5 - Her Deadly Mischief Read online

  Except…Could it be? One box had its scarlet curtains completely drawn.

  There, in the fourth tier. As glaring as a missing tooth in a great lady’s smile. Someone had shut me out. Someone was ignoring me.

  Later, after Armida had played for several nights, I would expect some curtains to be at least partially drawn. With the arias already becoming familiar, the primped and pomaded nobility would train their opera glasses on each other, this social scrutiny being part and parcel of their nightly entertainment. They would flit from box to box to pay calls, play cards, or enjoy a warm supper wheeled from home by running footmen. And down in the pit, while we players poured out our vital force in song, the gondoliers would turn their backs to gaze on the antics of their betters.

  But hold up—this was opening night. What could be so pressing that someone drew the curtains on a bravura aria by Venice’s reigning castrato? Unbridled lust? Intrigue fit to bring down the Republic?

  Rubbish! Let love and politics take their course in their own good time. It was music that should reign over all tonight. My music.

  I aimed my voice at the thin shaft of light that split the scarlet panels. Gilding the bones of Maestro Torani’s lovely melody, I sailed up a flight of semitone octaves and held the last note with all the exquisite power and strength I possessed. That pure, crystal sound sailed aloft, straight as an arrow, driven by the sheer force of my will.

  Ah, it was working. I’d gained their attention.

  A woman’s white arm parted the curtains; a sleeve of peacock blue ended in lace ruffles at her elbow. But something was wrong. The arm thrashed and flailed as if its owner were drowning, and once she had bunched the curtain fabric in her fist, she pulled so hard that the taffeta panel ripped from the rings that supported it.

  To my horror, I realized the woman was struggling with a tall man in a full bauta. His hat brim shadowed the lower half of his face not covered by the mask, and a thick veil fell down his back, obscuring his wig and blending with his black cloak.

  The woman tore at his mask, but the curtain panel that had wound itself around her arm hampered her reach. A froth of white petticoat popped into view. She was kicking, kneeing, aiming for her assailant’s groin. But he didn’t hesitate. Sweeping his cloak back like the flapping of a raven’s wings, he thrust one arm forward to connect with her midsection.

  Only years of disciplined training kept me singing until the end of the phrase. By then, the woman had collapsed over the railing and was tumbling head over heels in a whirl of brilliant blue skirts, ruffled petticoats, and scarlet curtain. She hit the floor of the pit with a sickening thud.

  For a fraction of a second, the great theater was frozen in silence, then screams and shouts reverberated from the walls and ceiling, rattling the crystals hanging from the grand chandelier. At the periphery of my vision, I saw orchestra musicians waving their instruments in perplexity, and in the pit, chaos, people running this way and that. Throughout all, my central focus remained locked on that fourth-tier box.

  The tall man had taken several steps back. His cloaked silhouette made a dark pyramid against the scarlet wallcovering of the box. Near the top of the pyramid, his mask stood out as a chalk-white diamond.

  The smoky light must have been playing tricks on my eyes, for the man’s malevolent stare glittered as if we faced each other across a table instead of the breadth of the theater.

  My face felt hot. His burning gaze was searing my cheeks! Then he lurched clumsily from sight, stumbling as if he had been hurt in the struggle.

  Dimly I realized that the stage curtain was rolling down, separating our make-believe world from the shattering violence and tumult of the real one. I jumped back just in time to avoid being caught in its heavy folds.

  Chapter Two

  “Zulietta Giardino.”

  Messer Grande, as the chief of Venice’s constabulary was titled, made this pronouncement over the woman’s lifeless body, then lifted a corner of his mouth. Smile or smirk? I couldn’t be sure, but I noticed that a regretful sigh followed.

  “I don’t place the name, Excellency,” Torani remarked, “but she does look vaguely familiar.” The maestro was twisting his new wig like a washerwoman wringing out a handful of rags. He’d been dealt a double blow: the cancellation of his triumphant opening night as it had barely begun and a grisly death that could well keep superstitious Venetians away from future performances.

