The Veils of Venice

The Veils of Venice

The Mysteries of Venice, Book Nine

Edward Sklepowich

MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

For Pamela Kinnunen, dedicated animal rights activist, who is greatly missed by her family and friends

The murderer is right in this room. Sitting at this table. You may serve the fish.

The Thin Man

Prologue

Blessedly Dead

Urbino Macintyre gazed from the windows of Florian's at the Piazza San Marco, beautifully bereft on this late afternoon in January.

Snow, a somewhat rare and treasured event in Venice, was falling on the large sociable space.

It was laying a white carpet in the great square for the shivering pigeons, cushioning the steps of the arcades, powdering the face of the zodiac clock, and quickening the rosy brick of the Campanile as the flakes swirled around like confetti.

However, nothing was more transformed than the square's most impressive resident. The Basilica, with a sifting of fresh snow over its domes, horses, and Gothic carvings, resembled nothing less than some strange and improbable oriental confection – and one that only the privileged few were savoring.

‘Dead, dead, blessedly dead,' murmured Urbino's companion, the Contessa da Capo-Zendrini.

Soon enough, however, the madness of the carnival season would descend on the city.

Urbino and his good friend were cozily ensconced in the Chinese Salon, surrounded by its paintings, bronze
amorini
lamps, maroon divans, marble tables, gilded strips of wood and burnished parquet floor that had become so familiar to them. To make the experience even more pleasant, they were the only occupants of the room – that is, if one did not count the contessa's white cocker spaniel Zouzou, who lay asleep at her feet on a small blanket.

‘Eufrosina is late,' the contessa said. She was referring to her cousin, Eufrosina Valle. The contessa was organizing an exhibition of clothing and accessories designed by Mariano Fortuny, which would be held at her palazzo in May. She had commissioned Eufrosina, her distant cousin, to take photographs for the catalogue. The contessa was basing her faith in Eufrosina's ability to make an important contribution to the exhibition primarily on the woman's photographs of hands, which had received praise a few years before.

The contessa had spent the past six months contacting friends, the friends of friends, dress designers, museum curators, and anyone appropriate in her wide circle to lend her their Fortuny gowns, scarves, and purses. It was one of the most ambitious projects she had yet been involved in, even though she was confining her search for Fortuny items to the Venice area, since the Spanish textile designer had made the city his home. The contessa planned the exhibition as a celebration of the designer and his beloved, adopted city.

What had encouraged the idea was that Urbino's new biographical project in his ‘Venetian Lives' series was devoted to Fortuny. He had helped design the catalogue, which was only waiting for Eufrosina's photographs, and had written an introduction.

‘The weather must have slowed her down,' Urbino said.

‘I suppose so. Or any number of crises at home.'

Eufrosina, a widow, lived with her mother, her younger brother, and three cousins in a once elegant but now run-down building in the Santa Croce area.

‘Yes, it's a strange household,' Urbino said. Over the years the inhabitants of the Palazzo Pindar, all of them related to the contessa through her English side, had seldom failed to surprise and even, on occasion, shock him with their eccentricities, and Urbino, it must be said, had a high, proud tolerance as well as a self-indulgence himself in the eccentric.

‘And it may be even stranger than we think.' The contessa gave a slight frown and seemed about to add something. She placed a dollop of clotted cream on a morsel of scone and handed it to Urbino.

Urbino knew the contessa too well not to notice that she was nervous and preoccupied. It was not only the way she had been searching the Piazza for any sign of Eufrosina but also the troubled look in her eyes. It had already been fixed there when he had seated himself beside her in her motorboat, and on the ride to the Molo he had noted lapses of attention. She had stared at him blankly while he described the water damage done to the Palazzo Uccello by a recent storm, and he had repeated a question about the Fortuny exhibition two times.

She fidgeted with the blue and green silk scarf that was draped around the shoulders of her black dress. The large rectangular Knossos scarf, printed with Cycladian shapes, was one of Fortuny's most famous creations. It shimmered and caught the light from the lamps, and seemed to have a vibrant, undulating life of its own.

‘The scarf is in excellent condition, Barbara, given its years – like you and me,' he added with a playful smile.

The contessa was far from her first youth, and by no stretch of the kindest imagination could she be said to be still in her second. However, in compensation she had made that transition into the rarefied realm of the ‘forever young'.

Although she had never divulged her age, and Urbino had never used his biographical skills to uncover it, she had to be twenty years older than his own middle forties. Nevertheless, with her slimness, excellent bone structure, and almond-shaped eyes that radiated warmth, intelligence, and good humor, she could easily pass for someone only a few years older than he was.

One must not ignore, in the interests of complete honesty, however, the role played by the application of art, which managed to leave few traces of great effort, at least insofar as Urbino could detect.

