STELLA STOOD OFF to the side of the Hotel Bella Luna at a total loss. She’d gone for the hotel because that was in her head when she shoved Peiper’s boy in the canal and, to her surprise, she’d found it. Easily, as it turned out. Once she got in the San Polo section, things started to look familiar and there she was, standing outside what was probably the most expensive hotel in Venice and she couldn’t go in.
She’d expected to simply trot up to the concierge and ask for Daniel or the management. They might even recognize her. It hadn’t been very long and the hotel only had twenty-four suites. But she couldn’t do that now. She was soaked to the knees from the boy knocking her down and the rain had kicked up to finish the job. The hotel was elegant and even stuffy with its Tiepolo frescos and gleaming marble floors. Stella could confidently compare herself unfavorably to those drowned rats. The staff might toss her headfirst into the canal on sight and ask questions later. They did seem like the type. Now that she thought about it, it probably wasn’t a good idea for the whole staff to know she was back in Venice anyway. She didn’t want them talking. Word got around.
Maybe she should go back to the Vittoria. Her main mission had been accomplished. The wallet was gone and the Boulards safe. She could come back tomorrow, but she was shaking from the cold and her right foot was burning. An unwelcome thought appeared in her mind. Could she make it back without help? Her heart said yes, of course. Her body wasn’t so sure.
“There’s more than one way to skin a cat,” she said to herself through chattering teeth, a saying that Mavis favored, but that Stella always loathed. It made her feel bad for cats and she liked cats. Cats liked her as much as people and people generally liked her a lot. All people. She turned on her soggy heels and went for the service entrance, a plain door recessed deep in the side of the hotel. Abel had insisted on using that entrance rather than the ostentatious front door as he reminded them he was a servant of sorts. Nicky didn’t hold with that and he used the service entrance, too, dragging an embarrassed Stella along behind them, apologizing for barging in. She knew, apparently better than Nicky, that most places like the Bella Luna liked the separation between the served and the servant, positions must be maintained and upheld. But the Bella Luna staff surprised her. They didn’t mind a couple of gauche Americans using their halls. Of course, Nicky could charm the stern off a librarian and he worked his magic on the chef de cuisine, a fancy little Frenchman who blushed whenever he saw her husband. If there were any objections to them, Chef Brazier saw to it they were silenced. Stella had enjoyed being in the vast kitchen and watching the staff create. She’d never spent any time in the kitchen at home so the whipping of meringues was a revelation. They even let her have a go. She was terrible and they laughed.
Stella stood at the door inside a ring of sandbags, smelling the heavenly scents and desperately wanting to go inside. But she wasn’t a guest now and barging in would garner unwanted attention. Plus, she didn’t have her charming Nicky to smile at the chef so she took a breath and knocked.
It took three tries before someone came, a harried young woman in a maid’s uniform, not one of the kitchen staff that she knew somewhat. “Sì?” she barked at Stella and then wrinkled her wide nose in distaste at the pool forming at her feet.
“Is Chef Brazier here?” she asked.
“No.”
Stella couldn’t remember any other names. Her mind was blank. “How about someone from the kitchen staff? The ones that make the meringues?”
“No.” The woman shooed at her. “You are soaked. Go away.”
“I can’t. Daniel Burgess? Is he here? He’s a butler. He knows me. Please.”
The woman was surprised at the name and looked Stella over. “You know Daniel?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.
“Yes. He was our butler when we stayed here,” said Stella.
“You?” she scoffed. Stella’s fur was so wet it didn’t look expensive anymore and the maid tried to close the door.
Stella slapped her hand on the wood and held it back. “Get Daniel.”
The maid thought about it and held out her hand. Stella stared at the callused palm briefly and said, “Please.”
The woman shook her hand and eyed Stella. Pay her to get Daniel? She couldn’t pay for a cup of coffee. “I haven’t got any money.” She reached in her pockets to turn them inside out and found the pistol and her passport but something was jangling there. Coins.
