Free 5 - Her Deadly Mischief by Beverle Graves Myers

locked at this hour, but a persistent curiosity seeker must have bribed his way in. Just as I opened my mouth to call out, the man tilted his head and swept off his hat.
    I waved a greeting, not certain whether I should be pleased or dismayed.
    Though Messer Grande’s smile was benign, he beckoned with two fingers as stiff as a tuning fork. I was wanted.

Chapter Five
    A sign creaked as it swung in the breeze: the Lion of San Marco, the symbol of the Venetian Republic, flaked by time and weather. Messer Grande had conducted me to a guardhouse on the San Polo side of the Rialto Bridge where a number of government buildings were clustered. He paused under the sign, one booted foot on the steps that led to a turreted, squat pile of brown-gray stones that housed pickpockets, sandbaggers, sneak thieves, and all manner of miscreants awaiting their turn before the bench.
    “Leave the talking to me,” he said. “Just keep your eyes open. If you can identify Alessio Pino as the man in the box, so be it. If you’re not sure, don’t think exaggerating the resemblance will make you a hero.”
    Indignation kindled at the pit of my stomach. “A hero is something I play on the stage. I have no need for such sentiments in real life.”
    “Very well…” Messer Grande replied in a silky tone. Somehow I formed the impression that he was both pleased and surprised. With a nod, he went on, “Yes. Good. Perhaps you’ll be of more assistance than I dared hope.”
    “I will if I can.” Somewhat mollified, I asked, “Did you arrest Alessio on Murano?”
    Messer Grande snorted. “We crossed to the Pino factory the minute we left the theater. Most people run home when trouble is brewing, but not Alessio. Obvious why—his father is a terror. We found the old man tending the night fires himself. He was aghast when I told him about the murder. Even so, he refused to leave his kiln—the melting pots had reached some crucial stage that apparently requires a master’s hand. He ordered a servant to lead us on a search of the glassworks and the house that sits behind it. I had him unlock all the storerooms and cupboards large enough for a man to hide in, but we came up empty-handed. Cesare’s parting words were ‘run that mewling pup of mine to ground and haul him before the Avogaria—just don’t bring him back here or I might have to wring his neck myself.’”
    “Cesare must think Alessio is guilty, then.”
    “Guilty of betraying his father’s carefully laid marriage plans—certainly. But guilty of murder? I can’t say.” Messer Grande paused to stroke his chin thoughtfully. “I’ve seen a lot in my time, but I’ve rarely come across such a formidable father…”
    I looked down at the stone stairs, focusing on the dip worn away by years of passing feet. I’d also been encumbered with a formidable father. Raising my gaze, I asked, “Where was Alessio hiding?”
    Messer Grande replied as he ushered me into the guardhouse. “At a house near the theater. We found him by questioning his friends—one was not as firm a friend as Alessio must have thought.”
    At the foyer desk, a uniformed sergeant was reading the Gazzetta Veneta with his feet propped up. After one glance at the senior constable, he scrambled to attention amidst a flurry of dust and official reports. Ignoring the man’s stiff salute, Messer Grande turned into a grim corridor. He continued his tale: “Alessio’s so-called friend had hidden him in the attics of his family home. This daring young sprig didn’t mind pulling the wool over his old father’s eyes, but when he saw that this was more than a trifling escapade—and that he’d be courting prison if he continued to lie to me—it didn’t take long for him to cough Alessio up like a gristly morsel of pork.”
    “Did Alessio come quietly?”
    Messer Grande lodged his tricorne under his arm and rubbed the back of his neck. “He didn’t struggle, if that’s what you mean, but when I confronted him