Death in a Serene City by Edward Sklepowich Page A

amuse me, Mr. Macintyre, you really do. We have a great deal to learn about each other. Carnival! Never! But excuse me,” he said as he looked at his watch, “I must And our dear hostess and say good night. I won’t be able to stay for dinner. Eating late has never agreed with me, recently less than ever. And it seems my best writing here is done between midnight and three—although tonight this might make a great deal of difference.” He held up his empty wineglass. “Good-bye, my new young friend. Don’t forget to stop by. The Europa e Regina.”
    No, Urbino said to himself as he watched Voyd join the Contessa, he wouldn’t forget. Hadn’t Voyd implied that he would like to tell him more about Margaret Quinton? It was as if the writer needed someone to talk to about the unfortunate woman, someone more receptive than the ironic Kobke. Or was it that Voyd had sensed Urbino’s eagerness for information about her and was tempting him with the prospect of future revelations?
    Whatever it was, Urbino was sure of one thing. The great Clifford Voyd felt more than a little guilty about the death of his friend. He wondered how the Contessa was going to take the news.

10
    â€œBUT just a few opals, Barbara, ti prego ” Stefano Bellorini was saying when Urbino joined him and the Contessa in one of the side alcoves with windows looking out over the water. Urbino had waited until Voyd had made his farewell to the Contessa. The writer, however, had not yet slipped away but, with an impatient Kobke, was talking with a professor from Ca’ Foscari and his wife who was handing him a book and a pen. “Not for all of them, you understand,” Stefano continued after greeting Urbino. “No, not at all, but for your lovely nonna. ” He was referring to the photograph of the Contessa’s grandmother. “And it might even be less expensive. Per esempio , we could—”
    The Contessa shook her head impatiently.
    â€œI am not concerned with saving money on this little project, Stefano dear, as you well know, and neither should you be. You will never be able to convince me by arguing expense when it’s a matter of opals. They’re bad luck, aren’t they, Urbino?”
    â€œSome people think so but—”
    â€œThat’s quite good enough for me. And it will have to be the same for you, Stefano, even if you aren’t superstitious. Not that I am myself but—but I believe my grandmother was,” she finished somewhat lamely.
    â€œYou are more difficult to deal with than my father was,” Stefano said, making one of his well-known jokes, “except that he was always trying to save money!” His father, dead for thirty years, was still remembered in the Cannaregio for his miserly ways and domination of his wife and only child with a fortune made in the shipping trade. “I will say this for you, Barbara, you know what you like.” He took several sheets of paper from a small table and handed them to Urbino. “Here they are.”
    They were the sketches he had misplaced earlier in the day. It was difficult to tell exactly what the finished frames would look like but Urbino was impressed as he knew he would be. The designs, each ornate and decorative in its own distinct way, were striking.
    â€œLovely,” he said, handing the sheets back to Stefano. “They remind me of Art Nouveau, with a touch of the Pala d’Oro, but yet they’re very much your own.”
    The artist beamed behind his thick round glasses.
    â€œArt Nouveau! Exactly! That’s why I wanted opals. But don’t worry, Barbara. We artists have almost always listened to our Popes and other patrons! But you must excuse me. Cavatorta is monopolizing Angela disgracefully and even after all these years I’m still a bit of an Othello. One good thing my father did was see to it that I didn’t lose Angela to someone else.”
    He frowned in