Death in Florence, page 16
Diana looked over at her poor, starving Watson. Leave it to Bea to complete forget about their mission when it came to satisfying her sweet tooth. Linda nodded and looked at Diana. “And for you?”
“Nothing. Thank you. I was wondering--”
The barista held up a finger and turned to get the espresso. As she did, Diana laid the origami flower on the counter.
When the barista turned around, she caught sight of it and tilted her head. “What’s that?” She smiled. “And why does it have my name on it?”
“We were hoping that you could tell us, Linda?” Diana said. “It came from Marcello Camillo’s dressing room at the theater. I believe he may have planned to give it to you?”
Linda stared at it, her smiled disappearing. Then her face crinkled, and she began to cry. She looked around helplessly, then plucked a few napkins from the dispenser. “Oh, it’s terrible,” she sniffled. “I heard what happened to him. Everyone’s been talking about it. Excuse me . . .”
She pulled away from the counter, whispered something to one of the baristas, and rushed into the back room.
Bea laid her hand on the display case, stared forlornly at her pastry, and let out a big sigh. “So close, and yet so far away.”
Ignoring her, Diana watched the door the woman had passed through. “Come on, Bea.”
She marched behind the counter and through the door to the back room. The woman, sitting on a stool and dotting her eyes with a handkerchief, straightened in surprise. “I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I just get so emotional. I really can’t believe he’s gone. He was such a great talent. I’ve been following the troupe for some time, you see, and—”
“So you saw him in A Midsummer Night’s Dream?”
She shook her head. “I saw him in other plays, though. He’s so good. So handsome. You see, I was in the theater program myself, in Jersey, so I love all things theater and Shakespeare.”
“You were there yesterday?”
“Oh, no. You can ask my boss. I was here, at work, the entire time. But I was going to go to today’s performance. I was invited.”
“Today’s?”
She nodded. “And it just so happened I came by a ticket for today’s performance. I couldn’t wait to see him play Oberon, but when it was cancelled, I decided to pick up an extra—”
“Oberon?” Diana asked. “Marcello played Quince.”
She frowned. “No. I’m sure I heard that he was playing Oberon . . .”
Diana reached into her bag and pulled out the program. She opened to the picture of Marcello. “Is this the man who you thought played Oberon?”
She shook her head. “No . . . who is he?” She read the name. “Wait. That’s Marcello? The one who died?”
Diana flipped to the picture of the man who played Oberon, the one who’d accosted her while she was wearing the donkey head. His name was Alfonzo Rivalta. “This man?”
“Oh, yes. That’s him . . . .” Her jaw dropped. “Are you saying that he’s not dead?”
Bea nodded. “That’s exactly what she’s saying. We just saw him. He’s alive and kicking and at the theater right now.”
Diana didn’t want to be reminded of that. “Why were you confused?”
“I don’t know, honestly.” She picked the program up and flipped to the picture of Marcello. “So this is the man who died? You’re sure?”
Diana nodded.
“I don’t understand. He was the one who came to the café yesterday, while I was working. He gave me a ticket for today’s performance. I thought it was odd, but I couldn’t deny I was thrilled. I didn’t even know him to pass the time of day. I thought that maybe he did it because I was such a good patron of the theater. That’s all.” She looked at the flower in Diana’s hand. “And he meant to give me that rose? I don’t know why. I’ve barely talked to him. I mean, he hung around here a couple of times. Flirted with me. But it never went anywhere, because I was interested in Oberon. And he flirted with all the girls. Obviously, I didn’t even know that man was the real Marcello.” She patted her chest. “I am so glad my Oberon is still alive. That is a relief, I tell you.”
“Thank you,” Diana said, turning to leave.
But Marcello is still dead. And no one seems to know who did it. Or, now, if he was even the intended victim.
*
As they went outside, Bea groaned. “So much for my food.”
