Death on the Grand Canal: An Intrepid Traveler Mystery

By M.A. Monnin

Having discovered a knack for investigation, Stefanie joins Thomas Burkhardt in Milan, Italy, on the Black Market trail of a fabulous sapphire and emerald encrusted pendant known as the Borgia Peacock, missing since it was stolen from the Milan World Expo of 1906.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Level Best Books
• Release date: May 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9781685123659

Book preview

Chapter One

Pulling off a con was easier when you didn’t have to worry about betrayal. Stefanie Adams tugged on the press badge strung from a lanyard around her neck to ensure it was visible. With a flamboyant gesture, she lifted a glass of prosecco from the tray of a passing waiter, causing the baguette-cut rubies on her wrist to flash crimson fire.

A single man on the other side of the garden fountain smiled at Stefanie, but the sparkle didn’t catch the eye of Contessa Giuliana Bergamo as Stefanie intended. Darn.

Stefanie stepped away from the up-lit fountain with its ring of fragrant roses, moving closer to the white-haired noblewoman in chic pale blue who conversed with a man in an expensive Italian suit. His broad back blocked her view of the Contessa.

Reminded by the cool evening breeze that Milan, Italy, was within a stone’s throw of the Alps, Stefanie pulled the linen jacket she’d bought that afternoon close and shamelessly eavesdropped.

To keep the garden so meticulously groomed, Contessa, the man said, must require quite a large gardening staff.

They do very well, I think.

The state of the garden was an innocent enough topic between a Contessa with stolen jewelry for sale and Europe’s most notorious jewel fence. With her aristocratic nose and confident air, the Contessa didn’t look like a thief hiding a guilty secret. Signor Enrico Ungaretti, the man in the pricey suit, on the other hand, set off every alarm bell instilled by her bank training. Darting eyes beneath heavy brows, tense shoulders, a constant checking of the exit. When they lowered their voices, Stefanie struggled to hear the swiftly spoken Italian. She only caught a few words.

Fifty-thousand…tomorrow.

The Contessa’s scoff was understandable in any language.

Negotiations had begun.

Stefanie needed a chance at that pendant before Enrico got his hands on it.

Though her partner Thomas’s informant had only mentioned a jeweled peacock, Thomas was certain he knew exactly which item was being offered for sale: a fifteenth-century gold peacock, three inches tall and wide, fashioned with a large baroque pearl as its head. Three sizable blue sapphires and four equally large emeralds were incorporated into its elegant side-swept tail. Another elongated baroque pearl dangled from its golden claws. Out of circulation since 1906, when the pendant had been stolen from the Milan International Expo.

The peacock was a beautiful piece, without a doubt, but its history gave it exponentially more value. In 1490, Rodrigo Borgia, shortly before his reign as Pope Alexander VI, had commissioned the pendant for one of his mistresses.

Thomas had jumped at the chance to intercept the peacock before it disappeared again.

Thomas. Since they’d become partners romantically as well as professionally, she’d slipped into the English pronunciation of his name rather than the German. He didn’t mind. After all, only the most cold-blooded of lovers would begrudge a little detail like that during an intimate moment, and Thomas was anything but. He did mind the prospect of losing out on one of the most notorious jewels of the Renaissance, though.

They’d left Greece immediately, stopping just long enough in Rome to pick up her ruby bracelet, which her sister had expedited to the embassy there, no questions asked.

Stefanie sipped the crisp prosecco as she watched the couple. If she had to buy the Borgia Peacock from Enrico, there was no telling what the fence’s markup would be. Not that she’d end up paying anything for it at all. She just needed a convincing introduction to the Contessa Bergamo.

The official public opening of the Contessa’s private garden provided Stefanie the perfect opportunity to strike up an acquaintance. The evening’s gathering included journalists and others eager to see the grounds free of charge before the cost to view Roman statues in the serene setting rose to ten euros per person.

The garden paths were crowded with men in sharp suits and women in designer dresses and just as many couples in casual wear, strolling past the Roman relics that dotted the grounds. Most of the statues appeared to be first and second century BC, if her memory of Roman archaeology was correct. Thomas probably knew exactly where each statue came from. He could be maddening that way.

