6 - Whispers of Vivaldi (25 page)

The response was a pistol shot that whizzed across the deck.

I watched in horror as Giuseppe Balbi stiffened, his face set in the classical mask of tragedy. Blood trickled from a round hole in his forehead. He teetered, then collapsed near the ship’s mast with a crash. I felt the boards quiver through my toes.

Chapter Twenty-five

A menacing silence filled the seconds following the shot. I craned my neck, frantically searching for Balbi’s killer. Nothing! Then, a blur of movement caught my eye from the opposite direction, from the auditorium I’d thought was empty. A slim female form in a pink gown appeared at the railing of a second-tier box. She began to applaud—a thin sound in the yawning cavern of the Teatro San Marco.

“That was wonderful,” she called. “You took care of Balbi—now it’s Tito Amato’s turn.” Somehow, I wasn’t surprised to see Beatrice Passoni standing in her family’s box, though it did shock me that her voice was so exhilarated, so unbelievably merry, as if she were watching Punch-and-Judy antics instead of an actual murder. She went on, “Shoot Tito, too, Papa.”

Papa. The Savio.

He was coming. I could hear him. My stomach twisted in nauseating panic.

“Carrissima, you forget…” the Savio’s senatorial voice boomed out from stage left. He had descended the ladder from the catwalk. “These deaths must be made to look as if one man murdered the other.”

I wasted no time in pondering how the Savio meant to kill me and why. I tensed in anticipation of making the final push that would awake the sleeping giant under the ship, the machinery that would lift the deck and split it in two. If Signor Passoni was incapacitated in the resulting fall, I would have only his daughter to contend with. It would take Beatrice a few minutes to make her way from the box to the stage. Perhaps by then, I could think of something else.

Striving to control my terror, I leaned into the wheel with all my strength. Thank the Holy Madonna, it yielded and advanced one notch to the left just as the Savio reached the deck. Hoping to convince my new assailant that he had nothing to fear from me, I then slumped as if my strength were totally spent.

From under half-closed eyelids, I watched as he went straight to Balbi’s prone form. Sweeping his long cloak aside, the Savio knelt and removed the stiletto from the violinist’s flaccid hand. My heart was beating as if it would tear through my chest. I strove to calm it as the Savio came to loom up before me, stretching every inch of his noble height.

“Poor Tito.” He shook his head pityingly, an aristocrat of the first order giving alms to a scabrous beggar. “What an ignominious end for a renowned singer—killed in a tragic wrangle with a vengeful composer. Your rejection of
Prometheus
drove Balbi mad, you see. He lured you to the theater and attacked you in a semblance of his operatic hero’s cruel death. Such is the fury of a patient man—it grows unseen like the roots of a tree, digging at a man’s soul, strangling his better nature, until it bursts forth in uncontrollable rage.”

The Savio smiled, baring every tooth. May I never again see such an unnerving sight!

Dimly I heard him continue, “It may cheer you to know that the world will believe you fought back. You courageously overcame and shot Balbi before your own loss of blood felled you.”

Despite my intent to appear defeated, I glowered. I couldn’t help it. “Are Torani and Tedi on your list of victims as well?”

His smile faded. “Regrettably, yes…but I believe Balbi’s final mad act will convince Messer Grande that he killed Torani for the same reason that he killed you.”

“And Tedi?”

“Well, let’s say that she guessed Balbi killed her lover, and thus he felt compelled to silence her. That makes logical sense, doesn’t it?” Passoni gazed at the stiletto point and touched it with a fingertip as if to test its sharpness. He continued meditatively, “Or perhaps Tedi incurred Balbi’s wrath by arguing against the production of his
chef
-
d’œuvre
. Where a lunatic is concerned, there’s no lack of possible motivations.”

“You manipulated Balbi, drove him around the bend.” With a start, I realized I’d already forgiven the little violinist. His mind had been poisoned by a greater evil.

“It was pathetically easy to turn Balbi to my will—after I’d convinced him that Torani left the choice of opera entirely in your hands, and that you chose
The False Duke
over
Prometheus
. I told Balbi that when you came to me to request permission, you called him a hack, the worst sort of amateur composer—”

“That’s enough. I see,” I spat out. Sweat ran down my brow, stinging my eyes. I knew I must conserve my strength for the wheel’s final turn, but I had to know the truth. I raised my chin and asked, “But why did you kill Maestro Torani in the first place?”

