5 - Her Deadly Mischief (17 page)

The weather made my mind up for me. When I opened the stage door, all was gray: the damp-slick stones of the alleyway, the leaden sky, the scudding clouds. The looming storm had swallowed the sun.

I turned and ran up to my dressing room, taking the stairs two at a time. Benito had not yet arrived, but he always kept an extra pair of boots, as well as a waxed cloak and beaver hat stashed in the wardrobe. I donned these, thought about a muff he’d also tucked on a shelf, but left it behind. Then I set off for Zulietta’s casino. Having Luigi row me over to Murano with a blow coming would be foolhardy, but if Sary could tell me where to find Pamarino, my next several hours would not be wasted.

***

“I’m sleeping in a cupboard under the stairs—right next to the pissoir.” Pamarino curled his thick lips in a frown. He wore his blue jacket with the silver epaulets and buttons, but the metal showed signs of tarnish and his thick brown wig was in dire need of a hairdresser’s services. As before, his droll appearance was at odds with his well-spoken conversation.

“Not a pleasant situation,” I replied over the hum of voices in the rough café Sary had directed me to. The place had a slanted ceiling and the sour smell of spilled wine and unwashed working men.

“No.” The tone of that simple word implied that the proprietor of the brothel that housed his sister had greatly underestimated Pamarino’s importance and would suffer for his impertinence in the future. Very proud, this little man, this toy soldier. And yet, under the bluster, I thought I could detect a faint note of resignation.

“Why aren’t you staying at your mistress’ casino?”

Pamarino shrugged glumly.

“Sary told me it will be several weeks before the household goods go to auction and the place is shut up for good.”

“I’m better off where I am,” he snapped, but his lips began to quiver and his eyes became glossy.

I understood. The same aching grief that had sent him roaming the theater corridors must have been overwhelming in the close confines of the casino. At every creak of the stairs, his heart must have made a sudden leap, hoping against hope that his beloved mistress would somehow appear. Her possessions scattered throughout the apartment—a favorite book on a tabletop, a lone glove forgotten behind a sofa cushion—all must have been torture.

I’d found Pamarino’s café on a narrow canal tucked between the waterfront and the Arsenale, Venice’s great shipyard. Every forlorn man who lacks a kitchen, or a woman to tend one, frequents some local café that becomes his sitting room as much as his source of meals. Two
soldi
tendered for a tiny cup of black coffee secures a table and as many gazettes as a man could read in an hour or an afternoon. I had already supplied Pamarino with more than coffee. He was spooning his way through a large bowl of polenta and crisp minnows. To show his thanks, he was putting up with my questions.

“Can your sister not arrange better accommodations for you?”

“The scoundrel who employs Estrella says the cupboard is sufficient, and my sister is not in a position to argue. Whores of her variety are thick on the ground—she could be replaced in a heartbeat. No, she only gabbled some nonsense about the cupboard being a perfect fit as she made me a bed of musty blankets that would insult a stray dog.”

I nodded slowly and took a sip of cheap, sour wine. One look at the food-stained tabletop had put me off the idea of sharing Pamarino’s meal, and I had carefully wiped my tin cup before allowing the waiter to slop his inferior vintage into it. With a burning throat, I asked, “Are you searching for work?”

He nodded. “I offered myself at Estrella’s place. While the men are waiting their turns, I thought I could act the fool for their amusement. You might be surprised to learn I can make people laugh. In between turning handsprings, I recite bawdy poems—throw out a few vulgar witticisms.”

“Do you, now?”

“Oh, yes. Over the years, I must have collected thousands.” His tone was solemn as an owl, until he dropped his spoon, shook his shoulders, and threw his head back. When he brought it forward, his face was split by an idiotic grin. He could have been the twin of the dwarf Liya and I had watched on the Piazza. In a crude singsong voice, he uttered:

There was a young lad from Trevise,
Who would come whenever he’d sneeze.
To the druggist he went, laying down his last cent,
Said, “a barrel of snuff if you please.”

I chuckled with what I hoped was a look of commendation on my face. “The proprietor refused to hire you? I can scarcely believe it.”

