Venice in the Moonlight (7 page)

he day after promising Rosina that she would look into her father’s death, Marietta walked to the Palazzo Ducale in the Piazza San Marco. With its colorful Moorish tiles and long rows of arches, the palace had always been her favorite building on the island. She made a mental note to add it to her list of places to paint.

Her fingers shook slightly as she adjusted the bodice of her black silk dress. Back at the inn, Rosina and Zeta had assured her that she looked both credible and heartrending. Now it was up to her to talk her way to seeing the Quarantia Criminal, the council responsible for justice in Venice. Unsure of what else to do, she hoped someone would tell her the official version of her father’s death.

After she explained her need to one of the palace guards, he took her to a somber man behind an intricately-carved desk in the main hall. Marietta had never been in the palace and gaped at the beauty of the Grecian figures decorating the domed ceiling and the thousands of shining crystals making up the biggest chandelier she had ever seen.

The man behind the desk alternated between drumming his fingers and pursing his lips as she requested an audience with the council. She had to plead a fair amount and slip him a coin before he rang a small brass bell to summon a page.

She followed the page across the white marble floor and down a hallway. They weaved between groups of men in heated discussions and avoided others who scurried about concerned only with their own business. Along the way, she glimpsed the artwork and sculptures of masters her father told her about as a child. After a few more turns, they reached the chambers of Signor Grimani, one of the senior members of the council. The page announced her and then took his leave.

The elderly justice put aside a pile of documents and gave her a pleasant smile. “How may I help you, Signora?”

Marietta laced her fingers together to hide her nervousness. “I would like to know the details regarding the death of my father, Bernardo Orsini.”

“Ah, the painter, such a tragedy.” Grimani stroked his long white beard. He motioned for her to sit. “You have my condolences.”

Marietta moved to the chair by his desk. “Thank you, I appreciate your kind words, but can you tell me about the accident? How did it happen?”

The old man’s eyebrows arched at her request. “The details are too gruesome to share with a lady. Why would you trouble yourself with these unpleasant thoughts?”

Thinking fast, she said, “To ease my heart. You see, I’ve just arrived in Venice and the rumors—each more outrageous than the last—have left me despondent. If I only knew the truth, perhaps I could defend my father’s reputation.”

Grimani lowered his eyes and shuffled his papers. “Though a gifted painter, your father was a troubled man. He isn’t the first to give into the allure of certain vices. It’s best you remember the good things about him.”

“I know my father drank too much.” Marietta leaned forward and grasped the edge of his desk. “Please, tell me how he died. I beg of you.”

The justice shrugged in defeat. “He was found in the alley behind La Mascareta, which is not one of the better taverns in Venice. The back of his head was, well, no more. Several people saw him drinking earlier in the evening. We believe his inebriation caused him to stumble and thus smash his head.”

Her breath caught in her throat. Maybe Rosina was right. “Are you telling me that a fall in the street would create that much damage to his head?”

Grimani tapped a finger on his desk. “It was determined to be an accident.”

“But it was the
back
of his head. If he stumbled, wouldn’t it be his forehead? Did anyone think that maybe he was hit from behind? Was he robbed?”

The justice cleared his throat. “How would one know? Your father was not a wealthy man. Now, you have my sympathies, but if you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend.” His eyes flicked to the doorway.

Refusing to accept the dismissal, Marietta stared at the old man for several seconds until it became clear he would not relent. She gave him a curt nod and said dutifully, “Thank you for your time.”

arietta let the crowd in the Piazza San Marco jostle her until the sound of her name broke her trance.

“Signora Gatti, what a pleasure! How are you?”

Looking like the rich nobleman he was in midnight-blue silk, Nico stood in her way, a satisfied smile on his lips. True to his word, and after only one day in Venice, he had found her. Her gaze cut to Raul who stood discreetly off to the side. Nico’s nose could never have smelled her in this crowd, so she had his companion to blame. She wondered how much Nico paid Raul to do his dirty work—and why he agreed to do it at all.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m fine, thank you.”

Nico made a tut-tut noise with his tongue. “The sound of your voice lies. Raul said you looked upset. Come with me. With your penchant for fainting, you shouldn’t be alone.” He tucked her arm under his and pulled her toward an empty table in a nearby café. With a snap of his fingers, two cups of hot chocolate appeared in front of them. “Drink up.”

