Death in Florence, page 14
“Mom . . . are you conducting an investigation on your own?” Bea’s eyes widened.
“What makes you think—”
“Duh. Because you’re like me. Sort of. You don’t just stand by and let things happen. You have to be involved.” She smiled. “Though you don’t like to take many risks. Which is why I’m going to help you!”
“Oh, no you’re not,” Diana said, walking away.
Bea rushed to catch up to her. “Come on, Mom. I love this stuff. You know, Hai and I used to go to escape rooms all the time in Japan, and I was always MVP. I loved figuring things out. I can be your Dr. Watson!” She clapped her hands.
“This is not an escape room, darling. This is my life. And we’re not figuring anything out.”
She pouted. “Mom. You’re no fun. Come on. Tell me more about the case. So what? When you went into this actor’s dressing room, the wine was already there?”
Diana nodded. Actually, it would be nice to talk this out with someone who was on her side. “Yes, it was. And Mariana Massari, the woman who played Titania, brought it to him. She works at the tasting room,” she explained. “That was what I was doing in there—talking to her. It turns out she had a big crush on him, which was not reciprocated.”
“Ah. She sounds like the obvious suspect. So why aren’t the police going after her?”
Diana shrugged. “She sounds good, I agree. But the thing is, I don’t believe she did it. She was really torn up about his death.”
“Hello? She’s an actress.”
“But it’s more than that. I mean, if you wanted to kill someone and worked for a winery that your family owned, it’d be pretty stupid to poison the wine. That’s like putting a target right on your forehead.”
“Her family owns the winery? Huh.” She thought for a moment. “Or maybe that was what she was thinking people would think. She knew they’d discount her, because she’d be too obvious a suspect.”
Diana stopped and turned to her. “Where did you get such a devious mind? It wasn’t from me, and it’s certainly not from your father.” Evan was book-smart, but he lacked all common sense.
“I read a lot of Agatha Christie,” she explained with a shrug. “The library at the school in Japan doesn’t have a lot of books in English. Mostly just Hercule Poirot books. I can pretty much tell you the murderer in every one of them. This sounds a lot like The Mysterious Affair at Styles.”
“It does?”
She nodded. “Yes, when this rich old lady died of poisoning, at first, everyone thought the gold-digging husband was to blame. It was obvious. He didn’t do anything to hide his guilt, either. But then they arrested him and tried him, which was just what he wanted, because he couldn’t be tried for the same crime twice. Then—”
“Mariana is trying to hide it. And believe me, she doesn’t want to be arrested for it. She says she doesn’t want the scandal to mess with her acting career.”
“She is? Oh. Hmm,” Bea said, tapping her chin. “So who else could’ve poisoned the bottle?”
“Really, anyone who was backstage. So that’s any one of fifty people. Mariana showed me a way that you could pop a cork with a lighter, put poison in, and then close it up, so anyone could’ve done it, as long as they were back there.”
“Are you sure it was in the bottle? In The Mysterious Affair at Styles, they all thought it was in the coffee, but it turned out to be in her—”
“He was drinking the wine when he died, so they assume it was.”
“But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was something entirely different nobody was thinking about!” she remarked, to Diana’s surprise. She’d certainly raised a skeptical child. She knew Bea was one to question everything, but she hadn’t realized how good she was at it.
“Well, no one will know until after the autopsy, and I’m sure the police won’t be sharing the details with me.”
She nodded. “Right. I think there’s only one thing to do.”
“Which is . . .?”
“Go back to the scene of the crime.”
Diana shook her head. Yes, the thought had occurred to her, but she’d just got done telling herself there was no way she could go back there. “Impossible.”
“Why impossible?”
“Because I tried to go back this morning. If the director sees me, he’ll sic the police on me. He thinks for sure I’m the murderer, because I was with Marcello when he died.”
She rubbed her hands together deviously and grinned. “Well, that’s why you have me.”
