Death Under the Venice Moon (14 page)

When I was young we had to drive steep and narrow mountain roads to get from Vicenza to Trento. The
autostrada
was a smooth road that didn't leave a single speck of dust on the windshield or back bumper. Cars whizzed by at high speeds. Yet Kyle's driving and the road were so smooth there was no motion sickness for me. Not at all like when I was a little girl.

*  *  *

Here I was at the railroad station of Trento. It reminded me a lot of other Italian train stations.

I found the bar Kyle had described and after ordering a fat prosciutto panino and a beer, I located a small table for two. A lovely plant created a natural barrier from the rest of the place. I was bound to go unnoticed. Drinking beer before noon? I couldn't help but smile at the thought of what my American friends would say. In Italy, no one cared; there was no five o'clock approval time. And the beer and
panino
were what I craved. I had my fill of cappuccino and pastries.

I promised Kyle not to attract attention. As far as others were concerned, I was officially in my bedroom at the Century—a sad recluse, if you will. Unless a crowd decided to rush the bar for a quick snack, I could sit and stare for hours, just another middle-aged woman waiting for the train. With some luck, Larry would arrive soon to get me. Or would he? What if he phoned me?

Kyle insisted I shouldn't let anyone hear me speak English. Honestly, the kid was paranoid. The news of Cruz's agent's overdose lingered in my mind. Could there be a connection? How? I had no doubt that Cruz was the main moneymaker in Roberto's agency. It would seem he had nothing to gain by the star's disappearance. Could they have been lovers? Maybe Roberto was gay. How about Cruz's affairs? Cover-up? Nah, too farfetched. And how about Giada's comment, "Something good for the studio and perhaps for you. I mean, with Cruz gone…"? Was she hoping to convince Kyle to stay in Italy a little longer?

But Roberto's answer that first day at the meeting with De Bernardi was indeed odd. "He could be dying in a ditch beside a deserted road for all we know." Roberto seemed to be the only one who was more concerned with Cruz's wellbeing than with financial aspects of the actor's disappearance. Very personal.

*  *  *

Forty-five minutes later the
panino
and the beer were gone, and I needed to use the bathroom. I hated Italian public restrooms. And I didn't have any change to get into one. Damn. I spotted a newsstand just outside the bar, inside the station. Great, I could buy something to read and get change. Problem solved.

So many magazines, glossy covers with gorgeous women. I lingered, staring. Someone behind me cleared his throat. Better pick one and move out of the way. I did, paid, and headed toward the bathroom.

Had this been an American ladies' bathroom I could sit on a comfy chair, read, and pass the time waiting for Larry, but that wasn't possible in Italian public
toilettes
, especially the ones in stations. I brushed my teeth with the travel toothbrush from my purse, washed my hands, and put some lipstick on. That was it. I could blend well with the average Italian population. Okay, sort of, but no one was paying attention to me in spite of Kyle's gloomy predictions.

I sat in the main waiting room, my carryon rested next to me. Putting on my reading glasses to glance at the magazine I'd just purchased made me feel so old. It was one of those trashy papers with headlines like
Woman Impregnated by Aliens
, or what about this one?
Who Is Sofia's Real Father
? Come on, the poor woman was nearly seventy. Why should she even care? Damn. So much for catching up with news; it was plain garbage.

Oh, no! I quickly closed the pages and looked around to see if anyone noticed me. Not possible. That was me, my picture, wearing the robe from the spa, raccoon eyes and mouth open like a fish on the hook. Kyle's small picture was next to mine, but the article discussed the possibility—had all Italians gone crazy?—that I came to Italy to seduce Cruz. Yes, the word
seduce
used next to my name didn't feel right.

The article even suggested I had a hand in the disappearance, all to advance my son's career. Did Kyle know about these fabrications? Could that be the reason he insisted I become invisible? To protect me? Who came up with the printed lies? I sat, frozen. What if someone recognized me? I felt dirty. Where should I hide?

Oh, God.
Please, Larry, come get me
. The "California Girls" jingle never sounded so good. I put the cell to my ear and bent as if tying my shoes.

