Free Black Bridge by Edward Sklepowich Page B

midnight.”
    He finished his anisette. Astonishment briefly touched the Contessa’s face. She was a woman who knew not only the year and the day but the precise hour of the deaths of her loved ones. Her decision to revive the old Venetian tradition of the bridge of boats to the cemetery island on the Day of All Souls came as much from this deep reverence for the dead as from her love for all things Venetian. Her eyes flicked in Urbino’s direction before she said: “Yes, it’s sometimes difficult to remember painful memories, I find. The mind just shuts down.” Then, with more energy and a rueful smile at Bobo: “But whatever the precise date, it means that our procession will have all that more meaning. We’ll all be remembering Rosa. She always seemed like such a dear woman.”
    It was Bobo’s opportunity to make up for his lapse of memory, but he said nothing.
    Before anyone might break the uncomfortable silence, the door of the salotto blu burst open. It was Oriana and Flint.
    â€œIf you’re calmly sitting here like that with a book in your lap, Barbara, then you can’t possibly have heard the terrible news.” Oriana settled herself with a great deal of histrionics in one of the Louis Quinze chairs. “Tell them, John dear. I’m emotionally exhausted. This has been one of the worst days of my life.”
    Flint cast an appraising glance over the furnishings and bibelots.
    â€œOriana isn’t exaggerating. It is bad news. We just found out at the Flora.”
    â€œOrlando!” the Contessa said, standing up. “Oh, don’t tell me the poor man is dead!”
    â€œOrlando? Dead?”
    Bobo’s voice held a strange note. Flint was studying the Barone’s reaction with peculiar interest. Before Oriana or Flint might further enlighten them, raised voices sounded from the hallway, followed by footsteps.
    An olive-skinned man in his late forties, dressed in a dark gray suit and tie, appeared in the doorway next to Mauro, the majordomo. Behind them was a blue-uniformed policeman. The olive-skinned man’s dark eyes quickly surveyed the room. He frowned when he saw Oriana and Flint. His expression became even more severe when his eyes alighted on the Barone, who was pouring himself another anisette.
    â€œExcuse us for interrupting you, Contessa, but I’d like to speak in private to the Barone Casarotto-Re.”
    â€œMay I ask what this intrusion is all about?”
    â€œIt’s all right, Barbara. Whatever you have to say to me, Commissario, you can say in front of my friends.”
    Bobo must have intended it for a brave pose, but his voice, though haughty, had a hollow and fearful sound.
    â€œVery well, then. I am Commissario Roberto Gemelli of the Venice Questura. We’d like you to come to San Lorenzo to answer some questions in reference to the deaths of Hugh Moss and Marie Quimper, who were shot to death last night in the Rialto Erberia.”
    Bobo paled.
    â€œDead? Both of them?”
    â€œMy God!” the Contessa said. “Moss called me about a quarter to twelve last night and was going to stop by. Now I see why he didn’t! To think I’ve been in a pique about it!”
    Gemelli was about to say something when Oriana said:
    â€œIt happened much too late for the paper! We went to the Flora to see if Hugh and Marie wanted to go to Chioggia. Hugh mentioned the Carpaccio there. And—”
    Oriana broke off at a sharp look from Gemelli.
    â€œYou and Signor Flint will be giving your statements at the Questura later, Signora Borelli. Please, Barone. Our boat is waiting.”
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    â€œI’ll never forgive you unless you do something to help Bobo!”
    Urbino was fortified with a Campari soda, the Contessa only by an anger that didn’t seem at all close to cooling. She had not very graciously asked Oriana and Flint to leave and then called the chief commissioner at the Questura to complain