Page 22 of The Venice Murders

Jack stifled a sigh. It had been a ropey plan to start with and now was clearly not working at all. At this rate, he’d be the one too tired to take the boat back to St Mark’s this evening. Perhaps he could plead that as an excuse – extreme fatigue or maybe a bad back, or a blister on his foot. Anything to keep them away from that restaurant. He couldn’t lose the very bad feeling he had about La Zucca, though why he had it, he wasn’t sure – other than a natural dislike of what would almost certainly be a confrontation.

Another mile or two further, or so it seemed, his spirits lifted slightly when, by chance, he spotted a small trattoria situated on one of the shaded alleyways running down to the lagoon, its tables spilling across the pavement. Brightly checked tablecloths flapped in a breeze that had recently begun to blow, and the café’s window of salami and round cheeses looked inviting.

He snatched a surreptitious look at his watch. ‘Twelve o’clock already,’ he said brightly. ‘Why don’t we eat here? We can make it a snack and there’s an empty table waiting for us.’

It proved a good choice. The light lunch, when it came, was exactly right: a bowl of minestrone, a caprese salad, followed by a plate of grilled calamari. Despite her supposed lack of appetite, Flora ate her way through the several dishes, talking animatedly of the gardens, the Arsenale, the view from where they sat. Everything, Jack thought, except this evening’s crucial visit.

Was it worth carrying on with his flawed plan? But he could think of nothing else, so after paying the bill, he turned to ask, ‘More walking?’ Over his shoulder, he looked longingly at a water taxi that was powering by.

‘Why not? We have to reach home somehow,’ she said.

And reach home they did, walking through what seemed to Jack most of Castello, the northernmostsestiereof Venice and one of its largest. One that few tourists bothered to visit, making a stroll through its streets an attractive prospect – if only his feet would stop hurting. He was sure now that he really did have a blister.

By the time they reached the Cipriani kiosk to phone for a ferry back to the Giudecca, Jack had consigned his plan to the devil.

9

It had been an interesting day, Flora decided, and a clever idea of Jack’s to use the slightly cooler weather to see something of a Venice they hadn’t yet explored. She was certainly tired, but tired or not, was looking forward to the evening and a visit to a restaurant that she reckoned was behind most, if not all, of the trouble they’d uncovered. An hour or so lazing and she’d be ready to go.

Jack yawned, joining her on the bed and wrapping his arms around her. ‘I don’t know if I can eat much tonight,’ he murmured.

‘Really? That doesn’t sound like you. We could always forget the main course, I suppose. I don’t think they’d object. Have just a starter and a pudding – their desserts looked lovely.’

‘We’re definitely going out to eat?’ he asked innocently.

She turned her head to look at him, her expression puzzled. ‘Why wouldn’t we? We’re going to La Zucca. You do remember?’

How could he forget the restaurant or the repercussions he feared from Flora’s meeting with an owner who, inevitably, would be less than pleased? And so it turned out. They had eaten their main course of chickencacciatore– neither, in fact, had fancied a starter – and by luck, or ill luck, Jack grumbled to himself, it was the owner rather than their waiter who walked out to their table on the terrace and presented them with the dessert menu.

Flora smiled brightly up at him, a sure sign she was in questioning mode. ‘You have a beautiful restaurant here,’ she said.

‘Thank you, signora.’

‘Beautiful surroundings, too. So close to the Grand Canal. You must be very busy.’

‘Il ristorante è popolare. It goes well,’ he acknowledged.

‘We’re just finding our way around Venice,’ she confided. ‘It can be confusing.’

He nodded pleasantly and handed them both a new menu, intending to leave them to make their choice.

‘We’ve been talking of travelling more widely, though,’ she said before he could walk away. ‘Exploring the Veneto.’

‘Il Veneto– is very beautiful, too.’

‘Can you recommend anywhere we should visit in particular?’

Here it comes, Jack realised.

The owner spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. ‘There are so many places.Tutto é bellissimo.’

‘Do you come from Venice yourself?’

‘No, signora.’ He tried to walk away.

‘Perhaps we could visit your home town.’ Flora’s smile became brighter. ‘Where would that be?’ And when he appeared not to understand, she asked again. ‘Where do you come from?Da dove viene?’

‘Asolo.’ He answered abruptly.

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