Death Under the Venice Moon (7 page)

The concierge seemed startled when Kyle swooped down on her without bothering to knock. "Good evening, Augusta. I understand you met my mother. I found Cruz's room locked. Do you know anything about it?" No chitchat, straight to the facts.

Her eyes met mine. I smiled.

"Huh—I—yes, I wanted to make sure all was—you know—perfect." Her glance darted from Kyle to me. If looks could kill, I'd have been a corpse.

"Not sure what you mean; my mother was the only one there." He shrugged. "Anyway, you told his agent Roberto you haven't seen Cruz since last night, but I've been asked to check on Cruz's Ferrari and the boat. Can I please have the keys? All the keys." He held her stare.

Her eyes mere slits, she opened her desk drawer, pulled out an envelope, and retrieved a set of keys on a chain. She handed everything to Kyle then slammed the drawer shut.

Kyle kept his cool. "Thanks." He turned to me. "Let's go, Mom."

Not sure why, but I felt proud of my son. He didn't raise his voice, yet there was a sense of confidence in his attitude, something I hadn't seen before. He reminded me of…Larry.

I wasn't looking forward to revisiting the aquatic dungeons below. Kyle headed in the opposite direction, still on the first floor. This corridor was well lit. He unlocked a door, and we entered a large storage area. It was divided into thirds by a chain-link fence. A dark, four-door sedan was parked in one of the spaces. Augusta's car? The area next to it looked empty at first, but at the very back in the larger space sat a black Ferrari, identifiable by the prancing horse on the hood. As for the car itself, it didn't look like any car I'd ever seen before. More like science fiction…time traveling into the future.

"Wow," slipped from my lips.

"Isn't it a beauty?" Kyle removed the padlock from the wire gate and went to look at the vehicle. I stayed outside the marked space. This Cruz seemed to find a way of annoying me even when he wasn't around. First the speedboat named
Gemini
, then the Ferrari.

No way I could forgive him for that stupid prank on Ponte Vecchio, not with all the reminders connecting him to it.

Kyle sat in the passenger seat and used one of the keys to open a few locked storage compartments. He reached over the rearview mirror, took down a pair of sunglasses, then put them back. He stretched his neck to look behind the seats. Finally he got out of the car shaking his head. "Doesn't look like he used the car at all since he got here. Well, let's see if he left by boat."

"You mean we have to go down into the stinky underground dock?"

"You've been there?" He seemed surprised.

"Yeah, I didn't tell you? Cruz dragged me down there late in the evening, had me climb up on the bow—get this—to look at the moon. Some scoundrel showed up, and we got out of the place as fast as we could."

"What? Looking at the moon? Scoundrel? What are you talking about?"

I told him the short version while he locked everything back up and we headed for the damn boat dock. Again when he opened the door to the underground channel, the cold air knocked my breath away.

But unlike Cruz, Kyle turned on all the lights, and while the smell lingered, the place wasn't as claustrophobic. He climbed up on the boat. I entertained myself by walking to the end of the dock. There were lights behind some of the windows across the canal. Which one was the lace maker's room?

Apparently no clues to Cruz's absence were found on the boat, and we headed upstairs to the condo.

"Kyle, don't you have any luggage? How long are you staying?"

"We're heading to Venice in the morning, Cruz or no Cruz."

"We?"

"Yeah, I thought it would be fun. If the missing movie star shows up, we're scheduled to do the last retakes. If he doesn't, well, we can have lunch with Carolyn and Roberto. My stuff is in the car. I'll need a change of clothes, but I'm parked at the curb. Now that I have the key, let me check Cruz's bedroom and see if I come up with anything. I'll shave then we can go to my favorite
trattoria
. You're in for a treat. The best fish ever. They say Chioggia is well known for the daily catch. Restaurants from as far away as Bologna send their people here early in the morning to wait for the fishermen to arrive so they can get first pick. Okay, so let's get ready. Oh, wait. I’ll check the room and call Roberto. He's very concerned."

He unlocked Cruz's room and went in. I sat on my bed, trying to decide whether to change for dinner and sending mental thanks to the universe that my son hadn't asked me about Larry yet. I needed to process all of Larry's latest news on my own first.