Once the job was done and the Borgia Peacock safely in their hands, she’d experience Milan like the Italians did, enjoying the little pleasures of life. And, if she could wrangle it, a bigger one. Da Vinci’s Last Supper was a must-see for her travel blog.

She moved closer to the Contessa, avoiding the appearance of stalking by casting admiring glances at the precisely sculptured boxwoods that lined the crushed gravel walk. When Enrico stepped slightly to the side, finally allowing her a clear view of the Contessa, she glimpsed a sparkle of blue on the woman’s jacket. Stefanie’s breath caught. The Contessa couldn’t be bold enough to show off the Borgia Peacock with so many reporters present. Could she?

The Contessa pivoted to face the expanse of garden, away from her, and Stefanie couldn’t actually see the piece to identify it. She inched closer.

Enrico eyed her encroachment with annoyance. Taking the Contessa’s arm, he turned his back on Stefanie and led the noblewoman down the garden path.

Great. Now what? She had to try something, and soon, before Enrico made a deal. She needed to prove to Thomas she was worth the high salary she’d negotiated when he offered her the job.

The man who’d eyed her bracelet from the other side of the fountain fell into step beside her.

Crap. So focused on attracting the Contessa’s attention, she’d forgotten the ruby bracelet might gain notice from other quarters, and she’d neglected to stay alert. Thomas wouldn’t be happy about that.

Stefanie opened her purse. She hadn’t included her nail file when she packed the gold clutch, and her apartment keys, being an unnecessary weight in her purse while she was in Italy, were back at the hotel. What could serve for self-defense? She grabbed her cell phone. Bringing it to life, she tapped the phone icon and held it to her ear while she gave the man a cold look.

Captain Alexandrou of the Milan police, she said into the silent phone, maintaining eye contact with the stranger.

At the mention of ‘police,’ he gave her a hurt look, then walked away.

Stefanie smiled to herself as she dropped the phone back into her purse. Thomas wouldn’t be pleased about that little ploy, either, but he wouldn’t hear about it from her.

With that problem taken care of, she hovered on the sidewalk, twisting the slender stem of her wine glass. Working for Interpol to recover lost artifacts. Who would’ve thought that she, a former private banker, could do it? But she hadn’t pulled anything off yet. She’d been certain the flashy stones of her ruby bracelet would catch the Contessa’s eye and prompt an introduction. But they hadn’t done the trick. Think, she told herself. How can you work this situation?

Bumping into the Contessa was awkward and could easily backfire. Though the seventy-three-year-old woman stood ramrod straight and wore couture and immaculate makeup, she might well break a hip if Stefanie actually did knock her down. There’d be no coming back from that faux pas, and besides, she had her limits. She hadn’t signed up to batter senior citizens.

Better to strike up a conversation and hope she could pull off the charade of being independently wealthy and a legitimate buyer. Technically, she was both. Well, maybe not wealthy. Comfortable. But that nest egg wouldn’t last if she didn’t pull off the job. And unfortunately, the jewel fence was still monopolizing the Contessa’s attention.

Bumping into him might work, though.

At her first step towards the black-market broker, a commotion on the far side of the grounds drew her eye. It drew everyone’s eye. A black-haired man with a meticulously groomed mustache above a dark soul patch threw down a flaming paper napkin then stomped on it as the circle of visitors around him shouted and backed away. She knew exactly who he was. According to the name tag hanging around his neck, a reporter from the BBC, there to check out the Contessa’s newly opened garden. Like she was, ostensibly.

Their gazes met across the expanse. She was already making her move, but his distraction helped.

With her face turned toward the now laughing group, Stefanie purposely walked full-on into Enrico, forcefully knocking her left shoulder against his fine wool suit.

The fence jerked back, and his arm came up, knocking the wine glass out of her hand.

Oof! Stefanie exclaimed. As the glass flew, she eyed the blue brooch that sparkled on the Contessa’s lapel. Vintage, but not nearly as old as the one she was after. Cartier, maybe. A starburst, not a peacock.

