Death Under the Venice Moon (2 page)

"Carolyn? Your agent is in Italy? I had no idea."

"Yes, she's good friends with Cruz's agent. They're talking international partnership."

"Whoa, sounds impressive." Tiptoeing around the big question neither wanted to tackle:
What really happened to prompt me to leave home?

"I'll tell you all about it when I get there. So, you okay?"
Running out of safe subjects?
"Then bye for now, and don't hesitate to call me if you want to talk."

"I will, and I think the ring tone of the
telefonino
is so—appropriate.
Grazie
."

After we hung up it hit me that we never mentioned Pia or Larry.

When Pia had unlocked the door and swung it open, the condo had that unmistakable moldy smell of closed-up places. Not that unusual in such old houses. Not enough direct sun to keep the thick stone walls dry, especially in these coastal towns.

Daylight was fading.
Should I turn on the lamp?
I shivered in my light robe. I touched the radiator. Cold. The heating system wasn't working, and I had no clue what to do. I assumed Kyle warned Cruz of my presence. What if he forgot? Damn. Talk about feeling out of place. Maybe I should go for a walk. I had a key. I couldn't decide. It wouldn't make any difference. The hurt inside would travel with me regardless of where I went.

My bedroom faced the same busy street we drove in on, but only faint noises rose to the third-floor windows.

I ventured into the living room to get an idea of what was on the other side of the building. This place reminded me of those fantasy movies with princes and princesses who lived happily ever after.

I didn't belong here. The furniture was as plain and neutral as could be, probably to counteract the walls, which exuded nothing short of opulence—silky tapestries, narrow windows from floor to ceiling. And the height of those ceilings? Incredible. Maybe they had to build them so tall to accommodate the massive chandelier. Must cost a fortune to warm the place during the winter months. I wished I could have made a fire, but the gilded fireplace looked more like a movie prop than a functional one. From the living room window I noticed the water. Dark, so dark and green. It gave me shivers. Seawater. Not the kind of sea crashing on sandy beaches. No, this was similar to the water in the deep canals of Venice.
Chioggia, the miniature Venezia.
That was what Pia had called the town. Across from the window a row of two-story buildings with arched porticos sat on the opposite bank of the canal.

Like in Venice, the palazzo backed into a waterway. That alone could account for the moldy smell, the lingering cold. I tried to open one of those tall, narrow windows, but it wouldn't budge. A thermometer hung on the wall outside the window. I had to use my reading glasses to see what the temperature was. I wasn't sure why, but it seemed important to know. Thirteen. It showed thirteen degrees—Celsius, of course. I had become so Americanized I couldn't remember the conversion between Celsius and Fahrenheit. I wasn't alone. On the opposite side of the same window another thermometer showed fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit.

What temperature would it be in the foothills of Orange, where Larry sat and sipped coffee brewed from his favorite blend of—

Stop it.

I didn't come all the way here to sit in a stranger's home and cry. I wiped my face and headed into the bedroom. Then it hit me. Something about this place was odd. There wasn't anything personal. No photos, no knickknacks, nothing out of place. Everything organized and, dare I say, catalogued? Like a suite at a fancy resort, even down to the fresh flowers and a welcome basket of fruit. That would explain the neutral furnishings and generic rug.

I turned on the shower. The bathroom, too, was set up like a hotel. White towels stacked high, neatly folded, hair dryer and countless small bottles with colorful labels. The white towels and assorted toiletries reminded me of my first morning in Larry's house. Two years ago.

I picked a chamomile shampoo and stepped into the shower. In spite of the modern look of the bathroom, the showerhead made a loud noise. Old pipes. We had the same problem in my mother's house. Mom—I hadn't thought about her in so long—why now?
I should go to visit her grave; it's maybe a few hours away. Kyle could drive me.

My stomach gurgled while I dried my hair. Not surprising. I'd had nothing but the airplane food in the last twenty-four hours. That was it.
I'll get dressed and go grab something to eat.
Italians didn't eat until late in the evening. I would fit right in.

While I showered moonlight slipped in and sprinkled blue hues over the whole bedroom. Outside the window, a full moon held court up among the stars in the Italian sky. Larry would love the sight. Oh, Larry. Why?