  “Not her real name, of course,” said Messer Grande. “These courtesans always rechristen themselves. No pious Maria or Anna or Elisabetta for them. It might remind the men of their sisters back home.”

  “Ah, a courtesan. What was she doing on the fourth tier, I wonder.” Torani cast a questioning scowl toward the box where Messer Grande’s men were upending chairs and poking at walls and draperies.

  “That is what I mean to find out,” the chief constable replied smoothly. “Have you sent for the box office manager?”

  Torani nodded glumly.

  We made a solemn little group around the body which still lay where it had landed. Messer Grande had been watching the opera from a second-tier box. I’d noticed him particularly, because he’d been sitting alone with his curtains a quarter drawn, wrapped in his red veste patrizia, a voluminous robe that covered his dress suit and proclaimed his official status. He had taken charge immediately. First, he rushed to Doge Grimani’s box and saw that our ruler and his party of Senators and advisors were escorted from the theater without incident. Only then did he gather his constables to clear curiosity seekers away from the body.

  The musicians and singers had been quickly questioned and most sent home. As the Teatro San Marco’s director, Torani naturally remained. I was detained because I had been gazing directly into the box at the relevant moment.

  Once the audience realized the opera wasn’t going to resume, the fashionable box holders trickled away to be borne to their next entertainment by a fleet of gondolas moored at the water landing. The ordinary folk who relied on shoe leather thronged through the entrance that led to the campo. Most probably believed the fall had been a tragic accident and nothing more, though anyone on the nearby benches would have seen the very clear and unmistakable evidence of murder.

  A dagger’s black hilt protruded from the exact center of the woman’s peacock blue bodice; blood soaked the fabric in an uneven circle and reprised the scarlet of the taffeta panel still clutched in one hand.

  As Messer Grande slowly circled the scene, his pace measured and hands clasped behind his back, I steeled myself to take a closer look. The woman lay on her back with arms outflung and thick, darkly waving hair running riot over the filthy floor. In the latest fashion, only a few front curls had been powdered. At least someone had closed her eyes. Like Torani, I also thought she looked familiar, as if we had passed at many a banquet, ball, and pageant, but had never really spoken. She was a dark sylph: no more than twenty-five, slender, with the dusky complexion of the south, or perhaps more foreign parts, and hair the color of ripe olives. A black moleskin patch had been applied near the corner of one eye, and a simple blue ribbon edged in point lace adorned her throat.

  Even in death, this Zulietta Giardino possessed enough glamour to be included in the category of women who could pick and choose their protectors, far above the less-favored women of the town who made themselves available to any man who would meet their price. Somehow I knew that when she moved, she prowled like a cat, supple muscles under taut skin, always on balance, never a hint of uncertainty or awkwardness. But Zulietta wouldn’t be prowling anymore. She was a broken thing now.

  Messer Grande halted and grunted an order to a hovering constable. His man bent to tug the dagger from its gruesome sheath. I swallowed bile as steel grated on bone and the constable retrieved a blade coated with dark blood. Maestro Torani clapped his wig on his head and squeezed his eyes shut.


  After rummaging under his red robe of office, the chief constable drew forth a generously sized handkerchief and took the weapon. Another minion quickly fetched a three-armed candlestick and let its rays fall on the dagger that befouled the white linen like an odious cross.

  “This doesn’t have much to tell,” Messer Grande said after a moment. “Steel blade, hardwood handle, bronze quillions. No identifying marks. Hundreds of men in Venice must own one similar.”

  He raised his gaze and looked me squarely in the eye. “That makes what you saw even more important, Signor Amato. Let’s hear your story again, and this time, don’t leave out even the smallest detail.”

  I shuffled my feet uneasily. I wanted to help; I truly did. But I couldn’t provide nearly as much information as Messer Grande seemed to think I possessed. I did catch a glimpse of Zulietta Giardino’s attacker, but for God’s sake, the upper part of his face had been masked. How much help could a description of his chin be?