"Larry, where are you?" I whispered into the
telefonino
.

My whole body trembled, electrified as I watched Larry lock the Mercedes. He hadn't noticed me yet. I could hardly breathe in anticipation of meeting face to face for the first time since he left for Florida. How long ago was that? A month? Hardly.

Guilt ate at my soul, and while I mentally vowed never to pull something so unjustified again, deep down I knew I might. I stood outside the train station, waiting. He parked where Kyle told him to, and as he walked toward me, I willed myself not to move.

Wait, Lella, wait.

I knew he saw me by the way he quickened his pace, and even from the distance I felt his eyes on me. God, I'd forgotten how good he looked. Tall and confident, he wore a short charcoal coat I'd never seen before, and his hair in this wintry late afternoon light took on the darkest shade of black. Unlike me, the graying part of aging seemed to have passed him by.

"Lella." We had agreed to keep it simple, like casual friends would. We couldn't attract attention. He took hold of my carryon with one hand and stroked the side of my face with the back of his free hand.

I held his stare and kept silent. Should I apologize? Before I could make up my mind, his lips brushed the cheek where his caress still lingered and he whispered, "I missed you so."

I swallowed my lumped-up emotions along with my uncertainties, and we walked to his car, our steps in sync, his arm around my shoulders. I realized there was nothing I had to say, at least not at this precise moment. Later, perhaps—much later.

He stored my luggage in the back seat. The interior of this Mercedes was different from the one he had back home. It smelled like a new car should, and the gray leather seats felt soft to the touch. Larry started the engine, seemed to change his mind, and turned halfway to look at me.

I felt like a sixteen-year-old on her first date. My cheeks burned. I wasn't sure if the cause was all those suppressed feelings or my hot flashes flaring up again.

He grabbed the sides of my hood and pulled me to him. "You look like a little Eskimo." His voice a tad husky, he kissed my lips without lingering, then let me go, and a few seconds later the car started to move.

I unzipped my quilted jacket. I was on fire.

How could it be that easy? No scolding, no questions, just a whole lot of tenderness. All that made me feel even guiltier about the way I had behaved toward him. Maybe that was his game, to show me how good a man he was. Stop it. I had to say something. What?

He beat me to it. "So tell me what's going on with this—Cruz? You don't seem as scared and nervous as Kyle described you."

"When did you talk to Kyle?" There. I spoke. The earth didn't explode, yet my heart hadn't stopped fluttering in my throat.

"A few hours ago. He called to make sure I was on my way to get you. He's a really nice young man." Was he mentally comparing Kyle to Olivia?

I remembered my son's comment.
"Is there really an Olivia?"

"How about you give me your version of the events?" he said.

"Mine is the long one."

"We have all the time in the world. By the way, are you hungry? Do you want to find a place to eat or take the toll road back to Austria?"

"Let's get out of Trento. Do you know your way back to the
autostrada
?"

"I know how to get to it, but I can't figure out how to pronounce it, hence 'toll road.'" I sensed the smile in his voice. "We need to cross a bridge, coming up pretty soon. I've memorized the map."

The stoplight turned red, and the tow truck in front of us stopped in a shriek of brakes. We barely missed hitting it. The abrupt stop seemed to shake the damaged car on the flatbed.
Damaged
was a loose way of describing it. The thing looked like a pancake.

"That must have been some accident. Looks like the car caught fire before it rolled," Larry said knowingly.

The streetlights came on, and the whole scene seemed like a movie freeze frame.

A man came from the driver side of the truck, walked around, and stopped to look at the front of the Mercedes. He was all bundled up in heavy working clothes. A knit hat with a visor hid his eyes. He wore the kind of gloves I'd seen on city workers digging in public places back home.

"Does he think I hit him?" Larry asked.

Before I could answer, he put the car in park and opened the door. Damn. He didn't know Italian drivers. The light was now green and angry motorists drove around us, beeping their horns without restraint. I grabbed my jacket and hurried from the car.

"Is there something wrong,
signore
?"

The man looked at me and shook his head. "I thought I heard a loud thump, was afraid the cargo shifted." He checked around; I followed his glance, and among the soot-smudged surface I noticed spots of dark green paint showing through, and something else: a faded
I heart NY
sticker.

