2 - Painted Veil (10 page)

Torani swirled the wine in his glass. Was he mulling over past triumphs or an uncertain future?

“Something occurs to me, Tito,” he said eventually.

“What is it, Maestro?”

The director glanced around the dimly lit tavern, then scratched the scalp under his wig, leaving it distinctly askew. He leaned forward and whispered, “What if we beat the Savio to the punch?”

I eyed him quizzically.

Torani put his glass down. His hands sketched a scene in the air as they did when he was blocking the singers’ movements on the stage. “What if we were able to find Luca’s murderer before Messer Grande? We could approach the Tribunal ourselves. Such a coup would override any of the Savio’s complaints about mismanagement.”

“I don’t know. The Savio is a powerful man… well respected, with many influential connections. He is accustomed to getting what he wants.”

“Even so, it would certainly buy us some time. It would reflect badly on the Tribunal and the Senate if they were to shut us down after we uncovered a murderer in our midst and publicly delivered him up to justice.”

“You are getting ahead of yourself, Maestro. These are unwarranted assumptions. We don’t know that Luca’s killer was a theater person or even if the deed was committed by a man.”

“What? Oh yes, of course you’re right.”

The director leaned toward me and clamped a hand on my shoulder. He smiled for the first time since Luca’s body had been dragged onto the Molo steps. “You see, Tito, you are the only one with a brain for such matters. You ferret out truth almost as well as you sing. I am hereby placing you in charge of the theater’s umm… unofficial investigation.”

He saw the look on my face and forestalled my objections with a squeeze of his hand. “This may be the only chance for the theater’s continued existence. I know you wouldn’t lack for work, but what about the rest of us? I’m ashamed to say that I haven’t set much aside for my old age. I suppose I thought time would never catch up with me. I need my position at the San Marco. So does Emma, and many others.”

I remained silent. Torani’s crooked wig gave him the look of a tipsy buffoon, but I knew he was in deadly earnest.

He continued heatedly, “I give you leave to do whatever you must. Question any employee, search the theater high and low. If anyone objects, you may invoke my authority.”

“What about Messer Grande? He may not appreciate my treading on his toes.”

“No matter how highly the Savio regards him, the young Messer Grande is unseasoned. The numerous public celebrations planned for the upcoming week would overwhelm a man of much greater experience. The city is full of foreigners eager to amuse themselves in any and all ways. Can you imagine the number of pickpockets, imposters, and card cheats that will be operating?

“No,” he continued. “Messer Grande will find time to come to the theater to make his inquiries, but his other duties will distract him. Meanwhile, you will be at the theater every day and already know Luca’s habits."

“Hardly, Maestro. If I have discovered anything about our unfortunate friend, it is that Luca was much more than he seemed to be.”

“Then you will uncover his secrets. I know you can do this for us, Tito. I have faith in you. Say you will find Luca’s killer.”

Torani’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, but the lines around his mouth deepened and his lips stretched into a taut, bloodless smile. I considered refusing his request but found the recent memory of the crowd booing me and shouting for Florio as compelling as any of the director’s arguments. I was no longer the most popular singer in Venice, but I could still prove my worth by saving the theater from the Savio’s misguided inclinations. I swallowed a gulp of sour wine, then slowly nodded my head.

Chapter 10

Our stage manager was a busy man. If Aldo didn’t have a task to occupy his time and energy, he quickly created one, gathering up any stagehands who looked like they might have a free moment on their hands. The distinctive clop of his heavy-soled work boots coming down the corridor was a signal for all the men to either make themselves scarce or jump to their work with renewed vigor.

On the morning after the ill-fated welcoming ceremony, I located Aldo the moment I reached the theater. He was in the corridor outside Luca’s studio. I hailed him, but he blew past me like a gust of alpine wind, muttering, “Later, Amato.” That afternoon, after our first rehearsal with full orchestra, I thought I had Aldo cornered, but one of the machinist’s winches froze and the stage manager rushed to help. I followed him into the wings. He pushed up his sleeves and added his strength to that of the other stagehands. Straining at the handle, his thick neck and muscular arms were soon covered with a sheen of perspiration. When a rope snapped and gears went flying, I knew our conversation would have to wait.

I had better luck in the scene painter’s studio that afternoon. The high windows filled the workroom with golden light, illuminating the backdrop covering one long wall. Six days earlier, I had admired a half-finished depiction of the banks of the Nile. That canvas now hung in the flies above the stage, and an interior of Ptolemy’s palace had taken its place. No one was about, so I strolled over to the slant board that held the designer’s original sketch. The pen and ink drawing pinned to the board had been divided by a checkerboard grid. A similar grid had been ruled onto the canvas backdrop. By enlarging each square, the scene painter produced an enormous copy faithful to the designer’s small rendering. The new artist tempted away from one of our rival theaters had painted the Egyptian columns and monumental stairs in realistic detail right down to the weathering of the stone, but his work did not have the same elegance that had characterized Luca’s.