Diana blinked. “You can go in and get something. I didn’t mean to—”
“Forget it. The line’s too long now. And this is so confusing. I don’t think well on an empty stomach. I’m telling you . . . if my stomach was full, the murderer would’ve already been caught by now.”
Diana churned her conversation with Linda over in her head. “I’m sorry. We can go back to the villa if you want? Get something there?”
Bea nodded, so they began to walk that way. “Let me text Lily to tell her we’ll meet her there.”
She stopped to thumb in the note and winced. “So Lily’s sent me about four hundred texts. She tells me that she has disowned us for leaving her in the company of Vidal.” She giggled. “Vidal bought that fat lady sculpture.”
Diana snorted. “Seriously?”
Bea laughed. “I guess Lily convinced her it’d look nice on the mantel in their living room.”
“Well, at least they’ll have a souvenir to remember the trip by,” Diana said, not really paying attention.
Bea said something else, but Diana didn’t hear.
“What?”
“I was just saying that Lily wants us back at the villa right away. She’s there and wondering why we’re not, because I was so sick at the restaurant.”
“Oh,” Diana murmured, still thinking of Linda. The poor woman had clearly been confused. Marcello was a known womanizer. Wanted to collect women. Had he been jealous of Linda’s adoration of Alfonzo, and wanted to sway her affections toward him?
“Mom? Hello? Earth to Mom?”
Diana snapped from her thoughts. “Sorry, hon. I’m trying to understand why Linda was so confused. As a groupie, you’d think she would know all the actors. Right?”
“Not necessarily. It kind of reminds me of Thirteen at Dinner. They all thought someone disguised as Lady Edgeware had killed her husband, but the fact was that Lady Edgeware hired an impersonator to pretend to be her at the dinner party, so that she could go and kill her husband herself. She was an actress, too. The murderer wanted everyone to be confused.”
Diana squeezed her eyes closed with confusion. Her shoulders slumped. It felt like all the pieces were there, but something was missing, and Bea wasn’t helping by adding more information instead of sifting through what they already had. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Well, they realized that it was the other way around from what they were all thinking. Linda thought that Marcello was Oberon, when actually Alfonzo was Oberon. So maybe the poison was intended for Alfonzo. What I don’t get is how she got it in her head that Marcello was Oberon.”
“Well, it makes sense. In a troupe, I think they’re used to switching roles often. That’s probably why Oberon was wearing a different costume in the hallway, earlier . . . because they’re so very used to switching everything up like that . . .”
“But why did Marcello stop by with a ticket for Linda? Why did he write out that letter, then, if he knew that she wasn’t interested in him?”
“I don’t know. He was interested in her, obviously. He flirted with her. So maybe he just wanted to impress her. And somehow, she got it in her head that Marcello was playing Oberon.”
Diana blinked.
Of course. “Wait . . . I have an idea. What if he was playing Oberon?”
“You said he was playing Quince.”
“For the show yesterday. But . . .” She stopped and clapped her hands together. “Bea, text Lily and tell her we can’t meet her at home just yet. We’re too close now. And I think I know who the killer is.”
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
This time, as they ran, Diana was in the lead, so breathless and exhilarated, she couldn’t stop if she wanted to. Blister be damned; it hardly hurt at all, now.
It all made sense. Finally, everything made sense.
“Mom!” Bea called from behind her, seemingly farther and farther away. “Mommy! Slow down!”
Diana couldn’t. She didn’t stop until the theater came into view. When it did, she tried to rush across the street, only to nearly be flattened by a tiny Fiat, which honked at her. Bea pulled her back just in time.
“Hey, Mom?” Bea said as she stood there, breathing hard, her lungs burning. “Let’s try not to have another death on our hands?”
Diana nodded, and this time, looked both ways. “Sorry. Where did that car come from?”
“I told you to live a little, take a walk on the wild side, but that didn’t mean getting yourself killed,” she said. “There’s a difference between reckless and downright suicidal.”
