5 - Her Deadly Mischief (20 page)

“I was a fool, that’s what happened.”

“You’ll be more of a fool if you don’t start at the beginning and spare no detail.”

He sighed as he replaced his rag in the wax pot and snapped the lid shut. Propping his elbows on the overturned gondola, he spoke as he stared into the thick mist beyond the boatyard.

“I’ve rowed Signor Alessio over to the opera house many a time. It makes for a long night. We don’t get back until the small hours, and I can tell you it’s a cold, lonely crossing. For several years, I made it a habit to stop at La Volta Celeste on the way to the boat dock to collect Signor Alessio.”

“A tavern?”

He nodded. “This time of year, I always have a cup of warmed wine—just one cup mulled with cinnamon and cloves—to fortify myself for the crossing, you know.”

“Your master said he found you staggering drunk,” I observed mildly, unsure how far to push this sorrowful man.

He whirled to face me head-on and stepped close, so close his forceful reply sprayed my cheeks with spittle. “It wasn’t the wine. It was something that woman slipped in my cup—some powder or potion that spun my head dizzy and turned my legs into boiled spaghetti.”

“Who was this woman? Someone from Murano?” I mopped my face with my handkerchief.

He shook his head violently. “I was born here—I know everyone there is to know. This woman was a stranger, and if I’d used the sense our Lord gave me, I would never have let her near me in the first place.”

I nodded sympathetically. “Pretty, was she?”

“Prettier than any woman that’s ever looked at me twice.”

“Did she have a name?”

“‘Caterina,’ she told me.” He twisted his lips in a sneer. “That’s the name of the church at the top of the lane—Santa Caterina della Rosa. You see how much of a fool I was? I took the bait without one thought.”

“Isn’t it unusual for a woman from off the island to drink in a tavern alone?”

“
Caterina
had a story to explain it. Said she was a lady’s maid. Her mistress had come over on the
traghetto
to meet her lover. She didn’t want to make the crossing alone, but once they’d arrived, Caterina was in the way. The lady stashed her at the Volta until she was ready to leave.”

“Describe Caterina’s appearance. Did she dress like a lady’s maid?”

“Bit flashy for her station. But you know how the ladies will give their cast-off gowns to a maid, so I thought little of it. Her hair was brown, tucked up under a white cap. Bright, black eyes, too knowing by half. Nose upturned like a pig snout—I overlooked that, her being so bold in her speech and free with her caresses. That’s how she must’ve slipped her evil potion in my wine—one hand down my breeches and the other playing about our cups. When it was time for me to set off for the boat dock, I was all right—right enough to take her around back and give her what she’d been asking for. When I was done, I chanced to look behind me as I went down the lane. She stood at the tavern door watching me. I could see her in the light of the lamp that burns in the yard. Funny expression she had—like she was mighty amused at something. I guess she laughed when she saw me start to stumble.”

“What happened then?”

He shrugged. “Don’t ask me. My head was taking a nap while my arms and legs were still awake. I don’t remember Signor Alessio finding me in the lane, don’t remember nothing ’til I woke in my bed the next morning with a head the size of a watermelon. If I hadn’t been so easy to gull, Signor Alessio wouldn’t have been forced to row the cockle boat to Venice and none of this would’ve happened.”

“You don’t know that. Someone went to great lengths to make sure that you couldn’t pilot his gondola. If the object was to stop your master from reaching Venice on time, you both might have suffered more direct harm.”

“But why?” Guido beat a fist on the side of his gondola. “Who would want to make trouble for Signor Alessio? A finer man never existed.”

“I don’t know,” I answered in truth, though I had a few ideas.

***

Cesare Pino’s factory was a half-hour walk from the boatyard. Luigi could have rowed me there in half that time, but I wanted a few minutes to sift through Guido’s information before I faced the contentious glass master. Under gray skies, I passed fine dwellings and lovely, vine-draped gardens without really seeing them. Instead, I concentrated on a series of questions I posed to myself.

It was obvious that the killer intentionally delayed Alessio to provide a clear field for mayhem. As part of the plan, Cesare was also summoned. Who could have managed both? Umberto Albergati? Perhaps with the help of the other brother, Claudio?

