Death Under the Venice Moon (3 page)

"
Gemelli
? You are a twin? You have a twin brother?"

"Lella, Lella, pay attention—
Gemelli
, as in astrology. I named my boat after my birth sign."

That explained the affectionate tone. The man was in love with his boat.

"Got it. This is your beloved speedboat you named
Gemini
because you are a Gemini. Correct?"

"
Brava!
"

Maybe it was the chill of the underground canal or the jet lag that finally caught up with me, but the tingling that crept up my spine when he mentioned
Gemini
wasn't pleasurable. More like bad memories and an urge to get out of there.

Cruz's flashlight had a limited but powerful beam. He pointed it and examined the ropes anchoring the
Gemelli
.

"Don't you have any electricity?" I stomped my feet. The humidity from the slippery stones dampened my ankle boots.

"Of course I do, but I don't want to attract attention."

"Attract attention? Whose attention? The sewer rats?"
I can't believe I said that.

He grabbed my elbow and forced me to walk the length of the boat past the bow. A few meters ahead, the underground boat slip opened into a wide canal dripping in moonlight. Cruz pointed across the water at a few lit windows. "The stores are closed, but people live above the businesses." He smiled. "Like you say in America, I like to keep a low profile."

"Is below sea level low enough? How about we go back to the condo?"

"Not yet. I want you to understand how free I feel to be myself. No agents, no paparazzi, just me and my boat." He rubbed his hand against the side of the speedboat the same way I ran my hands over Flash's back, except my cat purred. "My boat is my magic door. Once we leave the slip, I enter a different world, a world where I can choose who I want to be and where I want to go. No one questions me. I spend days on one of the small islands, just painting."

"You paint?"

"Painting is my passion. When I'm no longer, um, effective on the screen, I will paint every day. Augusta stores all my painting material when I'm gone for long periods of time. I don't leave anything personal in the condo. You never know who may stop by."

"You mean you are not the only one with the keys?"

"I'm told I am, and I give keys to my guests, but I trust no one. And you are right, Lella, I do wear wigs and glasses when I roam around town. Here." He climbed aboard the boat and was immediately coated in that ghostly, washed-out color. "Take my hand; come aboard."

"No, that's okay. Really. I'm fine." My stomach gurgled loudly. Cruz kept his arm stretched out to me.
Damn!
He helped me up. The saying "a fish out of water" took on a whole new meaning. All I wanted was to get out of that drippy, stinky place.

The boat actually smelled of new paint or something. Cruz stood there like a king assessing his domain. If a simple boat gave him such pleasure, this middle-aged man must have missed a lot more than a good meal in his life.

"See?" He pointed to the skylight above. "Soon the moon will be directly over us, and on nights like this I lie on the bow. Come on, I'll show you."

"Show me what?" I really, really didn't want to be there and had no intention of waiting for the moon to reach its pinnacle. This was getting too strange. Cruz lifted me up and sat me on the bow of the boat. He seemed very comfortable, while I was just the opposite.

"Relax, relax." He settled himself beside me and leaned back, looking straight up past the skylight to the moon just coming into view.

He tapped his palm against the bow. The chill and humidity must have messed up my brain functions, because I lay back next to him, looking at the same moon, thinking of the easiest way to get the hell out of there.

"Nights like these make it all worth it." His voice dreamy.

I had no idea what he meant, and I didn't care.
Lunatic
. It dawned on me the moon in Italian was
luna
. How appropriate.

"So, Cruz, you're Spanish?" I figured talking might keep him from enjoying his moonlight, and maybe we'd go back to the condo.

"Spanish? No. Why do you think I'm Spanish?

"Your name?"

"Oh, that. I adopted the name."

"Adopted? You mean you legally changed your name? Or is it your screen name?"

"When my friend died I adopted his name to honor him."

We are not having this conversation. He's rehearsing some movie part and wants to see my reaction.
"And you didn't have to go to court for that?"

"Only three people know, now four. I doubt you'll go out and tell the world about it. Besides, no one will believe you."

Dear God, the man is crazy.
"What about your family, don't they care?"

"I don't know. I grew up in an orphanage. My friend and I ran away when we were about twelve. I always liked his name." He became very quiet, then I heard muffled sounds. Was he crying?