Stella pulled out a fist full of lira coins in astonishment. Father Giuseppe, that sweetheart, must’ve slipped them in there. Tears pricked at her eyes and she gave the woman several coins, which apparently satisfied her, but then she asked, “Who is calling?”
Stella swallowed and thought for a moment. “Tell him it’s Nicky’s wife, who doesn’t like Angostura Bitters.”
“No one likes Angostura Bitters, but I will tell him.” She closed the door and Stella reached down and slipped off a boot to check the damage. It wasn’t so bad, only a little wet, but Dr. Salvatore wouldn’t be happy. She tried the right boot and was dismayed to see blood had soaked through the sock. The old split must’ve opened up. No wonder it was stinging so much.
Before she could shove it back in the boot, the door opened and Daniel Burgess, in full English disdaining mode, eyed her without an ounce of recognition. “Yes?”
Stella willed her teeth not to chatter and shoved her bloody foot back in the boot. “Don’t you remember me, Daniel? I didn’t take you for forgetful. It’s only been a couple of weeks.”
Daniel’s mouth fell open at the sound of her voice and the ice melted. “Mrs. Lawrence?”
“Yes, it’s me. I need some help.”
He stared at her and then stepped outside, closing the door. “Mrs. Lawrence. I…what are you doing here? Didn’t you go to Vienna?”
“Oh, we went all right.” Her teeth started chattering with renewed fury.
He looked past her. “Where is Mr. Lawrence?”
“He’s fine. I need some help, Daniel.” Then she remembered she wasn’t supposed to use his first name. “Burgess, I mean. Can you help me?”
“You’re shaking and wet. Why didn’t you come to the front? You’re a guest.”
“I’m not a guest. I can’t be a guest. Please listen. There’s been an incident and I need some help.”
“Yes, of course.” He opened the door and tried to usher her inside.
“No,” she said. “Can you just let me borrow some money? Not a lot. I’m good for it.”
“You need to borrow money from me?”
“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. We had a…an accident and I have to contact my family in the States.”
“Are you hurt? I will call a doctor. Won’t you come in? I can’t have you of all people standing out in the cold,” said Daniel.
“No. The less people know I was here, the better. Can you keep it to yourself?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Do you have any money?”
“Not very much, but what I have is yours.” He opened the door. “You have to get out of the cold.”
“I only need to send a telegram to my family. How much is that? I don’t even know,” said Stella.
“It depends on how many words,” he said.
“A few. I really don’t know, Burgess.”
“I’m not your butler now. Please call me Daniel.”
“Thank you. I’m happy to,” said Stella. “Where is the telegram office? Is it open?”
“It will be for me,” he said. “Won’t you please come in?”
“No, I—” Her teeth chattered so hard she couldn’t finish the sentence.
Daniel looked like he might pat her arm, but his innate reserve held him back. “One moment, Mrs. Lawrence.” He ducked inside and returned a minute later, wearing his overcoat and carrying a large golfing umbrella. “If you won’t come in the hotel, please come to my flat. It’s very close.”
Stella didn’t want to go to his flat. She wanted to send the telegram and get back to Nicky, but she was so cold and exhausted her brain shut off and she allowed him to lead her away down a few streets and into a narrow house. On the third floor, Daniel opened a door so short he had to stoop to get inside and he waved her into an extremely small flat. It was one room with a kitchen, sitting room, and bedroom all in one. Despite Daniel’s prim and proper comportment, it was a god-awful mess with something on every surface and dishes piled in the tiny sink and table.
“I apologize for the mess. I wasn’t expecting visitors,” he said, hurrying to clean off the settee that he apparently used as a book shelf.
“Don’t worry. I’ve seen worse,” said Stella, thinking of the streets in Vienna, beds and blood, books and debris.
“You’re still shaking. Let me take your coat.” He took off her coat and wrapped her in a wool blanket before he started the kettle. “My mother would insist that you need tea, so I will, too.”
“Tea would be wonderful,” she said relaxing into the settee.
He got a pad and paper. “I will take your telegram to the office on San Silvestro. What do you want to say?”
Stella rubbed her hands together and pondered the question. She needed money and she needed to be anonymous. “I need money wired. Can I have it sent to you?”