I’m so sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going, she said in English, not letting on to Enrico or the Contessa that she understood Italian. She knelt to pick up the larger pieces of the shattered glass that lay on the path, then smiled ruefully into the blue eyes that graced the Contessa Bergamo’s surprisingly youthful face. I’m afraid I’ve broken your wine glass.

The Contessa waved the problem away. A glass can be replaced.

Enrico stepped to the side when a waiter took the broken shards from Stefanie. As the waiter swiftly retrieved the rest from the ground, she noticed a trickle of blood on her index finger.

The Contessa took Stefanie’s hand and held it with both of hers. My dear, you are cut.

It’s nothing. Accepting a napkin from the waiter, Stefanie dabbed the small wound with an excessive exuberance that made her ruby bracelet shimmer and pop.

The Contessa’s attention finally focused on the bracelet. Her eyes lit up, but before she spoke, a woman with a luxuriant mass of light brown hair, beautiful enough to be a professional model, hurried up, her face creased with concern. In rapid Italian, she checked on the elderly woman.

Everything is fine, the Contessa said. She turned back to Stefanie and resumed in English. My niece Francesca thinks I need supervision. I cannot imagine why.

The resemblance between niece and aunt was remarkable, providing a glimpse of the Contessa’s beauty in her youth. Francesca’s perfectly arched eyebrows lifted subtly at Stefanie’s hand, still held by her aunt, and a detached acceptance replaced the wariness in her expression.

When Stefanie withdrew her hand from the Contessa’s grip, the woman’s fingertips trailed against her palm, giving Stefanie her first inkling of the reason for Francesca’s raised eyebrows. She tucked her gold metallic clutch more firmly under her arm. Thomas could have warned her there might be flirting involved.

The Contessa focused on Stefanie’s bracelet again, giving Stefanie the opening she was looking for.

A woman’s jewelry tells a lot about her, Stefanie said.

Does it? Faded blue eyes took her measure in a flirtatious way.

Look at Madelyn Albright, our American former Secretary of State, she continued. After a poem in the Iraqi press called her an unparalleled serpent, she wore a snake pin when she next met with Iraqi officials.

The Contessa laughed. A wily opponent.

Stefanie gestured toward the flash of sapphires pinned to the woman’s dress. Your jewelry says you enjoy making a statement.

I do. The Contessa’s gaze dropped again to Stefanie’s bracelet. Yours would say that you appreciate fine jewelry as well.

Stefanie smiled and lifted her wrist, displaying the row of seven rubies flanked on each end by three square-cut diamonds. It had been a gift from Mrs. Beck, one of her former bank clients.

This once belonged to the silent film star Ruth Sampson. Or so the legend goes. Stefanie dipped her head confidentially. I don’t know for certain. If I have it authenticated, my hopes might be dashed.

The Contessa chuckled as she took a longer look at the bracelet, then gave a single nod to Enrico, dismissing him.

With a speculative glance at Stefanie, he walked away.

Call me Giuliana, the Contessa said to Stefanie. Come, walk with me. She took Stefanie’s arm companionably. The scent of the Contessa’s perfume, a light concoction of lilies and verbena, filled Stefanie’s nose as they walked along the candlelit path.

You are a journalist, Giuliana said, lifting her head to read Stefanie’s press badge. ‘Travel Tips for the Intrepid Woman.’ A book?

Stefanie gave her best customer-service smile. Travel blog. I started it because I firmly believe a woman traveling alone can never be too careful. Thomas’s IT guy had set her up with an online following of thousands, all of them fake. She’d written a quick rundown of must-sees and avoid-at-all-costs based on her recent experience in the Greek isles, not half-bad for someone who’d spent the last twelve years as a private banker. She’d even gained fifty-seven legitimate followers since the blog first posted the morning before.

Stefanie lifted her chin toward a woman backed against one of the marble statues, who held her wine glass in front of her chest as if warding off further advances by the man pressing in on her.

My blog is aimed at women who travel for work or pleasure, but would prefer to see the local sights without fending off males who find a way to put an unwelcome hand where it doesn’t belong.

The Contessa’s eyes glittered. Yes, I know what you mean.

Women who would love to come walk through your garden and admire your home’s beautiful architecture. Stefanie gazed appreciatively at the Neoclassical villa set back from the grounds by a wide drive.

