Death in a Serene City (16 page)

“What kind of questions? I've already told the police what they wanted to know.”

“It's just that I'd like to have certain things settled in my own mind. Perhaps some questions the police didn't ask you.”

“They were very thorough, believe me. They had a long list of questions and people they wanted me to tell them about. Carlo, of course, Luigi Cavatorta, the Contessa da Capo-Zendrini herself, even some of the sisters at the convent.” He took another sip of his brandy and held the glass up to the faint light coming through the window. “And they even asked me about you but fortunately—or unfortunately—there wasn't much I could tell them.”

“Did they ask about Beatrice Galuppi?”

“Beatrice Galuppi? Why should they have asked me about her?”

“Anything that concerned Maria might be of importance, and surely her daughter—”

“She loved that girl,” the old priest interrupted. “If anyone told you any different, they were lying.” A softer cast came over his face. “Beatrice was blessed with beauty and although she was only a Galuppi she had the manner of a daughter of the Doges. I had great expectations for her. We all did here in the Cannaregio, most of all her poor mother.”

“What happened?”

“I'm sure you already know, Signor Macintyre. If you've talked with anyone about Beatrice Galuppi, the first thing they surely told you was how beautiful she was and the second was about what happened to her. She died under a dark cloud—but don't think we didn't give her all the honors of a good servant of God when we laid her to rest. What man can say that there's not a shining heart in the darkest of clouds?”

Urbino wanted hard answers, not euphemisms. Best to take a more direct approach.

“What do you know about the person she was involved with?”

The priest's hand shook slightly as he raised his glass.

“What person?”

“Her gentleman friend.”

The priest relaxed and took his sip, looking in the direction of the stuffed ducks as he swallowed.

“I'm sure you know as much as I do, Signor Macintyre. You impress me as being just as thorough in your own way as the police.”

“Do you know who he was?” Urbino persisted. “Did Maria know?”

“Signor Macintyre, there are questions even a priest isn't required to answer—or should I say especially a priest.”

“Let me ask you this, then: Was Beatrice Galuppi a devout girl?”

“It's not for me to judge and never was. I wasn't her confessor. In fact she seldom came to San Gabriele. She preferred the Madonna dell'Orto.”

Even after all these years he seemed offended.

“But the Madonna dell'Orto isn't much closer to where the Galuppis lived.”

“Actually it's a bit farther but distance had nothing to do with it. Beatrice had an interest in Tintoretto like our own Sister Veronica. As you know the Madonna dell'Orto was Tintoretto's parish church. Beatrice painted. She might even have had a talent but such judgments are beyond me. I never saw anything she did anyway. Sister Veronica has, Cavatorta too. He thought it good enough if you can trust his opinion.”

“Could Beatrice's preference for the Madonna dell'Orto have had anything to do with her mother's devotion to Santa Teodora? When a girl reaches a certain age, it's not unusual for her to want to do whatever she can to distinguish herself from her mother.”

“Beatrice had other ways of doing that.”

“The gentleman friend?” The priest avoided his eyes. “Or was there something else,” Urbino went on, “someone else, a woman friend perhaps, a bad influence, someone her own age, someone named Domenica?”

Don Marcantonio glared at Urbino.

“Who have you been talking to? I thought you were interested in a man. I don't know anyone named Domenica—except for an obscure saint from the Campania. It's not a common name here in the north.”

He put down his glass and stood up. Urbino did too.

“I can't clutter up my mind with speculation, least of all gossip. Many here in the Cannaregio will accommodate you, I'm sure. As for me, I knew very little about Beatrice Galuppi's personal life, who she knew and who she didn't.”

“Do you know if she had a lovebird?”

“What are you talking about? I really must say good day, Signor Macintyre. I need to rest before the six o'clock Mass.”

Something Don Marcantonio had said was on Urbino's mind on his walk back from San Gabriele. When he got back to the Palazzo Uccello, he went into the kitchen where Natalia was chopping garlic. He had a question for her. Originally from Messina, she had ended up in the Venice area after hotel work in Zurich, where she had met her husband, an itinerant laborer from Mestre.

“Natalia, do you know anyone named Domenica?”

She looked at him with wide eyes as if it were the strangest question he had ever asked her.

“Not here in Venice, Signor Macintyre, but down in Messina, yes, I knew two or three girls with that name. There was Domenica delle Palme—Palm Sunday—although she preferred Palma, a lovely name, don't you think? And can you believe she had a sister named Pasqualina!—Easter!” Then, her eyes filmed over with nostalgia, she added, “And there was Mimma Giuliana and her cousin Miccuccia.”

“But I thought you said they were all called Domenica?”

“So they were, but those are pet names for Domenica and since both girls were named after their grandmother, one was Mimma and the other—she was fatter and older—was Miccuccia.”

Having imparted this information, she waited for Urbino to tell her why he had asked. When he didn't, she gave an almost imperceptible shrug and returned to her chopping with a disappointed look.

4

THE Contessa's
salotto
was cluttered, not because it was small—which it wasn't—but because she had insisted on furnishing it with many of her favorite things. There was a story behind just about every painting, print, bibelot, and piece of furniture—from the Veronese over the fireplace to the collection of eighteenth-century ceramic animals on one of the smaller tables—and Urbino had heard all of them. Strangely enough—perhaps more a testament to the Contessa's talents as a raconteuse than to his as a patient and attentive listener—he had never been bored.

Tonight, as he was telling her what he had learned from the women at Maria's apartment building, Don Marcantonio, and Natalia, her eyes kept moving from object to object as if she were assessing them or trying to get comfort from their familiarity. She didn't say anything until he finished.

“I'm offended, Urbino.”

She seemed so serious that he made a little joke: “At my success?”