Bea was right, and Diana was glad to hear such words of wisdom coming from her daughter. Maybe Bea hadn’t been getting into as much trouble in Japan as Diana had feared. “You’re right. We’ll be careful.”
Linking arms, they walked across the street to the front doors. This time, they were open. When Diana pulled one open, her heart still beating like mad, Bea said, “Wait. Didn’t you say you’d get killed if you showed your face here again?”
Diana shrugged. “It’s a chance I’ll have to take. This is important, Bea.”
“Trust me. The only way this is a good idea is if you know who the killer is and are ready to make a big reveal. Otherwise, you can wind up in a lot of trouble, throwing accusations around without —”
She stopped when she saw the look Diana was giving her.
“Wait . . . do you know who it is?” Bea asked. “Like, seriously? So, who?”
Diana didn’t answer, so busy was she rushing inside, toward the box office.
Bea stayed on her heels. “Mom! Tell me!”
Bea’s cries of exasperation were soon drowned out by the sound of actors, on stage, reciting the lines from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Their voices echoed around the stone arena. Diana made it to the back of the theater in time to see the mostly empty theater. The stage was full of actors, most notably Mariana Massari, as Titania, fawning over Nick Bottom, who was wearing the head of the donkey Diana had recently gotten close to. Diana didn’t know the exact words, but she imagined them in English: On the first view to say, to swear, I love thee.
She took a deep breath. No time to waste. You can do this.
Diana took the steps toward the stage as quickly as she could, trying not to stumble on the old, crumbling stone. As she made her way closer, the few people in the aisles watching the rehearsal began to turn toward her.
“Mom, I hope you know what you’re doing,” Bea mumbled, following behind her.
“Signora!” someone called to her in a whisper. She couldn’t understand what else they said, but she caught the drift: This is a closed rehearsal. You are not allowed here.
Before she knew it, men were rushing down the aisles on either side of her, trying to intercept her. Mariana, on stage, stopped speaking and squinted into the audience, shielding her eyes from the glow of the spotlight. The people in the first row began to turn around as well. Now she had all eyes on her.
The men, two burly gorillas who looked like they’d been made to keep people out of places like this, blocked her way. Before they did, though, she caught sight of the director, Pietro. His eyes flooded with recognition. “Pazza! Assassina!”
Oh, no. That’s definitely not good.
One of the men blocking her way reached for her. She dodged backwards and down a row. Bea squealed, “Mom!”
“I know this is a closed rehearsal, but I have something to say!” she called as the men stalked after her. She picked up the pace, rushing across one of the rows, toward another aisle. “I know who murdered Marcello Camillo! It was one of your actors, and he’s here right now!”
She got to the aisle before the men in the nearer rows did, and sprinted past them. One of them lunged for her, missed, and stumbled forward, letting out a booming oof. The other one stumbled over him and sprinted for Diana. Diana’s blood went cold and she bolted to the stage.
Bea, lingering a few rows back, groaned. “Just tell them, Mom. We are so going to jail after this.”
Diana’s face was red. She couldn’t breathe. A massive, painful stitch was building in her side. She sincerely doubted Hercule Poirot ever had this kind of trouble during one of his reveals. She could feel the burly security guard on her back. There was no place to go, except . . .
She rushed to the staircase on the side of the arena and climbed up to the stage, tripping over her own feet, so blurry was her vision. Her head spun from the heat, and the feeling of all eyes on her. She felt crazy. She probably looked crazy. Just like she had in Paris, when she’d climbed into a man’s house to find a necklace. She’d come up empty then. She could only hope her intuition was right this time. Otherwise . . . she’d be thrown in prison, and Vidal would find a lot to laugh about, then.
Whoever was running the spotlights put one on her, maybe to turn her into a deer in headlights. She blinked and shielded her eyes, trying to catch her breath. “Please . . . I just have something to say! I know who killed Marcello Camillo!”