He didn’t mention finding anything out of the ordinary in Cruz’s room and said so to Roberto.

The
trattoria
's owners recognized Kyle—not because of the movies but because he ate there often when staying in Chioggia. They went out of their way to gain the approval of the Italian mamma. I didn't have to pretend. The meal was superb and tasted homemade, the best kind there is.

The next morning I waited to hear Kyle moving around the condo before leaving my room. The poor kid slept in a very small room with a single bed, I assume he let me use his. I found him in the kitchen making coffee. "
Buongiorno
, Mamma. We'll need to hit the road soon, so we can have coffee then wait to eat until we get to Venice. But if you prefer, we can have Augusta send something up. There isn't much in the refrigerator. You decide."

"Coffee sounds perfect. Look at you, dressed like—" I stared at his Levi's, sneakers, and Polo Ralph Lauren Henley.
Really?

"Like the wholesome kid next door," he finished my sentence.

"Yeah, now that you mention it."

"Have to, by contract. Feeding the perception Italians have of the nice young American boy. I feel like I'm back in high school, or maybe a prep school dropout. Good old Ralphie boy." He tugged at his shirt, shook his head, and poured the steaming coffee into our small cups.

"How are we getting to Venice?"

"We'll take my car. The studio has a reserved spot at Garage San Marco, and from there we go by the hotel water taxi. You better take everything you brought with you; we may not come back here."

"Oh." I had mixed feelings about that—part of me happy to get away from Cruz and Augusta, the other part lamenting the missed opportunity to fully reacquaint myself with this charming little town.

By nine thirty that morning we left the medieval Porta di Santa Maria behind and headed toward Venice. In a sense I was traveling the same road I had with Pia, only in reverse.

"What happens when we get to Venice?"
In a few hours Larry will leave for the airport.

"I have to meet with Carolyn and Roberto at the Century Palace. Cruz keeps a suite there. We'll probably have breakfast or lunch and get an update. You know, I forgot to tell you. Since Cruz got caught with that woman coming out of the hotel, paparazzi hang around the place hoping to get lucky. You want to put on lipstick or something?"

"What, what? Cruz getting caught, paparazzi, lipstick? How about you tell me the whole story. We have time."

"My mom wants to hear about gossip." He snickered. "How about that? You need to understand that Cruz is a…nice fellow, but he is or can be…peculiar."

"You don't say."

"Why? Did he do something bizarre around you?"

Mental pictures of Cruz reveling in the moonlight on the floor of the condo flashed by. "Aside from the Ponte Vecchio experience, no, but I had the feeling he is a little…different."

"He has this thing about older women. He gets into torrid affairs with women twice his age."

Augusta?
"And? I felt an
and
coming."

He laughed. "And a few months ago he got involved with a much older married woman, who happens to be the wife of a powerful man—the kind of powerful man you don't want mad at you. Cruz got caught walking the woman out the back entrance of the Century to a waiting speedboat at one a.m. Two paparazzi were at the hotel covering a public event. They went outside for a smoke. Well, you can imagine the rest—fist fights, boat chases. And all of it made the news by morning. I think that's one of the reasons the studio wants me to parade around as the good boy and all that jazz. You know, a balancing act. One more month and I'll be back in L.A. ready to set the town on fire."

I found myself laughing along with him. "Kyle, maybe that's why he isn't to be found. Maybe he is somewhere with this woman. No?"

"He better not be. If that's the case, he won't be around to see the premiere of the film. I'm not kidding, Mom—he is messing with the wrong crowd."

"Is that why you never talk about Pia? Because of the good-boy image in your contract?"

"Contract? Pia? What about Pia?"

"Isn't she your girlfriend?"

"Hell no. Whatever gave you that idea? Oh, you mean because she picked you up at the airport? She had to be up here anyhow, no biggie. I don't know what she told you, but no. I went out with her a few times, and it just didn't work out. She hangs around because she gets access to showbiz news before the rest of the crowd. That's all."

I didn't argue with him, but once again I concluded that my son was clueless when it came to relationships. Must take after his mother.

