A Very Venetian Murder Read online

  Reuben found table nine easily. As he approached, he saw Tabita, the model, switching a place card. He pretended not to notice and introduced himself. She offered no explanation or apology for what she had just done.

  The Frosts, the Caroldos and Tabita—Tabita? Ms. Tabita? Frost decided on just plain Tabita, if you could call “Tabita” plain—were soon joined by a well-dressed but rather ordinary-looking woman roughly the same age as the model. She turned out to be Priscilla Gordon, a freelance reporter doing a piece for Vanity Fair. She had an American escort, judging by his accent. More Americans, this time a couple from Dallas, arrived, guided by Tony Garrison. They were the Radleys, Mildred and George.

  Table nine was in a corner, under a fresco showing wine casks and revelers. Next to it was a door that opened to the anteroom that had been pressed into service to accommodate more guests. Reuben watched with amusement as the less fortunate scanned the ballroom for their table numbers before realizing that they had been banished. They walked through to the smaller room as if crossing the Bridge of Sighs from the Doges’ Palace to the neighboring prison cells.

  One determined matron, having confirmed the worst, returned to the ballroom, eyes ablaze, a trembling hand clutching the card with her table number on it. She looked around, presumably for someone to berate, but then shrugged her shoulders and resignedly returned to exile, her anger unassuaged.

  Before sitting down, Reuben noted that Gregg Baxter was two tables away, flanked by la marchesa Scamozzi and Deidre Newville, the movie actress and probably the best-known celebrity present. Baxter was seated beneath Cleopatra, in the panel called Cleopatra’s Feast, in which she is depicted imperially tossing a pearl into a glass as a puzzled Anthony and a cluster of admirers, including an attentive black servant, look on. By accident or design, the juxtaposition seemed fitting to Reuben; he wondered what Tony Garrison’s opinion of the fresco might be.

  Reuben had not seen Baxter earlier. There had been no receiving line downstairs and if he had been circulating in the crowd, Frost had certainly not noticed him. Now the designer did not look especially jubilant as he talked to la marchesa and Ms. Newville. The conversation must have been serious; smiles and laughter seemed absent.

  Reuben thought wistfully of Deidre Newville as he realized that Mrs. Radley was to be his dinner partner. She was not unattractive, and was wearing a most becoming Baxter gown, but she did not have the allure of the Hollywood actress. Oh well, Reuben consoled himself, he would at least be looking across the table at Tabita, and Erica Sherrill, on his other side, was always good company. Now that everyone was seated, he figured out that Tabita had switched her placecard with Ms. Gordon’s, separating the reporter from her escort and putting herself next to Tony Garrison.

  The first course was delicious granzeola, the local spider crab, the succulent meat cooked and returned to the shell. While the guests were eating, a small phalanx of photographers circulated about, snapping pictures. They disappeared as the waiters cleared the plates and prepared for the next course.

  Observing the noisy retreat, Dr. Sherrill remarked to Reuben that it was “like the St. Stephen’s Day banquets.”

  “I don’t follow you,” Reuben said.

  “No reason why you should. During the heyday of the Republic, the Doge had an elaborate banquet on the feast of San Stefano, the day after Christmas. The custom was to admit the citizens to the Doges’ Palace to observe the guests eating the first course, after which they were required to leave. Just like the photographers here.”

  “Why didn’t the masses riot?” Reuben asked.

  “It was thought to be a warm and considerate gesture by the Doge.”

  “Hmn. Why don’t we try that in New York sometime, Erica?”

  “Old Beistegui also did something like that,” she went on. “When he had his famous masked ball—right here in this room, for heaven’s sake—he had another orchestra outside in the campo so the people could celebrate, too.”

  While they were talking, the entree, veal with white truffles, was brought in.

  “The first truffles of the season,” Dr. Sherrill said.

  “You like them?”

  “My dear Reuben, truffles are the reason I don’t teach the first semester in New York. That and not wanting to be away too long from Emilio, of course. I simply must be here in the fall for the truffles and the funghi, the mushrooms that are in season as well.”

