Strangers in Venice Page 20

“Nicky.”

  “Um…yes, Nicky. Wouldn’t you have been away from all that?” asked Daniel.

  “No one was away from it.” She put her hand on his arm and saw him stiffen. That was too far for him and she removed it. “Please don’t be worried about it. We just need some money and it will be fine.”

  He grabbed his overcoat and hastily put it on. “Yes. I’ll go right now. Please drink your tea and rest. I won’t be a moment.”

  Stella leaned back and smiled. “I will.”

  He opened the door but then stopped, looking at her from around the edge. “Stella?”

  “Yes?”

  “Where’s Abel?” he asked.

  “You don’t want to know.”

  He nodded and left, not locking her in, and she settled back with her cup pressed to her lower lip, saying over and over again, “It will be fine. It will be fine.”

  It seemed like only a minute had gone by when someone took the cup out of Stella’s hands and her eyes fluttered open. “Daniel?”

  “I’m back, Mrs. Lawrence, I mean, Stella.” Daniel stood over her with her cup in his hands and a frown on his face.

  “What’s wrong? Wouldn’t they open for you?”

  Someone else lifted her foot and she jerked upright to find a man sitting on a small stool in front of her and looking at her battered foot. “Good evening, Mrs. Lawrence.”

  She yanked her foot away. “Burgess! How could you?”

  “You need a doctor, Mrs. Lawrence, Stella, Mrs. Lawrence. I don’t know, but you need a doctor,” said Daniel, red-faced and more than a little panicked himself.

  “He did the right thing,” said the man in a faint Scottish accent.

  “Says you,” said Stella. “How do I know who you are?”

  The man, elderly with silver hair and small, round glasses perched on his bulbous, hair-filled nose, gently set down her foot and pulled a card out of his breast pocket.

  Dr. Irving Spooner

  Doctor and Surgeon

  English and Italian spoken

  San Polo 42

  Stella glared up at Daniel as she slapped the card against her leg. “How do you know him?”

  “Dr. Spooner is my personal physician and the Bella Luna house physician,” said Daniel. “I can vouch for his character.”

  “I don’t need a doctor. I have a doctor.”

  Dr. Spooner reached for her foot again, giving her a stern squint that made her relent and let him have it.

  “Let me guess,” he said, eyeing her left foot and then her right from all angles, “Dr. Davide?”

  “Maybe.”

  Daniel let out an outraged snort. “Mrs. Lawrence, that man is a disgrace. He’s a drunk and a lech.”

  “I told you to call me Stella and I meant it. Also, I’m well aware of Davide’s character,” she said, calmly. “Dr. Spooner? What is your opinion?”

  “Your feet are in terrible shape.”

  “About Dr. Davide.”

  He directed Daniel to fill a pan with hot water and began digging through his oversized black bag. “Davide is a drunk and a lech. He is also an excellent doctor when sober, which is rare.”

  “You can’t return to him,” said Daniel. “You need good, reliable care. Your feet…”

  Dr. Spooner took the pan, dumped a series of preparations and potions in it that smelled exactly like Dr. Salvatore’s mixture, and dunked her feet in it. The stinging warmth made her jump and then sigh.

  “This isn’t your first medicinal bath,” said the doctor.

  “No.”

  “I assume you were given Prontosil.”

  “Twice.”

  “But you didn’t stay off your feet?”

  She shook her head and he prepared a syringe. “You require another dose and I want you to tell me exactly what happened to your feet.”

  He gave her the shot, which hurt more than she remembered, but she didn’t open up about the injuries. There wasn’t any point. It wouldn’t change anything.

  “Mrs. Lawrence, you need me to understand what has happened.” The doctor’s small hazel eyes bored into her, but she shook her head. He glanced over at Daniel. “Can you step out for a moment?”

  Daniel didn’t like it, but he left the flat.

  When the door had firmly closed, Dr. Spooner said, “Mrs. Lawrence, I can’t make you tell me what happened to you, but it is in your best interest to do so.”