"He died of meningitis when he turned fourteen. I gave the priest my name for the burial. Manuel approved. I know it. Now Manuel De La Cruz is a household name—not bad for a runaway orphan." His voice faded.

He really is a great actor. Maybe I should clap.
I wanted to hug him and tell him everything would be okay, but I choked on my emotions and didn't move.

The boat rocked a little harder. I was getting motion sickness.

My imagination played tricks on me. I could have sworn someone else was on the boat. I felt a presence then—no—I caught a moving shadow. Too frightened to scream, I elbowed Cruz.

"You hungry?" He got halfway up. I don't know if he saw the fear on my face, but something must have alerted him. He turned his head, and his body stiffened. "Hey!
Delinquente
," he yelled.

When Cruz moved, I could see the dark silhouette of a man perched on the side of the boat. The stranger jumped off. The sound of his pounding feet receded as he ran away.

I lay still, paralyzed by fear.

Cruz jumped down and went after the intruder.

The roar of a motorized boat zipped by the open canal before Cruz even reached the end of the slip.

Show over.

Cruz paced with the frenzy of a caged feral cat.

"Shouldn't you call the police?" I sat at the dining room table, not knowing what to do.
Can this day get any weirder?

"Call the police and say what? A stranger touched my boat?"

"The stranger was clearly trespassing, and I'm sure he was going to rob you or something."

"How do you know he was trespassing?" He stopped at the opposite side of the table, the intensity of his stare totally disturbing. "Is he a friend of yours? No one has ever come close to my boat at night, ever. Until tonight, that is."

I didn't like the way this was going, and above all I didn't like his accusing attitude.

"Friend? What friend? I know no one in this town. All I saw was a dark shadow, then he was gone." Those eyes of his—reminding me of other eyes, stirring memories, painful memories I didn't want to revisit.

"Maybe he was a paparazzo." He looked at me again. "Did you see him take photos?"

"No, of course not. I didn't see any flash, did you?"

He stared at me like I was a seagull who pooped on his boat. "Flash? Who needs a flash? What? Are you living in the sixties? This is 2008. Remember?" He headed for the direction of the kitchen, mumbling.

I pouted. How rude of him to bring up the age issue. I rethought the matter of his cinematic charm.

I hadn't dared to question him about dinner, but intruder or not, I could use some food. The clatter of dishes came from the kitchen. My mouth began to water. "Need some help?"

"No, I'm getting our food from the dumbwaiter. I'll be right there." His tone very pleasant.

Dumbwaiter? I'd never seen one and wanted to go have a peek, but the volatile Cruz finally sounded more composed, so I stayed where I was. Better not to poke the sleeping bear. He brought two covered dishes then turned back to the kitchen.

"I don't mind helping," I offered.

"You are my guest—besides, not much to do but open a bottle of wine and enjoy our meal. No sense worrying about what happened on the boat. We'll see. Let's eat." He sat across the table from me, picked up his napkin, and smiled. "Aren't you going to look at your food?"

"Oh, yes, sure." I removed the stainless steel plate cover. My risotto looked perfect, and the appetizing smell of shellfish wiped away all thoughts of boats, paparazzi, and mercurial actors. "Mmm."

Cruz slid a wine-filled stem glass toward me. "A toast to an exciting tomorrow," he said.

I wasn't going to ask him to explain. I toasted, sipped some wine—excellent—then started to eat my risotto. Never checked to see what my host ate. By the third bite I realized I hadn't thought about Larry since I screamed at Cruz moonbathing on the rug. Maybe I had reached the turning point. I wished.

We ate in silence. Cruz refilled my glass, always without talking. Awkward. The whole evening felt like a page from the diary of a cranky
divo
.

My sense of gratitude for the hospitality waned according to Cruz's mood. When he stood and cleared his place from the table, I saw a chance to pack it in for the night without offending him. I picked up my plate, silverware, and glass and followed him to the kitchen. He set his tableware into a cabinet built into the wall. The dumbwaiter!

"How clever." I drummed up as much improvised enthusiasm as I could muster.

"Oh, you mean this?" Cruz pointed to the mini-elevator with so much pride you'd have thought he invented it. "Here, let me show you how it works."