  “Tartufi and funghi do help to make living worthwhile, don’t they? And this wine is good robust stuff,” Reuben said, referring to the red Campo Fiorin ’79 being served. Its dry and fresh taste blended nicely with the veal, which was succulent and moist even though it had been prepared for three hundred and fifty.

  Reuben’s happy concentration on the meal was interrupted by Mildred Radley, on his right. “Which one is your wife?” she asked bluntly. “My husband’s over there,” she added, pointing him out next to Dr. Sherrill.

  Startled, Reuben nodded across toward Cynthia.

  “Nice-looking lady,” Mrs. Radley observed. “She’s wearing a Baxter. Is she a good customer?”

  “A modest one I would say, Mrs. Radley. How about you? Have you helped to make Gregg Baxter rich?”

  “We’re not here because of our wit and charm, Mr. Frost. Gregg does all my clothes. I love them.”

  “You’re a lucky woman,” Frost said. He had already concluded that she must be an important Baxter client, seated as she was next to a very attentive Tony Garrison.

  “There are some advantages to being well fixed,” came the pithy reply. Then, to Reuben’s dismay, he got a severe dose of right-wing politics, centering on the sins of Big Government in discriminating against—and oppressively taxing—the rich. It was not what Reuben had bargained for, sitting amid the splendors of the Tiepolos; he was tempted to point out to her that the income tax had been invented in Venice, but restrained himself. Even more appalling, Mrs. Radley launched into a spirited defense of Jesse Helms and his crusade against “government-sponsored smut.” He was glad that Cynthia, now the chairman of arts grants for the Brigham Foundation in New York, could not hear. She had been active in the bitter fight with Helms over the funding of the National Endowment for the Arts, and would not have appreciated Mrs. Radley’s harangue one bit.

  “America can be thankful for Jesse Helms. And for George Bush, who supported him. You’ve got to hand it to my fellow Texan, Bush. He knows who to support and who to oppose. Like that Arab psycho, Saddam Hussein.”

  Reuben listened without comment. Then when Mrs. Radley asked, “What do you think of him?” Reuben could stand it no longer. Aggravated by both the intolerable physical heat in the room and the ideological fire emanating from his neighbor, he opened up.

  “I think he should have been stopped the first time he opened his mouth. He’s a bully, but he would have understood strength.”

  “I’m glad we agree. Bush should have started bombing Baghdad the day Saddam invaded Kuwait.”

  “Who are we talking about?” said Reuben, in confusion. “I was referring to Jesse Helms.”

  “Oh. I thought you meant Saddam Hussein,” Mrs. Radley replied, in a suddenly chilly voice. When the dessert—complicated balls of chocolate surrounded by frozen vanilla sorbetto—was served, she wasted no time in resuming an earlier conversation with Tony Garrison.

  Frost had observed Baxter’s young assistant during Mrs. Radley’s lecture. The light-skinned young man was exceptionally handsome, with warm, friendly eyes, now unobscured by his PADRES cap. To Frost’s surprise, he had been speaking to Dott. Caroldo in Italian. He dismissed the twinge of conscience that struck him—that it was racist to wonder at his command of Italian—but nonetheless concluded that it was at least mildly intriguing that a young American dress designer from New York should be fluent in Italian, whatever his color. His ruminations were interrupted by Erica Sherrill’s laughter beside him.

  “St. Lucy’s eyes,” she said, looking at the two iced globes that were her dessert.<
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  “What?”

  “Santa Lucia’s eyes! Her symbol is a pair of eyes on a plate. So, eccoli, there they are, right in front of you, even though they’re about to melt. I’m sure nobody in this room is aware of it, but poor Santa Lucia’s bones are right next door, in San Geremia.”

  “Ah, yes. That’s what that big sign is all about, on the side of the church facing the Grand Canal,” Reuben said. “A Renaissance billboard, in Latin, that tells you her relics are in there. It never occurred to me, but that’s what it is. A billboard!”