  “You were the only soul in this theater who had that all-important glimpse,” Messer Grande reminded me after I’d said my piece once again. “All the other performers had left the stage for your solo, and like the rest of the onlookers, I was totally caught up in it. I don’t know when I’ve heard better singing.”

  “You’re too kind.” I inclined my head, foolishly pleased. How pathetically insecure we performers are. I should have been ashamed, seeking praise for a song when a fellow human’s ultimate mortality lay at my feet.

  “No, no. I assure you I was enjoying myself immensely.” Messer Grande lifted the corner of his mouth again. Definitely a smile this time.

  He continued, “But tell me this. Could the man have been drunk? You said he seemed unsteady.”

  “He staggered only after the woman…Zulietta…had gone over the railing. Before that he seemed totally in charge of his faculties.”

  “Strong? Vigorous?”

  “Yes, Excellency.”

  “A young man, then.”

  “Certainly not teetering on the edge of senility.”

  “Could she have managed to wound him?”

  I shrugged. “Perhaps with a well-placed knee. Or her fingernails. I saw her grabbing at his mask.”

  Messer Grande knelt by the body. His wide sleeves swept the floor as he gave Zulietta’s fingernails a quick inspection. “She didn’t draw blood.” He rose, shaking his head. “Her attacker’s bauta, was there anything distinctive about it?”

  I thought for a moment. “No. The mask was perfectly ordinary—unadorned white with a molded nose and holes for the eyes.” I shuddered a bit, recalling the killer’s malevolent gaze.

  “His hat? Perhaps it was decorated with a feather or an edging of lace.”

  “I didn’t see any.”

  Messer Grande rubbed his brow with thumb and forefinger. Below his hand, his jaw muscles bulged. When he dropped his hand, his expression was grim but composed. “Think, man. A murderer is running loose in the city. Can you come up with nothing that would help us identify him?”

  “Like his dagger, everything else about him could apply to a hundred others.”

  Only the arrival of the box office manager kept Messer Grande from pressing me further.

  Angelo Corsi would have quite obviously preferred to have gone home with everyone else. As he wended his way through the auditorium, stepping around benches that had been scattered or overturned in the melee, he pulled nervously at the cuffs of his cheap broadcloth coat and darted longing glances toward the exits.

  To my surprise, Messer Grande attempted to put him at his ease. “Ah, here’s a good fellow,” he said as he clapped him familiarly on the back. “I’m certain you’ll be able to shed some light.”

  Corsi gulped, caught at the start of a formal bow. Settling for a bob of his head, he said, “I will strive to be of service, Excellency.”

  “Good man, good man. My first question is simplicity itself. Who rents the box this poor woman fell from?”

  “Signor Cesare Pino, Excellency.”

  “Pino? From the glassworks on Murano?”

  “Si, that’s the one.”

  “Have you seen Signor Pino tonight?”

  Corsi bit his protruding lower lip. “I didn’t notice. We were run off our feet. With the opening, so many were buying tickets for the night…”

  Messer Grande nodded sympathetically. Torani heaved a sigh, no doubt contemplating how many of those buyers would be clamoring for a refund.

  “But…” Corsi continued slowly, “Signor Cesare Pino is rarely in attendance. I can’t recall seeing him for a year or more. It is his son, Signor Alessio, who usually occupies the box.”

  “With other family members?”

  “Not so much. Signor Alessio seems to have many friends.”

  Messer Grande nodded, fingering his chin and staring into the middle distance. I had the impression of a mind arranged in neatly docketed cabinets that contained details on all of Venice’s leading citizens. At last he spoke, more to himself than to any of us: “Alessio Pino, the young Glass Prince. Yes, Cesare’s son has attracted quite a retinue of bright young sparks.”

