Death Under the Venice Moon Read Online Free Page B

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.
    Cruz had enough sense to turn off the damn movie.
    "Why did you do that?" I asked, even though I already knew the answer. "Why did you pretend you were an astrologer?"
    "Lella, I really am sorry. I was practicing my part, had been working with a well-known astrologer. He suggested I try out my creation somewhere I wouldn't be recognized, just to see people's reaction. Ponte Vecchio was the perfect spot. No locals are around at night, only tourists. You were the second tourist to stop by, the only one who said yes. I did my skit as rehearsed and was very pleased with your reaction. When I realized you forgot your package and were probably coming back for it, I gave a generous tip to the vendors and told them I was never there. End of the show. It was never my