Oh my God!
Pia's car. I waved my hand in alarm. I couldn't find my voice.

"Lella, what's wrong?" Larry walked to my side.

The truck driver's eyes bounced between Larry and me.

"Where did you get this car?" I spoke in Italian, and I could read frustration on Larry's face.

"Car?
Signora
, this was once a car, it's now evidence. I'm delivering it to Trapasso Servizi, other side of the river, and if you don't mind I'll get going so I can make it home for supper."

"You don't understand. The driver is my son's best friend. She's been missing for days."

"Makes sense. The accident occurred days ago. Between the bad weather and the location, it took a special crane to retrieve this thing from the ravine. Of course the driver was rescued right away, I'm sure."

"Pia is all right? Where is she? Can I see her?"

Larry paced. He seemed to be concentrating very hard, trying to make sense of the conversation.

Meanwhile, the truck man studied me like I was a bona fide loony. With a sigh he pulled a business card from an inside pocket and handed it to me. "
Signora
, I know nothing—when I was sent to retrieve the vehicle there was no one there except the police collecting personal items from around and under the upside-down car. Here is the phone number of the
centralino
for
la stradale
. You call them. I've got to go. I don't get paid overtime.
Buonasera
."

He turned on his heel, and soon the truck carrying Pia's car disappeared over the San Lorenzo Bridge.

"What the hell was that all about?" Larry the cop wasn't pleased. Feeling useless?

"I—we need to follow the truck. That's Pia's car and—where is my phone? I'll call this number…"

The chorus of car horns hurt my ears.

"Lella, right now we need to get out of the intersection before a cop makes us. Let's go."

I got back in the car like a robot. My mind tried to process all the new information but only succeeded in feeling overwhelmed and unprepared. My hands trembled so badly my cell phone slipped away and landed under my seat. I bent over to try to find it.

"Lella, come on, sit and put on your seatbelt. Talk to me. Who is Pia, and how do you know for sure that's her car? I didn't see the license plate. Did you?"

"Nooo, you don't understand. It's the sticker, the one with the heart. Where are you going?" I was coming unglued. All that self-control and extra helping of silence, gone, poof. I wanted to scream at the world; instead I screamed at Larry.

He put his hand on my knee and stroked it gently while driving across the bridge the same way the tow truck had gone. Good. Then I realized he went that way because that was the only way he could go.
Breathe, Lella, breathe
.

"I'll pull over if I can, but, Lella, this is uncharted territory. I don't even understand the signs except for the ones pointing us to the ato…the toll road. So, what would you like me to do? I'm at your service as long as I can be back to the hotel by six a.m. I have a plane to catch at nine thirty tomorrow morning."

"You what?"

"I was going to tell you once we were in a more relaxed situation. I forgot this is Lella we're talking about. Tell me what's going on. When I stop at the next red light, go ahead and get your phone from under the seat. Maybe we can call Kyle."

We?
Was he going to ask Kyle to come and get me because he had a plane to catch? What was happening? Was he flying back to the States?

I looked around. The sun was about to become a purple memory behind a mountain peak. The river Adige flowed peacefully under the San Lorenzo Bridge we had just crossed, and the streets would soon be deserted because of suppertime. We were approaching the toll road that would take us to Austria, where Larry would get into a plane and go where? With whom?

I wasn't going to wait for a red light. I unfastened the seatbelt and scrunched down to search for my phone. The
bing, bing
from hell urged me to get back into my seat and buckle up. I found my cell and sat back.

Larry didn't say a word, kept his eyes on the road. I could tell by the tightness of his jaw he was as upset as I was, maybe more. He didn't understand the language, and he surely didn't understand me. Before I could click on Kyle's number, the cell chimed.

"Hel—
pronto
. Kyle? Oh my God, you are not going to believe this. I was about to call you. What? Who? Yeah, yeah, Larry is here. He's driving. No. You listen. I found Pia. No, not Pia. I mean I found Pia's car and…Larry? Why do you want to talk to Larry? I don't make sense? Excuse me, but—"