  “I doubt it,” said Stella, crossing her arms.

  He explained that he knew from her reaction to the soak that she had seen Dr. Salvatore, who was particularly good with wound care. This was illegal as he assumed from the cross around her neck that she wasn’t Jewish.

  “I have nothing to say.” She tried to give him back his card.

  He snapped his bag shut. “You need it. If anyone comes calling, show it to them and say I’m your doctor.” He glanced at the door. “I know what Salvatore and Davide are involved in.”

  Stella merely watched him with indifference.

  “And if you are involved with the two of them, you are in serious trouble.”

  She said nothing.

  “Where do you think Salvatore gets his medications? Who do you think is signing the backdated birth certificates?”

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

  “Ask Father Girotti.” He smiled at her expression. “I thought so.”

  “I have nothing to say.”

  “But,” he said with emphasis, “I will have to say something if someone asks me about you.”

  “Okay.”

  “And what shall I say? That I’ve treated Mrs. Stella Bled Lawrence of the Bled Brewing family? Or perhaps something else?”

  Stella met his eyes and her chest got unbearably tight. He knew her name. He could say it…or could he? “Do you believe in keeping your patients’ secrets?”

  “Yes. I believe in doctor-patient confidentiality and I will not disclose anything you say to me in private.”

  “Even my name?” she asked.

  The doctor raised his eyebrows and clasped his hands over his bag. “Strictly speaking, your name isn’t confidential. Unless it has a bearing on your health in some way.”

  “And if it did?”

  “I would keep it confidential, but I can’t confirm that you are my patient in that case.”

  “What if I were to be using another name? Would you confirm that?”

  Dr. Spooner didn’t answer. He got a couple of little pots out of his bags and mixed them together in a small bowl before applying the glop to her feet.

  “Why honey?” asked Stella. “And what’s the other stuff?”

  “Honey fights infection and is very good for healing wounds.” He held up the other little pot. “This is a mixture of arnica, calendula, and aloe vera. All good for burns.”

  “I don’t have a burn.”

  “You do, in a manner of speaking. I’m sure Dr. Salvatore used something similar.”

  “He did.”

  “Sal is a good man.” Dr. Spooner got a bundle of bandages out of his bag, dried her feet, and wrapped them up tight.

  “You didn’t answer my question, doctor,” said Stella. “Would you confirm a different name for me?”

  He thought for a moment and then nodded. “I believe I would, if you said it was necessary for your health.”

  There was nothing for it but to go ahead. “My name is Eulalie Myna. My husband is Douglas Myna. We’re Canadians. My feet had a reaction to the canal water and nothing else.”

  “You haven’t had frost bite, for instance?” he asked with a sly smile.

  “Certainly not.”

  He held out his hand and they shook. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Douglas Myna. Would you like to give me your current address?”

  “I think not.”

  He nodded, dried out her boots, and helped her slip them on. “I recommend that you stay off your feet.”

  “I’ll try,” said Stella, giving him her most
winning smile.

  He sighed. “But you won’t. The young never listen.”

  Stella looked at his card and then tucked it away. “If someone calls you, would you confirm that my husband is suffering from cholera?”

  His eyebrows jutted up. “There hasn’t been an outbreak of cholera here since 1911.”

  “But it’s possible that he could have it.” She pointed at her feet. “Look what the water did to my feet.”

  “Your feet were already damaged.”

  She sighed and leaned back. “So you won’t do it?”

  The doctor mulled it over. “Who diagnosed cholera?”

  “Dr. Davide and Dr. Salvatore decided on it.”

  “May I ask what your husband is really suffering from?” he asked.

  Stella wrinkled her little nose in a way she knew was charming, particularly to men, and he chuckled in response. “I guess not. We will leave it at cholera, but I think it would be best to say a cholera-like illness.”

  “Perfect. That’s what Dr. Davide said.” She grinned at him. “One more thing, doctor.”

  “I feared you’d say that.”

  “Have you treated or met anyone named Sorkine?” Stella asked.

