her bastard brat in your house in Venice, practically cheek by jowl with her humiliated parents. But the worst thing…” Carmela paused her tirade to draw a breath and shove her fan into a pocket. “You’ve become a damned, nosy busybody, Tito Amato.”
I had to smile as Carmela made a regal, angry exit. She was correct on one charge: I was a busybody. Even Liya would’ve agreed with that.
***
Later that evening, as blue-black shadows descended over the fields and woods of the estate, the company and its hosts assembled in the salon. A fire crackled under the marble mantelpiece, providing just enough warmth to counter the slight chill in the air. Lamps and candles splashed the frescoed walls with golden light. It was a lovely, harmonious room, but everyone in it seemed bored, peevish, or somehow out-of-sorts. It was the awkward hour, the limbo of the evening. Rehearsals were over for the day, and supper wouldn’t be served for an hour or more.
At a card table, Romeo and Carmela were playing a desultory game of three-hand Tarocco with Jean-Louis. Bright kings, queens, devils, and monks shuffled through their hands. Grisella— I couldn’t think of her as Gabrielle no matter what Gussie advised—sat reading her book nearby. Octavia’s settee had been moved near the fire, but her needlework lay idle as she and Karl chatted quietly, heads only inches apart. Vincenzo was also reading, alone, in a far corner. One of his treatises on farming, no doubt. Emilio and the Gecco brothers slouched at the loggia doors, arguing about an opera that had lately been performed in Venice.
Gussie caught my eye and raised his voice. “Care to stretch your legs, old fellow?”
I forced a mammoth yawn and replied lazily, “I suppose I could do with a circuit or two around the house.” Actually, I was doubly glad that Gussie had proposed a walk. Understandably curious, he’d been observing Grisella with such intensity that people were bound to notice.
Carmela was the only one to acknowledge our departure. She fluttered her fingers in a wave, and her gray eyes followed us all the way through the foyer to the front door.
“You must stop staring at my sister,” I said as soon as we stepped onto the circular drive. As Ernesto had predicted, the air had turned cooler. An almost full moon shone above, shrouded in mist.
“Just can’t stop myself, Tito. Every time I catch sight of her, I think she looks like a hardened version of Annetta. Only with that brassy hair, of course. Then I start thinking of the life Grisella must have led in Constantinople.” He shook his head. “But you’re right, I must be more careful.”
After a judicious nod, I asked, “Did you find the ice house?” Earlier, Gussie had offered to use his freedom to roam the estate to locate the murdered stranger’s current resting place.
“Yes, it’s not far. We can go through the garden.”
Strolling as if we had no definite destination, mutually aware of the prying eyes that could be watching from the villa’s dark windows, we rounded the house and crossed the back lawn. The garden path stood out as a pale ribbon winding through umber foliage. Tendrils of fog roped our ankles as we trod its graveled surface.
We had just rounded a bend graced by a marble nymph that seemed to hover like a luminous phantom when Gussie paused. “This way,” he whispered, turning onto a side path that was little more than a cleft in the shrubbery. “Mind the stair.”
I followed him onto a sunken path defined by stone retaining walls that came up to our knees. It was darker here, and dominated by the smell of dampness and leaf mold. I slipped once or twice; my slick-soled dress shoes weren’t meant for traipsing this country path. Just as I thought we would have to go back to the villa for a lantern, I spotted a thin wedge of yellow light spilling from a door some distance ahead.
“That’s it,” Gussie said near my ear.
We drew closer, and I saw that the ice house
I had to smile as Carmela made a regal, angry exit. She was correct on one charge: I was a busybody. Even Liya would’ve agreed with that.
***
Later that evening, as blue-black shadows descended over the fields and woods of the estate, the company and its hosts assembled in the salon. A fire crackled under the marble mantelpiece, providing just enough warmth to counter the slight chill in the air. Lamps and candles splashed the frescoed walls with golden light. It was a lovely, harmonious room, but everyone in it seemed bored, peevish, or somehow out-of-sorts. It was the awkward hour, the limbo of the evening. Rehearsals were over for the day, and supper wouldn’t be served for an hour or more.
At a card table, Romeo and Carmela were playing a desultory game of three-hand Tarocco with Jean-Louis. Bright kings, queens, devils, and monks shuffled through their hands. Grisella— I couldn’t think of her as Gabrielle no matter what Gussie advised—sat reading her book nearby. Octavia’s settee had been moved near the fire, but her needlework lay idle as she and Karl chatted quietly, heads only inches apart. Vincenzo was also reading, alone, in a far corner. One of his treatises on farming, no doubt. Emilio and the Gecco brothers slouched at the loggia doors, arguing about an opera that had lately been performed in Venice.
Gussie caught my eye and raised his voice. “Care to stretch your legs, old fellow?”
I forced a mammoth yawn and replied lazily, “I suppose I could do with a circuit or two around the house.” Actually, I was doubly glad that Gussie had proposed a walk. Understandably curious, he’d been observing Grisella with such intensity that people were bound to notice.
Carmela was the only one to acknowledge our departure. She fluttered her fingers in a wave, and her gray eyes followed us all the way through the foyer to the front door.
“You must stop staring at my sister,” I said as soon as we stepped onto the circular drive. As Ernesto had predicted, the air had turned cooler. An almost full moon shone above, shrouded in mist.
“Just can’t stop myself, Tito. Every time I catch sight of her, I think she looks like a hardened version of Annetta. Only with that brassy hair, of course. Then I start thinking of the life Grisella must have led in Constantinople.” He shook his head. “But you’re right, I must be more careful.”
After a judicious nod, I asked, “Did you find the ice house?” Earlier, Gussie had offered to use his freedom to roam the estate to locate the murdered stranger’s current resting place.
“Yes, it’s not far. We can go through the garden.”
Strolling as if we had no definite destination, mutually aware of the prying eyes that could be watching from the villa’s dark windows, we rounded the house and crossed the back lawn. The garden path stood out as a pale ribbon winding through umber foliage. Tendrils of fog roped our ankles as we trod its graveled surface.
We had just rounded a bend graced by a marble nymph that seemed to hover like a luminous phantom when Gussie paused. “This way,” he whispered, turning onto a side path that was little more than a cleft in the shrubbery. “Mind the stair.”
I followed him onto a sunken path defined by stone retaining walls that came up to our knees. It was darker here, and dominated by the smell of dampness and leaf mold. I slipped once or twice; my slick-soled dress shoes weren’t meant for traipsing this country path. Just as I thought we would have to go back to the villa for a lantern, I spotted a thin wedge of yellow light spilling from a door some distance ahead.
“That’s it,” Gussie said near my ear.
We drew closer, and I saw that the ice house
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