Death Under the Venice Moon (24 page)

But then I caught a name…
Cruz
. I got on my feet. Wobbling and swaying, I made my way up next to Larry.

"What about Cruz?"

"Marco was telling me"—I had forgotten about Marco's knowledge of English—"that the Italian detective phoned Kyle while he was in Marco's car. Gave him the real version of Cruz's rescue. Supposedly Cruz got tired of waiting for Pia and walked twice to this remote garage and gas station to—get this—buy cigarettes. The only thing he ran out of. No one recognized him until he wanted them to—that would be early this morning. The owner said he found him asleep inside a customer's car left there for repairs. Of course, Team Giada is probably writing a generous check to this garage owner, who will experience sudden amnesia regarding the previous visits."

Marco laughed out loud. "You have it figured out already, the Italian way of doing business?"

Larry shook his head. "Nah, Marco, it's not an Italian monopoly. It's a worldwide disease." He soaked in the colorful
palazzi
and the noisy
vaporetti
packed with tourists willing to take a chance on Venetian-style mass transportation.

"Mr. Cruz should be at the hotel shortly with his crew. They'll prep him for the press conference this afternoon."

"God, I hope we can get out of there before the arrival of the circus and the main clown." I meant every mean word I said.

We reached the end of the canal. Marco did an exaggerated U-turn just like he did for my first ride, and Larry got an eyeful of Piazza San Marco and a colorful crowd of visitors and pigeons alike. The tourists all had their backs to the water, looking toward the Two Moors clock tower. Marco slowed the boat just as the first Moor hit the huge bronze bell. One o'clock. I watched Larry's expression, like a child on Christmas morning. Marco had just earned a nice bonus to be added to his tip.

We walked through the tall glass doors, and I felt the need to pull on Larry's arm as he moved at snail's speed trying to see as much as possible. Talk about an American tourist. I loved his eagerness.

Just as before, the concierge came to greet me, announced he had an envelope, and asked if I could wait.

"Here is your chance to fill your eyes with the place, then let's move fast," I said to Larry. "The last thing I want is to run into either Giada or Cruz." I doubted he heard a word I said.

I opened the thick envelope in the elevator. It was my United States of America passport.
Thank you, thank you, God
. With all the daily drama I had forgotten all about it.

If I had expected Larry to help me pack, I would have been wrong. He was totally overwhelmed by the shape of the windows, the height of the ceilings, and the view of the canal. I sent the luggage down to Marco and his water taxi, and we still managed to get out of there within thirty minutes. I had to make sure I didn't leave anything behind. I was never returning to the Century. Okay, after Larry's state of awe, maybe
never
was too strong a word.

On the way down, we discussed Marco's tip. We would recycle the passport's envelope to slip him a serious reward. I helped Larry figure out the paper money.

"So, you're okay? We drive to my hometown, spend a day there then we can come back to Venice, stay in a different hotel and play anonymous tourists? By then Cruz's parade should have left town."

The elevator stopped at the lobby. Since we were the only two people in it, we moved close to the doors. But when they opened we were nearly run over by a loud group of photo-popping paparazzi and people shouting. I recognized Roberto, Cruz's agent.
No!

"No comment, no comment," he kept repeating while I fought my way out. Larry hesitated only a moment, but that was enough for us to be separated.

I found myself outside the elevator, in front of the frenzied group of reporters, and against Cruz's back. Why, oh why?

He turned and saw me. Larry was right behind Roberto, who was trying to reach Cruz and pull him into the elevator.

"Kyle's mamma."
Maledizione
.

Cameras clicked at warp speed, if that was even a valid measure. And Cruz? The idiot grabbed me and tried to kiss me on the lips. In public. That was when I decked him. I figured it was either me or Larry, and odds were I'd have a better chance of getting away with it.

It caught Cruz totally unprepared. He let go of me and fell backward against one of the young paparazzi I recognized from when I first arrived. I heard giggles and open laughs.

Larry took my arm, and we ran out the lobby doors to the boat dock, trailed by the reporters.

The minute he saw us, Marco revved the engine. I decided we needed to add more paper money to the envelope. We hopped onto the boat. In all the excitement, my knee felt brand new. We waved goodbye to the reporters still clicking away on the dock of the Century Palace.

We were laughing so hard tears ran down my cheeks. Larry noticed and wiped them away with his fingers. His eyes locked on to mine.

"I didn't know you could throw such a mean punch." His voice was a tad husky.

I smiled. Everything was going to be okay.

*  *  *

Sign up for the Gemma Halliday Publishing newsletter to get an email alert when the next Lella York book is available!

*   *   *

Maria Grazia Swan was born in Italy, but this rolling stone has definitely gathered no moss. She lived in Belgium, France, Germany, and beautiful Orange County, California, before settling in her current home of Phoenix, Arizona. Maria loves travel, opera, good books, hiking, and intelligent movies (if she can find one, that is). Her idea of a perfect evening includes stimulating conversation, rich Italian food, and a perfectly chilled Prosecco. Maria has written several novels, short stories, and articles for high profile magazines and blogs taking on life and love … Italian style!

To learn more about Maria Grazia, visit her online at

mariagraziaswan.com

*   *   *

Lella York series:

Murder under the Italian Moon

Death under the Venice Moon

Mina Calvi series:

Love Thy Sister

Bosom Bodies

Other works:

Mating Dance

Medley of Murder

*   *   *

Enjoyed this book? 