‘In good condition? Well preserved, you mean,' the forever young contessa clarified, still fingering her scarf. ‘Like us.'

Her faint smile had a trace of sadness.

‘You seem distracted today, Barbara. Is something the matter? What do you mean that the Palazzo Pindar may be even stranger than we think?'

The contessa sighed. ‘There
is
something the matter,
caro
. It's Gaby. She has the idea in her head that she's in danger, that someone is trying to kill her. Can you believe such a thing?' She gave a high, nervous laugh.

Gabriella Pindar, Eufrosina's first cousin, was the custodian of a small museum in the Pindar family palazzo.

‘Someone is trying to kill her?' Urbino repeated. ‘Surely she's imagining it. She isn't the most stable person, poor woman.'

Gaby had been suffering from agoraphobia for as long as Urbino had known her. And how many years was that now? At least twenty. She would not go within six feet of the building entrance, for fear that something would happen to her. It was always a vague, unspecified fear. The thought of leaving the house made her tremble. She had refused all attempts to get her to seek professional help.

‘True, far from the most stable person,' the contessa agreed, ‘but nonetheless, we shouldn't dismiss it. I know she has closer relatives than me, but I feel a responsibility. You'll be spending time at the Palazzo Pindar.'

Urbino would soon start going through letters that Fortuny had written to Gaby's great aunt – who was also Eufrosina's great aunt. They now belonged to Eufrosina's widowed mother, who insisted that no one take them out of the Palazzo Pindar, at least not while she remained alive. Urbino needed to read the letters before he left for America in February to tend to some long neglected family business that involved property in New Orleans. He would be going right before the start of carnival.

‘You can keep your sharp eye on things while you're there,' the contessa suggested. ‘Maybe you can determine if it's just Gaby's condition speaking or if there is something more serious to it. I certainly don't think she's in any danger,' she added quickly, although her eyes remained troubled. ‘But you will have the opportunity for soothing her. She's a gentle, vulnerable soul. By the way, I didn't learn about Gaby's fears directly from her. But I can't go into detail now. Here comes Eufrosina.'

Muffled in a checkered scarf and with snowflakes glistening in her auburn hair, the contessa's cousin was hurrying past the Chinese Salon. Her head was turned toward the square and the opposite row of arcades.

‘I'm not sure if Eufrosina knows,' the contessa said. ‘I don't think she does. And it is not my place to tell her. You know how that family is.' Her tone – part affectionate, part bemused – was the one she often used when referring to the Pindars. ‘I'll explain everything to you tomorrow.'

Urbino agreed to come to the Ca' da Capo-Zendrini at ten in the morning.

Eufrosina walked over to their table in long strides. She was an attractive, willowy woman of forty-five. Much of the joy and grace and beauty of her Greek namesake had left her decades ago, though her light blue eyes still had some of the sparkle of her earlier years.

‘Excuse me for being late.' She was flushed and slightly out of breath.

‘Who counts the time on such a lovely day as this?' the contessa said, as if straw-colored sunshine flooded the Piazza. ‘It might seem strange, my dear Eufrosina, but snow makes me feel more reborn than the spring.'

‘I can't say the same for myself. Mother and I can't shake our bronchitis.' Eufrosina's English was British-accented and flawless, like that of all the members of her family. She put down her satchel and took out a lace handkerchief from the pocket of her brown swirl coat. She produced a raspy cough. ‘Remember that your place is warmer and snugger than ours.' She loosened her scarf and unbuttoned her coat, but she kept on her gloves of beige kid.

‘I hope that you and your mother will recover soon,' the contessa said. ‘How is Alessandro?' Alessandro was Eufrosina's brother.

‘Oh, he hasn't succumbed yet. I doubt if he will. He never seems to get ill. He lives a charmed life.'

‘Good for him.' The contessa patted the space beside her on the divan, where Eufrosina seated herself. Zouzou awakened, looked up at Eufrosina, and returned to sleep.

The waiter came over. Eufrosina and Urbino ordered sherry and the contessa got a fresh pot of the first flush jasmine tea that Florian's stocked for her.

They spoke about the snow and the recent boat races for the Epiphany, which Eufrosina said she had photographed from San Tomà. She kept darting glances across the square toward Caffè Quadri. The conversation had just turned to the Fortuny exhibition, when Eufrosina exclaimed, ‘Oh, there's Mother and Alessandro.'

She had gone very white.

Her mother Apollonia and brother were walking across the square from the direction of the Campanile. Apollonia ade a striking figure against the snow in her almost six feet of height and her uniform sweep of black clothes. The wind blew her black veil behind her and pelted her with snow, but she strode on with determination. It seemed as if she were guiding her son.

‘Mother shouldn't be out, but today is Father's birthday. She always celebrates it with a Mass, a visit to the cemetery, and a Fernet Branca at Quadri's.'