Strangers in Venice Page 19

  It was Peiper’s companion, the boy who’d chased them. Stella’s heart seized in her chest and she violently twisted the handbag the other way. The clasp broke open and the bag ripped, spilling the contents out onto the stone steps. A mirror shattered, lipsticks rolled down the steps into the water and Nicky’s wallet hit the step with a wet slap. She shoved the remains of the handbag in the boy’s face, snapped up the wallet, and ran across the steps, splashing through the water and shoving people out of the way.

  She reached the end of the station and darted into an alley between it and a church, but the boy grabbed her from behind and rammed her into the wall of the church.

  “Where is it?” he yelled, his voice deeper than she expected and his infuriated face level with hers.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The diary! Where is it?” He had an accent. Scottish.

  “It’s gone. I lost it,” said Stella, trying to break away, but he stepped on her foot and she doubled up in pain.

  “You are lying. You have it.”

  She tried to tuck the wallet away in her coat, but he saw and ripped it out of her hands. “What is this?”

  “Nothing.” She spat in his face. He relaxed his grip for a second and she was able to wrestle it away from him. He blocked her way and she spun around, running for the Grand Canal. The boy was on her heels. She ran into the water, trying to get to the Scalzi bridge, but the water slowed her too much and he caught up. They tumbled forward. She went down on her knees with him on her back. He would get Nicky’s wallet. He would give it to Peiper.

  Stella slung the wallet out into the canal where it skipped over a wave and then was enveloped by another. The boy jumped up and almost bowled her over running to the edge of the walkway. “Scheisse!”

  He balled up his fists and then reached into his bulging pocket, pulling out a pistol. Stella ran at him, shoving him as he turned and the boy fell into the canal with barely a splash. Stella turned and dashed for the bridge, running past a man who calmly stood there leaning on the railing. He had obviously seen the whole thing, and didn’t care. That was good, but there was something about him, the way he stood, the way he watched. It was only a second, but Stella’s panicked mind said she knew him. Tall, thin, stylish, white teeth, not Italian went through her head as she darted through the people coming onto the bridge, but then she pushed thoughts of him away. She didn’t know him. A stranger in Venice. He didn’t matter and she lost herself in the warren of old streets as soon as she could.

  Chapter Twelve

  STELLA STOOD OFF to the side of the Hotel Bella Luna at a total loss. She’d gone for the hotel because that was in her head when she shoved Peiper’s boy in the canal and, to her surprise, she’d found it. Easily, as it turned out. Once she got in the San Polo section, things started to look familiar and there she was, standing outside what was probably the most expensive hotel in Venice and she couldn’t go in.

  She’d expected to simply trot up to the concierge and ask for Daniel or the management. They might even recognize her. It hadn’t been very long and the hotel only had twenty-four suites. But she couldn’t do that now. She was soaked to the knees from the boy knocking her down and the rain had kicked up to finish the job. The hotel was elegant and even stuffy with its Tiepolo frescos and gleaming marble floors. Stella could confidently compare herself unfavorably to those drowned rats. The staff might toss her headfirst into the canal on sight and ask questions later. They did seem like the type. Now that she thought about it, it probably wasn’t a good idea for the whole staff to know she was back in Venice anyway. She didn’t want them talking. Word got around.

  Maybe she should go back to the Vittoria. Her main mission had been accomplished. The wallet was gone and the Boulards safe. She could come back tomorrow, but she was shaking from the cold and her right foot was burning. An unwelcome thought appeared in her mind. Could she make it back without help? Her heart said yes, of course. Her body wasn’t so sure.

