Death Under the Venice Moon Read online

  CHAPTER TEN

  I squinted against the sunlight ricocheting off the water. The hotel water taxi, as Kyle called it, was a fancy speedboat, much fancier than Cruz's boat—in fact, fancier than any I'd seen before. I knew little about boats, but the upgrades here were obvious even to the uneducated. I sat on the leather-covered bench in awe. The hotel name was in gaudy gold letters, and the interior of the watercraft was garishly luxurious, with thick silk ropes, tassels, and plush cushions—almost as lavish as the vanity flotilla of Donald Trump I once saw on TV. I wasn't prepared for it, but I should have remembered Italians tended to do everything with a great deal of fanfare, regardless of wealth or culture.

  My mother once told me of a neighbor who put a lien on her house to afford a fancy Nile cruise. Smoke and mirrors. Something forewarned me I was about to be swallowed by the smoke and mirrors lifestyle.

  Kyle, his back to me, stood beside the boat's pilot he had introduced as Marco. Marco wore a uniform of some sort, navy blue with gold buttons galore. By their casual conversation, I assumed they'd made this trek together before—without the extra passenger, of course. We glided along the Grand Canal, passing ancient palaces with their Gothic facades and de rigueur lancet windows.

  I had traveled Canal Grande many times, and sadly had to admit the priceless, ornate buildings had become little more than a blur over the years. The only one I always recognized was the Peggy Guggenheim Museum. It was blinding white, and always had been as far back as I could remember. The lone white palace on Canal Grande, unlike any on any other canal. The building itself was square, almost squat, as it rose only one modest story above the water. Yes, easy to spot.

  The breeze whipped my hair over my face. I fidgeted with the light jacket. Damn, I should have packed better clothes.

  Kyle turned to look at me. "Almost there, Mom. You enjoying yourself?"

  I smiled and nodded. I wished it were possible to turn back the clock, before Larry's trip to Florida, before my jealousy crisis. I wished myself back home, in my cozy bathrobe, having my morning coffee and reading the Orange County Register while Flash nibbled at my ankle because I didn't feed her fast enough.

  I braced myself for the landing at Century Palace. Mio Dio, even the name sounded gaudy. Stop being so judgmental.

  With little fanfare, the speedboat reached the end of the canal and made a wide U-turn. I caught a glimpse of the one and only magnificent Piazza San Marco. Poof, gone. We headed back into the canal, and there, in its entire restored splendor, stood the hotel.

  So much for my snarky thoughts—in spite of all my assumptions, the three-story palace had maintained its pristine original appearance. Its motor purring like a kitten, the water taxi approached the wide, planked landing that led to the hotel entrance.

  "Mom, Marco doesn't think they'll be any paparazzi around. He agrees with my original plan; we go through the lobby instead of the service entry. That way our luggage will be stored until we decide what to do next. Let's go."

  Kyle shook hands with Marco and in one quick hop was on the deck. He offered his hand and pulled me up beside him.

  I ran my fingers through my hair to at least give myself the illusion of normalizing my appearance. Right!

  The instant I crossed the threshold of the fifteen-foot-tall glass doors into the lobby, the first wave of surprises hit. The sparsely placed furniture was so ultra-contemporary it clashed with my expectations. The chairs looked like wings of white birds in flight. I must stop judging. After all, the walls were pure Venetian plaster.

  "Mr. York." A young man in a classic gray suit came from somewhere and greeted Kyle. They shook hands, and I was introduced to the hotel's formal concierge. He spoke in a very British kind of English and pointed us to the meeting room where we were expected.

  "Let's go, Mom. I guess Carolyn and Roberto are waiting for us. Why the meeting room? Not good."

  "Why? You don't like meetings or something?"

  He smiled. "It's a reserved room, meaning other people are about to join us or may already be there. I have a bad feeling about this. Anyway, it's not a public room. Oh, damn."

  I followed his glance. A couple headed our way. Their choice of threads cheered me up. Compared with what they wore, my clothes didn't feel so frumpy and inexpensive. Of course, youth was on their side.

  "Mom, paparazzi." My son spoke softly, barely moving his lips.

  I smoothed my hair with renewed fervor, but a glance into the ornate mirror on the wall told me the results were just as dim as before.

