Death in Florence, page 17
Diana nudged her. “Don’t say that.”
“I’m not saying anything!” Bea laughed. “I was just kidding. Obviously, it’s him. All the pieces fit.”
But Diana had to admit, if Alfonzo was guilty, his performance professing his innocence was legendary. If he was innocent, and if she’d made a mistake . . .
No. She wouldn’t allow herself to think about that. Alfonzo was the man. She was sure of it. Mariana had been sure. Pietro, too. They all seemed to know he was the culprit. It made sense.
“I think we can probably go—” she said, just as Detective Lucci spotted them and jogged over.
“Signora St. James. What is this I hear about you hearing the suspect arguing with the victim prior to the murder?”
She shook her head. “Oh, no. I didn’t. Alfonzo was arguing with Pietro, the director. He was upset about losing the part to Marcello. So he sneaked into his room during the play, opened the bottle with his lighter, and put the poison in.”
He raised an eyebrow. “He confessed to that?”
“No . . .” Was he doubting her? After Bea’s words, and now his, she had to admit, she was starting to second-guess herself. “But come on. He had the motive. He had the opportunity. And—”
“And not only that,” Bea put in, “when she accused him, he tried to run away. What more could you want?”
Diana nodded, hoping that would be enough to convince him. But the detective rubbed his grizzled jaw, as if he was still trying to puzzle it out. “Proof. I need better proof than that,” he said, closing his notebook. “We searched all the dressing rooms and didn’t find anything to incriminate him. And when we interviewed him, he didn’t raise suspicions at all.”
“Well, he wouldn’t, would he?” Bea said. “He’s an actor. Aren’t they used to keeping calm under pressure?”
Detective Lucci shrugged. “Maybe. No matter. We’ll bring him in for questioning and see if we can squeeze a confession out of him.”
“So you mean he isn’t under arrest?” Bea asked.
“Oh, he is. For now. But right now, we won’t have evidence to keep him.” He nodded at each of them in turn, and headed away.
So much for a thank you, good job, Diana thought bitterly as they watched him leave.
Bea clutched at her stomach. “Lily’s texted me about three hundred times. Now, can we—”
Just then, the director approached them. There was something different about him that Diana couldn’t quite put her finger on. After a moment, it came to her. Oh, right. He’s actually smiling at me.
He bowed humbly to her. “Signora St. James, I apologize for my terrible treatment of you. Please accept my sincerest apologies.”
She held out a hand. “No. Really, it’s no need.”
“As you probably don’t know, a cancelled performance, even for just one night . . . it is devastating! A catastrophe! Because of you, our show can go on tonight as planned!” he said with great excitement, his beady eyes gleaming.
“You have enough actors to play for the ones who are missing?”
He nodded. “Oh, si. Is no problem. The first night—it was a nightmare. Even with Marcello, it was missing something. But I think I found out what it was. Chemistry. Sizzle. Luca Castille is one of my best players. He always wants to play all the roles. Now he gets the chance to play multiple roles besides Nick Bottom. He will be Oberon, King of the Fairies, too, and he will love it. The audience will love it.”
“I’m sure they will. And I’m glad it all worked out for you.”
He reached for her hand and clasped it between his two sweaty mitts. “Please, I must have you and your family be my guests for the performance tonight. It is only because of you that this show will go on.”
Bea coughed, clearing her throat loudly, and Diana knew exactly what that meant. Mom, I would rather die than see that play.
Diana shook her head. “Honestly, I think I might have had enough theater to last me for a long while. But thank you. I appreciate the gesture.”
He shrugged. “Well, if you change your mind, there will be a ticket at the box office, waiting for you. Si? I will put it under your name. Front row seat, eh?”
She nodded. “Yes. Again, thank you.”
They watched the man plod away toward the stage and call for the actors to assemble. The show was going to go on, and Diana had made it happen. Even though she never wanted to see A Midsummer Night’s Dream again, she smiled.