The smell of the sweet delicacy filled her mind with long-ago family celebrations at a similar café after her father had sold a painting. If the payment was small, they shared the delicious treat, but on more than one occasion she remembered having a cup all to herself. She sipped the thick liquid and let the decadent chocolate glide over her tongue before swallowing.

Nico grasped her fingers. “Now, tell me what is wrong.”

In no mood for his antics, she pulled her hand out from under his and then shifted her chair to the left. “I was at the palace inquiring about my father’s death.”

“Ah, yes, I can see how that would upset you,” he replied in a smooth voice filled with sympathy, though real or not, she couldn’t tell. “It was an accident, no?”

Her fingers tightened around her cup. “So they say.”

Nico took a long drink and then motioned for more from the serving girl. “I met your father several months ago. He was quite charming. A bit, shall we say, odd, but the artistic usually are.”

“He was distressed the last few weeks of his life,” she said more to herself than him. She slowly stirred her drink as her mind sifted through what little she knew about her father’s death.

“Distressed? About what?”

Worried she’d already said too much to a stranger, she shook her head. “I’m not sure.”

“But you want to find out. How intriguing.” He moved his chair to erase the distance she had put between them and laid his arm across the back of hers. “I also knew your husband, though we weren’t intimates.”

With his face mere inches from hers, she stared into his dark glasses and shivered. If she could see his eyes, what would they reveal? Kindness? Compassion? Desire? Lust? It didn’t matter. She had no interest in falling for the charms of this rake. “It’s surprising you weren’t friends, considering how much you have in common with Dario.”

“Now, that’s where you’re wrong,” he said, wagging a finger at her. He put his mouth to her ear, as if they were lovers sharing a secret. “Your husband liked dim-witted girls. I prefer clever women.”

“Oh, so the girl at your country villa? You didn’t like her?” The words flew out of her mouth before good manners could stop them.

“If I told you how many ducats I gave her father, you’d see just how smart she really was.” He gave her a lopsided smirk. “Don’t waste your sympathies on that girl.”

With narrowed eyes, she cast the most contemptuous glare she could muster, but he only smiled as if unaware of her anger. Back at the country villa, Raul had accused him of exaggerating his blindness, so maybe he was playing her for a fool. Either way, she didn’t have time for this man’s games.

She believed Rosina now. Her father’s “accidental” death made no sense, but she still didn’t know what to do about it. Maybe she should go to La Mascareta and talk to the patrons. The councilman said several people saw her father drinking. Perhaps his friends would tell his daughter more than they told the authorities. It was worth a try.

She stood and gave Nico a small curtsy. “I have another appointment. Thank you for the chocolate.”

Nico stood also. “Wait, Carnival starts tonight. You must tell me the look of your mask.” He reached out and found her cheek with the tips of his fingers.

She brushed his hand away. “My mask represents my married name.
Capisci
?”

Nico nodded and, though she wouldn’t swear to it, she thought he meowed as she hurried away.

n her suite at the Minerva Inn, Marietta explained her plan to Zeta and Rosina. “I’m hoping someone saw something the night my father died but was too afraid to say anything. Rosina, do you know if he went anywhere else besides La Mascareta?”

The older woman sighed. “If he wasn’t drinking at that tavern, he was losing what few ducats he had at Il Ridotto.”

“Then I’ll start with those two places. Everyone should be out celebrating the start of Carnival, so maybe I will find someone he was friends with.”

Zeta helped Marietta dress in a red silk gown with a matching velvet cape. For the final touch, she brushed Marietta’s blond hair until it shone and then swept it into a pile of loose curls that cascaded down her neck.

Marietta adjusted her golden cat mask and asked, “How do I look?”

“Beautiful,” Zeta replied, inspecting her own handiwork. She grabbed a few pins from the dressing table and jabbed them into Marietta’s hair. “There, that should do it.”

Rosina took Marietta’s hand and spun her around. Though she smiled, there was sadness in her eyes. “If only your father could see you now. He would be so proud.”

If only
. Marietta could sum up her whole life with those two words. If only her mother hadn’t died. If only her father hadn’t stopped painting. If only she hadn’t met Dario . . .

“Are you sure you should go alone?” Zeta asked. “La Mascareta doesn’t sound like a place for a lady at all.”