  “There’s more than one way to skin a cat,” she said to herself through chattering teeth, a saying that Mavis favored, but that Stella always loathed. It made her feel bad for cats and she liked cats. Cats liked her as much as people and people generally liked her a lot. All people. She turned on her soggy heels and went for the service entrance, a plain door recessed deep in the side of the hotel. Abel had insisted on using that entrance rather than the ostentatious front door as he reminded them he was a servant of sorts. Nicky didn’t hold with that and he used the service entrance, too, dragging an embarrassed Stella along behind them, apologizing for barging in. She knew, apparently better than Nicky, that most places like the Bella Luna liked the separation between the served and the servant, positions must be maintained and upheld. But the Bella Luna staff surprised her. They didn’t mind a couple of gauche Americans using their halls. Of course, Nicky could charm the stern off a librarian and he worked his magic on the chef de cuisine, a fancy little Frenchman who blushed whenever he saw her husband. If there were any objections to them, Chef Brazier saw to it they were silenced. Stella had enjoyed being in the vast kitchen and watching the staff create. She’d never spent any time in the kitchen at home so the whipping of meringues was a revelation. They even let her have a go. She was terrible and they laughed.

  Stella stood at the door inside a ring of sandbags, smelling the heavenly scents and desperately wanting to go inside. But she wasn’t a guest now and barging in would garner unwanted attention. Plus, she didn’t have her charming Nicky to smile at the chef so she took a breath and knocked.

  It took three tries before someone came, a harried young woman in a maid’s uniform, not one of the kitchen staff that she knew somewhat. “Sì?” she barked at Stella and then wrinkled her wide nose in distaste at the pool forming at her feet.

  “Is Chef Brazier here?” she asked.

  “No.”

  Stella couldn’t remember any other names. Her mind was blank. “How about someone from the kitchen staff? The ones that make the meringues?”

  “No.” The woman shooed at her. “You are soaked. Go away.”

  “I can’t. Daniel Burgess? Is he here? He’s a butler. He knows me. Please.”

  The woman was surprised at the name and looked Stella over. “You know Daniel?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “Yes. He was our butler when we stayed here,” said Stella.

  “You?” she scoffed. Stella’s fur was so wet it didn’t look expensive anymore and the maid tried to close the door.

  Stella slapped her hand on the wood and held it back. “Get Daniel.”

  The maid thought about it and held out her hand. Stella stared at the callused palm briefly and said, “Please.”

  The woman shook her hand and eyed Stella. Pay her to get Daniel? She couldn’t pay for a cup of coffee. “I haven’t got any money.” She reached in her pockets to turn them inside out and found the pistol and her passport but something was jangling there. Coins.

  Stella pulled out a fist full of lira coins in astonishment. Father Giuseppe, that sweetheart, must’ve slipped them in there. Tears pricked at her eyes and she gave the woman several coins, which apparently satisfied her, but then she asked, “Who is calling?”

  Stella swallowed and thought for a moment. “Tell him it’s Nicky’s wife, who doesn’t like Angostura Bitters.”

  “No one likes Angostura Bitters, but I will tell him.” She closed the door and Stella reached down and slipped off a boot to check the damage. It wasn’t so bad, only a little wet, but Dr. Salvatore wouldn’t be happy. She tried the right boot and was dismayed to see blood had soaked through the sock. The old split must’ve opened up. No wonder it was stinging so much.

  Before she could shove it back in the boot, the door opened and Daniel Burgess, in full English disdaining mode, eyed her without an ounce of recognition. “Yes?”

  Stella willed her teeth not to chatter and shoved her bloody foot back in the boot. “Don’t you remember me, Da
niel? I didn’t take you for forgetful. It’s only been a couple of weeks.”

  Daniel’s mouth fell open at the sound of her voice and the ice melted. “Mrs. Lawrence?”

  “Yes, it’s me. I need some help.”

  He stared at her and then stepped outside, closing the door. “Mrs. Lawrence. I…what are you doing here? Didn’t you go to Vienna?”

  “Oh, we went all right.” Her teeth started chattering with renewed fury.

  He looked past her. “Where is Mr. Lawrence?”

  “He’s fine. I need some help, Daniel.” Then she remembered she wasn’t supposed to use his first name. “Burgess, I mean. Can you help me?”