At that moment, Bea’s stomach growled loudly. “The beast is about to be unleashed.”
Diana laughed and took her daughter’s hand. “You poor thing. We can’t let you waste away. Let’s go get you something to eat.”
*
“That was absolutely crazy,” Bea said for the hundredth time as they made their way into the villa. “I really thought you were done for, Mom.”
The second Diana pushed open the door, she was pounced upon by her eldest child. “Where have you been?” she cried. “And done for, what? What does that mean?”
Diana opened her mouth to tell her it was nothing, water under the bridge, but Bea said, “Oh my God. We had the craziest afternoon. Mom nearly got arrested and wound up catching the murderer of that actor.”
Lily’s jaw dropped. “Our mom?”
Diana again attempted to soften the severity of the situation she’d been in, but before she could get any words out, Bea said, “Yep. It was cool. She was masterful! A regular Sherlock.”
“Mom was?” Lily asked, confused.
“Yep. She used her little gray cells like Hercule Poirot and solved the whole mystery!” Bea said as Evan appeared at the top of the steps.
“What’s this?” he asked, jogging down with his hands in the pockets of his bathing trunks, a linen shirt open almost to his navel. At least he’d lost the ridiculous hat. “Di, don’t tell me you were putting yourself in harm’s way.”
Bea went on, gushing, “It was actually kind of like the ending to Three Act Tragedy, where Poirot nailed the poisoning actor right in the theater. He made a break for it, and the police swarmed in and caught him!”
“Wow,” Lily said in awe. “Who did it?”
Diana finally beat Bea to the punch. “It was an actor named Alfonzo Rivalta. It appears he was jealous of the victim because he’d taken the part he wanted to play.”
“And you caught him?” Evan asked, eyebrows raised.
She nodded, beaming proudly.
“You?” he said again, as if he hadn’t heard her right the first time.
Her smile fell to a scowl. Maybe I’m not as helpless and needing of your assistance as you might think, Evan!
“Yes. Why do you doubt her, Daddy?” Bea snapped. “You should’ve seen it! Mom was magnificent!” Bea wrapped an arm around her mother and hugged her tight.
Lily winced. “Really? Jealous? God. What a silly thing for someone to commit murder for!”
“I don’t think so. People commit murder over jealousy all the time,” Bea said.
“But over losing a part?” Lily asked.
Bea shrugged. “If I was in a group with a bunch of people and someone kept taking credit for everything I did and besting me all the time, I might resort to poisoning, too.”
Everyone stared at her.
“Kidding!” she shouted, looking around. “Where’s the fiancée?”
Evan, who’d been gazing at Diana all this time in a kind of awe, broke from his trance. “Uh . . . I think she went out to the pool to sunbathe before dinner. I was going to join her. Anyone else want to come along?”
No one volunteered. He frowned.
Bea said, “Sorry. But I need food. Now,” and rushed off into the kitchen.
“Guess you’re feeling better!” Lily called after her, glaring at Diana. “We had a lovely lunch without you guys. Tilda drank too much, again.”
Evan coughed. Diana expected he’d cover for her, but instead he rubbed the back of his neck and said, ashamedly, “Yes. It’s unfortunate. She does like her cocktails. But we brought her back here and filled her up with espresso, and now she should be just fine.”
Diana shrugged innocently and began to follow her Lily when the door to the patio slipped open and Tilda appeared, pulling a silken kimono over her nearly obscene yellow bikini. She fluffed her hair. “Gawd, I fell asleep out there! I need an aspirin! I’ve got such a headache!”
She stopped when she saw them all, congregating in the foyer.
Evan smiled. “No problem, darling. I’ll get you one.”
She ignored him, instead focusing on Diana. “Oh. You’re finally back. Is BB all right? When we got home and you weren’t here, we thought you might’ve taken her to the hospital. She looked bad.”
Diana blinked. What was that? For once, Vidal was thinking of someone other than herself? “Yes. She’s fine. She’s in the kitchen, getting something to eat.”
