Deep Midnight
Page 45

Miss Henley called. Please meet her this afternoon, if you are able.
There was an address at the bottom of the paper. It meant nothing to Jordan.
Once again, she made a quick survey of her room, making sure it was properly protected. Not wanting the night maid to come in and move anything?or open a window?she was careful to leave the do not disturb notice on the door. Fingering her cross, and putting one of the vials of holy water in her purse, she hurried down the stairs.
At the concierge desk, she asked for directions.
“This is near the place you went the other night,” he told her. “You’ll have no problems. On your map?”
“I’m so sorry. I lost the map you gave me the other night.”
“We have another. You wish to walk?”
It would soon be growing dark, but there was still daylight left. Jordan decided to walk, and to firmly retrace her footsteps. She wanted to know exactly where she was going, how to return, and also how to go back again, in case she needed to.
“Yes, I’ll walk.”
The concierge mapped out the best route for her and pointed out that if she were tired when it was time to return, there was a vaporetto stop nearby. She thanked him and left the hotel.
Along the way, she realized that she had left the cop’s vampire book with Raphael at the table. She thought about ducking by the shop to get it back, then decided she could do that the next day. She wanted to find Tiff.
The sun was setting as she walked, and the wind was picking up, but she was still certain she could reach her objective before dark. She fingered her cross, saying a little prayer for Sal D’Onofrio. “What a good man!” she whispered out loud.
The walk was pleasant. The streets were filled with people, a few still in costume. On various corners, she saw artists and performers, including a man who did characterizations of tourists in their costumes, a woman who moved liked a robot, all dressed in silver and a dancer, on a pedestal, as if she were the figurine on a music box. On one corner, a violinist played.
Jordan stopped by each of them, leaving a few thousand lire in the hats they had set out to collect donations.
As she neared her destination, the streets grew quieter. She entered a mainly residential section of the city, with only a few tourist shops. She passed a fruit and vegetable market, campo after campo each with a beautiful church at its center, wells and statues, and even little garden areas. She wondered after a while just how many bridges she had crossed. She had meant to be so careful and determined, but she had been drawn to the charm of the entertainment for moments, even forgotten the heaviness that lay on her heart, having discovered that Sal D’Onofrio was dead.
At last, she came to a neighborhood she knew. She saw the archway under which she had last seen Roberto Capo and found the trattoria where they had been scheduled to meet. The host welcomed her, speaking English automatically, as if Jordan wore a sign that said, “I am an American, linguistically challenged.”
“A table for one, signorina?”
“Not right now, thank you very much. I was to meet a friend here the other night. Roberto Capo. Do you know him?”
“Si, si. A good customer. A friend to me, too.”
“Have you seen him today?”
“No, I’m afraid not. The other night ... he was waiting for someone, yes. He had a... sneezes. A cold, as you say.”
“So he is ill?”
“Oh, I think. He was anxious to see you. Perhaps he’ll come in later. You may wait. Have a drink, on the house.”
“Thank you, but I have to meet another friend. Oh, where is this address, please? I know that it is near.” She showed him the map.
“Back down the calle. To your right. Somewhere there; I am not sure of this exact address, but you’ll be close enough to find it.”
“Thank you; grazie mille.”
Outside, she realized that in the brief time she had been in the trattoria, the sun had nearly set. There were shadows lining the streets once again.
She spoke to herself out loud to keep up her courage.
“If I don’t find Tiff right away, I’ll go back to the trattoria, and then straight to the vaporetto stop.” She followed the host’s directions and found herself in a large campo surrounded by narrow little streets, or calles, that went off in several different directions. She looked for the address on the map, and it appeared that she was in the right place, but she didn’t see anything except buildings that were old and beautiful, but were certainly not shops, restaurants, or any other kind of public place. Where the hell was Tiff?
She looked across the campo and saw the old church that had intrigued her before. It was boarded up, in great need of restoration.
Walking over to it, she saw that the boards covering many of the broken windows had fallen. Stone steps led to beautifully carved doors.
She stared at the church, tempted, then remembered how anxious she was to meet Tiff. She decided to walk down the street a way, and see if she couldn’t find a resident or shopkeeper who might tell her exactly where she should be.