Marietta took one more look in the mirror and saw the worry reflected in the other women’s faces. “I’ll be fine. Everyone will be too busy having fun to take notice of me. Besides, I think I’ll have better luck getting someone to talk if I’m alone. Too many people asking questions might scare them off.”

“La Mascareta is one of the worst places in Venice,” Rosina warned. “I loved your father, but as his income dwindled, he resorted to cheaper and cheaper wine. And he owed quite a large sum of money to Il Ridotto, so they won’t welcome you there if they know you’re his daughter.”

“Everyone owes money to Il Ridotto. Venetians gamble more often than they make love. But why was he so poor? He recently sold paintings to the Foscaris—one of the wealthiest families in Venice.”

The innkeeper shrugged. “Venice has changed. The rich no longer are so rich, yet they act rich.”

“What do you mean?” Marietta asked.

“Several patricians commissioned paintings, but when it came time to pay, they refused.”

“So they cheated my father? Why didn’t he bring charges against them?”

“Bernardo was never one for being bold,” Rosina said. “Besides, it was their word against his. All they had to say was he spent the money on wine or gambling. The patricians still rule this city—even with their coffers half empty.”

“But it isn’t right.” Marietta’s hands balled into fists. “We must make them pay.”

Rosina gave her a sympathetic smile. “It’s too late. No one will believe you.”

“We’ll see about that.” It would have to wait until another day, though. Tonight, she meant to walk in her father’s footsteps and find someone who saw or heard something that would prove his death wasn’t an accident. She tucked a fan and several coins into her pocket. “I’ll try not to be too late, Zeta.”

Rosina took Marietta by the shoulders and kissed both her cheeks. “Please be careful.”

“I will,” she promised and then bid them goodbye.

She pulled her cape tighter against the chilly night air, glad that her destinations were within easy walking distance on the other side of the Piazza San Marco. At the end of the inn’s deserted side street, she joined a group of masked revelers headed toward the piazza and even took a swig from the wine bottle they passed to her. The alcohol burned her throat, but it spread warmth through the rest of her body.

In the piazza, torches lit the way for dancers, singers, musicians, patricians, and commoners, all out to celebrate the first night of the carnival season. The white marble of the buildings that surrounded the square provided the perfect backdrop for the colorful masks and costumes. Marietta lingered for a moment to watch the fun before she weaved her way through the crowd. After she reached the other side, she walked two more blocks until she found the entrance to La Mascareta, her father’s favorite tavern.

With scattered piles of garbage, missing window shutters, and random splotches of paint, the exterior of La Mascareta looked more sordid than she had imagined, and the interior wasn’t much better. The smell of smoke, sour wine, and foul body odor competed with what little fresh air made it through the broken windows. Most of the patrons were her father’s age and from their shabby appearance, as unfortunate as he had been. Her hand fumbled for the nearest pillar for support. She closed her eyes to shut out the image of such a gifted man spending his last night in this squalor.

Her slippers stuck to the wood floor with each step as she made her way to an empty seat. After she ordered wine from a passing serving girl, she surveyed the room. She wondered if any of the drunkards would remember her father, but then she doubted they’d remember their own kin.

When the girl brought her drink, Marietta asked, “Did you know a man who used to come here, Bernardo Orsini?”

The girl wiped a hand across her brow and gave Marietta a tired look. “I don’t look at the men, and I don’t ask names.”

“He died in your alley a few months ago. Maybe you remember that?”

“Oh, him.” The girl grimaced. “I liked him. He was sweet. Never grabbed me or nothing.”

“Were you working that night? Can you tell me what happened?”

The girl clutched her tray against her body and looked quickly around the room. “Why? Who wants to know?”

“His daughter, but don’t worry.” She reassured the girl with a smile. “I’m not trying to get anyone in trouble.”

“I can’t tell you nothin’, but see that fella over there?” She pointed to a thin man hunched over the bar. “He was friends with your father.”

Marietta thanked the girl and handed her a coin. She crossed the room and tapped the man on the shoulder. “Excuse me, Signore, may I speak with you?”

“Eh?” Even in the dim light, the man who turned around looked beaten by life. His matted, dark hair had a dirty white streak running down the middle like a half-dead skunk. He peered at her with yellowed eyes that had long lost their focus. “Who’re you, fancy lady?”

Marietta set her drink in front of him and gestured at it. “I’m a friend of a friend.”