  “You’re shaking and wet. Why didn’t you come to the front? You’re a guest.”

  “I’m not a guest. I can’t be a guest. Please listen. There’s been an incident and I need some help.”

  “Yes, of course.” He opened the door and tried to usher her inside.

  “No,” she said. “Can you just let me borrow some money? Not a lot. I’m good for it.”

  “You need to borrow money from me?”

  “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. We had a…an accident and I have to contact my family in the States.”

  “Are you hurt? I will call a doctor. Won’t you come in? I can’t have you of all people standing out in the cold,” said Daniel.

  “No. The less people know I was here, the better. Can you keep it to yourself?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Do you have any money?”

  “Not very much, but what I have is yours.” He opened the door. “You have to get out of the cold.”

  “I only need to send a telegram to my family. How much is that? I don’t even know,” said Stella.

  “It depends on how many words,” he said.

  “A few. I really don’t know, Burgess.”

  “I’m not your butler now. Please call me Daniel.”

  “Thank you. I’m happy to,” said Stella. “Where is the telegram office? Is it open?”

  “It will be for me,” he said. “Won’t you please come in?”

  “No, I—” Her teeth chattered so hard she couldn’t finish the sentence.

  Daniel looked like he might pat her arm, but his innate reserve held him back. “One moment, Mrs. Lawrence.” He ducked inside and returned a minute later, wearing his overcoat and carrying a large golfing umbrella. “If you won’t come in the hotel, please come to my flat. It’s very close.”

  Stella didn’t want to go to his flat. She wanted to send the telegram and get back to Nicky, but she was so cold and exhausted her brain shut off and she allowed him to lead her away down a few streets and into a narrow house. On the third floor, Daniel opened a door so short he had to stoop to get inside and he waved her into an extremely small flat. It was one room with a kitchen, sitting room, and bedroom all in one. Despite Daniel’s prim and proper comportment, it was a god-awful mess with something on every surface and dishes piled in the tiny sink and table.

  “I apologize for the mess. I wasn’t expecting visitors,” he said, hurrying to clean off the settee that he apparently used as a book shelf.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve seen worse,” said Stella, thinking of the streets in Vienna, beds and blood, books and debris.

  “You’re still shaking. Let me take your coat.” He took off her coat and wrapped her in a wool blanket before he started the kettle. “My mother would insist that you need tea, so I will, too.”

  “Tea would be wonderful,” she said relaxing into the settee.

  He got a pad and paper. “I will take your telegram to the office on San Silvestro. What do you want to say?”

  Stella rubbed her hands together and pondered the question. She needed money and she needed to be anonymous. “I need money wired. Can I have it sent to you?”

  “Me?” Daniel couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d kissed him on the lips.

  “Yes. I don’t want anyone to know I’m here in Venice,” she said.

  “But shouldn’t your family know?”

  “They’ll understand.”

  Daniel didn’t look as though he bought that.

  “I trust you. Will you accept the money for me?”

  “Yes, of course, I will, but I don’t understand. If you’re in trouble, the polizia—”

  “I don’t want the polizia. Please just do what I ask. I’ll make it worth your while.”

  He stiffened.

  “I’m not trying to insult you, Daniel. I know you’re very loyal. This is just so important.”

  His feathers smoothed. “I will do as you ask and have the money wired to me, but I don’t understand why.”

  “I’ll explain when it’s all over.”

  “Will that be soon?”

  She said yes, but the answer was no. She felt in her bones that it was far, far from over.

  “What do you wish to say?” he asked, his pencil poised above the pad.

  “To Patrick Mullanphy of…” Stella didn’t know Patrick’s address and she had to think. “Of Dogtown in St. Louis.”

  “Not your family, Mrs. Lawrence?” asked Daniel.

  “No. Patrick Mullanphy. I know. He owns Mullanphy Motor Works. Send it there. That’s in Dogtown, too.”

  “Dogtown?” he asked with a hint of a sneer.