Beatrice shouted from the auditorium, “Watch him, Papa. Tito is a crafty one—he might have a trick up his sleeve.”

The Savio turned his handsome profile toward his daughter. “Don’t worry, my pet. Tito is completely in my power.”

“Then what are you waiting for? Do it!” Though the girl was merely a blur of pink across the blazing footlights and the dark space beyond, I could envision her moody pout.

The Savio turned back and made a shallow bow, one precisely befitting my station. He was a consummate patrician, all right. He knew Venice and her customs through and through. No wonder he had risen so far. Now he was saying, “You really don’t understand—after all the time you’ve spent poking your long nose where it has no right to be.”

I shook my head.

“It came down to this. Rinaldo Torani was a thoroughly feckless punter. As was his failing, he played one card too many.” He lifted an eyebrow. “I was surprised to see the old man toddle into the palazzo on the night of Angeletto’s reception, but since he had made the effort to attend, I asked him to meet me in the card room. I had bad news, and it seemed churlish to deliver it before the assembled company.”

“Bad news?”

“Yes. Lorenzo Caprioli had also turned up unexpectedly…anxious to gauge his prospects regarding the Senate’s support for his theater, I presume. Can’t stand the fellow; he’s an ass who considers himself an Arabian steed. But Caprioli did make me a most attractive proposition. If I were able to persuade the Senate to change its official backing from the Teatro San Marco to the Teatro Grimani, I could call the shots on any scenic illusion I desired.” He spread his hands, looked around with a satisfied smile. “This shipwreck would be nothing—a mere trifle. I could order Caprioli’s machinist to create a hot air balloon ascent from the stage, a raging naval battle, even the sulphur pits and burning lakes of Hell itself. No spectacle would be too great. How could I refuse?”

“You told Maestro Torani you were planning to support the Teatro Grimani over the San Marco,” I whispered, imagining the ire and frustration my old mentor must have felt. I could just see him arguing with the Savio, snatching off his wig and throwing it across the card room.

“Yes, and Torani made the mistake of trying to coerce me into changing my mind. He thought he held a trump card.” Half-closing his lids, the Savio glanced toward the box where Beatrice kept watch. “Somehow the old maestro had found out about certain…attentions that Girolamo Grillo was paying my daughter. Torani had an eyewitness who could describe one of their trysts. You couldn’t name the man he spoke of, perchance?”

Peppino or one of his fellow gondoliers was my best guess, but I’d die before I’d mention the boatman’s name to the Savio.

“No,” he mused, “I don’t suppose you could.” The Savio rubbed his hands together and raised his voice in something close to disbelief. “Torani actually threatened me—if I didn’t continue to support the Teatro San Marco with the Senate, he would turn his anonymous meddler loose in the coffee houses.” The Savio’s voice became gravelly. “You know what that would mean for Beatrice. The good families would turn their backs on her. Her brilliant prospects would be ruined.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you’d killed Grillo, but…” I shook my head in sorrow. “Was murdering Maestro Torani—the man who’d devoted his entire life to Venice’s pleasure—was that the only way to protect your daughter’s honor?”

“It was the surest way,” he answered shortly. “Everyone who has the potential to harm my Beatrice must be removed. Believe me, if Grillo ever again sets foot on Venetian soil, he’ll be dead within twenty-four hours.”

“Tedi?”

“Tedi aroused my suspicion when she didn’t leave Venice as she promised. Who knows what secrets Torani had shared with her? I gave her enough gold to travel anywhere she fancied, but, like you, she felt compelled to play bloodhound. Even then, if she’d kept to her love nest with Caprioli, I would have stayed my hand, but when I chanced to see her flit through the theater corridor, closely followed by you…” His jaw clenched. “Tedi signed her death warrant the moment she decided to confide in you.”

“Why didn’t you kill me at the same time?” I was beginning to realize that the Savio had no idea I’d witnessed Grillo and Beatrice’s lovemaking in the card room. The little minx hadn’t told him, and she was anxious to have me dead so that I couldn’t.

He shrugged. “I had discharged my only pistol and didn’t relish hand-to-hand combat. Besides, Tedi had not yet vouchsafed her precious secret.” He continued matter-of-factly, frowning. “I actually considered letting you live—until you trailed my wife and daughter across the piazza the other day. You frightened Beatrice. She’s convinced me that you’ll never stop harassing us in your efforts to get to the bottom of Torani’s death.”