“Me?” Daniel couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d kissed him on the lips.
“Yes. I don’t want anyone to know I’m here in Venice,” she said.
“But shouldn’t your family know?”
“They’ll understand.”
Daniel didn’t look as though he bought that.
“I trust you. Will you accept the money for me?”
“Yes, of course, I will, but I don’t understand. If you’re in trouble, the polizia—”
“I don’t want the polizia. Please just do what I ask. I’ll make it worth your while.”
He stiffened.
“I’m not trying to insult you, Daniel. I know you’re very loyal. This is just so important.”
His feathers smoothed. “I will do as you ask and have the money wired to me, but I don’t understand why.”
“I’ll explain when it’s all over.”
“Will that be soon?”
She said yes, but the answer was no. She felt in her bones that it was far, far from over.
“What do you wish to say?” he asked, his pencil poised above the pad.
“To Patrick Mullanphy of…” Stella didn’t know Patrick’s address and she had to think. “Of Dogtown in St. Louis.”
“Not your family, Mrs. Lawrence?” asked Daniel.
“No. Patrick Mullanphy. I know. He owns Mullanphy Motor Works. Send it there. That’s in Dogtown, too.”
“Dogtown?” he asked with a hint of a sneer.
“It’s an Irish area. The name will help, since I don’t have the address.”
His mouth twitched, but he asked, “What would you like to say to Mr. Mullanphy?”
Stella tried to think of something endearing that Patrick would recognize and understand instantly. She smiled. “Say this. Dear Paddy Astaire. Please send a month’s pocket money to Mr. Daniel Burgess of the Bella Luna. Much love, Miss Myna.” She paused. “You should add your bank particulars.”
“What does that mean?” he asked.
“He’ll know or rather he’ll know who will know.”
“Is this Patrick a dancer like Fred Astaire?”
“His sister says no. It’s an inside joke.”
Daniel shook his head confused. “And pocket money? Isn’t that a few pence?”
“Not my pocket money. Father says mine adds up to a Studebaker every two weeks.”
“That’s astonishing.”
“I didn’t think so before, but I do now.” Her teeth began to chatter again and she gathered the blanket tighter around her shoulders.
“You’re still cold,” said Daniel. “Let me get your tea. Milk? Sugar?”
“Milk, please.”
He made up her tea, a strong basic blend that warmed her middle but not her toes. “Can you go to the telegraph office now? I really should get back.”
“Where are you staying?”
“I’d rather not say. It’s better for you and us.”
He sipped his own tea and Stella could see a fight going on inside him. It was an awkward situation to be sure. Daniel didn’t feel he could tell her what to do, but he was older and a man. Those things came with authority or, at least, men thought they did.
“Go ahead.”
Daniel jerked to attention. “Go ahead with what, Mrs. Lawrence?”
“First of all, call me Stella. I think we’re well past the formalities,” she said.
“I can’t. It’s not in me,” he said with a smile but he was still at attention.
“Very well. Then say what you want to say. I know there’s something.”
“It would be inappropriate for me to express an opinion,” said the butler who looked every inch like he thought he was standing in front of the queen, not a wretched eighteen-year-old American with no right to order him to lift a finger.
“Remember, you’re not my servant anymore and Nicky saw you as a friend, like Abel.”
“Is he with you?”
She glanced away at a stack of True Detective Mysteries magazines and said, “Nicky? Yes, of course, he is.”
“I meant Abel. We got on quite well and I’d like to see him again.”
“He’s not here.”
Daniel paused and she heard him sip his tea. Stella didn’t look back until she’d cleared Abel’s image from her mind. “Can you go now? It’s getting late.”
“The tea hasn’t helped. You’re still shivering,” he said, putting down his cup and getting some towels out of a cupboard under the sink.
“I’m fine, really.”
He swallowed hard. “Mrs. Lawrence, I insist you take off your boots.”
“You insist, do you?”
He swallowed again and years of training went straight out the window. “I do.”