“Good morning, Signor Amato.” It was one of Luca’s assistants, the tall one. He was carrying a bucket of varnish along with an unwieldy armload of long-handled brushes. Racking my brain for the man’s name, I hastened to take the bucket from him.

“
Grazie
, Signore. Just sit it over there.”

“We had a terrible shock yesterday… Matteo.” The name popped into my head at the last moment.

“
Si
, poor Master Luca. Who would have thought he would end his days beaten, robbed, and tossed into the lagoon?”

“Is that the story that is going around?”

The man looked startled. “Is it not true?”

“Luca was not robbed. His purse and his valuables were still on him when the body was examined.”

Matteo gave a low whistle. “That’s a very different kettle of fish then.”

“Most certainly. Tell me, Matteo, during that last evening, did your master speak of a later engagement?”

“No, Signore. If he had, we would have informed Maestro Torani when he asked about our master’s disappearance. Tonio and I worked late that night, until the light failed and beyond. Master Luca wanted us to finish the grids on some flats. When he sent us home, he said he was going to stay and study the sketches for the next day.”

“Did he seem worried or vexed about anything?”

“No, not at all. He was just… Master Luca. Laughing, joking, not a care in his head.”

“What time did you and Tonio leave?”

“A quarter past nine, give or take a few minutes,” Matteo answered cautiously. He gave me a suspicious look. “I should go, Signor Amato. This is our dinner break. Tonio will be wondering where I am.”

He began to back out of the studio, but I stopped him with a hand on his arm and what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “Just one more question. It may prove important. Can you picture the studio the first morning Luca failed to show up for work?"

“I suppose so.” His words came slowly.

“Was anything out of place? Anything broken or pushed over?”

“You think Master Luca was killed here?” Matteo’s eyes widened and he pulled his arm from my grasp. He was ready to bolt.

It was time to invoke the director’s authority. “Maestro Torani has asked me to look into the possibility. If violence occurred in the theater he wants to know what happened.”

Matteo ran his hand over his mouth and chin, took a few steps forward, and turned slowly in a full circle. His eyes darted from pots of pigment to rungs of scaffolding. “No, everything was in order. At least it seemed so. We weren’t looking for anything in particular.” The painter spread his hands helplessly.

“Was anything missing?”

He made another tour of the studio with his eyes and shook his head.

I sighed. After all, it had been almost a week. What could I expect the man to remember about a day that had started like any other?

“Wait,” he said, one finger in the air. “There is something. Master Luca’s Venus.”

“Venus? The goddess of love?”

“Yes, Master Luca kept a bronze statue of Venus right here.” Matteo smacked his hand on a crowded shelf near the door. “She was a beauty, about so high.” The painter put his hands together and raised one about a foot and a half above the other. “He brought her in a few months ago and took to calling her his guardian angel. We kept telling him she was a heathen goddess, not an angel. But he would just laugh and say, ‘When Venus is here, my angel is with me.’”

“How long has she been missing?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “The shelves in here are so full, I probably wouldn’t have noticed she was gone now if you hadn’t made me look around.”

Matteo was glad to scurry away to his dinner. I knew it would be only minutes before he told Tonio about my visit to the studio. Soon the entire company would know I was asking questions about Luca’s murder. I would have to be quick if I wanted to search the studio without curious faces appearing at the door.

The doctor said that a head wound bleeds profusely. If Luca had been attacked in the studio, with the missing statue or some other bludgeon, there might be some traces remaining. I reached toward the shelf Matteo had indicated and picked up an imaginary statue. Arm above my head, I whirled and tried to picture the scene. Luca had been struck from the front, so the blow had not been a sneak attack. Had he been arguing with someone? I brought my arm down as hard as I could. In my mind’s eye, Luca staggered and fell to his knees. I did the same.

The floor was fashioned of tiles, large hexagons smoothly abutted, their grimy surface pitted and cracked by years of use. Dots and smudges of every imaginable hue filled the imperfections. Had that smear of rusty red once coursed through Luca’s veins, or had it splashed out of a paint pot on its way to becoming a fiery sunset on a backdrop? I would never be able to tell. I sat back on my heels and looked around. There was not a surface in the studio that did not carry the colorful remnants of the scene painters’ activities.

I explored further, but the rest of the studio offered nothing else of interest. The shelves held no tomes of magical lore or jars of exotic powders. Luca had wisely confined the evidence of his interest in the occult sciences to his lodging. I also failed to find any small paintings or decorated cloths in any way similar to the ones Gussie and I had found tucked in Luca’s drawers at home.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor and I stepped quickly to the door. A leg in a black stocking and the tail of a faded black coat were disappearing around the corner that led to the dressing rooms. Carpani, I presumed. Would my inspection of Luca’s studio soon become an entry in his black notebook? From the other direction, a pair of seamstresses with their heads bent together giggling over some shared secret approached the door opposite Luca’s studio. Madame Dumas, the company’s costumer, followed a few paces behind. She took a small key from her waistband, unlocked the door, and let the women into the costumer’s workroom.

“Madame, you are just the person I wanted to see. Can you spare me a moment?”