“Turned me down flat as a pancake. It was only through Estrella’s pleading that I came by a temporary bed in that establishment. Her employer fears the bad luck I might bring, you see.” Pamarino took up his spoon and slurped a generous mouthful of stew. He continued in a tone curiously devoid of emotion. “There are many who believe that my mother must have lain with a goblin or forest
folletto
. How else to explain the birth of a monster such as I? My ties to the goblin world lump me in with thieves and knaves and other evil folk. Why…I might even possess the secrets of the evil eye or the art of poisoning. I’m obviously a dangerous man.” He waggled a finger. “You had better be careful around me, Signor Amato.”

“I’ll take my chances,” I replied with a smile. “I’m well acquainted with the ridiculous assumptions people make based on appearance alone.”

His glance flicked over me. “Yes, you would be.”

“But I don’t understand why you are depending on your sister’s charity. I thought your mistress left you well provided for.” I continued in response to his lifted eyebrow. “Sary told me about the bequests you both received.”

Pamarino’s demeanor changed again. He pulled his chin and sent me a concentrated glare. If that wasn’t the evil eye, it could pass for a good likeness. “I wonder why my situation should concern you in the slightest.”

“Indulge me,” I answered in a neutral tone.

We locked gazes for a moment. Outside, the storm had blown in, and the rain that beaded along the overhanging portico fell to the pavement in a steady patter. Pamarino sighed. “I put my mistress’ money aside should times grow even worse. In my experience, misfortune is always followed by more of the same…’

“Now I ask that you indulge me—why do you remain so interested in my mistress’ death? You claimed no acquaintance with her. If you had, I would have been aware of it.”

“You’re right. I had no acquaintance with Zulietta Giardino in life. Our bond was forged at the instant of her death. As you know, fate contrived that I be the only witness to her murder.”

The dwarf’s tone grew warmer. “Yes, that was odd, considering how many hundreds of people filled the theater. Given this…this bond you feel, it must drive you wild that her killer escaped before he could be hung.”

“Alessio Pino?”

He inclined his head.

“I’m not at all certain that Alessio is the killer.”

He snorted. “Of course he is. I knew it from the beginning—you were there at the theater when I explained it all to Messer Grande. Unfortunately, no one ever listens to me.” He spread a scowl around the
café
, as if the bearded dockworkers who made up its patrons were all conspiring to ignore him.

“I was listening to you. You had a lot to say about Alessio that night, but you left out one important part of your mistress’ story.”

“Eh?”

“The wager was not sheer mischief as you described. It was a deliberately mismatched contest, and the foregone victory would play a crucial role in your mistress’ future. She and Alessio planned to use the bounty from La Samsona’s jewel box to travel to America.” This point had been bothering me ever since Liya and I had visited Zulietta’s casino. Pamarino must have been included in the plan. He was too instrumental in Zulietta’s household for her to have kept it from him.

“Oh, that…Sary must have been very talkative.” He sent me a sheepish grin. “You must understand that I was only trying to keep my mistress’ secret. Perhaps it didn’t matter once she was taken from us, but she had been most particular that no one find out about the glassmakers’ planned decampment, so I repeated the wager story as the world was supposed to view it.”

“And how was Alessio supposed to view it?”

“I can’t speak for him—a wolf in a lamb’s skin—that’s what Alessio Pino is. Counterfeit through and through. Fooled my mistress, but he didn’t fool me.”

“But does it strike you as credible that Alessio would become enraged over a wager he helped organize? That was the theory you offered Messer Grande, wasn’t it?”

The dwarf squirmed in his seat. “It was the first thing that popped in my head. In truth, I don’t know what happened to make Alessio furious with my mistress, but something obviously did. I believed she was keen on making a new life in Charles Town, but perhaps she was having second thoughts…” He trailed off, shaking his head in bewilderment.

I sighed, thinking back to the little trunk I’d seen standing by the door of the casino. “Were you and Sary also planning to voyage to America?”

He rolled his eyes. “What would I do in such a savage country? It’s all right for Sary, I suppose. She was born on some wild island across the ocean, so traveling to the Americas would be like a homecoming for her. But, merciful heaven, I have no wish to live so removed from civilization.”

“Your mistress must have been disappointed at the prospect of losing such a loyal servant.”