Money, or the promise of it from one of the patrician class, can arrange almost anything. It could buy a woman to pose as a lustful lady’s maid; it could buy a messenger to deliver an anonymous note. It could also bribe the house manager to loan out a key for time enough to have it copied. But the key to the Pino box hadn’t hung from a peg in the box office. That key had been in the possession of the family for many years. How could Umberto, or any of the Albergatis, have laid hands on it? I wondered if they had ever visited their future brother-in-law in his opera box. I’d heard of using warm candle wax to make an impression from which a clever ironsmith could fashion a replica, but asking for a man’s box key defies both logic and good manners. I suppose it could work if Alessio was in the habit of leaving his key lying about instead of slipping it in a waistcoat pocket as most men do. I would have to raise that possibility with the young glassmaker.

I trudged on, still deep in thought. It was more likely that La Samsona had arranged to copy the key. What had Alessio said when describing La Samsona’s efforts to attract his notice and win the wager?
She couldn’t keep those huge hands off me
. The courtesan had once entranced carnival crowds with feats of strength. Had she also mastered the techniques of picking pockets? If so, she wouldn’t be the first traveling entertainer to add to the till by fleecing the audience as they watched her compatriots. With a key that fit box D-17 in her possession, she could have sent one of her fellow courtesans to delay Alessio. By then, La Samsona would have realized that tempting the high-minded Alessio would have been a fool’s errand, so she set her friend on his gondolier instead. Summoning Cesare by anonymous note would have been child’s play.

I halted suddenly, startling a yellow cat from its nap on a stone wall. Hadn’t it been La Samsona who first drew my attention to Cesare’s presence at the theater? Yes, of course. The wily courtesan had wanted to make sure I knew that someone else who had good reason to kill Zulietta was lurking nearby. I walked on, more slowly now because I was nearing my destination.

Messer Grande refused to consider La Samsona, but I thought he was merely falling in line with the prevailing chivalry. From maidservant to mistress, the much-admired women of Venice were demure, coaxing beauties. They achieved their goals with charming smiles and gay conversation. Not by force and violence. There had been the odd poisoning or two over the years, but overall, it was difficult to conceive of a typical Venetian woman stabbing a rival and hurling her to her death. But La Samsona was far from typical. Why couldn’t Messer Grande see what I did?

As I arrived at the pylons that guarded the path to the Pino glassworks, I put that question aside for the moment. The time had come to beard the old lion in his den, and I wasn’t expecting a warm reception. I had searched my brain for a clever stratagem that would push Cesare Pino into a frank discussion. Finding none, I reluctantly decided to approach Alessio’s formidable father as I would my own, if Isidore Amato were still alive.

I followed the path to the graveled yard and up to the door of weathered oak. There was no bell cord, so I banged politely with outstretched palm. I was admitted by a boy carrying a heavy basket. He made no inquiries about my business and none of the workers involved in various tasks stopped me as I crossed the spacious workroom.

In the bright glow from the conical furnace, Cesare sat on a low bench that supported a long pipe. A second man, squatting on the floor, blew into the pipe that he rolled continuously back and forth between his palms. Tweezers and shears flashed through Cesare’s hands as the master shaped the molten glass at the end of the pipe. His well-timed, graceful motions reminded me of an intricate ballet: press, snip…snip, press, snip…then a scoop of pigment that instantly melted into a vivid slash of purple. There was a third worker I recognized as Zenobio, the inventor of the petal-scope. His job was to gather additional blobs of molten glass on a solid rod and attach them to the main piece so Cesare could work them into the shape he had in mind. The three men worked together so seamlessly, they had no need for speech.

Once the elaborate vase had been transferred to the cooling oven—how odd to think of an oven as a place to lower temperature—Cesare stood and stretched his bowed back with a groan. His scarred, pink cheek glowed slick with sweat, and the lines around his mouth and eyes seemed more deeply etched than I remembered. He acknowledged me with a curt nod.

I executed a low bow. “I must speak with you, Signore.”

“About what?” he asked harshly.

“About your son.” This was met with a questioning frown. Seconds slipped away, but I refused to elaborate. I held his gaze, only vaguely aware of the heightened attention displayed by Zenobio and the other glassmakers.

