Read Online 5 - Her Deadly Mischief by Beverle Graves Myers - Free Book Online
Authors: Beverle Graves Myers
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bound to end in trouble of some kind.”
“You know about the wager? That business was supposed to be kept quiet.”
Madame licked her finger and rolled the end of a thread into a knot. “When did Venice ever keep anyone’s secrets? Talk of the whores’ deadly contest has been sweeping the city faster than a sirocco wind. A man on my campo has already set up his own wager—” She paused to whip in a few stitches.
Tightening my skin away from her needle, I asked, “What sort of wager?”
“On who will be hung for the murder, of course. Odds are running in favor of the young man, but I laid down a zecchino on La Samsona. And I wasn’t the only one.” She straightened and looked me in the eye. Then a smile that was surely meant to wheedle sprang to her lips; unfortunately, several discolored teeth spoiled the effect. “They say you saw the masked killer, Signor Amato. You’re a clever one. Tell me now, could I be right? I could certainly use the winnings.”
I blinked, and thought for a moment.
“It’s possible, I suppose. La Samsona is a tall woman, but the figure I saw was broad, bulky—”
“And so is she,” the costumer broke in excitedly. “Her years of lifting iron bars have given her the shoulders of a prize fighter. Many times I’ve watched her swan from the lobby to her box, and I’ve seen her in the refreshment room, too. Her dressmaker must be a treasure—she knows how to draw the eye away from those horrible shoulders. But La Samsona is still an Amazon. And a more grasping, ambitious whore never lived, I hear.”
“I suppose you believe La Samsona heard that Zulietta was within minutes of winning the wager.”
Nodding, she folded my tunic over her thin, tightly sleeved arm. “Heard about it and decided murder was better than losing her diamonds. Think on it, mon cher . How easy it would be for that great giant to throw on a man’s cloak and bauta , leave her box, and commit the deed. She could have smuggled in her disguise for the very purpose.”
I took Madame Dumas’ free hand in mine. With a quick squeeze, I said, “I wish you luck in your neighbor’s lottery, old friend, but I must tell you that Messer Grande favors Alessio Pino for the culprit. I wouldn’t be surprised if he already has him in custody.”
“We’ll soon see.” And with a bob of the tightly wound bun atop her head, she added, “Wouldn’t care to bet on it, would you?”
***
I returned to the stage to find Emilio and Vittoria licking their wounds at opposite ends of the boards. Torani and the accompanist were downstage, digging through a pile of scores. The other singers of the company kept up hearty conversation and forced cheerful smiles as if they had not just witnessed two of their colleagues filleting each other with words as sharp as carving knives.
“Here, I have it.” Torani waved a sheaf of music. After sending the accompanist to the harpsichord, our maestro directed Emilio to rehearse a passage that had been sounding more like musical gargling than sweet song. “The rest of you are at liberty for half an hour,” Torani threw over his shoulder as Emilio squeaked out a few exploratory notes.
Still displaying anger-bright cheeks, Vittoria blew past me and shoved a prop boy into the nearest flat. I heard her heels tap-tap-tap all the way up the stairs to her dressing room. The others headed to the crooked little room beneath the stairs where we often whiled away our time between rehearsal and performance. Wine would flow from the bottle that always stood on the high windowsill; gossip would flow still faster.
My simmering curiosity led me elsewhere.
I passed through the stage door and availed myself of the staircase used by footmen delivering dinners and performing various errands. On the fourth level, a swinging door provided entrance to a cloakroom that presented the usual welter of abandoned cloaks and coats, hats with smashed crowns, and other orphaned bits of clothing. A long black
“You know about the wager? That business was supposed to be kept quiet.”
Madame licked her finger and rolled the end of a thread into a knot. “When did Venice ever keep anyone’s secrets? Talk of the whores’ deadly contest has been sweeping the city faster than a sirocco wind. A man on my campo has already set up his own wager—” She paused to whip in a few stitches.
Tightening my skin away from her needle, I asked, “What sort of wager?”
“On who will be hung for the murder, of course. Odds are running in favor of the young man, but I laid down a zecchino on La Samsona. And I wasn’t the only one.” She straightened and looked me in the eye. Then a smile that was surely meant to wheedle sprang to her lips; unfortunately, several discolored teeth spoiled the effect. “They say you saw the masked killer, Signor Amato. You’re a clever one. Tell me now, could I be right? I could certainly use the winnings.”
I blinked, and thought for a moment.
“It’s possible, I suppose. La Samsona is a tall woman, but the figure I saw was broad, bulky—”
“And so is she,” the costumer broke in excitedly. “Her years of lifting iron bars have given her the shoulders of a prize fighter. Many times I’ve watched her swan from the lobby to her box, and I’ve seen her in the refreshment room, too. Her dressmaker must be a treasure—she knows how to draw the eye away from those horrible shoulders. But La Samsona is still an Amazon. And a more grasping, ambitious whore never lived, I hear.”
“I suppose you believe La Samsona heard that Zulietta was within minutes of winning the wager.”
Nodding, she folded my tunic over her thin, tightly sleeved arm. “Heard about it and decided murder was better than losing her diamonds. Think on it, mon cher . How easy it would be for that great giant to throw on a man’s cloak and bauta , leave her box, and commit the deed. She could have smuggled in her disguise for the very purpose.”
I took Madame Dumas’ free hand in mine. With a quick squeeze, I said, “I wish you luck in your neighbor’s lottery, old friend, but I must tell you that Messer Grande favors Alessio Pino for the culprit. I wouldn’t be surprised if he already has him in custody.”
“We’ll soon see.” And with a bob of the tightly wound bun atop her head, she added, “Wouldn’t care to bet on it, would you?”
***
I returned to the stage to find Emilio and Vittoria licking their wounds at opposite ends of the boards. Torani and the accompanist were downstage, digging through a pile of scores. The other singers of the company kept up hearty conversation and forced cheerful smiles as if they had not just witnessed two of their colleagues filleting each other with words as sharp as carving knives.
“Here, I have it.” Torani waved a sheaf of music. After sending the accompanist to the harpsichord, our maestro directed Emilio to rehearse a passage that had been sounding more like musical gargling than sweet song. “The rest of you are at liberty for half an hour,” Torani threw over his shoulder as Emilio squeaked out a few exploratory notes.
Still displaying anger-bright cheeks, Vittoria blew past me and shoved a prop boy into the nearest flat. I heard her heels tap-tap-tap all the way up the stairs to her dressing room. The others headed to the crooked little room beneath the stairs where we often whiled away our time between rehearsal and performance. Wine would flow from the bottle that always stood on the high windowsill; gossip would flow still faster.
My simmering curiosity led me elsewhere.
I passed through the stage door and availed myself of the staircase used by footmen delivering dinners and performing various errands. On the fourth level, a swinging door provided entrance to a cloakroom that presented the usual welter of abandoned cloaks and coats, hats with smashed crowns, and other orphaned bits of clothing. A long black
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