  "Ciao, ragazzi." I loved to listen to Kyle's Italian—slow, singsong, so different from when he spoke English.

  The two gave him a high-five. The skinny woman with straight brown hair held a camera, while the young man kept his hands in the pockets of his faded jeans. "Hey, Kyyyle, what's up, bro?" The boy seemed determined to sound like…I didn't know what. A rapper? "Where is your buddy, Cruz?"

  The girl smiled, her eyes on me.

  "No idea where Cruz might be. My mom is visiting from California, and I'm showing her around Venice. Be gentle, guys. She just got off the plane."

  I did? He would show me around Venice?

  Both paparazzi perked up at the mention of California, and turned their full attention on me. "You are Kyle's mamma?"

  Damn, I had just about enough of that Kyle's mom nonsense.

  "Certo, son la mamma, e sono Italiana. Ma che Italiana. Son Veneta. Okay?" My statement that not only was I his mother but also Italian and from the Veneto region left them speechless for about five seconds. They grew very animated, asked to take pictures of us, and wanted to know if I was a "showbiz mom." Really? Must have been a slow day for scandals. More high-fives then they finally headed toward the lobby.

  "Why did you tell them I just got off the plane?" I asked Kyle.

  "Don't know. I didn't want them to bug you, and you look sort of tired." He shrugged. "Maybe I shouldn't have dragged you all the way here."

  We made it to what wasn't like any business meeting room I'd seen before. Tables and chairs, walls—everything looked so new and so ultra-modern I could swear it smelled of fresh paint and plastic. The funky, clear plastic chairs were probably out of some designer's showroom, but I couldn't tell the difference between them and the ones from IKEA at a fraction of the cost.

  "Hello, hope you don't mind, I brought my mom. Mom, you know Carolyn, and that's Roberto, Cruz's agent. Yes." He laughed. "Only one name, like celebrities."

  Carolyn, Kyle's agent, jumped to her feet and rushed to hug me. "Hey, Lella, welcome to Venice. How does it feel to be back home?" No trademark giant earrings today. Her hair looked shorter the last time I'd seen her. Now it flirted with the collar of her beige suit. Had it been that long since we'd seen each other? Her energy level was high, as it generally was.

  "Hi, Carolyn. Honestly, I feel like an alien in this place. It's all so…"

  "New?" Her laugh was just as grating as I remembered. "They are newly open, probably still road testing the joint. The place was a convent in a former life." More laughter. "But, hey, they aim to please." Yep, vintage Carolyn.

  There was someone else in the room. A man. He sat across from Carolyn and could have been her opposite if there was such a thing. She was tall, slim, a loud, motor-mouthed bundle of energy, generally dressed in a unisex, unconventional way.

  The short, pudgy man had not said a word or even smiled. He wore a dark double-breasted suit with a white shirt and what looked to be an expensive silk tie, most likely an expensive Italian tie. He offered his hand across the table. His fingers were stubby, his fingernails pale, reminiscent of an expensive French manicure.

  "Mrs. York, what a pleasure." He pronounced the R's the way the French did, what in Italy we call r moscia.

  When I was growing up my grandmother would assure me that only the wealthy could pronounce R in such a way because it meant they had traveled the world. Decades later, I still felt intimidated by people with that peculiar pronunciation.

&nb
sp; "Well, what do you think of our Kyle finding his path to stardom here in your homeland? Isn't it exciting?" Carolyn sounded more charged up than usual. Maybe too much espresso.

  I wouldn't have minded some espresso myself just about then. It was the second day in a row of eating breakfast at lunchtime.

  A light knock at the door, then a hotel server wheeled in a teacart covered with all kinds of goodies, even a small vase with fresh flowers.

  I looked at Kyle, puzzled.

  He winked at me. "I called in advance—breakfast for four, didn't know more people might be joining us."

  I sat next to my son, a seat away from Roberto. In spite of his mild manners and soft voice, there was something about Cruz's agent that made me uncomfortable, edgy. Maybe the emptiness in my stomach could be blamed for my anxiety.

  I knew I was at least partially right when my attitude went from negative to positive the minute the server slid a steaming cappuccino in front of me. My messy hair and frumpy clothes were forgotten as I busied myself spreading butter and marmalade on my roll.

