The Last Gondola by Edward Sklepowich Read Free Book Online Page A

was a widow who had helped Urbino in one of his cases.
    â€œNot with the Ca’ Pozza. The building next to it. You mean you don’t know? She bought it after Possle bought the Ca’ Pozza.”
    Rebecca was referring to the building that might have been the source of the laughter and sobs the other night.
    â€œShe’s not too happy with the building these days, I hear,” Rebecca was saying. “There’re been a series of break-ins in the neighborhood over the past few months and one or two muggings.” Rebecca lived in San Polo but not near the Ca’ Pozza. “They say it’s a gang of kids. Drug related, it seems, and a teenager fell to his death from Razzi’s building. She claims it’s all bringing down the value of her property.”
    â€œI was in San Polo late the other night,” Urbino said. “I had the feeling that someone might be following me.”
    â€œBe careful! I certainly am. These kids have mugged people even in the middle of the day. I know how you like to take your long walks, but you’re not invulnerable. You’ve been mugged before, remember, and it was near San Giacomo dell’Orio, wasn’t it?”
    Urbino nodded. San Giacomo dell’Orio was on the edge of the Santa Croce district near San Polo. This had been in the summer, in the middle of one of his investigations.
    â€œI’ll try to be careful. Benedetta Razzi, you say? Looks as if I’ll pay her a visit.”
    â€œDon’t forget your charm and a little gift for her children.”
    Rebecca was being ironic when she mentioned Razzi’s children. Razzi was childless, but she had a vast collection of dolls she pampered.
    One of the boys outside the café had finally managed to get the ball down, and he was kicking it around with his friend. It collided with a man in his sixties wearing a long, gray coat. He was walking from the direction of San Bàrnaba. He had a full head of snow white hair. The man smiled good-humoredly and kicked the ball back at the boys. He was carrying a large black portfolio and a small wooden box with a handle.
    â€œOh, it’s Lino Cipri,” Rebecca said.
    Cipri was a painter who spent most of his time and made most of his money copying the work of other painters. He was excellent at it, and it was all very legal as long as he signed his own name to the canvas.
    â€œCipri’s overdue on a painting for one of my clients,” Rebecca said, as she stood up. “It’s all your fault, your fault and Eugene’s, that is.”
    During a visit at Christmas, Urbino’s former brother-in-law, Eugene Hennepin, had commissioned Cipri to make a large number of copies of paintings in the Accademia Gallery and the Ca’ Rezzonico. He was still working on them. Urbino was the middleman.
    â€œI think I’ll walk with him and see what’s going on, if you don’t mind being left alone. I’m afraid that all he can think about these days is Eugene’s money. I need to impress him with his other responsibilities.”
    Rebecca pulled on her coat.
    â€œBy the way,” she said, “how is Habib doing? I thought he would send me a postcard.”
    She and Habib had become close during the past year and a half.
    â€œGive him a chance! He’s fine, but busy. He’ll be back in early April.”
    â€œGood. Plenty of time before the installation.”
    Habib was exhibiting at the Aperto, devoted to up-and-coming artists. It was mounted every Biennale at the old naval rope works near the Arsenale.
    â€œHabib at the Biennale! Who would have thought it!” Rebecca enthused. “Give him one of these for me as soon as you see him.”
    She bent down and kissed him on each cheek. As she straightened up, she put her hand under his chin and lifted his face.
    â€œYou look tired, Urbino dear. Burning the midnight oil at the Palazzo Uccello?”
    â€œSomething like that,” he said.