The Frenchwoman crossed her spare arms and raised her eyebrows. “You have questions about Monsieur Cavalieri?”

“News travels on swift wings.”

“You may be sure of that. Everyone is asking why Maestro has you poking your nose into Luca’s death. Are we not to have an official visit?”

“I’m sure Messer Grande will be conducting an investigation, but…” I hesitated.

“You don’t have to explain it to me.” The costumer’s wrinkled face broke into a brief, slanted grin. “ I’ve known Rinaldo Torani lo these many years. He cannot abide being left in ignorance.
Zut!
I’ve not forgotten that you found La Belluna’s murderer and neither has he.” Her expression settled into its usual sober state. “I will help you if I can, but I was as surprised as anyone that someone hated the painter enough to kill him.”

Madame Dumas’ unbending manner along with her tight coil of graying hair and icy blue eyes intimidated many in the company, but I knew her for an honest, well-meaning woman. If she offered her help, I knew I could depend on it. I asked, “How late did you work on the last night Luca was here at the theater?”

“I dismissed my girls and closed the workroom at seven o’clock. If you come in on time and keep your mind on your work, there is no need to keep the late hours that some do.” The delicate sniff and roll of her eyes clearly expressed her opinion of Luca’s work habits.

“Had you noticed any arguments in his studio?”

“With Matteo and Tonio?”

“Well, yes. We can start with them. Any raised voices or signs of upset?”

“Luca Cavalieri struck me as a man very slow to anger. If you ask me, he was too soft on those two assistants of his. He left them on their own a good deal—of course, they took full advantage—but Luca never complained if they wasted time or got something wrong. They would have been foolish to quarrel with such a lenient master.”

“What about anyone else from the theater, or even a stranger?”

Before she could answer, a group of dancers rounded the corner from the dressing rooms and headed to the stage. The girls were full of childlike vivacity and gamboled down the corridor like a herd of young ponies, but their breasts bulged enticingly above their laced bodices and their cheeks were rouged and patched like seasoned courtesans. If Morelli got a good look at their gauzy skirts, Signor Carpani would have to find funds to purchase sturdier coverings for their shapely legs. The costumer shook her head as the heels of their delicate slippers clattered past. “They seem to get younger every year,” she whispered.

Madame stared at the backs of the retreating dancers so long that I almost concluded she’d forgotten my question. Then she spoke in a low voice. “There was one who wasn’t so happy with Luca.”

“Yes?”

She hesitated, fingering the scissors that always dangled from her belt. “It probably means nothing.”

“Madame, I pledge to use discretion in this matter. If your information has no bearing on Luca’s death, it will go no further.”

“Rosa,” she said shortly, “our calculating little contralto. She usually picks her suitors from the third tier boxes, but a while back she developed an appetite for Luca’s good looks.”

I thought of all the wealthy fops who continually besieged Rosa’s dressing room with flowers and gifts. I would expect a scene painter with a modest income to hold little attraction for her, but I had to admit Luca had a way about him that appealed to both women and men. “Did Luca return Rosa’s interest?”

“Not that I could see. It was all sighs and tender glances on her side, but nothing from his. Luca had no feeling for her, and Rosa couldn’t quite get over it. The shameless coquette kept finding excuses to visit the studio and throw herself at him. Luca asked her to leave him in peace more than once.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Several months ago. It didn’t take the girl long to come to her senses.” She cocked an eyebrow and gave me a cool look. “I believe a young son of the Gritti family is currently keeping Rosa supplied with gowns and trinkets."

I nodded, then posed my most important question: “Did Signor Carpani ever find that lost bolt of cloth?”

Flames flared behind the seamstress’ icy gaze and I was treated to a tirade of her native language. Eventually she slowed to the point that I could understand her. “
Ce cochon!
He is almost beyond bearing, this little man with the notebook. I am not careless and I am most certainly not a thief. He had no right to accuse me.”

“So the bolt is still missing?”

“It is gone, yes. It simply vanished. One evening it was leaning here against the wall, right inside the workroom door. The next morning… gone!”

“Was that after Luca’s last evening here?”

She thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, it was. I am sure of it.”

“Was the door locked?”

“I always lock up at night, Monsieur,” she answered starchly. “When I unlocked the door the next morning, the fabric was gone.”

“What sort of fabric was on the bolt?”

“Why, it was a figured velvet.
Tres cher
. It was meant for Monsieur Florio. I believe you are aware of his exacting standards.”

Agreeable as it would have been to find fault with my rival’s extravagant demands, I pressed on. “What color was your missing cloth?”

“Purple.” The costumer eyed me questioningly. “Have you found it?”

I took her gnarled hands in mine. “Madame, you will never retrieve this fabric, but it may prove more valuable in its absence than on Signor Florio’s back. I must ask that you not speak of the velvet again until I am able to tell you more about its fate.”

The Frenchwoman compressed her lips, eyes frosted sapphires once more. When she spoke, it was with vehemence. “I will do as you ask, Monsieur Amato, but for God’s sake, keep that
cochon
of a Carpani away from my workroom.”