“Fine.” She reached a shaky hand for her left foot, but he intervened and did it for her, wordlessly taking off her boots, rolling down the wet socks and then, with a glance at her resigned face, he unwound the bandages and dropped them onto the wooden floor. He didn’t grimace or recoil as much as he might’ve wanted to.
“It’s all right,” she said. “They’re a lot better.”
“Better?” he asked. “This is better?”
“It is.”
“You’re bleeding and your feet…I’ve never…what happened to you, Mrs. Lawrence?”
The kindness, the concern from a man she barely knew was almost too much. She turned away to the magazines again and read a headline, “Death Trap and the Girl with the Green Eyes.”
“Mrs. Lawrence?”
“Stella,” she said. “Please.”
He took a breath and she looked at him. “Stella,” he said. “What happened?”
“We had an accident.”
“With your feet?”
“Things happened in Vienna,” she said with a shrug and a smile.
His face changed with the word Vienna and she wished she hadn’t said it. He didn’t need to know or think about it. He wrapped her feet gently in the towels and stood up. “Of course. You were in Vienna when those…things occurred. But surely you and Mr. Lawrence—”
“Nicky.”
“Um…yes, Nicky. Wouldn’t you have been away from all that?” asked Daniel.
“No one was away from it.” She put her hand on his arm and saw him stiffen. That was too far for him and she removed it. “Please don’t be worried about it. We just need some money and it will be fine.”
He grabbed his overcoat and hastily put it on. “Yes. I’ll go right now. Please drink your tea and rest. I won’t be a moment.”
Stella leaned back and smiled. “I will.”
He opened the door but then stopped, looking at her from around the edge. “Stella?”
“Yes?”
“Where’s Abel?” he asked.
“You don’t want to know.”
He nodded and left, not locking her in, and she settled back with her cup pressed to her lower lip, saying over and over again, “It will be fine. It will be fine.”
It seemed like only a minute had gone by when someone took the cup out of Stella’s hands and her eyes fluttered open. “Daniel?”
“I’m back, Mrs. Lawrence, I mean, Stella.” Daniel stood over her with her cup in his hands and a frown on his face.
“What’s wrong? Wouldn’t they open for you?”
Someone else lifted her foot and she jerked upright to find a man sitting on a small stool in front of her and looking at her battered foot. “Good evening, Mrs. Lawrence.”
She yanked her foot away. “Burgess! How could you?”
“You need a doctor, Mrs. Lawrence, Stella, Mrs. Lawrence. I don’t know, but you need a doctor,” said Daniel, red-faced and more than a little panicked himself.
“He did the right thing,” said the man in a faint Scottish accent.
“Says you,” said Stella. “How do I know who you are?”
The man, elderly with silver hair and small, round glasses perched on his bulbous, hair-filled nose, gently set down her foot and pulled a card out of his breast pocket.
Dr. Irving Spooner
Doctor and Surgeon
English and Italian spoken
San Polo 42
Stella glared up at Daniel as she slapped the card against her leg. “How do you know him?”
“Dr. Spooner is my personal physician and the Bella Luna house physician,” said Daniel. “I can vouch for his character.”
“I don’t need a doctor. I have a doctor.”
Dr. Spooner reached for her foot again, giving her a stern squint that made her relent and let him have it.
“Let me guess,” he said, eyeing her left foot and then her right from all angles, “Dr. Davide?”
“Maybe.”
Daniel let out an outraged snort. “Mrs. Lawrence, that man is a disgrace. He’s a drunk and a lech.”
“I told you to call me Stella and I meant it. Also, I’m well aware of Davide’s character,” she said, calmly. “Dr. Spooner? What is your opinion?”
“Your feet are in terrible shape.”
“About Dr. Davide.”
He directed Daniel to fill a pan with hot water and began digging through his oversized black bag. “Davide is a drunk and a lech. He is also an excellent doctor when sober, which is rare.”
“You can’t return to him,” said Daniel. “You need good, reliable care. Your feet…”
Dr. Spooner took the pan, dumped a series of preparations and potions in it that smelled exactly like Dr. Salvatore’s mixture, and dunked her feet in it. The stinging warmth made her jump and then sigh.