  While they were talking, Priscilla Gordon, the reporter, quickly ate her dessert and then excused herself, saying that she had “work to do.” She pulled a small notebook and a pen from her purse and left the table, presumably in quest of printable comments on the evening’s dinner (or perhaps unprintable ones on the temperature). Mrs. Radley took advantage of the opening to move across and sit next to her husband, undoubtedly to give a whispered report on Reuben’s remarks about Senator Helms. Tony Garrison also got up and began greeting people at other tables.

  All the movement gave Reuben an opportunity to move next to the gorgeous Tabita, an opening he did not let slip by.

  “That’s a handsome dress you’re wearing. I’ve been admiring it all evening,” Frost told her. He was not exaggerating and had, indeed, regarded the woman’s gown with the greatest pleasure. It was a rich, deep purple in color, with an intricate gold pattern superimposed upon it.

  “Thank you. It’s an experiment,” she said, pleased at the compliment.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Tony, Tony Garrison? Who was sitting here? He designed it for me.”

  “It’s a very unusual fabric.”

  “It’s one of Ceil Scamozzi’s. It’s based on an old Venetian design. Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “Yes, it certainly is.”

  “You know that Gregg’s spring line is going to be heavy on Ceil’s—the marchesa’s—fabrics.”

  “That’s one reason for this party, isn’t it?”

  “Correct. I shouldn’t say this, but you’re not a reporter, right? And not in the business, right?”

  “I’m just an innocent bystander,” Reuben said.

  “Well, it was really Tony who had the inspiration to use Ceil’s fabrics. The dress I’m wearing is the one he created to convince Gregg.”

  “I can see why it worked.”

  “Gregg didn’t like it much that I wanted to wear it tonight. He was afraid it would give too much away about next spring’s clothes.”

  “I think Mr. Garrison is to be commended. I was surprised, incidentally, to hear him speaking Italian before.”

  Tabita smiled slyly. “Othello spoke Italian, Mr. Frost.”

  “I didn’t mean …”

  “I’m sure you didn’t. And I agree with you that hearing a black man speak Italian doesn’t happen every day. But you should know that Tony is Italian. Half, anyway. His father was an American G.I. stationed in Livorno, where his mother lived. Tony was born there and only came to New York when his father was discharged.”

  “I see,” Reuben said.

  “Yes, Tony’s a man of the world,” Tabita said. “He comes to Venice every chance he gets. He’s the one who found the marchesa. Then, when Gregg was at Lake Como buying fabrics last year, Tony persuaded him to detour over here and look at her work. The rest is history. Or will be after next month’s show.”

  “I assume you say that because you’ve seen what Baxter’s created?” Reuben said.

  “Ha! Gregg designs right up to the last minute. Or maybe I should say at the last minute. The business is all so crazy. Right now he’s looking at new fabrics here in Italy for next fall—a year from now. Then he has to go back and concentrate on the spring collection, which he’ll unveil next month. Of course Tony’s already done a lot of sketching—” Tabita stopped suddenly, her guilty look indicating that she was afraid she had been indiscreet.

  “How about you? Where are you from?” Reuben asked.

  “Am I an exotic creature like Tony, you mean? The answer’s no. I’m a little hard-shell Baptist from the Mississippi Delta—God-fearing and innocent.” She gave Reuben a look that appeared anything but innocent. But who knows, Reuben thought, with her phenomenally sexy aura, maybe this is the closest to a modest look that she can achieve.

  Tony Garrison returned from his glad-handing and Reuben started to get up so that he could reclaim his chair.

  “No, no,” he said, putting his hand on Frost’s shoulder. “I’ll sit over here. What’s your name again?”

  “Reuben. Reuben Frost.”

  “Mind if I call you Reuben?”

  “Not at all.”

  Garrison started drumming a tattoo on the table and grinned when he saw that Reuben was watching. “We going out on the town later, Rubes?” he asked.

  Frost could not decide whether he was more shocked at the invitation or the monniker “Rubes”—a new one. And perhaps even worse than the short-lived “Frosty” that he had squelched years ago as an undergraduate at Princeton.

  “I doubt it,” he said. “I don’t think this is much of a town for night life.”

