Read Online The Case of the Orphaned Bassoonists by Barbara Wilson - Free Book Online
Authors: Barbara Wilson
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morning if he needed a statement from any of us. For the moment the police were treating Gunther’s death as suspicious, but only after an autopsy would they be able to pinpoint the cause. They would interview Miss Johansson and Miss de Hoog now.
“But how did it happen?” I whispered to Marco in Italian. “Did Anna de Hoog see anything?”
“No, she left the Pietà immediately after the performance and came into the Danieli to meet someone for a drink. There was a commotion on the dock, and she went out and was able to identify Gunther.”
Marco looked subdued and scared. He avoided looking down at his father. I wondered if Sandretti would hold Marco responsible. Roberta left the bridge without speaking to her brother, and Francesca, giving me a shaky smile, trailed after her.
I cast one last glance at the scene below, with Bitten collapsed like a fallen Valkyrie at the feet of a slain warrior companion, and then reluctantly followed Marco and Andrew to the vaporetto stop and back across the Grand Canal to the Dorsoduro. No one had mentioned the word murder yet, but it lingered in the air like the brackish scent of the canals.
I couldn’t help thinking, It’s unfortunate that Nicky had to choose this afternoon to disappear . And that made me remember that Albert Egmont had not been among those who had arrived breathless at the scene of the crime. The last time I remembered seeing him was at the table in the piazza , with a Campari in front of him and a look of pleasure on his austere face as he tapped his black fingers in time to the clarinet.
The next morning I woke from a dream of stone echoing under a solitary step. The sound was coming from outside my hotel, but the steps wound their way into my sleep. I was in a convent, a nun, and in my dream it was a very pleasant thing. I had no worries and no job other than to walk in circles and pray. No romantic entanglements complicated my life; my yearning was only for the Virgin. Best of all, I knew I was making my mother happy. She had longed to be a nun herself, she’d once confided, and had hoped that one of her four daughters would make the choice. I was the least likely of the four to take the veil; on the other hand, I was the only girl in the family who was still technically a virgin, which counted for something I suppose.
I’d ordered my breakfast brought up and in great luxury sat up in bed with a tray of rolls and fruit and coffee, with Lovers and Virgins open in front of me. It was gray and overcast outside, and I was in no hurry to go out. Nicky might or might not show up, with or without explanations or bassoons. Gunther’s death might or might not be solved. But in the timeless world of a romance novel, life would go on, like a ship surging over rhythmic waves of luxurious prose. Despite some feeling of guilt on my part, Bashō in Lima had migrated to the small pile of books I’d brought with me but hadn’t yet opened. Guilt, because I knew it was real literature, composed with thoughtfulness and intent. Guilt, because I considered myself a literary person, widely read and not adverse to working my way down through the surface of a text to the meaning below.
I couldn’t help it, though, I had to find out what was happening to the four sisters in Venezuela.
I had come to the part where Lourdes, the baby of the family, was demanding to return to the convent and become a novice. She had seen her sister Maria’s seduction by the stable hand, and her innocent mind had rebelled and turned it into a Biblical vision that she kept babbling about, much to Maria’s dismay. Mercedes, her next oldest sister, who clearly had her wits about her and was perfectly aware of what had gone on in the horse box, was considering taking the veil as well. Not because she completely believed in God or thought that locking herself up in a nunnery was so fabulous, but because the convent had a library, and the library contained not only the complete works of Voltaire
“But how did it happen?” I whispered to Marco in Italian. “Did Anna de Hoog see anything?”
“No, she left the Pietà immediately after the performance and came into the Danieli to meet someone for a drink. There was a commotion on the dock, and she went out and was able to identify Gunther.”
Marco looked subdued and scared. He avoided looking down at his father. I wondered if Sandretti would hold Marco responsible. Roberta left the bridge without speaking to her brother, and Francesca, giving me a shaky smile, trailed after her.
I cast one last glance at the scene below, with Bitten collapsed like a fallen Valkyrie at the feet of a slain warrior companion, and then reluctantly followed Marco and Andrew to the vaporetto stop and back across the Grand Canal to the Dorsoduro. No one had mentioned the word murder yet, but it lingered in the air like the brackish scent of the canals.
I couldn’t help thinking, It’s unfortunate that Nicky had to choose this afternoon to disappear . And that made me remember that Albert Egmont had not been among those who had arrived breathless at the scene of the crime. The last time I remembered seeing him was at the table in the piazza , with a Campari in front of him and a look of pleasure on his austere face as he tapped his black fingers in time to the clarinet.
The next morning I woke from a dream of stone echoing under a solitary step. The sound was coming from outside my hotel, but the steps wound their way into my sleep. I was in a convent, a nun, and in my dream it was a very pleasant thing. I had no worries and no job other than to walk in circles and pray. No romantic entanglements complicated my life; my yearning was only for the Virgin. Best of all, I knew I was making my mother happy. She had longed to be a nun herself, she’d once confided, and had hoped that one of her four daughters would make the choice. I was the least likely of the four to take the veil; on the other hand, I was the only girl in the family who was still technically a virgin, which counted for something I suppose.
I’d ordered my breakfast brought up and in great luxury sat up in bed with a tray of rolls and fruit and coffee, with Lovers and Virgins open in front of me. It was gray and overcast outside, and I was in no hurry to go out. Nicky might or might not show up, with or without explanations or bassoons. Gunther’s death might or might not be solved. But in the timeless world of a romance novel, life would go on, like a ship surging over rhythmic waves of luxurious prose. Despite some feeling of guilt on my part, Bashō in Lima had migrated to the small pile of books I’d brought with me but hadn’t yet opened. Guilt, because I knew it was real literature, composed with thoughtfulness and intent. Guilt, because I considered myself a literary person, widely read and not adverse to working my way down through the surface of a text to the meaning below.
I couldn’t help it, though, I had to find out what was happening to the four sisters in Venezuela.
I had come to the part where Lourdes, the baby of the family, was demanding to return to the convent and become a novice. She had seen her sister Maria’s seduction by the stable hand, and her innocent mind had rebelled and turned it into a Biblical vision that she kept babbling about, much to Maria’s dismay. Mercedes, her next oldest sister, who clearly had her wits about her and was perfectly aware of what had gone on in the horse box, was considering taking the veil as well. Not because she completely believed in God or thought that locking herself up in a nunnery was so fabulous, but because the convent had a library, and the library contained not only the complete works of Voltaire
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