Check out a

of another humorous romantic mystery from Gemma Halliday Publishing,

Organized for Murder
, Organized Mysteries book #1

ORGANIZED FOR MURDER

* * * * *

KATE MCKENZIE'S 5-STEP ORGANIZATIONAL START METHOD

BEGIN ANY DE-CLUTTER PROJECT BY COLLECTING AND LABELING FIVE LARGE BOXES:

REJECT—items un-repairable, missing parts, past expiration, or like half-a-dozen others already in the house.

RECYCLE—gently used, unwanted items for charitable organizations or Freecycle.

RESELL—through consignment shops, tag sales, eBay, Craigslist, or newspaper ads.

RETURN—sporting goods, toys, books, tools, etc. that belong to family members, neighbors, or friends.

REVIEW—things requiring extra thought before fate is determined.

Completely unload the room or closet, distributing discarded items into correct boxes. Return only "keepers" to the target area.

CHAPTER ONE

STACKED IN YOUR FAVOR, LLC,

KATE MCKENZIE, PRES.

BUSINESS PLANNER FOR JOB #  
1

DATE
Wed., April 7th

9:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. -- Meet with Miss Amelia Nethercutt at her
mansion
to organize her and her late husband's exotic collections. Magnificent sprawling home and grounds. On phone seemed eager to learn organizational techniques. Says she scrapbooks and keeps a daily journal. Spend time telling how to develop her vision, to make a date with herself each day to keep living space organized and de-cluttered. Also, since she's a collector, offer the "One-in/One-Out Rule" so old replaced item always goes out when new item is purchased.

*  *  *

"On the second day, I decided widowhood was infinitely better than divorce."

"Miss Amelia!" Kate McKenzie caught herself, and her teacup, an instant before the Lapsang Souchong escaped over the gold rim and onto the Aubusson rug. While the cream and sienna tones of the carpet would have accepted the tea stain like a distant relative, such an accident threatened to be an uneasy alliance. Especially as Kate courted this new, and particular, client.

Amelia Nethercutt took the still-clattering china from Kate's hands and settled the pieces on the gleaming rosewood coffee table, then said, "It isn't as if I don't know the pros and cons of both marital dissolution options, my dear. My marriage to Daniel was my fifth, no, sixth marriage. I keep forgetting Joey. And receiving an inheritance is much more liberating than monthly alimony."

Kate stiffened on the white-on-white Victorian sofa and hoped her smile didn't look like a grimace. She again swatted the irritating peacock feather and gilt-streaked twig arrangement that invaded the personal space around her left shoulder. Where had common sense fled when she agreed to work sight-unseen in this procurement madhouse?

Façades could be most deceiving; Amelia's and the mansion's. The woman's exterior resembled that of her home—sweeping luxury and professional styling. Even Kate's first look inside of the house, the foyer with its elegant mahogany collectibles cabinet standing guard against taupe-colored grass-cloth, fooled her.

Then she'd seen this parlor, the study, the bedrooms, the conservatory, the library, and…well…all the other "treasure rooms."

This first workday revolved in a repetitive nightmare of list making, supply ordering, prioritizing, and attempts to stem the overwhelming need to hyperventilate. Even her never-fail categorizing system of R
EJECT
, R
ECYCLE
, R
ESELL
, R
ETURN
, and R
EVIEW
periodically failed to keep Kate's panic at bay. Finally, for the first time ever, she gave up and began dividing the upstairs by what rooms were wholly trash and which might be salvageable. Of course, this never meant she would actually be allowed to throw out anything, but she persevered. Until Amelia had called from downstairs and said it was time for a "tea moment."

Kate's last ally disappeared as Mrs. Baxter, the Nethercutts' cotton-haired cook, had bustled in bringing the tea tray and placed it near Amelia. "Nice meeting you, dearie," Mrs. Baxter said, before straightening her pink pillbox hat and telling her employer, "I'm going to the market and the drugstore. There's a cab waiting. I'll be back as quickly as I can."

Amelia nodded, pouring tea as she spoke, "That's fine. I left some budgeting papers on the front table for the garden club vice-president. Please drop them off while doing your errands." She had smiled at Kate then and added, "I'm president again this year, you know."

Kate assumed the comment was rhetorical, but offered a smile for insurance.

"The material is out in the foyer," Amelia called to Mrs. Baxter, and as she waved toward the front door her spicy, nose-tickling scent perfumed the air. "I've made some exciting suggestions and changes. They will require a few club members to reflect a bit before complete acceptance, especially our esteemed vice-president, Gabriella Cavannah-Wicker. Your taking the packet will expedite matters admirably, so everyone has adequate ruminative time."

Mrs. Baxter rolled her eyes heavenward behind her thick lenses. She left via the front door, just as Kate performed her teacup juggle in response to Amelia's disturbing pronouncement. A statement particularly unsettling in light of her late-husband Daniel Nethercutt's recent demise.

Amelia picked up the sugar bowl and offered, "There's nothing like a few minutes for tea."

The smoky smelling brew looked dark. Kate added a liberal dose of milk and worried about the exquisite teacup, musing whether the liquid was capable of eating through the fragile porcelain.

Once more she should have listened to her instincts, but, as usual, decided to focus on the positive side and be nice and agreeable. Landing a rich client seemed a godsend for her new organizing business, S
TACKED
IN
Y
OUR
F
AVOR
. Besides, it wasn't difficult to believe her initial unease due to the fact only a week had passed since Mr. Daniel drifted off to whatever heavenly reward a compulsive collector deserved. At first, Kate worried Amelia was one of those bereaved spouses who too quickly decided to "clean house." But Amelia insisted. Amelia insisted on everything, and Kate's backbone turned to butter.