It has been in my family for centuries. I will never part with it, the Contessa said. You may mention my garden in your blog.

Thank you. Stefanie lowered her voice. Something I won’t mention is an item of jewelry that you are willing to part with.

The Contessa stopped, the top of her head only just reaching Stefanie’s shoulder. Her posture stiffened. You are not here for the garden.

I’m here for both. Stefanie swept her hand toward the neatly manicured lawn and intricate knot gardens. This is beautiful. Much more sophisticated and stylish than a stud farm in Kentucky.

What makes you think that I have a piece for sale? The Contessa’s gaze sought out two uniformed security men near the drive. Her lips pressed together tightly.

Uh oh. Stefanie gripped her purse, hoping her nerves didn’t show.

I have a man who keeps an ear out for baubles I might like, she said. He knows my taste and my budget. The Borgia Peacock would go over spectacularly at my cousin’s annual Derby Do.

The Contessa’s imperious gaze raked between Stefanie’s journalist badge and her face. Your salary wouldn’t cover a single piece of my jewelry, much less that particular gem.

Stefanie shrugged. When your family breeds racehorses, you must do something with your time. I travel. Why not get paid for it?

The shrewd eyes didn’t waver as they reassessed her. A stud farm, you said.

Murphy Thoroughbreds. You might have heard of them. Her claim was vague enough to pretend to distant relations, but she hoped the Contessa wasn’t a knowledgeable Derby fan. I’m interested, if you can get away from your guests.

The Contessa was silent.

Between her designer dress and the ruby and diamond bracelet, did she look like a risk worth taking? Seconds ticked by.

The Contessa flicked a glance at Enrico, who watched them from across the garden, then a subtle smile graced her face. She contemplated Stefanie’s bracelet. Those are particularly fine rubies, she acknowledged. To see the piece you mentioned, we would have to go to Venice.

We. Could it be that easy? A bracelet, a connection between two women, and the offer? Of course not. By that touch of her palm, the Contessa had flirted. Pretending to return the interest would be leading her on, feigning an inclination Stefanie didn’t share. Opening up the woman to humiliation. She wanted to take the Contessa’s jewel, not her pride.

Stefanie drummed her fingertips against her purse while the Contessa waited for her response. If she didn’t embrace this opportunity, there was no way she’d be able to present an offer. The fence would get the Borgia Peacock and quickly resell it. With the piece being on Interpol’s Most Wanted Works of Art list, it would be kept hidden by the new owner so the police couldn’t find it.

It had been a stroke of luck that Thomas received the tip that the Contessa wanted to sell it on the black market. They might not get another chance at the Peacock. Not in this decade.

Stefanie glanced to her left. And there was Enrico Ungaretti, just waiting for her to walk away.

It just so happens, Giuliana, that I haven’t been to Venice yet, Stefanie said lightly. I’d love to include it in my blog. She leaned in. "I will have the Borgia Peacock authenticated. My expert will come with me. Don’t worry. He’s discreet."

The Contessa nodded her acceptance. I return to Venice tomorrow. Come to my palazzo at seven o’clock tomorrow night. She paused, then added, The Regata Storica takes place the day after. You may enjoy viewing it from my home. Unless you have other plans.

Seeing Enrico’s scowl from across the garden, Stefanie said, I wouldn’t want to be outbid before then.

The Contessa glanced at the jewel fence. I will consider all offers.

I’m sure mine will be more satisfying, Stefanie said as Enrico strode in their direction. Her cheeks grew warm at the unintended double entendre. Good God, had she just offered favors for the pendant? But she had to get her hands on that peacock.

The Palazzo Bergamo. Tomorrow night. At seven.

Stefanie restrained her glee. As she extracted a newly printed business card from her purse, a small elderly man with a full head of grey hair, wearing a black suit, came up and stood behind the Contessa. His heavily-lidded eyes focused on the boxwood hedge, disengaged, rather than on her or the Contessa. Not a rival, she suspected.

Giuliana turned to him. Si, Vincenzo?

Ah. Vincenzo Baggio, the Contessa’s faithful retainer, according to Thomas’s info.