“No, I don’t. Like I said, you’re not—”
Suddenly, the phone in Bea’s hands buzzed. She looked at it. “That’s Lily. She’s pissed I ditched her at the food court and now she’s enduring Vidal and Dad making out in front of her. They’re at some café on the other side of the piazza now. We probably have to go and check on them before they get too suspicious.”
Diana decided that was a much better idea than dragging her youngest into this mess she’d found herself in. “You’re on. Let’s go.”
“Good,” she said, linking arms with her mother. “On the way we can think of a good excuse to ditch them so you and I can go backstage at the theater and check things out, Sherlock.”
“Wait. What? Absolutely not!”
Diana glared at Bea, who looked straight ahead, smiling that innocent smile of hers that made everyone think she could do no wrong.
*
Diana and her daughter made it to a café just outside the festival for a late lunch. She was happy to see that they’d selected a table outdoors, under a yellow umbrella. Though she already knew from experience that she wouldn’t enjoy the company of Evan and Tilda, at least she could enjoy the warm weather.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” she muttered to her youngest as they approached. “Maybe we just enjoy lunch and—”
“Mom. Trust me. We’ve got this.”
Diana sighed. Her daughter never had been one to take no for an answer. And maybe she was right. Maybe she did need Bea’s help.
Evan stood up as they approached. He was wearing the awful hat, a purple velvet creation with a massive peacock feather, cocked on his head. It was capturing quite a bit of attention from those around them, who seemed to be looking at him with expressions that said, Idiot American. Diana wasn’t in much of a humorous mood, but she found herself stifling a laugh behind her hand.
“Great hat, Dad,” Bea muttered, in a way that Diana interpreted to mean, I really don’t want to be seen with you.
“Ladies,” he said, as Diana thrust the bottle of Chiaretto into his hands.
“For you,” she said with a smile. “For your engagement. Bea told me you’d like it.”
He smiled down at it. “How thoughtful of you, love. But you didn’t have to.”
Tilda grabbed it, dipped her sunglasses, and looked at the label, her pert nose wrinkling. “I like white Zinfandel.”
That’s why I didn’t buy it, Diana thought, but Bea filled in before she could retort. “It’s a pale red. You’ll both like it.”
“This isn’t poisoned, is it?” Tilda asked with a sweet smile.
Evan elbowed her.
“What?” she asked innocently. “You can’t pretend Diana doesn’t have a little bit of a history with poisoned wine.”
Diana reached across. “Fine. I could take it back.”
“No, no,” Evan said, clearly eager to defuse the situation. “It’s a lovely gift, Diana. And so appreciated.”
They sat down together. “So what have you found in the festival?” Diana asked them, slipping a napkin over her lap and looking down at her sore foot. She slipped the shoe off discreetly. Sure enough, she now had two little blisters on the side of her foot. She repositioned her sock. “Anything good?”
She leaned forward and listened as Evan went off on some street show they’d watched, with all the players on stilts. “It had a very Cirque du Soleil vibe to it. You’d have liked it, Di.”
Diana smiled. He remembered how much she loved Cirque du Soleil when they’d seen a show before.
“Well, I didn’t like it. It was totally creepy,” Tilda said, swirling her wine in her glass. She was wearing a low-cut pink top that exposed most of her cleavage, and shorts so small, they looked practically illegal. From the way she slurred that sentence, Diana had the inkling she was already drunk. After one glass? What had she missed? “I hate clowns.”
“I thought you liked the music, sweetie?” Evan said, taking her hand and patting it.
“No. And what was with that guy in the floppy hat and tights? Any guy who wears tights is a little screwed up in the head,” she muttered, staring into her wine glass.
“You mean . . . Shakespeare?” Lily asked.
Bea snorted. “Imagine that. Someone dressed as Shakespeare at a Shakespeare festival. What will they think of next?”
Diana elbowed her as they looked over the menus. It was all a show, really, because she and Bea had made other plans. But oh, the Risotto all’Amarone looked absolutely delicious. And traipsing around Verona had given her an appetite. Too bad.
“Oh, I’m feeling a little faint,” Bea said suddenly, fanning her face.