The old man rubbed a rough hand over his dry, peeling lips. His eyes moved from the cup of wine to her face and then back again. When he decided it was worth the risk, he leaned closer to her and said louder than necessary, “Pleased to meet you.”

The man’s breath stank of sour vinegar mixed with garlic and onions. She pulled out a perfumed handkerchief and held it to her nose. “I’m hoping you can help me.”

With a shaky hand, he brought the drink to his mouth and gulped it down. “I’ll do anything for a friend—especially one with money.” He cackled as if he had told a grand joke, dribbling spittle into his long gray beard.

Marietta shook her head. “I don’t need you to do anything. I only want to know about our mutual friend, Bernardo Orsini.”

The old man’s shoulders slumped. “The Painter, we called him. He didn’t deserve such a rotten fate. He wasn’t like the rest of us.”

She glanced at the other desolate men in the tavern and hoped that was true. “Do you remember the night he died? Were you with him?”

The drunkard closed his eyes and nodded slightly. “I’m here every night.”

“Was he . . . did he drink a lot that night?”

“The Painter liked his wine as well as the rest of us,” the old man said with a grunt.

“So, do you think his death was an accident? That he drank so much he couldn’t walk straight?”

The old man’s yellowed eyes narrowed. “Nah, it wasn’t that at all. They finally got him, they did.”

Her heart sped up at his words. “Who? Who got him?”

“Those
bastards
.” He turned away and spit on the floor. “They’d been following him for days. Watching his every move.”

“But who? Did you know who they were?”

“I warned him, but he wouldn’t listen. He said his lady friend wouldn’t leave town so he needed to find some proof and then all would be right.” The drunkard’s head listed from side to side. “I told him to leave.”

Marietta grabbed the man’s shoulder and shook it impatiently. “You must tell me who!”

He looked at her as if she was an idiot. “The devil, of course.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “He sent a demon from hell to do his dirty work. Poor, poor Bernardo. He never had a chance.”

She dropped her hand to her side. A demon? The old man was a raving lunatic. “I see.” She placed a coin on the bar. “Thank you.”

Out in the night air, she took a deep breath to steady her nerves. Maybe she should come back another day when the old man was sober. He obviously wasn’t in his right mind now. Of course, he may never be sober. She sighed with discouragement and trudged off to Il Ridotto, her father’s other favorite haunt.

ella Foscari pulled Nico through the throng of revelers waiting to enter Il Ridotto. “Come on, Nikki! I want to dance!”

Nico laughed at her enthusiasm. His little sister seemed to be making up for lost time, and for once he found it difficult to keep up with her. “Calm down. We have all night. You don’t want to look too eager for the men.”

She stopped so abruptly that Nico stepped on her foot. “You’re right, of course. I must be aloof or they will think me perfectly scandalous.”

She exhaled loudly, but Nico could still feel the excitement coursing through her. “They will only think you perfect.”

“You’re teasing me again.” Moving slower, she led him into the main room of the gambling hall. “Oh, it’s wonderful! Look at all the beautiful people!”

Nico stiffened at the deafening noise and mixture of smells that assaulted his senses. He silently counted to ten and willed himself to relax. He would never let on, but crowds were the hardest for him. Seen one on one, he could at least tell a man from a woman, thanks to the differing shape of breeches and gowns, but now everyone blurred together. If Raul or his friend Casanova weren’t by his side, he’d never leave his home.

“There’s a man making his way to us. His stature is quite pleasing, but of course I can’t see his face. Blast these masks!” Her hand tightened on Nico’s arm. “Oh, my goodness, it’s the man who was at our house earlier today.”

“What? How do you know that?” Though it would do no good, he peered into the crowd.

“He’s wearing the same suit. You know me, brother. When it comes to clothes, I never forget a fine gown or suit. It’s definitely the same man.”

“Nico!”

“He’s hailing you,” Bella said in his ear.

“I can hear that. I’m not deaf—only blind.” However, he was also confused for the voice belonged to Casanova. He couldn’t think of any reason his friend would be at the Foscari villa if it wasn’t to see him.

When Casanova reached them, he bowed deeply. “This must be your baby sister that I’ve heard so much about. Why didn’t you tell me how exquisite she is? The angels certainly blessed you with beauty and grace the day you were born. When I die, I will thank them for giving me the gift of knowing you if only for a brief time.”