Meet Me in Venice (23 page)

Turning the corner she found herself in front of the Palazzo Rendino. Her feet had simply taken her there without her even thinking. It wasn’t lit up, though, the way it had been for her wedding festivities, and the little square was in darkness. She closed her eyes, feeling the stab of pain in the place where her heart used to be before it was broken. Then, as she opened her eyes, she caught a glimpse of a tall dark-haired man in a long black coat, disappearing around the corner.
“Bennett!”
she cried.
Oh my God
. . .
could it really be him?
She ran to the corner but there was only an old woman walking her dog. She must have been hallucinating. It was being back at the Palazzo that had triggered her imagination, that was all.

She walked slowly back to the spot by the Palazzo’s entry where she and Bennett had stood with their arms wrapped around each other the night before the wedding. She remembered saying, “Tomorrow, my love,” and she had kissed him. “Tomorrow,” he’d replied. And then he had walked out of her life.

Even so, she still secretly wished it was Bennett she had seen now. She wanted to believe there was still, somewhere, a flicker of hope, that there was a logical explanation and that everything would be all right. She wanted so badly for Bennett to apologize to her, to tell her again that he loved her, and that everything would be the way it was before. But of course, that could never be.

L
ONELY
, she wandered on, emerging from the narrow shad owy street into the glorious open vista of St. Mark’s Square. It was filled with light and the flutter of pigeons, and busy people. Music wafted from the rival
caffès,
Quadri and Florian. The grandiose illuminated Basilica dominated to her left, and on her right, the ancient stone arcades gleamed in the lamplight, the color of molten honey. And in front was the most magnificent view in all of Venice: the Grand Canal, with, beyond, in the mist, the islands and the lagoon.

In summer the
caffè
chairs and tables spilled across the square, but the cold January weather had forced everyone indoors. Except, that is, for the aggressive tribes of pigeons. “Rats with wings,” Aunt G called them.

Deciding that the Venetian specialty, a double espresso fortified with grappa, was exactly what she needed on this cold night, Preshy pushed through the etched glass doors into Quadri’s gilt and rosy velvet rooms. And into a fog of cigarette smoke, of conversation and laughter and music from the string quartet playing Cole Porter, another sometime Venice inhabitant, though “Night and Day” sounded squeakily different on a violin.

Hearing her name called, she looked up and saw Sam at a table by the steamed-up window, with what looked like a double vodka on the rocks in front of him.

“Hi.” She beamed, hurrying over and taking a seat next to him.

“It seemed to me it was about time for a drink,” he said. “What d’you say?”

“Espresso with grappa. When in Italy . . .”

He called over the busy waiter, and watched amused as she unraveled the long muffler. He remarked admiringly on the white coat. “You look very Italian.”

“I should, it’s Valentino. Aunt G’s,” she added. “She couldn’t stand the sheepskin.”

“Oh I don’t know, it kind of grows on you. Like moss.”

To her surprise they were laughing together, like two people on holiday without a care in the world, instead of a pair of wannabe detectives out to solve a mystery.

“Still no Lily,” she said. “She really is the most mysterious woman.”

“A combination of Greta Garbo and Mata Hari,” he agreed. The waiter produced her grappa-ladden coffee and they clinked glasses
and said
“tin tin,”
Italian style, then she asked what he thought of Venice.

“Are there words to describe it?” he asked. “You can never understand that such a wonder of the world truly exists until you see it for yourself. Even Canaletto could only show us a glimpse. Beautiful buildings floating on silver water, a low sky that seems to hover over the city, as though a ladder to heaven awaits ‘all who enter here.

She stared admiringly at him. “You put into words things I can only think.”

“Words are a writer’s job.”

He sipped his vodka, something she noticed he drank quite a lot of, while she called the hotel and asked if there was a message. There wasn’t, so they lingered, exchanging impressions of Venice, before venturing out again, into the cold.

The fog was rolling in over the lagoon, great soft woolly waves that left droplets sparkling in their hair. Sam put his arm around her and they huddled together, chilly intimate strangers. To her surprise, she found she liked the way it felt. “I’m hungry,” he said. “And since Lily’s still not around, let’s have dinner.”