As she turned down one of the streets, she hesitated, looking back, remembering how Raphael had said that an old, deconsecrated church had been vandalized.
There was no graffiti on the walls, or on the boards that covered the broken windows, but it was a deconsecrated church, she was certain. Sal D’Onofrio had told her so. It was definitely derelict. She looked around the campo, suddenly afraid that she would hear noises.
Whispers from the shadows; the flutter of wings; hisses that seemed to sound right next to her ears, like words she couldn’t quite comprehend.
The evening was quiet. The shadows were still.
She started down the street.
The sounds of her own footsteps seemed to snap and echo in the darkness.
She turned a corner and found an old woman sweeping her steps.
“Mi scusi, per piacere ...” What was the proper tense for ‘do you know where this is’ when asking a stranger for help in finding a place?
“Sai dov’e questo numero?”
The woman understood that she needed help. She smoothed her graying hair and studied the map under the light from her front door.
“Si. La chiesa.”
“La chiesa?” Jordan said. Chiesa. Church. “Evero?” The woman sighed impatiently. She walked forward, showing Jordan the way, right around the next corner. “La chiesa.”
“La chiesa,” Jordan repeated and thanked her.
Jordan walked slowly back to the campo and stared at the church. She realized that there was light coming from within. Also, though she had thought that they were closed earlier, one of the carved doors was now slightly ajar.
“Tiff, if this is some kind of a joke, I’m going to throttle you myself!” Jordan muttered.
Tentatively, she approached the church.
Not about to have any tricks played on her, she opened the door fully.
It started to swing back. She gritted her teeth and looked around the campo. There was an old metal boot scraper next to the small fountain that stood in front of the circular path immediately before the steps to the church.
The fountain merely drizzled a trail of water escaping from the mouth of a big fish.
She swore at Tiff again as she went up to the boot scraper, a metal piece made of two fish facing one another.
“The damn thing is probably rooted into the street,” she muttered, using such force in her attempt to pick it up that she nearly careened backwards with the heavy weight.
“Well, I’m wrong.” She gritted her teeth as she strained to carry the heavy weight up the steps, where she opened the door wider, and propped it open with the metal boot scraper. That done, she looked in.
“Tiff?”
There were candles burning in the church, most of them seeming to glow from an altar in front of the choir stalls, a distance that seemed far from the door.
“Tiff, damn you!”
She entered the church and started along the central aisle. She meant to move quickly.
Her footsteps were slow.
She saw the chapels on either sides of the nave of the church, secretive dens of shadow. There were altars in all of them and artwork hanging above the altars.
She curled her fingers about the cross that hung round her neck.
“Tiff?”
Fear was setting in. She glanced at the side chapels to make sure that the shadows weren’t moving. She imagined she heard a fluttering of wings.
It was the sound of her own breath.
Get out of here, idiot!
Then she realized that the candles at the altar were set around something in a rectangular pattern. A long rectangular pattern.
A body.
For a moment she stood dead still; even her heart seemed to cease to beat.
“Tiff?”
She started walking again, forcing her footsteps along faster.
Yes, it was Tiff. She was stretched out on the altar in a long white garment, just like the innocent ingénue in a horror movie awaiting the menace of the villain.
“Tiff, damn you, this isn’t funny! Get up.”
Something swept past her head.
Then, the roof above her seemed to be alive with the flutter of wings.
“Bats!” She looked up at the ceiling.
Yes, bats.
“Dive bomb me again, and I’ll come back with a lighter and a can of gasoline, and let them arrest me for burning down half of Venice!” she threatened, raising a hand to the roof.
“Damn you, Tiff... !”
She neared the altar, shaking she was so scared and angry, but not about to leave without Tiffany Henley, and not without telling her just what she thought of this cruel nonsense.
“Tiff, get up!”
She swore, brushing her sleeve on a candle as she reached out to shake Tiff.
It was definitely Tiff. Dressed in white ...
Like a white shroud, winding all the way up to her neck. Any minute now, Tiff would open her eyes wide and go, “Boo!” She’d tell Jordan that she just couldn’t help it, she had the money to play such an elaborate joke, and she just wanted Jordan to be able to laugh at what had happened at the contessa’s palazzo.