5 - Her Deadly Mischief Read Online Free

“Signor Cesare Pino is rarely in attendance. I can’t recall seeing him for a year or more. It is his son, Signor Alessio, who usually occupies the box.”
    “With other family members?”
    “Not so much. Signor Alessio seems to have many friends.”
    Messer Grande nodded, fingering his chin and staring into the middle distance. I had the impression of a mind arranged in neatly docketed cabinets that contained details on all of Venice’s leading citizens. At last he spoke, more to himself than to any of us: “Alessio Pino, the young Glass Prince. Yes, Cesare’s son has attracted quite a retinue of bright young sparks.”
    I had heard of Alessio Pino. Most Venetians had. The young man came from a family of glass masters, a profession held in the highest esteem. Almost from the time my city had sprung to life on the lagoon salt marshes, Venice was known for the delicate miracles that flowed from the glassblower’s pipe. As the guardians of that profession’s ancient secrets, glass masters were as close to royalty as any artisan could ever be. They were one of the few groups allowed to marry into the nobility of the Golden Book. And according to gossip, there were two other qualities that led Messer Grande to describe Alessio as a prince: his striking good looks and his lofty character.
    “Signor Amato?” Messer Grande gripped my shoulder with a vise-like hand. “Are you absolutely sure there was no one besides Zulietta and her killer in the box?”
    I closed my eyes and pictured the scene. The wall lamps had been lit, lending a soft glow to the box’s interior. Another seated or standing figure would have been immediately obvious. My eyelids lifted, and I regarded Messer Grande steadily. “Not unless someone was crawling around on the floor.”
    Messer Grande harrumphed and turned his attention back to Angelo Corsi. “Am I right in assuming the key to the box had been let out to Cesare Pino?”
    Corsi nodded. “For the first time that I remember, I didn’t have one key on the board in the office. Every box was engaged, either for the season or the night.”
    “You keep no duplicate keys?” Messer Grande slanted a critical eyebrow.
    Corsi began to look as nervous as he had at the outset of Messer Grande’s questions. Torani spared him further explanation. “It’s standard practice in all the theaters,” the maestro told the chief constable. “You rent a box, so you must know how it works. The box holder receives the key when he pays. For the duration of his lease, whether it comprises a week or a year, the upkeep of the box is now his responsibility. His servants clean and appoint it as their master sees fit.”
    Messer Grande nodded. “The opera box becomes a home away from home.”
    “Precisely,” Torani replied.
    “So, since my men had to kick the corridor door off its hinges to search the box, it seems likely that a member of the Pino family opened the door to admit Zulietta Giardino and then relocked it on his way out.”
    “Alessio might have given the key to Zulietta,” I quickly put in.
    With a wink, Messer Grande again knelt. As casually as if he were rummaging through a knapsack, he slid his hand through a slit in her panniered skirt and probed the right-hand member of the pair of capacious pockets that hung from every woman’s waistband. He withdrew the pocket’s scant contents and subjected each item to brief scrutiny before laying it on the floor: a tortoise-shell comb, a few coins, a small bottle of scent, and a square of embroidered cambric. The left pocket produced a folded fan and a small key. Still kneeling, Messer Grande surveyed this miscellany for a long moment; then he swept up the handkerchief, fan, and key as if he were palming the winnings from a game of dice.
    “Is this the box key?” He tossed the bit of metal to Corsi.
    The box office manager grabbed the key out of the air and turned it this way and that, only a few inches from his eyes. “Yes. This is a Teatro San