In my blind rage and rush to run away, I packed little that was suitable for autumn in Northern Italy. Plus, a lot of my belongings had been at Larry's.
Clear your mind.
The clock on the night table said seven p.m. I could stop by the concierge desk and ask directions to a small nearby restaurant, one that was easy to find. I wouldn't want to get lost on my very first evening.

Better take the telefonino.
Fully dressed, my hair dry, lipstick on, I grabbed my purse and the keys to the condo, and walked out of the bedroom. The living room also displayed a blue stream, courtesy of the incredible beam of moonlight spilling through the tall window. It was so well defined it looked like a sliver of moon pie, narrow but elongated, reaching all the way to the thick rug covering the inlaid wood floor.

Wait…no…what?

In the center of the silvery slice, a dark figure lay motionless on the carpet.

Dio Mio.
I took a step. The body moved, and I screamed.

"
Buona, sta buon.
Son io, Cruz.
"

Be good. I'm Cruz?

The chandelier suddenly lit so brightly my eyes hurt. What? The dark shadow that had been sprawled on the rug was my host Manuel De La Cruz? I blinked but didn't budge from where I stood.

"Am sorry," he said in an attempt to speak English. "Do you speak Italian?"

"Of course I speak Italian. I am Italian." I wanted to slap his silly smile away. What had he been doing on the floor in the dark?

"Italian Italian?"

"I don't know what constitutes an Italian Italian, but I was born a little north of here, province of Vicenza. Is that Italian enough for you?"

"Ah, Kyle's mamma, you are mad at me." He smiled with his eyes. His mention of Kyle reminded me in whose living room I stood. I smiled back. This was the great Cruz? Casanova Cruz? I had pictured him like the Italian version of George Clooney. But this was a middle-aged man in need of a good meal. Such a bony face, thin lips. Interesting, in a strange way. Imperfect features and unsettling eyes. Perhaps fame added an aura of charm to everything he did or didn't do.

"It’s the moon." He hummed. "I like to meditate by the full moon. It reinvigorates me, clears my mind. Didn't mean to frighten you. How are you? Did you find everything you need? Have you had dinner?" His sentences ran together. As he spoke and grew more animated, personality began to seep through. He had a childlike smile, probably well rehearsed. He moved closer, right under the chandelier where I had parked myself. Thick lashes shadowed his eyes. Odors of tobacco and cigarette smoke lingered on his clothes.

"I didn't hear you—did you say you have eaten?" My stomach growled, and Cruz had his answer. "Oh, Kyle's mamma is hungry."

"My name is Lella."

"Hungry and spunky. What are you hungry for—Lella?"

The double entendre wasn't lost on me. Now I really wanted to smack this overgrown adolescent. Did he catch my annoyance? "Sorry," he said. "Habits. But seriously, anything in mind? Pasta? Fish?"

Forget eating, I still couldn't get past his sudden appearance. "Cruz, I didn't know you had arrived. The place is so quiet. I'm puzzled or maybe simply curious. I wonder…if you don't feel like answering it is totally fine, but I understand you are a famous movie star. A household name, according to Pia Bartolomei, right?"

He nodded. The glow on his face was bright enough to compete with the chandelier.

"How do you manage? The anonymity, I mean. No paparazzi hurtling at your door, no admiring fans screaming under your windows."

He bobbed his head to the cadence of my voice. "True, so true, Lella. But I am smart. Everything was planned carefully years ago. This is my place for tranquility. When I'm here, I'm not Cruz."

"I see. You are not Cruz, and how do you convince the town of that? You wear a mask? A wig? You buy their cooperation?"
What's gotten into me? It's none of my business.

He laughed in a spontaneous way, maybe for the first time since we met.

"Come on." He took my hand. "Let's go talk to Augusta. You will understand."

We had made it to the door when he stopped. "Almost forgot. I'll be right back." He disappeared behind the door of what Pia had indicated was his bedroom and returned carrying a Prada gift bag. The blue lettering on the white background was hard to miss. "Now I'm ready. Let's go."

"We are going to talk to Augusta the concierge?"