The director was on his feet now, lumbering forward and shouting directions to the security guards and into his headset. “You!” he shouted up at her. “We do not need to listen to you at all. You are the murderer! And the police are on their way to remove you!”
Bea covered her face with her hands. “Nice going, Mom.”
“Security! Remove this woman! The play will never go on with her here!” Then he looked up toward the heavens, tossed his clipboard on the ground, and mumbled what had to have been Italian curses.
The security guards got into position, one on either side of the stage. They advanced toward her. There was nowhere to go now.
“Oberon!” she shouted, locating him in the crowd of actors who’d appeared on stage to watch the commotion. “Alfonzo Rivalta! The actor who played Oberon in yesterday’s production. He’s the killer.”
All eyes shifted from Diana to him.
He held up his hands, taking in the suspicious glares of the people near him. Then he looked back at Diana. “What? Are you mad?”
“You played Oberon yesterday, but you weren’t going to play him tonight, were you?” Diana said. “That’s because someone else took the part of Oberon from you. Marcello. He asked Pietro for it, and Pietro gave it to him.”
She glanced at Pietro, who nodded. He motioned the security guards to stop advancing on her, and the next time he spoke, his voice was quieter. “Yes. I did.”
“And Alfonzo was upset, wasn’t he?” Diana said, pleased that now, at least some of the people were listening to her. “I know that when I was backstage last night, I heard Pietro arguing. I didn’t see who it was with, but it was Alfonzo, wasn’t it?”
Pietro nodded, his round face growing red. “That is right.”
Now all eyes were on Alfonzo. Alfonzo shook his head. “This is madness. Pure madness. Why would I kill Marcello? For a stupid part?”
Behind her, Mariana spoke up. “You’ve always been jealous of Marcello, Alfonzo. Admit it. You complained constantly that he was taking your parts.”
His eyes went wide. “Yes, but . . .” He pulled on the collar of his linen blouse. “How could I do that? And when? I didn’t—”
“You’re a smoker,” Mariana announced. “You had the lighter on you.”
Diana nodded. “You could have easily popped the cork with the lighter while he was onstage, put the poison in, and jammed the cork back in without being seen.”
Now the security guards were backing away from Diana and heading toward Alfonzo, who was backing away from all of them. “This is insane. Absolutely insane. You have no proof.”
Just then, the police burst in through the doors at the back of the theater. With that sudden movement, while all eyes turned to watch them, Alfonzo seized the moment. He spun around and rushed for the back exit.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Diana gasped. “He’s getting away!” Bea shouted, pointing.
Security guards and police alike swarmed into the back of the theater, after the culprit. Diana, still winded after her last jaunt, rushed after them. As she got to the back room, she found him, holding up his hands in surrender. “I’m innocent!” he shouted. “Innocente!”
“Tell that to the police,” Bea muttered, coming up behind Diana. Then she smiled at her mom. “Good work, Sherlock.”
She smiled at her daughter. “I couldn’t have done it without my right hand, Dr. Watson.”
“Good.” She rubbed her stomach. “So now can we get some food? I’m about to pass out.”
“Not just yet,” Diana said. After her adventures in Paris, Diana knew that the police would have plenty of questions, i’s to dot and t’s to cross, so she and Bea stood off to the side, waiting to be excused from the crime scene.
Bea groaned.
Most everyone seemed shocked to find that a member of their troupe had resorted to murder. No one spoke, or if they did, it was in hushed tones. The only exception was, of course, Alfonzo, who was screaming in Italian, loudly professing his innocence to everyone who could hear as the police cuffed him and carted him away.
“That was exciting,” Bea admitted as Alfonzo, flanked by officers, disappeared from view.
“You didn’t expect that from such a goody-goody, did you?” She pinched her daughter’s side.
“Not at all. There’s hope for you yet, Mom.” Bea watched the space where she’d last seen Alfonzo with wide eyes. “Wow, he’s a really good actor, don’t you think? I almost believe he’s innocent.”
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