  The munching and sipping of four mouths were the only noises in the room. It seemed we were all hungry.

  The server left, and Roberto spoke first. "Kyle, thank you for ordering breakfast. We are waiting for De Bernardi."

  Kyle shrugged, set his cup on the saucer, and looked at the man without much sympathy. "De Bernardi is coming here? Because of Cruz?"

  Roberto nodded, stirred his coffee. Who was this De Bernardi?

  The caffeine was kicking in, and I felt flushed. Damn. I slid two fingers between my shirt and my neck, trying to loosen the neckline. Not just flushed, I was on fire.

  "Hot flashes?" Carolyn's voice startled me.

  "Yes." I could barely breathe.

  "Are you taking anything?" she asked.

  I shook my head. Kyle was staring at me like I had announced I was about to give birth to triplets or something. "Kyle, relax. It's no biggie; it comes and goes. It's the coffee." I patted his hand.

  The door flew open, and a small man with a full head of glossy black hair blew in like a hurricane. He paused, eyeing us, one at a time. His glance seemed to linger on me an instant longer, but it could have been my nervousness playing tricks. Behind him stood a gorgeous blonde. She stood a full head taller than the man I assumed to be De Bernardi. When he stepped toward our table, the blonde creature looked in our direction and smiled. Her well-defined lips shone beneath a rosy gloss.

  I followed her gaze. My son appeared to be the intended recipient of her attention. The two had entered so quickly I hadn't even had the chance to swallow my previous bite of that marvelous Italian bread before De Bernardi walked up to the table and stopped, the four of us caught in his sights.

  "Where is that son of a bitch?" His fist hit a spot on the table close to Roberto.

  A telefonino rang. We all turned as the blonde by the door spoke softly into her cell. She exchanged a look with De Bernardi, turned, and left the room without closing the door.

  I sent mental thanks it wasn't my phone that went off in the middle of all this high drama. That would have been so awkward. Who was there to call me anyway? Flash? Larry would be over the ocean right now, nowhere near Innsbruck and probably not bent on making phone calls.

  The small, angry man hovered over our heads, perhaps enjoying the advantageous position of looking down on us. A few dark chest hairs played peek-a-boo from where the top two buttons of his light blue shirt were undone.

  Really?

  How long was he going to play thug? When he sat, he angled his chair so he could stare straight on at Roberto. He even stretched his neck to inch closer to the agent's face.

  "Where the hell is he?" De Bernardi enunciated each syllable, the voice low yet threatening.

  Kyle gripped the armrest of the plastic chair before sighing and leaning back. I tried to chew quietly to avoid attracting attention. The nervousness had sent my hot button into overdrive, and my blouse was soaked in perspiration.

  "I don't know where he is." Roberto didn't sound intimidated in the least. "This is not reflecting well on my agency. He could be dying in a ditch beside some deserted road for all we know."

  "His Ferrari is in Chioggia, and so is the boat. I checked," Kyle said.

  "Good man." Coming from De Bernardi, that sounded like a high compliment.

  "I also checked his room when I picked up my mom." He patted my arm. I guessed that was as close to a formal introduction as I was going to get. "While I couldn't tell much about what clothes might have been taken from his closet, his cell phone was definitely missing, along with the phone charger. Whatever he decided to do, he knew he would be gone long enough for his phone to need recharging. What I can't figure out is how he got out of Chioggia. This late in the season, taxis are hard to get. It may be worth checking into that."

  Both De Bernardi and Roberto nodded.

  "He has never, ever missed a media opportunity, good or bad. As long as his name comes first, he is always there." Roberto might have been the one with the most to lose, but he kept his cool. "You all know that."

  De Bernardi's voice was strident. "What he did or didn't do doesn't matter. The whole crew is sitting around waiting for him to show up. Come morning, they'll have to go back to Rome. We have wasted enough time and money. I suggest you pray he is indeed in some ditch, because if he's out carousing as usual, every cent wasted due to his negligence and lack of responsibility comes out of his contract. Capito?"

  Roberto met De Bernardi's hard stare but didn't answer.