So they caught the
vaporetto
to the Rialto and she took him to a small place she knew, an old monastery where, under an arched stone ceiling lit by sconces, they dined on tiny spider crabs and the Venetian classic, calves’ liver with onions. Sam said Preshy should choose the wine and she picked a simple Pinot Grigio from the hills of the Veneto that, he admitted, went perfectly with everything. And she was so busy talking about Venice that she forgot all about Lily.

M
ARY-LOU
was on her third espresso, sitting opposite Bennett in the hotel bar.

Signaling the waiter, Bennett ordered a second grappa. He ordered one for her too. “You look as though you need it,” he said with a contemptuous lift of his lips that, she assumed, was his real smile, and was quite different from the practiced sensual charm of the one he had always used on her before.

Nevertheless, she downed the liquor, shuddering as it hit her stomach. Her black suede purse was on the table in front of her, with the Beretta nestled in its shocking pink satin lining. She picked the purse up and placed it on her lap. It gave her a feeling of security.

Bennett said, “Our only hope is that Lily’s hidden the necklace
in her suitcase, or in the room safe.” He fixed her with that hard implacable gaze. “We have her room key. We will go upstairs together, go through her things. If the maid sees you, she’ll assume you are Lily.”

Mary-Lou knew he wasn’t about to allow her to go alone. He’d made it obvious he was not going to let her out of his sight. Shivering, she ran the tips of her fingers over the bump that was the Beretta. She hated Bennett. She would shoot him rather than hand over the necklace.

They walked together to the elevator, then down the corridor to Lily’s room. The maid on duty gave them a passing glance and a
buona sera.
A lamp was lit and the bed had been turned down. Everything was in order. Lily’s suitcase was on the luggage stand. She had obviously not bothered to unpack and Mary-Lou went quickly through its contents.

She glanced up at Bennett, standing, arms folded, watching her. “Not here,” she said.

“Try the safe.”

She did. It was empty.

Lily had fooled them.

Mary-Lou sat on the bed and suddenly she began to cry. She had gone to the limit—and for nothing.

Despising her, without a further word, Bennett walked out of the room, and out of the hotel. Mary-Lou was of no more use to him. She wasn’t even worth the risk of killing. She was too involved now to go to the police. She would say nothing. She had served her purpose and would go home like a good girl, and he would never hear from her again.

He walked the darkened back streets of Venice for hours that night, trying to figure out what Lily might have done with the necklace. Suddenly the answer came to him. Of course, she had been on her way to Paris. She would have sent it to her cousin. Preshy Rafferty must have it.

B
ACK
at the hotel, Sam and Preshy went up to her room to check the phone for messages. The red light was not blinking. Preshy called Lily’s room. No answer.

She sat on the edge of the bed, looking at Sam. “What shall we do now?” she asked, worried.

He threw up his hands wearily. “I suggest we get some sleep and check again in the morning.”

They said good night, but still worried and unable to sleep, Preshy called Daria in Boston and filled her in on what was going on. Of course Daria was as alarmed as Sylvie had been, especially when she told her about Bennett.

“Presh, why did you go to Venice?” she said. “This is Lily Song’s
problem, not yours. It sounds dangerous to me. Especially the Bennett part. That’s all over for you.”

“But I’m the only one who can help her. She truly has no one else,” Preshy said. “Anyway, I need to know what she has to say about Bennett. And besides, I’m not alone. I have a new friend with me. His name is Sam Knight. You might have heard of him,” she added with a little smile in her voice.

“What?
You’re with
Sam Knight?
Jesus, Presh, how’d you meet Aim?”

“You’re not going to believe this. In kind of a repeat performance, I picked him up in La Coupole Saturday night, in a snowstorm.”

“You picked up
Sam Knight?”

“Sure. Why not? He was stranded in Paris—no flights, airport closed . . . . Why? What’s wrong with that?”

Daria’s sigh gusted ominously down the line into Preshy’s ear. “I have to give you credit,” she said. “You surely know how to pick em.