  He thought for a moment. “Man or a woman?”

  “One of each.”

  “No, I’m sorry. Are they injured?” he asked.

  “Not that I know of. We’re trying to find them.”

  Dr. Spooner adjusted his glasses and chose his words carefully. “Maybe you can trust me to say why.”

  Stella leaned forward, putting her hands on his. “It’s not a matter of trust. If you really know Father Girotti, you should understand why.”

  “You’re very young to have so many secrets.”

  She thought of the Goldenbergs on the train with their children and the young woman and her infant. “I’m not so young.”

  “From where I am, you are a child. I will keep an eye out for these mysterious Sorkines.” He got up and called out, “Daniel, come back in!”

  Daniel rushed in with a pipe clamped between his teeth and two lines between his eyes. “How is she?”

  “Eulalie? Oh, she’s fine, young, and healthy. She had an unfortunate reaction to the canal water, but she’ll recover well and quickly.”

  “Canal water?” He pointed at her feet. “That can’t be canal water. Her feet…they’re lumpy.”

  The doctor put on his overcoat and hat. “There is an abundance of nasty contaminates in that water right now.” He looked down at Stella. “Eulalie, you should count yourself lucky that it wasn’t worse.”

  “Yes, Dr. Spooner,” said Stella demurely and he smiled at her with his eyes, not just his mouth.

  “Who’s Eulalie?” asked Daniel, looking around the room as if he expected another woman to jump out at him.

  The doctor picked up his bag and patted the butler’s shoulder. “Your friend, Eulalie Myna, wife of Douglas Myna. If you need anything, Mrs. Myna, don’t hesitate to call.”

  “But I haven’t paid you,” said Stella. “I can’t right—”

  “It’s well in hand. Daniel has taken care of my fee. Have a restful evening.” He left and Daniel stared down at her bewildered. “Eulalie Myna.”

  “Yes, like on the telegram,” she said. “Tell me you sent it.”

  “Yes, I did. But…”

  She held out her hand and he pulled her to her feet. “I’ll explain when it’s all over.”

  “You said that before, but I’m starting to doubt it.”

  “I don’t blame you, but will you call me Eulalie and forget Stella was ever here?”

  “I suppose I will, if Dr. Spooner is,” said Daniel. “How will I find you? Where are you staying?”

  “I can’t say, but don’t worry, I’ll come back to get the money.” Stella put on her coat and hat, soggy as they were.

  “What…what if you don’t come back?” he asked.

  She held out the few coins she had left from Father Giuseppe. “This is all the money I have. I will definitely be back.”

  “I wish you’d tell me what’s happened, so I can help you.”

  “You are helping me. And I will ask one more thing of you.”

  “Anything, Mrs. …Stella…Eulalie.”

  She chuckled and said, “Can you find out if anyone has been to the Bella Luna looking for us?”

  “You you or you Mrs. Myna?”

  “The real us or Abel. It’s important,” she said. “Their name is Sorkine and we need to find them as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll ask and see what I can find out.” He got his pad and pencil. “How do you spell that?”

  She spelled their names and said, “Nicky and I are very grateful and if you ever want to come to the States, you know who to call.”

  He smiled so big that a dimple popped out on his left cheek. Stella didn’t know he had a dimple before that moment he was so reserved. “Do you think Nicky needs a butler?”

  “I don’t think so, but I’m sure something can be worked out.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.”

  She smiled and gave him a swift kiss on his dimple before he could object and become all stiff and formal. “I hope you will.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  NICKY SLEPT ON, breathing deeply without being bothered at all by grey morning light coming in from the window. It still wasn’t “domani” and Stella looked out at the rain, aching for home like she hadn’t since they’d gotten back to Venice. She had to get out and go, but it was the last thing she wanted to do. She longed to call out for her mother and be answered. To have someone come in and take over. Mother and Florence were so good at illness, even Mavis knew her way around a sickbed, but Stella didn’t.