That was Diana’s cue. Before she could open her mouth, Evan slid a water glass over to her. “It’s hot. Drink.”
She took a sip of water and then clutched her stomach. “Oh, oh no. I feel terrible.”
“You look green,” Tilda remarked, not looking up from her menu.
Lily leaned forward. “No she doesn’t. But she does look flushed.” She put a hand on her forehead. “Hot. It could be sunstroke?”
“Do you want me to take you back to the house?” Diana offered.
“Yes, that would probably be best,” Bea said, maybe a little too readily, her chair scraping on the brick patio as she pushed away from the table. Even so, she was a formidable actress.
As Diana lifted her purse and prepared to leave, too, Evan closed his menu. “We’ll all go. We can get something at the villa. Gaia said—”
Diana held up a hand. “Not necessary. Really.”
Bea’s voice was weak, hovering on death’s door. “Yeah, Daddy. I don’t want to spoil your meal.”
He started to shake his head, but Tilda grabbed his arm and spoke up first. “Yes, Evan. Let’s not spoil this. It’s so nice here and I am so hungry. I want to get a Stromboli and eat until I throw up and I look as pregnant and bloated as Lily.” She puffed her taut stomach out and patted it.
Lily scowled and gave Diana a glance that said, Please don’t leave me here alone with them.
Evan gave her a doubtful look, and then looked back at Diana. “How will you get home? It’s pretty far.”
Bea, still grimacing in mock-pain, held up her phone. “I’ve got GPS. We’ll handle it.” She doubled over and let out a groan. “Now, Mommy. Let’s go. I’m dying.”
Okay, Bea, maybe let’s not overdo this? Diana thought as she put an arm around her youngest. Bea leaned into her, now clasping both hands over her stomach, as if she was getting ready to birth an alien. “We’d better go. Enjoy the festival. See you back at the house!” she said, leading her away.
“Ohhh. Ohhhhhh,” Bea moaned as they staggered toward the curb. Nearby diners turned to look at her.
“Bea, you can cut the hysterics,” Diana mumbled when they’d turned a corner.
Bea straightened and smiled. “Good. Let’s go to the theater, Mommy.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Diana was expecting the theater to be swarming with people getting ready for the three o’clock show, but when they arrived, the place was deserted. There was a sign on the front saying that the show had been cancelled due to “unforeseen circumstances,” likely because the police hadn’t yet given them the all-clear.
Bea marched to the front of the theater, as Diana straggled behind, hoping the director wasn’t anywhere nearby. She tried the door. “Locked.”
Diana nodded, still hiding behind her daughter. “It was before. There’s a door on the side.”
“Oh? Let’s go.” Bea started to break into a run, but stopped when Diana didn’t follow. “What?”
She sighed. “I’m kind of on the director’s bad side. If he sees me here, it’ll be off with my head.”
Bea grinned. “Oh, Mommy. You’re such a goody-goody. Come on. Live a little. Take a walk on the wild side with me, okay?”
Diana could’ve told her that she had lived. She could’ve told her that in Paris, she’d climbed a building and sneaked into a possible murderer’s bedroom to find a necklace. But not only had she nearly gotten herself thrown in jail . . . she’d also almost had a heart attack. She really wasn’t sure she wanted to relive that stress.
But she knew her daughter. If she said no, Bea would strike out and try to get answers on her own. She couldn’t let Bea risk getting in trouble. So the only thing she could do was go along with her.
“All right. I’m coming,” she muttered, following her, head down. “But slowly. My shoe’s been giving me blisters. I think one just burst.”
They stopped for a second so Diana could adjust her shoe. Though it’d been a sensible walking shoe, something was amiss, because one of the blisters on the side of her foot had indeed burst.
“Ow, that looks painful,” Bea said, looking around impatiently.
Diana fixed her sock. “I’ll manage.”
They walked, Diana limping slightly, around the curve of the arena, to the back door. It was closed this time. When they got there, Bea stopped, her hand on the door handle. “Was there anyone in here the last time?”