  “Stick with me, Rubes. You might be surprised.”

  Frost had to admit to himself that the handsome young man’s easy cheekiness had an appeal, abhorrent as “Rubes” might be.

  While Garrison was issuing his invitation, the waiters had circulated and filled the flutes at each place with Prosecco. Reuben expected, and was sure others did as well, that Baxter would give a toast. Or, perhaps, that someone would salute Baxter, their generous host. This did not happen.

  Reuben had noticed that Baxter had remained fixed at his place—possibly mesmerized by Deidre Newville—and, unlike his gregarious assistant, had not circulated among the guests, even to soothe the dented egos in the adjoining room. This had seemed most odd, given the promotional nature of the party, but the host still did not move when espresso and liqueurs were served. To the contrary, he got up and left the room, with Doris Medford trailing behind him. Dan Abbott, when he saw what was happening, abruptly left a nearby table and joined the retreating party.

  Baxter looked sullen and did not acknowledge anyone along his path to the stairs. Why was he angry? Was he upset at the uncomfortable heat? Did he think it had ruined his party? Reuben decided to ask Tabita what might be wrong.

  “I see your boss is leaving,” he said. “You suppose he doesn’t like the company?”

  She rolled her eyes and gently moved her head from side to side. Another “innocent” gesture. “Beats me. You have to understand that Gregg Baxter is very complicated. And very unpredictable.”

  Those who had seen Baxter leave had soon passed the word to those who had not, and the partygoers began drifting toward the front entrance. Soon there was a crowd backed all the way up the staircase, while the flotilla of water-taxis outside began loading. Those who made up the crowd were not the sort used to standing in line. Their boiling points already elevated by the heat, they were in a grumbling, ungrateful mood, not the grandly festive one that should have prevailed. It was as if Gregg Baxter had inconvenienced them terribly by inviting them for an uncomfortable evening.

  Four of the efficient women who had been so evident before dinner passed out souvenir shopping bags, red ones for the women and, of course, gray ones for the men. The recipients eagerly dug into the tissue-paper wrapped contents, much like children at Christmas in the orphanage, and discovered, among the miscellany within, women’s scarves and men’s pocket squares in fabrics bearing Gregg Baxter’s signature and, in tinier script, la marchesa Scamozzi’s as well.

  Then the traffic flow was stopped entirely as a guest, already outside, pushed her way back in. It was the same wiry matron Reuben had seen earlier, the one who had almost made a scene about her exile from the ballroom. This time she frantically sought out one of the women with the bags of party favors; hers had fallen into the water as she boarded her motoscafo and she had now
returned, determined to get a replacement. She was given one and went outside again, allowing departures to resume.

  The Frosts were with the Caroldos, who had said they would go back to the Cipriani with them and take the number eight water-bus from the Zitelle to the Zattere, where their apartment was located.

  “Does it run at this hour?” Reuben asked, it then being after midnight.

  “Oh yes,” Emilio said. “Only on the half hour, but it operates all night. The other alternative is to get our motoscafista to go around the back way so he can leave us off on the Zattere.”

  The chief traffic director put the Frosts and the Caroldos in a boat with four other couples. Again the paparazzi, still on duty, held their fire. The chanting students had not left the Ponte delle Guglie, but their taunts could not be heard clearly. Probably a good thing, Reuben thought.

  Emilio Caroldo did persuade the operator of their boat to go around to the Giudecca Canal. The Frosts and the Caroldos managed to sit together, ignoring the others, whom they did not know.

  “L’abia o non l’abia, sarò sempre Labia,” Erica Sherrill declaimed as they passed the Piazzale Roma.

  “I’ll bite,” Cynthia said. “What does that mean?”

  “It’s a pun, and roughly translated means, ‘Whether I have it or don’t have it, I’ll always be a Labia.’ It was supposedly said by one of the family’s disreputable ancestors after a banquet, when he was drunk and throwing the gold dinner service out the window into the canal.”

  “The only thing that went into the water tonight was that poor woman’s gift pack,” Reuben said.