One of the men, a muscular man who Diana thought had performed as Nick Bottom, stood up. “I will take his role. Non. Is no problem. You see.”
The director shook his head and muttered something under his breath. “Idiota. No. You’re in too many scenes with Quince, lo stupido.”
Nick Bottom sat back down with a shrug. Another man, a slight man who Diana believed had played one of the fairies, said, “I’ll do it.”
The director rolled his eyes. “Disastro! All right. But we must practice. Tonight. Tomorrow. No sleep for you.” He clapped his hands and started to shout orders in Italian to everyone around. The actors, all well-rehearsed in dramatic sighs, chorused their annoyance.
Diana slumped in the chair. Wasn’t that the credo of the theater? The show must go on. Still, that seemed to apply well to broken bones or illness or bad weather. But murder? If that was even what it was. Even just an unexpected death in the cast . . . it all sounded so cold to continue on, as if Marcello hadn’t meant anything or contributed anything important to the part.
Surely, his absence would be, just as Pietro Colombo had said, a disaster. But maybe thespians were used to that. And no, she didn’t know him well, but he’d been part of the company for a long time. It seemed wrong to simply replace him after a three-minute conversation. He was definitely one of the best actors in the troupe.
But that was the thing. She hadn’t known him well. Yet she’d gone ahead and created all those stupid fantasies of him, once again. And now . . . all those dreams of him possibly being something more to her seemed to disappear in her head. Just like the man in Paris. Poof. Her record on this trip wasn’t exactly sterling. Men didn’t just reject her. They died on her.
So much for “Fall in love in Italy.”
A mustached man with a striped dress shirt and askew tie came over to her and started speaking to her in Italian. He had deep wrinkles in his forehead, and graying temples which suggested he was older, but his body was lean, with no stomach pooch whatsoever. He had a goatee, and his voice was that of a younger man. He showed her credentials, and in his picture, he looked almost like a baby. She wondered if the stress had gotten to him.
Based on the credentials, she assumed he was some part of the Verona police force, but other than that, she was lost. She simply shook her head. “No idea what you’re saying.”
“You’re American?” he asked, stroking his goatee.
She nodded. “Yes. I’m from New York. Yes, my name is Diana St. James. No, I did not know the victim well,” she volunteered, all the things they’d wanted to know about her in Paris.
He seemed taken aback by her bluntness, but quickly wrote something down. “I’m Detective Lucci. With the Verona police. I hear you find the body?”
“No. I didn’t find him. I was with him when he died.”
“Ah.” He raised his eyebrows as if it was some lurid tryst they’d been in the middle of.
Diana sighed. “It was innocent, I assure you. I didn’t really even know him. I met him on the train this afternoon. He sent me a note asking me to stop by his dressing room after the show. I did. He was just getting changed and he dropped dead. That’s it.” She set the water glass down so that she could twiddle her thumbs better.
“That’s it?”
She shrugged. He seemed to be fishing for something. What else could he possibly want? Tawdry details about an affair gone wrong? “Like I said, I just met him. I barely knew him. I suppose I was just at the wrong place and the wrong time.”
“Can you tell me exactly what happened from the moment you saw him?”
“Yes. I went in. He was smoking a cigarette. He said the play was terrible. I don’t think he was happy with the way the other actors had performed.”
“Did he mention anyone specific that he might have been having trouble with?”
“No. Then he said he had some wine. He popped the cork and offered me some but I didn’t want any, at first. He told me I could help myself while he got changed, and then he went behind the screen.”
“Did he seem all right to you then?”
She nodded. “Yes. He was coughing a little, but he was very animated, despite that. Sounded like smoker’s cough. That’s it.”
“And then?”
“Then . . . he collapsed behind the screen. I went to check on him and I think he was already dead by then. He looked it, anyway; he wasn’t moving at all and his eyes were open. So I turned around and called for help. That was all.”
“Are you sure?”
What else are you expecting? “I don’t know. It was a heart attack or something, right?” Please tell me yes.
The man’s lips twisted. “We don’t know for sure. We have to do a few tests and an autopsy. We did find a bit of residue in his wine glass that is concerning.”
Her eyes went wide. “Residue?”
“Yes. There were two glasses found in the dressing room. Was one yours?”
She nodded. “I poured myself a glass. But I didn’t drink it. Was there residue in both glasses?”
He ignored her question. “You poured yourself a glass?” He said it as if it were a crime. She nodded reluctantly. “Then those are probably your fingerprints, along with his, on the bottle.”
“Yes . . . like I said, I didn’t want any at first, but then I changed my mind,” she said, her heart speeding up. They were fingerprinting. Collecting evidence. Interviewing witnesses. That meant . . . they were treating this as a homicide. Yes, they had to do that, until they were sure it wasn’t. But she was the last person to see him alive, so that also meant that she . . . was a suspect.
Again.
“Like I said. I didn’t know him. So I had no reason to . . .”
He nodded as if to say, Not good enough. You’re still a suspect.
“And to be clear, I didn’t give him the bottle of wine,” she added, twiddling her thumbs like crazy now. “It was there when I got there. He said it was a gift and offered to share it with me.”
“A gift? From who?”
“He didn’t say.” Had he said? Her mind was starting to spin. No, she didn’t think so, but now, as she replayed those last moments with him, she couldn’t tell what was real and what she might have just been inventing in her head. “It was just there, on the dressing room table, when I got there.”
“And you were in there alone? There was no one else?”
“Yes.” She nodded absently, then a thread of a memory came to her. “Oh. Well, when I got to the door, I was just about to knock when it opened, and someone came out.”
“Someone?”
“Yes. Titania. Um . . . I’m sorry, I don’t know the actress’s name. She had a strange look on her face and she seemed to be in a hurry.”
“A strange look? Did she look agitated?”
Diana swallowed, fully realizing what he was getting at. Had Titania brought him the wine to poison him? If she said that she had looked agitated, suspicion would fall directly on her. But that would be a lie, and she didn’t want to cast suspicion on anyone. “No. Not really. I can’t explain it. It was not quite a smirk, but close. She was a little distracted, I guess, and surprised to see me.”