I squinted against the sunlight ricocheting off the water. The hotel water taxi, as Kyle called it, was a fancy speedboat, much fancier than Cruz's boat—in fact, fancier than any I'd seen before. I knew little about boats, but the upgrades here were obvious even to the uneducated. I sat on the leather-covered bench in awe. The hotel name was in gaudy gold letters, and the interior of the watercraft was garishly luxurious, with thick silk ropes, tassels, and plush cushions—almost as lavish as the vanity flotilla of Donald Trump I once saw on TV. I wasn't prepared for it, but I should have remembered Italians tended to do everything with a great deal of fanfare, regardless of wealth or culture.

My mother once told me of a neighbor who put a lien on her house to afford a fancy Nile cruise. Smoke and mirrors. Something forewarned me I was about to be swallowed by the smoke and mirrors lifestyle.

Kyle, his back to me, stood beside the boat's pilot he had introduced as Marco. Marco wore a uniform of some sort, navy blue with gold buttons galore. By their casual conversation, I assumed they'd made this trek together before—without the extra passenger, of course. We glided along the Grand Canal, passing ancient palaces with their Gothic facades and
de rigueur
lancet windows.

I had traveled Canal Grande many times, and sadly had to admit the priceless, ornate buildings had become little more than a blur over the years. The only one I always recognized was the Peggy Guggenheim Museum. It was blinding white, and always had been as far back as I could remember. The lone white palace on Canal Grande, unlike any on any other canal. The building itself was square, almost squat, as it rose only one modest story above the water. Yes, easy to spot.

The breeze whipped my hair over my face. I fidgeted with the light jacket.
Damn, I should have packed better clothes.

Kyle turned to look at me. "Almost there, Mom. You enjoying yourself?"

I smiled and nodded. I wished it were possible to turn back the clock, before Larry's trip to Florida, before my jealousy crisis. I wished myself back home, in my cozy bathrobe, having my morning coffee and reading the
Orange County Register
while Flash nibbled at my ankle because I didn't feed her fast enough.

I braced myself for the landing at Century Palace.
Mio Dio
, even the name sounded gaudy.
Stop being so judgmental
.

With little fanfare, the speedboat reached the end of the canal and made a wide U-turn. I caught a glimpse of the one and only magnificent Piazza San Marco. Poof, gone. We headed back into the canal, and there, in its entire restored splendor, stood the hotel.

So much for my snarky thoughts—in spite of all my assumptions, the three-story palace had maintained its pristine original appearance. Its motor purring like a kitten, the water taxi approached the wide, planked landing that led to the hotel entrance.

"Mom, Marco doesn't think they'll be any paparazzi around. He agrees with my original plan; we go through the lobby instead of the service entry. That way our luggage will be stored until we decide what to do next. Let's go."

Kyle shook hands with Marco and in one quick hop was on the deck. He offered his hand and pulled me up beside him.

I ran my fingers through my hair to at least give myself the illusion of normalizing my appearance.
Right!

The instant I crossed the threshold of the fifteen-foot-tall glass doors into the lobby, the first wave of surprises hit. The sparsely placed furniture was so ultra-contemporary it clashed with my expectations. The chairs looked like wings of white birds in flight.
I must stop judging.
After all, the walls were pure Venetian plaster.

"Mr. York." A young man in a classic gray suit came from somewhere and greeted Kyle. They shook hands, and I was introduced to the hotel's formal concierge. He spoke in a very British kind of English and pointed us to the meeting room where we were expected.

"Let's go, Mom. I guess Carolyn and Roberto are waiting for us. Why the meeting room? Not good."

"Why? You don't like meetings or something?"

He smiled. "It's a reserved room, meaning other people are about to join us or may already be there. I have a bad feeling about this. Anyway, it's not a public room. Oh, damn."

I followed his glance. A couple headed our way. Their choice of threads cheered me up. Compared with what they wore, my clothes didn't feel so frumpy and inexpensive. Of course, youth was on their side.

"Mom, paparazzi." My son spoke softly, barely moving his lips.

I smoothed my hair with renewed fervor, but a glance into the ornate mirror on the wall told me the results were just as dim as before.

"
Ciao, ragazzi
." I loved to listen to Kyle's Italian—slow, singsong, so different from when he spoke English.