“This isn’t your first medicinal bath,” said the doctor.
“No.”
“I assume you were given Prontosil.”
“Twice.”
“But you didn’t stay off your feet?”
She shook her head and he prepared a syringe. “You require another dose and I want you to tell me exactly what happened to your feet.”
He gave her the shot, which hurt more than she remembered, but she didn’t open up about the injuries. There wasn’t any point. It wouldn’t change anything.
“Mrs. Lawrence, you need me to understand what has happened.” The doctor’s small hazel eyes bored into her, but she shook her head. He glanced over at Daniel. “Can you step out for a moment?”
Daniel didn’t like it, but he left the flat.
When the door had firmly closed, Dr. Spooner said, “Mrs. Lawrence, I can’t make you tell me what happened to you, but it is in your best interest to do so.”
“I doubt it,” said Stella, crossing her arms.
He explained that he knew from her reaction to the soak that she had seen Dr. Salvatore, who was particularly good with wound care. This was illegal as he assumed from the cross around her neck that she wasn’t Jewish.
“I have nothing to say.” She tried to give him back his card.
He snapped his bag shut. “You need it. If anyone comes calling, show it to them and say I’m your doctor.” He glanced at the door. “I know what Salvatore and Davide are involved in.”
Stella merely watched him with indifference.
“And if you are involved with the two of them, you are in serious trouble.”
She said nothing.
“Where do you think Salvatore gets his medications? Who do you think is signing the backdated birth certificates?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Stella.
“Ask Father Girotti.” He smiled at her expression. “I thought so.”
“I have nothing to say.”
“But,” he said with emphasis, “I will have to say something if someone asks me about you.”
“Okay.”
“And what shall I say? That I’ve treated Mrs. Stella Bled Lawrence of the Bled Brewing family? Or perhaps something else?”
Stella met his eyes and her chest got unbearably tight. He knew her name. He could say it…or could he? “Do you believe in keeping your patients’ secrets?”
“Yes. I believe in doctor-patient confidentiality and I will not disclose anything you say to me in private.”
“Even my name?” she asked.
The doctor raised his eyebrows and clasped his hands over his bag. “Strictly speaking, your name isn’t confidential. Unless it has a bearing on your health in some way.”
“And if it did?”
“I would keep it confidential, but I can’t confirm that you are my patient in that case.”
“What if I were to be using another name? Would you confirm that?”
Dr. Spooner didn’t answer. He got a couple of little pots out of his bags and mixed them together in a small bowl before applying the glop to her feet.
“Why honey?” asked Stella. “And what’s the other stuff?”
“Honey fights infection and is very good for healing wounds.” He held up the other little pot. “This is a mixture of arnica, calendula, and aloe vera. All good for burns.”
“I don’t have a burn.”
“You do, in a manner of speaking. I’m sure Dr. Salvatore used something similar.”
“He did.”
“Sal is a good man.” Dr. Spooner got a bundle of bandages out of his bag, dried her feet, and wrapped them up tight.
“You didn’t answer my question, doctor,” said Stella. “Would you confirm a different name for me?”
He thought for a moment and then nodded. “I believe I would, if you said it was necessary for your health.”
There was nothing for it but to go ahead. “My name is Eulalie Myna. My husband is Douglas Myna. We’re Canadians. My feet had a reaction to the canal water and nothing else.”
“You haven’t had frost bite, for instance?” he asked with a sly smile.
“Certainly not.”
He held out his hand and they shook. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Douglas Myna. Would you like to give me your current address?”
“I think not.”
He nodded, dried out her boots, and helped her slip them on. “I recommend that you stay off your feet.”
“I’ll try,” said Stella, giving him her most winning smile.
He sighed. “But you won’t. The young never listen.”
Stella looked at his card and then tucked it away. “If someone calls you, would you confirm that my husband is suffering from cholera?”
His eyebrows jutted up. “There hasn’t been an outbreak of cholera here since 1911.”
“But it’s possible that he could have it.” She pointed at her feet. “Look what the water did to my feet.”
