Page 13 of Vengeance in Venice (Murder in Moonlight #6)

Surprisingly, the house was clean but appallingly untidy, especially in the main room, where clearly the artist worked.

Rossi waded through fallen sketches and easels, lifted a pile of canvases off a chair for Constance, and looked around for somewhere to put them.

Finding no available surface, he dropped them on the floor, gestured for Constance to sit, and swept a pile of brightly colored paint rags off another chair for Solomon.

Then he half sat, half fell onto a three-legged stool and grinned at them. “Soon, I am sober. What can I do for you?”

“I thought,” Solomon said, “you might paint my wife.” If you can see her.

However, Rossi’s gaze was suddenly perfectly focused as he stared at Constance.

A gleam entered his bloodshot eyes. He began to smile more naturally and turned his gaze on Solomon.

Then he reared back as though trying to take in both of them at once.

Solomon exchanged quick glances with Constance and knew she was about to laugh.

Which would have set him off, so he looked hastily back to Rossi.

The painter caught his breath. “Damn, I will paint you both. Together. I never see a couple like you before. I have not the words in English. I paint.”

“Not now,” Solomon said hastily, and Rossi laughed uproariously.

The girl came in with a large tray containing coffee and wine, cups and glasses, and a little plate of cicchetti.

Rossi did not move, so Solomon rose to take the tray from her.

She revealed a table by the painter’s own simple expedient of sweeping everything on it onto the floor, and Solomon set the tray down.

In an understandable breach of etiquette, the girl served their host first, shoving a full cup of coffee into his hands.

“Drink. Now.” Then she poured wine for Constance and Solomon and offered them the plate.

They each took a savory with murmured thanks, and she placed the rest under Rossi’s nose.

Then she swiped up the jug of wine and retreated.

The artist smiled after her. “Isn’t she wonderful? I don’t know why she puts up with me.”

Neither did Solomon, until his eyes finally fell on the canvas nearest him.

It showed the Cannaregio Canal in the rain, and Solomon could almost feel the pattering on his face.

The water of the canal seemed to move, slopping over the road above.

The painter had caught several figures in flight, too, rushing for cover and slopping through the puddles.

Oh yes, Domenico Rossi was good. Unable to stop himself, Solomon rose and examined the picture more closely. One figure, dancing through puddles with all the fun of a child, bore the unmistakable features of the swerving girl.

Almost afraid, he moved it to look at the picture behind—a portrait.

At first glance, it appeared to be just another middle-aged worthy, but this particular worthy’s character quickly seized and held his attention.

Surely this was a handsome man of strength, intelligence, and nobility, yet with some subtle, tragic weakness about his eyes and the set of his mouth.

It was a face of hope and hopelessness at the same time.

“I know him, don’t I?” Constance said behind him.

“Daniel Manin,” Rossi said. “Our glorious leader in ’48.”

“I’ve never seen him quite like that before.”

It was as if Rossi had painted the doom of Venice into the face of its erstwhile leader, now in exile.

“Waste of a man,” Rossi growled. “But a lot of men were wasted then.”

Solomon dragged his gaze from the portrait. “We plan to be in Venice for the next five weeks or so. Could you paint our portrait in that time?”

Rossi smiled. “I insist upon it, signor. How did you find me?”

Solomon had hoped he would ask that, but he let Constance answer.

“Signora Savelli said you were painting her and her husband.”

A frown darkened Rossi’s face. “I was. Not now.”

“Then you heard of Signor Savelli’s sad demise?”

“Of course. I could still have finished the portrait. It would have been good, and she would have liked to have it.”

“You mean you could finish it without Signor Savelli’s being there?” Constance asked.

“Of course I could.”

“She won’t let you?” Solomon said. “Or you are too delicate to ask?”

Rossi threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Delicate? Me? No, Savelli himself dismissed me, paid for my time as though I am a house painter or a layer of bricks, and dismissed me.”

“Didn’t he like your painting?” Constance asked, with just the right shade of incredulity.

“Of course he liked it,” Rossi scoffed. “Who wouldn’t? Already it was a great portrait. It was me he didn’t like.” He sighed. “That too is understandable. I drink too much; I speak my mind. And suddenly I am persona non grata.”

“What particular part of your mind did you speak?” Solomon asked.

Rossi sighed. “The part should remain quiet. I gave him advice on the conduct of his marriage. He should have listened. But there, which of us listens to advice about women?”

Constance kept her gaze carefully on the artist. “What did you say?”

“I told him she didn’t want jewels—she wanted love, attention. A woman wants your soul, not your house and your money. Although,” he added judiciously, “house and money can’t hurt, eh?”

“I always insist upon them myself,” Constance said. “So you don’t think their marriage was a happy one?”

“She should have taken Giusti. There’s a fun boy for you. Savelli, not so much. But there, I must have hurt his feelings.”

Constance seemed to be waiting for more, but when it didn’t come, she said, “You don’t actually care about his feelings, because he hurt yours by dismissing you.”

Rossi tried to laugh, but he couldn’t quite hide the surge of fury in his eyes before he covered his face behind the large coffee cup and both hands. He drank it all down in one go, and when he set down the cup, Constance moved to refill it while he absently reached for another savory.

He pretended to have forgotten Constance’s accusations, turning instead to Solomon. “Where I paint you? Here? Where you stay? Hotel?”

“In the Palazzo Zulian.”

He perked up. “By the canal! Perfect. You want the view behind you, and yet it will be you two who dominate even that beauty. When can I begin?”

Stuffing the rest of the bread into his mouth, he scrambled around for paper and charcoal and began to draw on the back of some other sketch, his fingers flying, his eyes darting between Constance and Solomon and very occasionally the paper.

“Tomorrow morning?” Constance suggested. “I believe early is best.”

Rossi emitted a crack of laughter. “So it is. Damn her. Don’t worry, I’ll be good.”

It was only as they rose to leave that Solomon said, “What happened to your Savelli painting? Is it here?”

“No.” The artist’s eyes kindled again. “He kept it so I could not even finish it.”

“Just as a matter of interest,” Solomon said, “when did he dismiss you?”

Rossi drew in his breath. “The day before he died.”