“It's not such a grand success. Don't get more conceited than you already are. No, it's not that.” She took a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her nose in a thoughtful way. She had sneezed several times since he had arrived and she looked drawn. “It's about Maria's daughter. Of course I knew she had a daughter who had died a year or two before Alvise and I were married. I even saw her photo—a lovely girl standing in front of the Madonna dell'Orto—but I certainly never knew about a suicide or some mysterious friend named Domenica or about much else in fact.” A strange expression came over her face and the next moment she sneezed. She took out another handkerchief from her other pocket and tended to her nose. “And perhaps it's silly of me when there's so much else of greater importance, but to think that Maria never even breathed a word about her daughter's painting or her interest in Tintoretto.”

“Doesn't that indicate a mother who cherishes her daughter's memory and wants to keep it to herself?”

“No! It indicates a mother secretive about her daughter. Besides, you said that Don Marcantonio, Sister Veronica, and Cavatorta all knew about it.” She ended the sentence on a whine and wiped her nose vigorously, making it even redder than it had been.

“Could it be, my dear, that you're a bit peeved? It's as if you were upset about not being included in a game everyone else has been playing. After all, you did know her daughter was dead and had died under strange circumstances. And you knew a man was involved.”

“Oh, everyone knew that!” she said with disdain for what was common knowledge. Surely she was entitled to something more! “But I'm not completely out of the game, to use your expression, as you'll soon see,” she added with an air of mystery. She got up from her chair and went to the table with the ceramic animals. Opening the drawer in the side she took out a piece of paper and brought it over to Urbino.

“What's this?” he asked as he took it.

“Something to show you I have my own little games to play. Well, don't just look at it! Read it!”

On the sheet was a long paragraph in the Contessa's elaborate handwriting. It was a detailed description of Maria Galuppi's last day, from the time she was seen leaving her building on the Rio della Sensa until Sister Veronica and her tour group saw her in the Church of San Gabriele about five.

Taking a sip of his cognac, Urbino read the sheet over again.

“Don't act as if you're wondering what it's for. Isn't that what's usually done? A reconstruction of the victim's last day?”

“But Maria's schedule has relevance only if we assume she knew her murderer or was murdered because she was Maria Galuppi. I suppose someone might have seen her talking to a stranger or noticed someone suspicious around San Gabriele, but no one has come forward, has he? Maria might have been in the wrong place at the wrong time, in which case your reconstruction here—”

“I don't accept any of that, Urbino, and I don't think you do either or else you wouldn't be showing such interest in Beatrice Galuppi, who's been dead for more than thirty years. That Maria might have been murdered during a theft just because she happened to be in the church at the time shakes my faith to its very foundations. It gives too much credence to accident, to chance. No, I can't accept it!”

“But accidents do happen, Barbara. I could be walking down a
calle
and have a brick fall on my head. The Palazzo Uccello could catch fire because of faulty wiring. You could—”

“Don't say anything more about what could happen. I'm talking about the murder of Maria, a woman who had a devotion to Santa Teodora, yes, I'm not denying that she had. And she died right there in front of the coffin, but that doesn't mean she died
because
of Santa Teodora, does it? There's a big difference. No, she wasn't killed by Carlo—this, I hope, we agree on—but she wasn't killed by chance or accident either, by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don't care what you think of my work there”—she nodded at the sheet still in his hands—“but let me ask you one question: If Maria was murdered in the course of a theft, then why hasn't anyone made his identity known if it was, let's say, a political act? Or why hasn't ransom been asked for, something other than that Gramsci hoax? No, Urbino, if the relic were at the center of this, we would have heard something long before now.”

“What about the jewels?”

“I doubt if anyone has believed that story for years. People just like to talk about it, the way they do about St. Mark's body being buried somewhere beneath the Basilica.”

“But maybe someone did believe it. They went after the relic, killed Maria, and took away the body of Santa Teodora. They searched for the jewels, found none, and are now some very disappointed and fearful thieves with no reason to contact anyone.”

“I disagree. Let's assume they did believe there were jewels. Well, if they didn't find any and had Santa Teodora's body, why didn't they then try to get something for all their trouble and ransom it? If they did believe there were jewels, why didn't they search the garments then and there at San Gabriele? Why risk taking the body away like that? No, there are too many things that don't make sense. Even Commissario Gemelli said as much although he's not even entertaining the possibility of reopening the case. He made that clear enough to me this morning.”

“Commissario Gemelli?”

“Yes! How do you think I got all that information? I'm not without my contacts and influence,
caro
, and I don't think I've ever abused them, certainly not in this instance. The main problem wasn't getting the information because of any technicality but convincing them that the information could possibly be of interest since the case has already been closed. Maybe they thought I was doing some research for you for one of your
Venetian Lives.
”

They sipped their cognacs in silence for several minutes. One of the things he liked about his relationship with the Contessa was the way they could fall in and out of silences like these without any self-consciousness. He read through the list again. When he put it down on the table, he saw that his friend was smiling at him.

“So who will be next?”

“Next?”

“You know very well what I mean! I can tell when you're hooked. You're not going to stop with the old women on the Rio della Sensa, are you? Don't forget I know you better than anyone else does. I know that the very reason other people might assume you'd never trouble yourself is exactly the reason why you are doing so—and will continue to.”

“And why is that?” he asked with a little smile of his own for her.

She held his eyes for a moment before answering.

“Because of your love for peace and quiet and order. You don't have them now, do you?”

“I don't know what you're talking about, Barbara. The Palazzo Uccello is as quiet as ever and despite all these recent troubles at San Gabriele, Venice is serene enough—and will be until
carnevale.
”

But he knew what she meant.

“I mean in
bere.
” And she gently tapped the side of her head.