“It’s true,” he answered sadly. “I served her well over the years, and she begged me to stay on. But crossing the ocean—that I couldn’t do. If only she had lived! My mistress had promised to see me settled in a secure position, you see. She would have, too, with all her influential connections. Damn Alessio Pino! He destroyed my entire life—past, present, and future.”

“Imagine for a moment that Alessio didn’t kill your mistress.”

The dwarf’s brow furrowed, and a suspicious look came into his mud-colored eyes.

“Call it an intellectual exercise—it’s my nature to solve puzzles—I simply can’t help it.”

“I thought it was your nature to make music.”

I shrugged. “My career suits me, but it was not my choice. If I hadn’t been delivered to the surgeon as a boy of ten, who knows what I might have become? Perhaps I would have dedicated myself to justice and reached the rank of Messer Grande.” I finished with an awkward laugh, heartily surprised at the words that had slipped from my lips.

“I see.” Pamarino gave me an appraising look. “All right, if Alessio didn’t murder my mistress, who did?”

“That’s the final question I’m trying to answer, but I must start at the beginning. There are many questions to be asked along the path that leads to truth.”

“I have a feeling that you’re going to pose one to me.”

I nodded. “Consider this—I suspect that the murder was meant to be accomplished behind closed curtains. The killer hadn’t counted on your mistress struggling so hard or pulling the curtain panel down. The masked figure I saw must have intended to get you out of the way, overpower your mistress without anyone the wiser, and leave her body to be found by the next person to enter the box—who should have been Alessio Pino—”

His lips flew open to speak, but I stopped him with a raised palm. “I want you to think back to the corridor outside the box at the opera house—back to the moment you were attacked.”

“All right,” he replied in a rumbling whisper. “What about it?”

“When the killer swept you up and stashed you in the cloakroom, did you smell anything?”

“Are you serious?”

“Very.”

He shook his head. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

I wiggled my nose with thumb and forefinger. “Scent. Fragrance. Anything remarkable.”

Pamarino rested his chin on his hands and gazed into the air as if engaging in silent debate. Finally he said, “I was too absorbed with trying to escape to notice much at all. Why on earth do you ask?”

I almost told him. The explanation of La Samsona’s attar of roses was right on the tip of my tongue when something in his manner made me hesitate. Instead, I merely shrugged, saying, “No matter. It was a shot in the dark. Tell me, what are you going to do now?”

He pushed his empty bowl away and removed a silver toothpick from a leather case lodged in his waistcoat. “If no one wants to hear my dirty epigrams, I suppose I’ll go back to acrobatics.”

“Ah, where did you learn your craft?”

Twiddling his pick between his fingers, he sat forward and lowered his voice as if imparting a great secret. “I was born in Puglia to normal-sized parents who worked the land. Peasants. Poor, simple peasants with no way to care for me. Besides my size, my chest was a constant problem. I was always wheezing and coming down with fevers, especially at haying time. My older sister Estrella was the one who looked after me, carrying me on her hip as she went about her chores. Eventually I grew to be such a burden that my parents sold me to a traveling show. My chest liked my new life, though the rest of me didn’t.”

He paused to pick at his teeth. I remained silent, genuinely curious. He went on, “At first, I was exhibited for my oddity. I had only to sit on a stool under a canopy and look at the people looking at me. I soon grew bored with the daily parade of oafs and lumpkins and experimented with some little tricks—walking on my hands, balancing on my upside-down stool, that sort of thing. The father of a family of acrobats noticed my stunts and took me on to train with the rest of his brood. Eventually, I became a performer instead of a sorry object of scrutiny.” He said this last with a proud smile, which quickly turned to a worried frown as he massaged the notch between neck and left shoulder. “I’m not as young as I was. I’ll have to ignore a few aches and pains to return to the craft I know best.”

Nodding, I reached for my tricorne and cloak. The rain had ushered in an early dusk, and the interior of the café was dim. Waiters were circulating with twists of paper, lighting candles stuck in emptied wine bottles. “I wish you luck, my friend. I’m sure you will find several acrobatic troupes in town for Carnevale.” I stood to go, but the little man shot a hand across the table and grasped my forearm.