After adding my tableware, he closed the door and pushed a button on the wall, and a soft whir from the other side of the closed cabinet door let me know the dirty dishes were on their way down.

"Wish I had one in my kitchen," I joked, "but my kitchen is on the bottom floor."

"This is a small one. They come in all sizes."
Dear God, what have I done? He is going to tell me the history of dumbwaiters.
"As a matter of fact, we used a large dumbwaiter in my movie
Zodiac
. That's how we explained the disappearance…you've seen that movie? Haven't you?" The expression on my face must have told him I had never heard of the movie. And his expression told me he wasn't happy about it. "Well, Kyle's mamma, prepare yourself for a treat." We were back to "Kyle's mamma," not a good sign. He strode into the living room, pointed to the large couch. "You sit here while I get it ready."

Damn, he was going to make me watch this movie of his. Mental images of me snoring on the couch while the film rolled gave me a hot flash. Another of my ob-gyn's predictions coming to life.
How can I get out of watching the movie? Call Kyle?
It must have been after ten. And say what? "Mommy doesn't want to watch Cruz's picture. Come save me." I sat on the couch, phony smile plastered on my face, fingers crossed it would be a short movie.

Cruz seemed happy as could be. He opened a large, ornate armoire opposite the couch, and a screen appeared. With his back to me, he clicked buttons, slid drawers, came to sit next to me, grinning, then changed his mind, got up, crossed the room and dimmed the chandelier.

"There. Now we are ready. Sorry, no popcorn, but we have wine." Again he got up and came back with a new bottle and two heavy, cut crystal goblets.

I forced myself not to roll my eyes and kept the phony smile steady. This time when he sat, he held a remote and made himself comfortable before pouring wine into both glasses. When he clicked the remote, he looked giddy as a child on Christmas morning. "I should have won an award," he mumbled. "I'm a chameleon in this movie. I spent months researching and preparing for the part. You'll see."

The scene opened in black and white. A desolate landscape, it seemed almost from a different planet. Eerie music rose. The shot bounced from a close-up of dead trees to a close-up of a sheer rocky cliff. Then the camera pointed to the sky, and the screen filled with dark infinity and stars. No moon. Credits rolled, the title, names, and trademarks. Boring. I stifled a yawn.
It's going to be a long night.
The screen was no longer black and white, more sepia than anything else. The camera zoomed inside to a room that looked like a
sacristia
, a church utility room—dark cabinetry, tall, skinny windows. In the shadowy scene, a candle. I could clearly see the candle's flame and a person—was it a man?—hunched on a chair beside the table with the candle.

The hair on the back of my neck rose to attention as an inexplicable sense of urgency to get up and run surged from deep in my soul. The music grew louder, and so did my inner wail. When the camera zoomed on the hunched figure, he turned. The candle cast leaping shadows on the man's bony face.

Thick lashes framed his eyes; a deep furrow crossed his forehead.

Mio Dio.

The gold stud in his right earlobe reflected the gleam of the candle.

Strands of gray hair lay amid the black at his temples.

"You. It was you!" I cried out and leapt from the sofa to put distance between us.

He grabbed my leg as I passed him. "Lella, what's gotten into you?"

I spun and hit him with my fist. His glass landed on the thick carpet, spilling the wine.

"You miserable man, it was you on Ponte Vecchio. Don't try to deny it. February 2006. Does that ring a bell? The chart of a dead woman. How dare you, how?" I found myself sobbing between hurled words. "I need to tell Kyle. You messed with his life ."

"Lella, Lella, calm down. That was you?
L'Americana
. Los Angeles." He held my arms so I couldn't slip away, and when I looked up the man from hell was laughing. Laughing. "How could I possibly have messed Kyle's life? You were alone. Yes, I remember now. I did an astrological chart…for you? Oh my God. I can't believe that was you. So, what? You took my nonsense seriously? How is that my fault?"

"It wasn't my birth date I gave you…" What was I doing? Rehashing the past? For what? The simple logic of his statement began to sink in. How was it his fault I swallowed his nonsense, hook, line, and sinker, like they say? The screaming and sobbing had depleted the small amount of energy I had left. I dragged myself back to the couch and sat.