The woman in the picture wasn’t my doppelgänger, but she was damned close. Like me, she was on the other side of sixty—not too far, but distant enough that I figured the streaks in her blond hair were her natural grey. I kept my body tight with yoga and weightlifting, although she probably achieved the same effect with Pilates and the odd trip to the plastic surgeon’s office. Our haircuts were even similar.
“Damn,” I said to nobody in particular.
I went to my room after dinner to get ready for the next day. Nat had set the rendezvous for elevenam, late enough so the bar would be open, but early enough so that there wouldn’t be too many witnesses to the scene we were going to play. I laid out a linen suit, expensively rumpled, and a bag with a recognizable logo on reluctant loan from Helen. A huge pair of dark glasses would keep Wolfgang from looking too closely even if he had taken the time to google Christine Fellowes. There was nothing we could do about the hundreds of CCTV cameras around the city, but prosperous respectability is always a good disguise.
I was just stocking my bag with the things Christine Fellowes might carry—a tourist map of Venice, a folding fan, a makeup bag and hairbrush—when Taverner came in, smelling of tobacco and sea air.
“Nice evening?” I asked.
“Very,” he told me, slipping out of his leather jacket. “I went on a bacari crawl.” Venice was famous for its wine bars, each one offering standing-room-only service with good wine, heavy appetizers, and as much atmosphere as you could ask for. It was just the sort of evening we would have shared if I hadn’t been working. I wasn’t sure if I was annoyed he’d gone alone or relieved he had been out of the way while we had been plotting Wolfgang’s kidnapping. Taverner was always good for an idea, but I had no intention of letting him get mixed up in this.
I waited for him to introduce the subject of why we were in Venice, but he washed up, humming “American Pie” in theshower—all eight minutes and thirty-four seconds of it—before brushing his teeth and slipping into bed. He was halfway through a Zadie Smith book and picked up where he’d left off.
I stared at him until he looked up with a warm smile. “Is there something you wanted, love?”
I bared my teeth back at him. “No, darling,” I said in a sweet tone. “Nothing at all.”
He patted the bed next to him, and I went to lie under his arm, tucked up against his side. His free hand stroked my hair lazily while he read, brow furrowed over his bifocals. He was being completely courteous, respectful of my boundaries, and doing exactly as I asked of him.
I didn’t trust it for a goddamned minute.
Chapter Nineteen
The next day I wasin place well before eleven, watching the foot traffic on the bridge. School groups, official tours, even the odd bachelorette party crowded each other as they jostled for the perfect shot of the Grand Canal. The sun was glittering off the water—good for me, since it meant my oversized sunglasses weren’t suspicious. I had chosen a table near the hostess stand, and a few minutes after I arrived, Helen appeared with a bulging shopping bag from the Accademia and a large camera slung around her neck. She’d asked for a table near the water and angled herself so she could watch me discreetly. The waiter brought her a pizza, and she occupied herself by breaking off small bites and pretending to eat as she paged through a Rick Steves guidebook.
Up on the bridge, Mary Alice was snapping selfies. At the foot of the bridge, on the opposite side from the Bar Foscarini, Nat had set up an easel and was lazily sketching the canal.
I ordered a cup of black tea and studied the photograph of Wolfgang that Nat had bookmarked on my phone. He was exactly what you’d expect of a German opera singer—well-padded with a blond beard. (Jonas Kaufmann being the exception, of course.) Wolfgang looked like he just stepped out ofThe Aryan Opera Lover’s Guide to Wagner, and I wondered what his grandparents had gotten up to in World War II. I closed out the tab on my phone just as he walked up, smiling a wide, nervous smile.
“Frau Fellowes?”
“Ja,” I said, rising and extending my hand. I greeted him in fluent German, making a point of including a few minor grammatical errors and flattening my accent. People are always more at ease when they think they know more than you do. To my surprise, he didn’t correct me. Instead, he gave me an even bigger smile.
“You speak German!” he exclaimed in real delight.
I smiled. “You should not be surprised. We who love opera must have at least a passing acquaintance with German and Italian and French.” I waved him to a chair and signaled the waiter to bring another tea. Over his shoulder I could see Helen fighting off a seagull that had swooped in for some of her pizza.
“I have never known a singer who didn’t want something hot to drink,” I told Wolfgang with a warm smile. “Would you like some honey?”
“No, no,” he said, helping himself to four packets of sugar as the waiter appeared with a tiny teapot. Wolfgang poured a small cup and stirred in all four packets. He took a deep sip,sitting back with a little sigh. “I am honored by your invitation, Fraulein,” he said, putting his hand to his heart. He had obviously decided that a charm offensive was warranted, and my strategy was to pretend to be charmed. I had had plenty of time to decide how to play it and plenty of advice from Helen, the only real opera lover among us. His official biography stated his age as thirty-three, but Natalie’s internet digging had turned up a few early competitions in his hometown of Erlangen. Working out the dates, it was clear he’d shaved a few years off, no doubt to give himself a little more time to make it as a pro. He was closer to thirty-seven and probably getting desperate. The role at La Fenice was his biggest one yet, and it still wasn’t a lead. He’d never believe it if I hinted at a headlining spot in a major production, so I said some vague things about showcases and fundraisers and perhaps a chance to understudyDer Rosenkavalier. The suggestion of performing a German composer lit him up. He started to talk about the themes of the opera, gesturing expansively as he went on and on about infidelity and selflessness.
I let him chatter until he was good and warmed up. Then I touched his hand, a light, quick touch. It wasn’t intended to be sexy. It was just a small bonding gesture to let him think I liked him and put him at ease for the request I was about to make. I pulled my phone out and gave him a self-deprecating smile. “I hope you don’t mind,” I said shyly. “But I’d love to get a selfie with you.”
He preened, sliding his chair closer to mine and draping a beefy arm around my shoulders. I snapped a few, tilting my head at the last second so that my hair brushed his cheek. Isat back and pretended to study them. Instead with a couple of taps I forwarded them to the others. I got back three thumbs-up emoji, so I knew they’d gone through. Minka never stints on the international data plan, bless her.
When I was satisfied, I put the phone face-up on the table. It displayed the clearest picture I’d snapped. Wolfgang and I were grinning, looking like the best of friends.
“You will send that to me?” he asked hopefully.
“Of course.” I’d saved his number so it took only a few more taps to send him the photo. “I hope that doesn’t make your girlfriend jealous,” I said as he looked at his incoming message.
He glanced up quickly as he pocketed the phone. “I have no girlfriend.”
I tipped my head, giving him a conspiring look. “Don’t you? I’m surprised you’d bother to deny it. I mean, I understand pop stars and actors not giving out that kind of information, but are B-list baritones really worried about groupies getting butthurt that they’ve got significant others?”
He looked confused at the transformation from patrician New York opera buff to plainspoken Texan. “I’m sorry?”
“You will be if Galina Dashkova sees that,” I told him, nodding towards the phone in his hand.