“For God’s sake, what is it?”

“You mean you don’t know the story?”

“What story,
dammit.”

“I don’t think you’re going to like this,” Daria said, “but I think you should know. About three years ago Sam Knight’s wife disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”
Preshy’s heart did a little jump. “What do you mean
disappeared?”

“Here’s the story. Sam told the police the last time he saw his wife was at their beach house. He’d gone out fishing. He had a
small boat and he said he often fished at night. She didn’t like the sea and never went with him. He told the police he’d left her alone in the house, with just their dog, a German shepherd called Cent for company. See, I even remember the dog’s name; the story dominated the media for weeks . . . .”

Preshy gripped the phone tighter. “What happened to her?”

“There was no sign of violence, nothing was disturbed, no robbery. The dog, who Sam said was devoted to her, was still there. The bed was unslept in, the TV still on. She had simply disappeared. It was exactly like one of his mystery novels.

“Forensics took that Outer Banks house apart and came up with nothing. And to this day, Leilani Knight has not been found. I believe Sam is still ‘a person of interest’ to the police—which is what he was always referred to as, never as an actual
suspect.
But they suspected he’d killed her all right. Everyone did. And Leilani Knight has never been found.”

“I don’t believe it,” Preshy said, shakily. “Of course he didn’t kill her.” Yet, when she thought about it, why else was Sam so mysterious about his past? “Perhaps she ran off with another man.” She was grasping at straws, still unwilling to believe that Sam had anything to do with his wife’s disappearance.

“Do you seriously think she wouldn’t have been found by now if she’d run off with somebody? It’s been
three years,
Presh. And I’ll tell you something else, Sam Knight hasn’t written a word since then.”

Preshy had the phone in a death grip now. She knew the story was true. That was why Sam was reluctant to talk about Leilani . . . because maybe he had killed her. Tears strangled her words as she
said in a small tired voice, “Life used to be so uncomplicated, Daria. I’m here with Sam, looking for Lily—and now I’m wondering exactly
why
he came with me. Do you think he can know something about her? About
Bennett?
I don’t know what to do.”

“Be careful,” Daria warned. “And get the next flight home.
Alone.
I’m begging you, Preshy, get out of there, and without Sam Knight.”

Promising she would, Preshy said goodbye. She turned out the lamp and lay, rigid with shock, staring into the darkness.

Sam’s lean face came into her mind; the brown eyes behind the glasses, his stern aloof profile as he drove down the autoroute that long dark night. She thought about the coincidence that he had come to sit next to her in La Coupole, even though the place had been half-empty.
Exactly the way Bennett had.
And how he had said, so quickly, that he was coming with her to Venice. Now she asked herself why. Was there something Sam knew that she didn’t? Could he possibly be involved in this Lily saga too? As well as in his wife’s disappearance?

Oh my God.
She was in Venice with a man suspected of murder, searching for another man who might also be involved in murder.
What had she done?

F
OR
Sam, sleep was a lost art. He had been drinking all night and it was still dark when, a little after six a.m., he left the hotel and retraced his steps along the
fondamenta,
the canal-side walkway. There was no one around and the water seemed to lap in sync with his lonely footsteps.

After a while it began to rain, icy needle-sharp slivers that chilled him to the bone. He turned up his collar, zipped the jacket and walked on, uncaring. It was only him and the feral cats, thin shadows huddled near the fountains and on the church steps, waiting for the dawn and for life to begin again.

There was some activity on the canal though, the fruit and vegetable delivery boats heading for the Rialto market; a garbage
boat; the mostly empty
vaporetti.
And a police boat, blue lights flashing, just ahead of him.

A small crowd had gathered and he watched as the police recovery team grappled with something in the water, then hauled it in.

“Probably some tourist,” he heard an Englishman in the crowd say. “The guy on the fish delivery boat spotted her. An Asian woman. She must have been in the water for some time by the look of her. Probably got drunk, fell in. It happens,” he said. “Or else her boyfriend pushed her,” he added with a laugh that rang hollowly from the silent buildings.