“Come on,” Cesare said after an uncomfortable interval and led me to a private chamber that served as both study and studio. The glass master sat on a backless stool behind a sloping desk covered with sketches of goblets and other drinking vessels. He motioned me to a similar seat. There was not one comfortable armchair in the room. Cesare would probably consider such an item an abominable concession to laziness.

He said, “Are you here on your own or under Messer Grande’s auspices?”

“Both.”

“Well? What news do you bring? Has my boy been found?”

“I haven’t come to Murano as a messenger.” I shook my head. “Alessio is still at large. I came to talk about the note you received the night of the murder.”

Cesare threw his chin back and slammed his hands on his sketching table. Several translucent sheets of paper went flying. “At my factory, we have better things to do than retread old ground. I’ve already answered your lawman friend’s questions about that damned note.”

“My questions will be different.”

He plowed on, unhearing. “I should complain to the Ten—I really should. Wasting a good citizen’s time. What—”

I shut his mouth by leaving my stool and bracing my hands on the top edge of his desk. Refusing to let his pugnacious scowl intimidate me, I said, “I have a story to tell you—about a father and his son. A father who saw himself as the star of the show that was his life. And the son he treated like a puppet character he could manipulate for his own gain.”

Out came the story of Isidore Amato’s enslavement to cards and dice, his growing debts at the state-run Ridotto and private gaming holes, and the terrible bargain he made to pay those debts. By the time I had reached the part where my father was facing imminent death, begging my forgiveness for his sins against me and my sister, Cesare had slumped down with his chin on his chest.

“You have talked to Alessio,” he said softly.

“Perhaps,” I answered carefully.

The glass master’s silver head bobbed up. “I know my son has been unhappy, restless. He disagrees with my decision about not promoting our workmen to master level. But”—he spread his hands, exposing leathery palms—“why should others share in what I’ve spent my sweat and strength to create? All I’ve ever wanted was a respected glassworks to entrust to my son in good time. And a son who was worthy of that treasure—a son I could be proud of.”

“Zulietta aside, aren’t you proud of Alessio?”

He grimaced like a man who has just stepped in something soft and smelly. “To run a furnace, a man needs tender hands to shape the glass and a hard heart to make the business pay. My son has always had it the other way around. He’s clumsy with the pipe and shears—I have to toss out half of what he makes—but just let the workers come with their whispered complaints and he’s all ears.”

“I tell you, Signore, I admire your son. Alessio may not have the talents you respect, but he is steady of mind and stalwart of character. If we had met in other circumstances, I would be proud to call him my friend.”

“Humph.” Cesare crossed his arms. “Even if Alessio manages to get out of this mess he’s made, he’ll never be a master glassmaker. He sees the work as obligation and drudgery.”

“Perhaps he’s not meant to be a master. Have you ever asked Alessio what he wants to do?”

“The boy hasn’t experienced enough of life to know what he wants. He talks a noble philosophy, but what does he really understand? Nothing! Look at the woman he took up with. I can’t even imagine a more irresponsible escapade. When I ordered him to give her up, he defied me outright.”

“Alessio loved Zulietta,” I replied simply. “For a man of unbridled principle, he was placed in a terrible position. Filial obedience versus the promises he’d made to the pride of his heart. It hurt him to rebel against you, but he felt he must.”

Cesare winced. But in his good eye, I saw a glint of hope. “Does Alessio judge me as harshly as you judge your father?”

“I don’t know. Only he can say.”

“Tell me,” the glass master said with a longing look that made his face appear almost gentle. “Did you forgive your father?”

“He died before I was given the opportunity.”

“But…would you have?”

I heard my own voice as if it came from a great distance. The words were as cold as iron: “Once I thought I would have given my forgiveness, but now that I have a son to call my own—I who thought I would never be a father—no. Not in a thousand years.”

Cesare glanced in the direction of the furnace workroom and sighed. “What do you want of me, then? How can more questions about this note help Alessio?”

“I believe a woman sent it. I want you to think back. Was it written in a feminine hand? Were the pages perhaps perfumed?”