  Carolyn finally spoke. "You think he's shacked up somewhere with the forbidden apple?"

  Forbidden apple? Were they quoting the Bible or something?

  "We checked." Roberto seemed uneasy about the subject. "She is in Kenya on a safari with the husband."

  "Oh, is that how it's done nowadays? No more accidental drowning?" De Bernardi seemed pleased with his comment, smug. "It's now accidental shootings while on safari instead?"

  Dio Mio, was he serious? The silver spoon slipped from my hand and splash-landed in my cappuccino.

  "He's kidding, Mom." Kyle poked my back. "Mr. D is only joking; he's funny that way." His gaze had settled on De Bernardi.

  "You're the mom?" The unpleasant man turned on his charm, swirled in his chair, and offered me his handshake.

  I accepted without looking at him.

  The gorgeous blonde came back into the room, and she wasn't smiling. No need to; she had everyone's attention without uttering a word. Her high heels were the kind I call slutty, in a good way, and she actually wore a woman's suit, skirt and all. I was impressed. She propped her briefcase on the table next to De Bernardi and whispered something in his ear. He frowned.

  The blonde stepped back and clicked something in her hand, and the abstract painting hanging on the wall slid away to reveal a widescreen TV. You could hear a snowflake land on Mars, such was the silence in the room. Two more clicks and a pleasant woman's face appeared on the screen. A reporter. She was interviewing another woman with heavy dark eye makeup. Before I could get the gist of things, headshots of Cruz and Kyle appeared. A general gasp circled the room as the raccoon-eyed lady lamented that Cruz had not shown up for the scheduled interview. She praised Kyle for his good nature and for taking the time to fill the gap.

  "Bitch." From Carolyn's corner. "What happened to keeping her trap shut? We had a deal."

  The interviewer pointed out what we already knew about the film crew from Rome and another no-show performance from Cruz. A commercial kicked in. The screen went blank, and the painting slid back into place.

  "Grazie, Giada," De Bernardi said. "Kyle, ring your friend the reporter and see if she can spin this around. It's not good publicity. I'm on my way to Milan for a meeting with the bankers."

  "Sure, Mr. D, I will, but I'm due back in L.A. the first week in November. That's why Carolyn is here. We sealed the deal." Was he going back to California for good?

  Giada laid the remote next
to the briefcase and came to our side of the table. Kyle stood and the two exchanged greetings, Italian style. When she kissed his cheek it wasn't lost on me how well their bodies fit together. That kind of perfection and familiarity doesn't happen serendipitously. It takes rehearsal. I didn't want to stare but couldn't seem to help myself.

  She slid her chair closer to Kyle's, unbuttoned her jacket, and sat. I caught a whiff of her scent, clean yet intimate—baby powder and lavender?

  Poor, poor Pia. She never stood a chance.

  And once again I felt invisible.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  My lonely piece of luggage, a constant reminder of my impulsive foolishness, sat by the bed in my room at the Century Palace.

  Kyle popped in using the door connecting our rooms. "Mom, you ready?"

  "Well, I only have so many changes of clothes, so I'm as ready as can be. I wore an extra sweater under my jacket like you suggested. How far is this place?"

  "It's only half a mile, right across the—ah, I was going to say across the street—across the canal. We're meeting Carolyn and the rest of the crew at the bar by the Mori, you know, the clock tower?"

  "Of course I know the clock with the two Moors. Don't you remember when your dad and I brought you here? You were five years old and…"

  He smiled. "Mom, if I was five, how can I remember? We really need to get going. It's not a restaurant. It's someone's house. Carolyn's friends have probably been cooking all day. Let's go."

  To say I was surprised to hear Carolyn had friends in Venice was an understatement, but that was exactly where we were headed, to her friends' house for dinner. That awful De Bernardi should have left for Milan. And, according to Kyle, the gorgeous assistant was driving him to the airport. And here I was, crossing Piazza San Marco by moonlight.

  All the windows under the arches were lit, and a somewhat smaller crowd strolled the square.

  As many times as I'd visited Venice, I'd never stayed overnight. My hometown was only fifty miles away.

  My son and I walked arm in arm. The pigeons must have been tucked in for the night, partly due to the hour, partly due to the season.