No answer. He pulled me along to the elevator, down to the street level and into Augusta's office. He raised his hand to knock, but when his knuckles met the door, it opened.

Pia had introduced me to the older woman known as the concierge when we arrived around noon. Distracted, I hadn't paid much attention.

Augusta sat at her desk. The moment she saw us she stood and smiled, magically losing twenty years.

"Manuel, you're back," she cooed, extending both hands to him.

He smiled, accepted the offered hands and placed the Prada bag in them, then kissed the plump concierge on both cheeks.

"Not for long, I'm afraid. But Kyle's mamma"—he nodded in my direction—"she is on vacation, so you'll see a lot of her and perhaps Kyle also." He moved his hands away from hers. "Do you think we can take a look at the menus? Of course, I already know what I want." More smiles. "But Kyle's mamma has no idea about the good care you take of us."

I wanted to shout that my name wasn't
Kyle's mamma
but decided I could put up with his immature sense of humor for one evening. After all, he was willing to put up with the imposition of my unscheduled presence.

Augusta went back to her desk and removed a folder from one of the drawers. The lamp put a shine on her silver hair. She opened the folder and laid at least a dozen restaurant menus on the desktop. While she motioned me to look at them, she kept glancing at the Prada bag, obviously dying to open it.

Small golden bells chimed eight p.m. The lovely sound came from a handsome old clock on the wall.

"I never get tired of listening to that beautiful sound. Thank you, Manuel." Augusta sounded a little misty.

I stared at the menus, unable to decide what to do. "Cruz, you are more familiar with these restaurants than I am. What do you suggest? Something light so I won't toss and turn all night."

He chuckled at my remark, spread the menus on the desk, picked one, and suggested some
risotto di frutta di mare
. While it literally translated to "rice with fruits of the sea," when served it would be a light risotto with mussels, scallops, and calamari. Perfect. He worked out the details with Augusta, who apparently ordered his food when he stayed at the condo.

She assured us everything would be delivered within forty-five minutes.

More kisses on both cheeks, then we left.

"Let me see. You get here in the dark so as not to be seen and hide in the condo while your star-struck old girl provides you with your daily needs, then you take off again in the dark. That's your wonderful life in Chioggia? How long have you been calling this gilded cage home?" Why was I so mean? The poor man did nothing to deserve my criticism. Misplaced anger or a preview of the mood swings my ob-gyn predicted for my near future?

"Gilded cage? Hide waiting for darkness?" We paused by the elevator door. "You don't know a thing." He grabbed my arm. Like a man on a mission, he firmly dragged me along toward a dim corridor. Smoke might have flared from his nostrils, but I couldn't tell in the low light.

"Where are you taking me?" All his passion could be a sign of craziness. The narrow hallway grew even darker and seemed to close in around us.

He stopped at a door. I knew it was a door because a low-voltage light bulb above it made it possible for Cruz to insert a key, unlock and open it wide.

A gush of cold air took me by surprise. Were we outside? This wasn't just cold air; it had a damp, chilling effect and smelled of mold and rotten wood. Memories of my grandfather's cellar popped into my head. But my grandfather's cellar had a floor. This place? Several steps down from the threshold, dark water slapped against the walls.

"Come on." Cruz stood on the lower step, prodding me to join him. The instant I moved away, the door shut behind me.
What have I gotten myself into?

Water dripped somewhere in this cavernous place, resonating loudly. Precise and relentless.

"Watch where you step." His voice was as calm as if he were taking a stroll in the park. He must have pulled a flashlight from his pocket. The light beam showed the way.

He seemed to be walking on solid ground, so I followed him closely. Our footsteps echoed in the vaulted space. We turned a corner and found ourselves at a moonlit underground dock. The moonbeams poured in from a large skylight, bleaching the walls and the boat to a ghostly pallor. A boat!

"Where are we? What's above us?" I listened for dock sounds—voices, engines of other boats. But the only sound was the water slapping against the walls and moorings.

"The skylight is part of the garden terrace. We are under the
palazzo
. Think of this place as a basement with seawater." His laugh was filled with affection. "And this is my
Gemelli
."