“Your feet were already damaged.”
She sighed and leaned back. “So you won’t do it?”
The doctor mulled it over. “Who diagnosed cholera?”
“Dr. Davide and Dr. Salvatore decided on it.”
“May I ask what your husband is really suffering from?” he asked.
Stella wrinkled her little nose in a way she knew was charming, particularly to men, and he chuckled in response. “I guess not. We will leave it at cholera, but I think it would be best to say a cholera-like illness.”
“Perfect. That’s what Dr. Davide said.” She grinned at him. “One more thing, doctor.”
“I feared you’d say that.”
“Have you treated or met anyone named Sorkine?” Stella asked.
He thought for a moment. “Man or a woman?”
“One of each.”
“No, I’m sorry. Are they injured?” he asked.
“Not that I know of. We’re trying to find them.”
Dr. Spooner adjusted his glasses and chose his words carefully. “Maybe you can trust me to say why.”
Stella leaned forward, putting her hands on his. “It’s not a matter of trust. If you really know Father Girotti, you should understand why.”
“You’re very young to have so many secrets.”
She thought of the Goldenbergs on the train with their children and the young woman and her infant. “I’m not so young.”
“From where I am, you are a child. I will keep an eye out for these mysterious Sorkines.” He got up and called out, “Daniel, come back in!”
Daniel rushed in with a pipe clamped between his teeth and two lines between his eyes. “How is she?”
“Eulalie? Oh, she’s fine, young, and healthy. She had an unfortunate reaction to the canal water, but she’ll recover well and quickly.”
“Canal water?” He pointed at her feet. “That can’t be canal water. Her feet…they’re lumpy.”
The doctor put on his overcoat and hat. “There is an abundance of nasty contaminates in that water right now.” He looked down at Stella. “Eulalie, you should count yourself lucky that it wasn’t worse.”
“Yes, Dr. Spooner,” said Stella demurely and he smiled at her with his eyes, not just his mouth.
“Who’s Eulalie?” asked Daniel, looking around the room as if he expected another woman to jump out at him.
The doctor picked up his bag and patted the butler’s shoulder. “Your friend, Eulalie Myna, wife of Douglas Myna. If you need anything, Mrs. Myna, don’t hesitate to call.”
“But I haven’t paid you,” said Stella. “I can’t right—”
“It’s well in hand. Daniel has taken care of my fee. Have a restful evening.” He left and Daniel stared down at her bewildered. “Eulalie Myna.”
“Yes, like on the telegram,” she said. “Tell me you sent it.”
“Yes, I did. But…”
She held out her hand and he pulled her to her feet. “I’ll explain when it’s all over.”
“You said that before, but I’m starting to doubt it.”
“I don’t blame you, but will you call me Eulalie and forget Stella was ever here?”
“I suppose I will, if Dr. Spooner is,” said Daniel. “How will I find you? Where are you staying?”
“I can’t say, but don’t worry, I’ll come back to get the money.” Stella put on her coat and hat, soggy as they were.
“What…what if you don’t come back?” he asked.
She held out the few coins she had left from Father Giuseppe. “This is all the money I have. I will definitely be back.”
“I wish you’d tell me what’s happened, so I can help you.”
“You are helping me. And I will ask one more thing of you.”
“Anything, Mrs. …Stella…Eulalie.”
She chuckled and said, “Can you find out if anyone has been to the Bella Luna looking for us?”
“You you or you Mrs. Myna?”
“The real us or Abel. It’s important,” she said. “Their name is Sorkine and we need to find them as soon as possible.”
“I’ll ask and see what I can find out.” He got his pad and pencil. “How do you spell that?”
She spelled their names and said, “Nicky and I are very grateful and if you ever want to come to the States, you know who to call.”
He smiled so big that a dimple popped out on his left cheek. Stella didn’t know he had a dimple before that moment he was so reserved. “Do you think Nicky needs a butler?”
“I don’t think so, but I’m sure something can be worked out.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
She smiled and gave him a swift kiss on his dimple before he could object and become all stiff and formal. “I hope you will.”