Evan said, “Diana was just telling us of the excitement she had today. It turns out, she was of some help to the police. She helped them catch the man who murdered the actor.”
Tilda’s mouth made an O. “Gawd. Really?”
“Yes,” Evan said. “It was another actor. Poisoned the man’s wine while he was on stage, apparently?”
Diana nodded.
Tilda clapped her hands. “Oh, my gawd, that’s exciting! Good for you, Diana! Do you think you’ll get your picture in the media? Will the press be coming here to interview you?” She started to look around frantically, probably for a hairbrush or a mirror.
“No, probably not.”
She sighed in disappointment. “Oh. That’s too bad. I can’t believe that. Poisoning someone’s wine bottle while they aren’t looking? It’s almost like that . . . what was it? Romeo and Juliet!”
Diana smiled. No, not really, except for the poisoning, and them being in Verona. But it was actually a lot closer than she had been. At least she’d actually named a Shakespeare play. “Yes, it was very exciting.”
“Well,” Evan said, showing her the way to the kitchen. “I’m sure you must be hungry, too. We won’t keep you.” He smiled at Tilda and turned to jog back up the staircase. “I’ll get you that aspirin, dear.”
Diana went to her bedroom, got a Band-Aid for her foot, and put it on. By then, the wound was bleeding. After that, she limped into the kitchen, where Bea was sitting at the center island while the housekeeper fussed around the stove. She had a massive bowl of grapes in front of her. “Mom!” she said, patting the stool next to her. “Gaia is going to make her pasta e fagioli for us. She says it’s her specialty from her hometown.”
Gaia looked back and smiled.
“Oh, that sounds like so much trouble,” Diana said, sitting next to her. “Are you sure?”
“She says it’s no trouble. She had it ready.” Bea passed the bowl over to her. “Have a grape.”
Gaia pulled two bowls down from a cabinet. “Vino?”
Diana nodded, and the housekeeper poured them two glasses of red. As she did, Diana thought about what Tilda had said. Poisoning someone’s wine bottle while they aren’t looking. As she drew the glass toward her, something tickled at the back of her mind, something that didn’t quite sit right.
She took a sip, savoring the taste on her tongue.
When had Alfonzo poisoned the wine? She’d seen him arguing with the director about the following night’s performance, but that was right before she’d gone into Marcello’s room. So that meant that the bottle had to have been poisoned prior to that.
And . . . likely, prior to him finding out that he wasn’t going to play Oberon the following night.
So the motive she thought he had . . . really wasn’t a motive at all.
She straightened her back. Oh no. So that meant that Alfonzo probably couldn’t have killed Marcello.
Big mistake.
“Mom? Are you okay? You just went sheet white.”
“Yes,” she said, touching her face. Her skin was cold, but that wasn’t worrying her at the moment. At the time that the poison had been put into Marcello’s bottle, the only people who knew about the role change would’ve been Marcello, and . . .
Of course.
She sprang up from the counter. “I’ve got to go.”
“Where? Mom!” Bea shouted as Diana headed for the door. “What’s wrong? Should I come with you?”
“No. You’re hungry, Watson. You’ve done enough. Everything’s fine,” she called over her shoulder. “You stay here and enjoy.”
She reached the front door and threw it open. She had to make it to the theater as soon as possible.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
By this time, Diana had been to the theater so many times she could’ve found it in her sleep. That was a good thing, because daylight was waning. As she rushed up the main road, she became entangled in the crowds of theater-goers, all heading for the open doors of the arena.
Impatient, Diana waited in a line at the box office. When she got to the ticket counter, she said, “There should be a ticket here for me? St. James?”
The man behind the glass went through a file folder and pulled one out. “Si . . .e goditi lo spettac—” he said, sliding it across to her.
She snatched it before he could finish the sentence. “Grazie!”
The Band-Aid on her foot wasn’t helping as much as she liked. Limping toward the theater area, she found herself caught in the crowds. An usher tried to thrust a program in her hands, but she waved it away. All of them were heading toward the right, and the general admission area. Diana broke off and swerved to the left. As she arrived at the entry toward the backstage area, she came across the same old man who’d been there before.