  I had heard of Alessio Pino. Most Venetians had. The young man came from a family of glass masters, a profession held in the highest esteem. Almost from the time my city had sprung to life on the lagoon salt marshes, Venice was known for the delicate miracles that flowed from the glassblower’s pipe. As the guardians of that profession’s ancient secrets, glass masters were as close to royalty as any artisan could ever be. They were one of the few groups allowed to marry into the nobility of the Golden Book. And according to gossip, there were two other qualities that led Messer Grande to describe Alessio as a prince: his striking good looks and his lofty character.

  “Signor Amato?” Messer Grande gripped my shoulder with a vise-like hand. “Are you absolutely sure there was no one besides Zulietta and her killer in the box?”

  I closed my eyes and pictured the scene. The wall lamps had been lit, lending a soft glow to the box’s interior. Another seated or standing figure would have been immediately obvious. My eyelids lifted, and I regarded Messer Grande steadily. “Not unless someone was crawling around on the floor.”

  Messer Grande harrumphed and turned his attention back to Angelo Corsi. “Am I right in assuming the key to the box had been let out to Cesare Pino?”

  Corsi nodded. “For the first time that I remember, I didn’t have one key on the board in the office. Every box was engaged, either for the season or the night.”

  “You keep no duplicate keys?” Messer Grande slanted a critical eyebrow.

  Corsi began to look as nervous as he had at the outset of Messer Grande’s questions. Torani spared him further explanation. “It’s standard practice in all the theaters,” the maestro told the chief constable. “You rent a box, so you must know how it works. The box holder receives the key when he pays. For the duration of his lease, whether it comprises a week or a year, the upkeep of the box is now his responsibility. His servants clean and appoint it as their master sees fit.”

  Messer Grande nodded. “The opera box becomes a home away from home.”

  “Precisely,” Torani replied.

  “So, since my men had to kick the corridor door off its hinges to search the box, it seems likely that a member of the Pino family opened the door to admit Zulietta Giardino and then relocked it on his way out.”

  “Alessio might have given the key to Zulietta,” I quickly put in.

  With a wink, Messer Grande again knelt. As casually as if he were rummaging through a knapsack, he slid his hand through a slit in her panniered skirt and probed the right-hand member of the pair of capacious pockets that hung from every woman’s waistband. He withdrew the pocket’s scant contents and subjected each item to brief scrutiny before laying it on the floor: a tortoise
-shell comb, a few coins, a small bottle of scent, and a square of embroidered cambric. The left pocket produced a folded fan and a small key. Still kneeling, Messer Grande surveyed this miscellany for a long moment; then he swept up the handkerchief, fan, and key as if he were palming the winnings from a game of dice.

  “Is this the box key?” He tossed the bit of metal to Corsi.

  The box office manager grabbed the key out of the air and turned it this way and that, only a few inches from his eyes. “Yes. This is a Teatro San Marco key. The Lion of Venice is impressed on the shaft. And D-17. That’s the number of the Pino box.”

  “So…this was not the key that locked the door,” Messer Grande replied thoughtfully. “The killer must have possessed another to lock the door as he exited.”

  The chief constable regained the key and slipped it in his waistcoat pocket. Then he unfurled the handkerchief. With a well-manicured fingertip, he traced the letter stitched into one corner. We could all see the dark, curlicued “A” that stood out plainly against the white cambric. There was no need for comment. “A” for Alessio; what could be more obvious? The cloth followed the key into the depths of his robe.

  Then Messer Grande unfolded the fan, snapping it open as an angry woman might. He studied the painted scene for a long moment, then chuckled and handed the delicate item to Maestro Torani, saying, “Exactly what you might expect a whore to carry.”

  The director appraised the fan, raised his eyebrows, but didn’t speak. As he passed it to me, I saw that the vellum was painted with a harem scene depicting generously proportioned odalisques disrobing themselves for a swim in a pool. I closed the fan and handed it back to the chief constable.

  Messer Grande must have accomplished all the investigating he wished for the moment. After dispatching one of his men to fetch the charnel-house wagon, he gave Torani leave to have the grand chandelier lowered and the candles extinguished. When that operation was well under way, he dismissed the remaining theater staff with the caution that we might still be needed on the morrow.