"Excuse, the man said, handing the Contessa a cell phone. Your nephew."

So, in addition to the niece, there was a nephew in the picture as well. Would they have any say in the sale of the Borgia Peacock?

Regardless, she’d done all she could in Milan. Stefanie handed her card to the Contessa, then pressed the woman’s hand in farewell, feeling the bones beneath the tissue-delicate skin.

Until tomorrow evening.

The Contessa gave a corresponding squeeze of her fingers, and her coral-lipsticked mouth curved in an anticipatory smile. "Bueno. Arrivederci."

"Arrivederci."

When the Contessa turned away, Stefanie took out her cell phone, searching the crowd for the man who’d approached her earlier, to make sure he wasn’t still interested. He’d found a new target and was deep in conversation. The importance of not flashing wealth around was definitely going in her next travel blog.

With an eye over her shoulder, Stefanie strolled down the alley of sculptured boxwoods to the cobbled drive. Passing the suited attendant, she walked through the ornate iron gates and turned left, her thoughts on the Contessa. Hopefully, her appeal would outweigh any amount Ungaretti offered. Her future with Interpol’s Artifact Recovery Team depended on it.

At least this time, she and Thomas were on the same side.

Chapter Two

Leaving the Contessa’s villa, Stefanie walked the two blocks to her luxury hotel, buzzing with self-congratulation. She’d garnered an invitation to the Contessa’s Venetian palazzo and a chance to purchase the Borgia Peacock. Not bad for her first official foray into undercover art retrieval. The staccato beep-beep-beep of speeding drivers and squeal of brakes on the Milan street echoed her excitement. Even the tower of Sforza Castle, with its ring of glowing windows, and the brightly lit Metro stop across from her hotel added notes of celebration.

And it was all possible because she’d embraced the opportunity when Thomas offered her the job, seized the moment before it was gone. So contrary to her natural inclination to plan seven steps ahead, to anticipate every possible outcome, and prepare meticulously for each one.

The desk clerk gave her a nod as she crossed the modern lobby and took the brass elevator to the fourth floor. Inside her room, Stefanie tossed her gold metallic clutch onto the bed, then dropped into the upholstered barrel chair by the window. Her feet were killing her. She slipped off the stilettos and flexed her toes, releasing the tension. Pretty as they were, the expensive heels were hardly practical for strolling the quarter mile between the hotel and Contessa Bergamo’s villa. But they’d done the trick—the Contessa had accepted her as a legitimate buyer. Besides, she was limited on options—there’d been little time to shop after they’d left Greece, much less to fly home to repack. Hopefully, she’d have more time to prepare before their next assignment.

Going to the mini fridge, she removed the bottle of wine she’d stashed there earlier, then opened it. Time for a celebration. Not the big one, but that was coming.

Glass in hand, she went to the window, searching for Thomas on the street below. A light rap sounded on the door.

She crossed the room and peered through the peephole. The dark-haired man posing as a BBC reporter waited outside.

Smiling, she let him in. Thomas.

Returning to the mini fridge while he closed the door, she selected a Peroni beer. After prying off the bottle cap, she handed him the beer, then tipped her glass against his bottle. Her grin stretched from ear to ear. I’m in.

The lead investigator of Interpol’s Artifact Recovery Team grinned back. I knew you’d convince her.

A glow of happiness bubbled up inside her, as it did every time their eyes met.

I also knew when you left, we wouldn’t get it tonight. Thomas paused to take a swig of the Peroni. Ungaretti moved in on the Contessa as soon as you walked away.

The Peacock isn’t here, Stefanie said. She has it at her palazzo in Venice.

Venice. A shade of uncertainty darkened his grey-blue eyes.

Refusing to be deflated by his misgivings, she said, I’m invited there tomorrow night. You’ll come as my expert. Giving him a sidelong glance, Stefanie turned off the light and returned to the window. Giuliana expressed her interest quite eloquently. I’m not entirely convinced tomorrow evening isn’t a first date.

Moonlight from the window revealed the glint in his eyes. And you pulled it off perfectly, Schatzi. First names already. He crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her snugly back