  “It’s an Irish area. The name will help, since I don’t have the address.”

  His mouth twitched, but he asked, “What would you like to say to Mr. Mullanphy?”

  Stella tried to think of something endearing that Patrick would recognize and understand instantly. She smiled. “Say this. Dear Paddy Astaire. Please send a month’s pocket money to Mr. Daniel Burgess of the Bella Luna. Much love, Miss Myna.” She paused. “You should add your bank particulars.”

  “What does that mean?” he asked.

  “He’ll know or rather he’ll know who will know.”

  “Is this Patrick a dancer like Fred Astaire?”

  “His sister says no. It’s an inside joke.”

  Daniel shook his head confused. “And pocket money? Isn’t that a few pence?”

  “Not my pocket money. Father says mine adds up to a Studebaker every two weeks.”

  “That’s astonishing.”

  “I didn’t think so before, but I do now.” Her teeth began to chatter again and she gathered the blanket tighter around her shoulders.

  “You’re still cold,” said Daniel. “Let me get your tea. Milk? Sugar?”

  “Milk, please.”

  He made up her tea, a strong basic blend that warmed her middle but not her toes. “Can you go to the telegraph office now? I really should get back.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “I’d rather not say. It’s better for you and us.”

  He sipped his own tea and Stella could see a fight going on inside him. It was an awkward situation to be sure. Daniel didn’t feel he could tell her what to do, but he was older and a man. Those things came with authority or, at least, men thought they did.

  “Go ahead.”

  Daniel jerked to attention. “Go ahead with what, Mrs. Lawrence?”

  “First of all, call me Stella. I think we’re well past the formalities,” she said.

  “I can’t. It’s not in me,” he said with a smile but he was still at attention.

  “Very well. Then say what you want to say. I know there’s something.”

  “It would be inappropriate for me to express an opinion,” said the butler who looked every inch like he thought he was standing in front of the queen, not a wretched eighteen-year-old American with no right to order him to lift a finger.

  “Remember, you’re not my servant anymore and Nicky saw you as a friend, like Abel.”

  “Is he with you?”

  She glanced away at a stack of True Detective Mysteries magazines and said, “Nicky? Yes, of course, he is.”

  “I meant Abel. We got on quite well and I’d like to see him again.”

  “He
’s not here.”

  Daniel paused and she heard him sip his tea. Stella didn’t look back until she’d cleared Abel’s image from her mind. “Can you go now? It’s getting late.”

  “The tea hasn’t helped. You’re still shivering,” he said, putting down his cup and getting some towels out of a cupboard under the sink.

  “I’m fine, really.”

  He swallowed hard. “Mrs. Lawrence, I insist you take off your boots.”

  “You insist, do you?”

  He swallowed again and years of training went straight out the window. “I do.”

  “Fine.” She reached a shaky hand for her left foot, but he intervened and did it for her, wordlessly taking off her boots, rolling down the wet socks and then, with a glance at her resigned face, he unwound the bandages and dropped them onto the wooden floor. He didn’t grimace or recoil as much as he might’ve wanted to.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “They’re a lot better.”

  “Better?” he asked. “This is better?”

  “It is.”

  “You’re bleeding and your feet…I’ve never…what happened to you, Mrs. Lawrence?”

  The kindness, the concern from a man she barely knew was almost too much. She turned away to the magazines again and read a headline, “Death Trap and the Girl with the Green Eyes.”

  “Mrs. Lawrence?”

  “Stella,” she said. “Please.”

  He took a breath and she looked at him. “Stella,” he said. “What happened?”

  “We had an accident.”

  “With your feet?”

  “Things happened in Vienna,” she said with a shrug and a smile.

  His face changed with the word Vienna and she wished she hadn’t said it. He didn’t need to know or think about it. He wrapped her feet gently in the towels and stood up. “Of course. You were in Vienna when those…things occurred. But surely you and Mr. Lawrence—”