“A janitor. And the director came back later.” She shuddered at the memory of him shooing her from the theater.
She paused with her ear to the door, listening. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Maybe there’s no one in there.”
Bea tugged on the door. It opened. Bea smiled in delight. Diana frowned. She was almost hoping it wouldn’t open, so she could go back to the villa and calm her nerves with a big glass of wine. Where had her daughter gotten such pluck, such bravery?
Definitely not from her, that was for sure.
“First rule in being a spy: Open doors with caution.” Bea peered in and smiled. She whispered, “I don’t see anyone!”
Diana gritted her teeth. How could her daughter treat this like some joke? They would be in some major trouble if they got caught. But that was Bea. She had her charm and cuteness, which got her out of the stickiest situations. Diana didn’t have that luxury. Her stomach dropped like a cannonball in her gut as Bea slipped inside.
Diana followed into the dark back room. When she let the door close behind them, slowly as to make only the smallest of noises, it left them in almost pitch blackness. They stumbled over each other, until Bea found her hand and squeezed it tight. “No problem. Easy-peasy,” she said as Diana’s eyes adjusted.
There was a light up ahead. Two of them, actually. A dull blue was coming from the direction of the stage. Another appeared to be coming from the hallway that contained the dressing rooms. Diana pointed. “I think we just need to go—”
A voice shouted suddenly in Italian, and then there were footsteps coming toward them.
Diana’s heart stopped. Her eyes, wide, found Bea’s, who looked just as shocked. Without a word, they broke apart and rushed for hiding spots. Diana slid behind a giant spotlight, Bea behind a clothing rack. Peering from behind it, Diana saw a couple of actors, rushing on stage.
More Italian. Then someone began to speak. She recognized it as the second scene of the first act, the introduction of Quince, the carpenter, who is trying to put on a play with the other tradesmen.
So they were rehearsing the play. That meant that Pietro, the director, was likely nearby. Nope. I’m done with this, Diana thought, looking for the door. This is stupid and insane.
In the darkness, she could just make out Bea’s face behind the clothing rack. Let’s get out of here, she mouthed.
Bea crawled from her hiding place and whispered, “Are you kidding? This is perfect. They’re all on stage, rehearsing. So all I need to do is go to his dressing room. Which one is it?”
Diana shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re looking for. I should do it.”
“You would?” Now it was Bea’s turn to look doubtful.
Truthfully, she wasn’t sure. Maybe. She could do that. From the front lobby, Marcello’s dressing room was at the end of the hall, closest to the stage, so it was the last one she’d come to, last night. Coming this way, from the back, it would likely be the first one she’d arrive at. She’d only be in danger a few seconds, at the most.
She sat there as the players went through their lines on stage, taking deep breath after deep breath, trying to psych herself up. Then she took a big gulp of air and let it out slowly. “I can do this.”
Bea smiled. “I know you can.” She looked down and picked something up. “You should wear this.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know. I found it over there, by the stairs. A disguise.”
Diana turned it over in her head before she realized just what it was. It was the huge donkey’s head that Nick Bottom wore when Puck changes him into an ass. She stared at it, thinking that yes, she was an ass, for ever thinking this was a good idea.
Then she slipped it over her head. It smelled a little like cigarettes, a little like morning breath, and the eye slits made it near-impossible to see out of. Also, how did people breathe, much less speak lines, in these things? Diana suspected she’d be having trouble breathing, even without the mask. But it also sort of insulated her from the outside world, like a suit of armor.
She rose to her feet and whispered, more to herself than to Bea, “I can do this.”
“Yes you can. I’ll stay here and if anyone comes by, I’ll try to stall them. Okay?”
“Okay,” Diana mumbled, nodding her massive donkey head, and stumbled off toward the staircase, hands in front of her, since she couldn’t really see where her feet were going. The donkey head was so giant, its ear scraped against the rack of costumes before getting caught on a hanger. She felt the thing start to lift off her head before reaching back and freeing herself, then continuing on.
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