“Uh, hello,” she said, wondering how she was going to finagle admission.
The man smiled at her. “I remember you. The American!”
“Yes, you remember? I was the one to visit yesterday.”
He nodded. “Yes, you were the one with the origami rose, eh?”
She reached into her pocket and pulled out the rose, but this one was the one that had been for Linda. “That’s right!”
She held her breath, sure that he’d make the connection that Marcello was dead and in no way could be in any condition to visit with groupies. But he simply pushed off his stool, hobbled to the side, and motioned her forward. “Downstairs. End of hall. Right.”
“Grazie!” she shouted again, rushing down the darkened hall. When she got far enough along it and heard the voices of the actors, she slowed, wishing she had a disguise. As she went past the first door, which was open this time, she peered inside.
It wasn’t a dressing room. It was an office. On the door, written in chalk, was the name P. Samboca.
Pietro. The director.
She inched closer, scanning the room. It was a mess, the desk piled high with papers. There was no obvious décor except for a wilting fern in the corner. Other than the desk, an old ripped chair, bleeding stuffing, and a massive floor safe, there wasn’t much else in the room.
She paused there, glancing down the hallway. Likely, Pietro was making preparations for the performance. She’d be safe.
At least, she hoped she’d be safe.
Taking a deep breath, she quickly went inside, scanning the disaster that was his desk. Pulling on the chain of a banker’s lamp, she took in the mess, absently paging through scripts, piles of receipts, menus for local restaurants, old programs from previous performances, all thrown together in a mish-mash, with no organization whatsoever. The room was a haze of dust and an unpleasant stench, like mold, body odor, and garbage.
She realized where at least part of that smell had come from when she tilted her head and found a garbage can full of paper take-out containers.
She sighed, hardly knowing where to begin, but the next time she breathed in, her nose tickled. She tried to stifle the sneeze, but it erupted. Once. Twice. Dust puffed out from around her face. Her eyes watered. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but she felt sure that she would know it when she found it.
Holding her breath, she shifted aside some of the papers, and then she saw it.
A piece of paper, folded into the shape of a sailboat.
On the front of it was only one word: Pietro.
Heart thumping in her chest, she lifted it up and was about to open it when a large form darkened the space in the doorway.
She stiffened as the director’s low, raspy voice said, “What are you doing here? You don’t belong here! How did you get here?”
Courage, Diana. Gripping the note in her hand, she came around the desk. “I know. I just realized, after thinking it over, that I made a mistake. About Alfonzo.”
He stared at her, eyes narrowed. Down the hallway, footsteps sounded. He was momentarily distracted by them, but then turned back to her. “This is not the time, nor the place, Signora St. James. I think you know that.”
“I think Alfonzo will think it’s the perfect time,” she said. “For the truth.”
Pietro shook his head as she approached. He moved aside, but only to let her go out to the lobby. He blocked her from the other actors as he pointed forcefully toward the exit. “Go. Before I have to call security.”
She stepped out into the hall. Beyond the body of Pietro, as wide as it was, she could see other actors, who must’ve heard the commotion, because they were turned her way. “Not before you tell me when it was you put the poison into Marcello’s bottle.”
He stared at her in horror. “What? You know Alfonzo did that.”
“He couldn’t have. That’s what I realized. He didn’t have time. At the time you told Alfonzo that he wouldn’t be playing Oberon at today’s performance, the poison had to have already been in the bottle. He was with Mariana, and then with me, and the bottle was in his dressing room the whole time. There was no time for Alfonzo to put the poison in the bottle.”
He scowled. “You’re crazy. Leave this place at once.”
He turned to go back to the stage, but there were already several actors standing there, watching him. Mariana and Luca were among them.
“Not until I read this,” Diana said, holding up the note. “I know it was from Marcello, because it’s folded this way.”
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