one arch then another, and there it was across the water. No mistaking it. Cruz's palazzo. It was quite plain from the rear. The tall, narrow windows barely arched on top. Perhaps it had been built in the years after the opulence of the Republic of Venice waned. At the bottom of the palazzo, where the walls met the water, there was a wide opening, arched at the top like the windows.

  I had seen similar points of entry for boats and gondolas in Venice, on the Grand Canal mostly. This one looked like a submerged porch, and above it was a rooftop terrace with huge potted plants. "That's where the Francese keeps his shiny boat." She pointed to the opening at the bottom of the palazzo.

  Cruz's underground dock. Damn. Something wasn't right. Why Frenchman?

  Her eyes locked on to mine. "Is that where you are staying?" We were the same height, and now that we stood so close I suspected her weathered face was more the result of hard living than old age.

  I wasn't going to lie. "Yes, it is, but I have no idea who this Frenchman is. Can you describe him?"

  She laughed, the laugh of a tired soul. "I can't. He keeps on changing. I call him el Francese mato because no normal man would act like that."

  "Like—what?" The tingle scurrying up and down my spine wasn't one of pleasure. Could she be describing Cruz?

  "He isn't from around here. I've only seen him during the day, and he doesn't seem to have a regular schedule of any kind. Sometimes a season goes by and no traces of him, then I'll be sitting there just where you found me and hear the rumbling of the engine.

  "The first time it happened, it frightened me. I thought it was a plane falling from the sky. This shiny thing came from the bowels of the building, quickly turned toward the laguna and disappeared in a wake of misty foam. I never saw him come back. Sort of forgot about it. After the second time, I was curious. I snatched some old opera glasses from the store. The next time the boat appeared, I was ready." She spoke with pride, as if it were her civic duty to keep an eye out. "I saw this man, thin, with a big, dark mustache and long, curly hair covering part of his face. Every time he goes by he looks different."

  I'm like a chameleon. Cruz's words echoed in my mind.

  She went on. "I can tell it's the same man by his behavior. He stands tall and stiff as he steers the boat toward the laguna. Just as it starts to turn, he flips a cigarette butt into the water. That's the only thing that never changes."

  Ah, Cruz. Busted by your smoking habit.

  She narrowed her eyes, squinting against the sun. "That building is owned by a Frenchwoman. He must be a relative of hers, or a very close friend. But I haven't seen him in a while. Last night I heard a muffled engine. But it sounded different. Hard to tell, they had the television on." She looked toward the son's place. "Maybe he sold the place to your son's friend." She stared straight into my eyes, and something told me she knew a lot more about what went on across the canal than she let on.

  "Maybe he did," I said, and didn't flinch.

  A young woman in tight jeans and dark glasses stepped off the bridge and walked toward one of the closed stores. Siesta time was over. We headed back toward the two empty chairs sitting side by side. A turning key click
ed from inside the wood and glass door with the lace curtain.

  The lace maker's shoulders slumped. "Stop by tomorrow if you are still here," she said without looking at me.

  I nodded and kept walking away. When I reached the pedestrian bridge, "California Girls" chimed inside my purse.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  "Mom, where are you?"

  "Hi, Kyle. I'm walking around Chioggia, not too far from Cruz's condo. It turns out I've been here before as a child, and—"

  "Mom. Mom." He spoke quickly. "That's nice, but we are still trying to locate Cruz. Have you seen him at all?"

  "No. Do you want me to go talk to that Augusta person?" Please, say no.

  "No need to. I'm only ninety minutes away. Cruz isn't answering his damn phone. What an idiot. His agent tells me he missed work a few times over the years, but never a media appearance. Maybe I'll know more when I get there. I'll be able to tell if something is amiss. Okay, see you soon." A pause. "Did you talk to Larry?"

  What? "I did."

  "Good. See you very soon."

  Good? How would he know? For all his success and good intentions, Kyle never seemed to understand much about relationships. Speaking of which, it was odd he never mentioned Pia. Was she his girlfriend, or wasn't she? But what did I care? My son never discussed his women with me. Turnabout is more than fair—I'm not going to discuss men with him. He used to talk about girls while growing up, but all that changed after his father's death. Perhaps he felt compelled to be the man of the house, or maybe with his dad gone Kyle didn’t want to discuss matters of the heart with his lonesome mother.

  Nothing from Larry. The phone call that interrupted our conversation must have had something to do with why he hadn't called back. I wasn't going to blame Jennifer. No need to call him if she wanted his immediate attention. Reach out and touch me crossed my mind. Here we go again. Why was I always more suspicious of men's loyalties than of women's?

  Walking between apartment buildings built so close to each other reminded me of urban high rises so tall and tightly crammed together that the space separating never got direct sunlight.