Beatrice! The cursed name echoed inside my head. I took a hard gulp. Torani, Tedi, and the hapless Balbi—all had been sacrificed on the altar of the Savio’s bloodthirsty, undisciplined Beatrice. The tyrant Beatrice, I had once called her in jest. If I had only realized.

The girl’s insistent voice tore through the space between us. “Papa, what are you waiting for? You promised to get rid of Tito.”

“She’s right,” the Savio whispered. “It’s time. May God receive your soul, Signore.” With a heavy sigh, he lowered the stiletto to the level of my liver, screwed his eyes shut, and braced himself for a mortal thrust.

I shifted my weight to the left, pulled the spoke up with my right hand, and pushed down with my left shoulder.

The wheel turned. A faint creaking came through the deck boards. The Savio hesitated. Then his eyes popped open, and he cocked his head like a dog that hears his master’s whistle in the distance. Metal grated on metal, followed by clanking chains. The entire ship shuddered.

“No!” The Savio realized that I had set his beloved shipwreck into motion. Fear blazed on his aristocratic countenance.

Beatrice saw what was happening, too. She cried, “Get off the boat, Papa!”

“You idiot!” The Savio lunged toward me with the stiletto. Groaning in agony, I quickly swiveled my hips and drew my knees up into my chest. The blade buried itself in the wooden column supporting the wheel.

The Savio didn’t attempt to remove the stiletto. He whirled quickly. On shaky legs, he crossed the rising deck, heading for the stalwart mast that could provide a handhold once the ship split in two.

He didn’t make it. The quivering jerk that halted the deck’s upward progress knocked him off his feet directly over Giuseppe Balbi’s corpse. In the Savio’s fierce efforts to rise, his cloak became entangled with the dead violinist’s limbs. I heard his strangled curses as the machinery ground on and a dark void opened between the two halves of the deck. Somehow he managed to extricate himself from Balbi’s lifeless embrace just as the flat deck began to cant inexorably toward a steep angle.

I watched as the murderous aristocrat began to roll. With each notch of the gears, he picked up speed. In vain, he clutched at the air, beat his heels against the smooth boards.

As he slid under the polished wood of the deck railing, the Savio made one last frantic grab. His crabbed fingers missed the railing by a hair. His white-stockinged legs shot out into thin air, and he went over the edge, followed closely by his victim’s body.

From stage level came a splintering, shattering thud. Then another.

I was left hanging from the sharply tilting wheel. In the space of moments, that instrument of captivity had become my salvation. My last fear was Beatrice. The girl must have witnessed it all, but I’d heard no wailing screams. Where was she?

I held my breath, listening intently. There were murmurs in the wings. What? Of a sudden, the murmurs became louder, turning into happy, chattering voices that I knew well. Aldo’s clipped tones and Gussie’s British-laced Italian, then a girlish treble calling, “Isis. Isis.”

That had to be little Isabella!

Merciful Heaven, Gussie had fetched Aldo, and they’d come to the theater for the promised kitten. I had totally forgotten, but the eager five-year-old hadn’t.

Then a different voice rang out. Its commanding note stifled the gaiety of the others. Was that Andrea? What would Messer Grande be doing at the theater?

I filled my lungs to shout a warning. I didn’t know if the Savio was dead or merely stunned, and then there was Beatrice. I’d be amazed if she’d made her way out of the theater. No, that pampered tyrant would be on the move and out for my blood. And somewhere there was a pistol. And a stiletto.

Though my midsection burned with pain, I managed to shout, “Watch out for the girl!”

Steps sounded at the back of the ship—someone was climbing the ramp. I shut my eyes. Totally vulnerable, sagging on the wheel, at the utter end of my strength, I just couldn’t bear to look.

“Tito!”

My eyelids flew open. A red-robed Andrea half-skidded, half-stumbled across the canted deck and braced himself with both hands on either side of my head.

That welcome sight gave me enough energy to ask, “How…how did you find me?”

He grinned. “I finally recalled the Savio’s full name. The late Savio! You may be relieved to learn that His Excellency Arcangelo Michele Passoni has broken his neck, and that his grieving daughter is being guarded by Aldo.”