  When she’d gotten back from seeing Daniel, Stella had felt sure things were about to go better, but then she’d seen Nicky, ghostly pale and moaning with pain. Stella couldn’t soothe him and the aspirin wasn’t helping since he couldn’t hold it down. She read to him from The Jungle Book in a vain attempt to distract him until Sofia brought them dinner in their room, but he’d eaten almost nothing and then thrown it up. Around midnight, Sofia brought in a tin of something called Brioschi. She mixed a spoonful in a glass of water and insisted he drink the bubbly mixture.

  It soothed his stomach and he only threw up once more when she’d insisted on changing his bandage, angering him into a rage when she had to roll him over. His buttock was insanely swollen, but he didn’t want to sleep on his front. The battle had gone on all night with him insisting he couldn’t sleep on his face and her saying he obviously couldn’t sleep on his back.

  Finally, in the early morning hours, he consented to roll over and fallen into a sleep that bordered on comatose. Stella didn’t know what time it was, but now was her chance to get out, go back to the hotel, and see if the money had materialized, but she was so tired she could barely find the strength to stand at the window, looking out at the dismal rain. They were running out of time, if they hadn’t already. Only the thought of the Sorkines ending up in Peiper’s hateful hands could motivate her to move.

  “Get dressed,” she said to herself and she picked her skirt and Father Girotti’s socks from the radiator. They’d finished drying, but her coat was still damp and her poor hat would never be the same. It’s lovely swooping feather had been totally destroyed by the last rain with no hope of recovery. It was silly to mourn a hat when there were so many other things to worry about, but Stella was sad. Amelie Boulard gave her that hat and she felt guilty for wrecking it along with her nice, red suit. She was getting good at loss and that wasn’t something a person should be good at.

  She forced herself to put on Father Girotti’s socks. Her feet were better again, but it was only a matter of time and the thought depressed her more than the hat. Now the big decision. What to wear? Her red suit was rumpled and, frankly, looked worse than the donation clothes the priest had given her, but those clothes weren’t suitable. She had to go to breakfast where the fit and holes
were sure to be noticed, so she decided on the suit as bad as it was. She could claim the lost luggage and say she was going out to shop. That would work.

  The suit went on and it took a bit of effort. Having dried funny, it now pinched and pulled in strange places. Stella finger-combed her curls and got them to behave before powdering her nose and applying the rest of her makeup. At least that seemed like her and maybe they wouldn’t notice the suit as much, if she smiled and charmed.

  She’d just about convinced herself that was a real possibility when there was a soft knock on the door.

  “Mrs. Myna, are you up?” called out Sofia.

  Stella went for the door, reaching for the lever when another knock came, a terrific banging and her heart shot up into her throat. Peiper. Just like Vienna. She looked back at Nicky sleeping and the small window. There was nowhere to go. No way to go.

  More banging echoed through the room and then a gruff, Italian voice yelled, “Answer the door!”

  Bartali. Was she going to be arrested for stealing Maria’s bag or pushing that boy into the canal or something else? It’d been a busy few days and he had plenty to choose from. She just had to keep him away from Nicky. Arrested or not, that was the most important thing.

  “Mrs. Myna, please open the door,” said Sofia.

  Stella took a breath and unlocked the door, peeking out with her finger to her lips. “Quiet. You’ll wake my husband.”

  Bartali, his uniform even grubbier than before, glared at her, fists on his hips. “Your husband that has the cholera?”

  “That’s right. I just got him to sleep. He’s very ill. What do you want?”

  He shoved the door and it whacked into Stella’s chest. “Let me see this sick man.”

  “He is very sick,” said Sofia. “Dr. Davide—”

  “Davide will say anything for a price.”

  “He’s a very good doctor.”

  Bartali grabbed Stella by the wrist and dragged her into the hall, ordering one of his men to go in. The man shifted from foot to foot and didn’t budge. He said something in Italian and Stella caught the word cholera.

  He was ordered in again, but he refused.

  “What do you want?” asked Stella. “I’ve been up all night.”