A Hotel in Venice-First Chapter by Margot Justes

I thought I'd share the 1st chapter of my latest release, and a little bit of Venice with you. 

It is truly a magical and mystical city.       

Chapter 1

The stars seemed to follow the black gondola as it flowed along the

Grand Canal, and in the distance, a dark and narrow passage beckoned

for a romantic interlude.

            Iridescent shards glistened in the moonlight. The golden glow and

the ripples in the water reminded Minola Grey of Shelley’s poem

Love’s Philosophy. “And the moonbeams kissed the sea.” As the

gondola glided along the canal, the old palazzos, one building after

another, appeared to sway with the hushed tones of the lapping water.

Peter Riley had wanted some peace and quiet and asked the

gondolier to choose a less travelled way along a narrow and more

intimate path.

            “Welcome to Venice, Miss Grey.” Peter’s finger traced the line of

her cheekbone and then her neck. “I'm very much in love with you,” he

whispered in her ear and felt her lean into him. This was the way it

should be, just the two of them together. Alone. Nothing stood in their

way. They were in Venice for a wedding. Theirs. Minola loved glass

and art. Because of the Biennale Art Festival and Murano, another

island world-renowned for blown glass that was only fifteen minutes

away by water taxi, they had chosen Venice as the perfect destination.

            Minola Grey turned toward him and brushed her lips against his,

the touch whisper soft. “I’m very much in love with you, too.

Anywhere with you is romantic, but Venice is magnificent.

Incomparable,” she purred like a contented kitten, nestling deeper into

his arms and gazing across the canal.

            He was completely absorbed in the peaceful moment, until Minola

tilted her head away from him and murmured in his ear, “Peter. Isn’t

that strange?” She pointed above her head at the pier and stared at what

seemed like a mound of multi-colored mosaics. From her vantage

point, the glass appeared to be a colorful blanket. “It’s like a sculpture,

sort of.”

            “Miss Grey, may I remind you we’re in a gondola in Venice. The

moon is shining.” He ran his fingers over her cheek once again, his

touch firm and persuasive. “I’m caressing your face. We’re together.

You, Love of my Life, should be looking at me, not glass. I know, after

our visit to Murano, you have glass on your mind, but really, where is

your sense of romance?”

            “Peter, I’m sorry. I am romantic. You tell me I'm romantic when we

make…”

            “Love? Yes, you are. Passionate and romantic, you turn my world

upside down, and not just when we make love. However, now would be

a good time to slip into that romantic mood again.” His lips curved up

in a smile. He couldn't help himself. Everything she did made him

smile, with the exception of getting into trouble and endangering her

life. She had an uncanny talent for finding bodies, and the end result

terrified him.

            They had met in Paris. He was with Interpol, and his money

laundering case almost cost Minola her life. In Bath, her life was

threatened, and worse, he couldn’t control her impulse to help. Peter

loved his work—he excelled at it—but now he focused on keeping the

woman sitting beside him safe from harm. That was not as easy as it

appeared. She was a remarkable artist who knew how to get into

trouble and could never deny anyone’s cry for help.

            “But, Peter, it’s unusual. I know we’re on the Grand Canal. Well,

we turned and are now on this lonely, dark, narrow, and romantic

canal—okay, sort of an alley, except that this is Venice and it is a canal.

Just take a peek…” Minola Grey would not let go and pointed again to

the glass enclosure when she heard Peter groan.

            “I'm sorry. But…but…” She stuttered.

             “Minola, what am I going to do with you? We have moonlight, a

dark intimate canal in front of us, a lantern, and a gondolier who is not

going to sing to us. A perfect setting.”

            “Perfect setting? For what?” she asked, still captivated by the

colorful display on the pier, and she moved closer to the edge of the

gondola so she could see better.

            “You’re going to reduce my vocabulary to Arrgh.” Peter’s voice

sounded resigned. He motioned to the gondolier. “Roberto, please bring

us closer to that pile of glass, whatever it is.” Peter watched as the

gondolier expertly used his foot and a wall to push off so he could

maneuver his gondola as close to the pier as possible, allowing Peter to

step out. “Stay put,” he ordered as she tried to follow him. “I mean it.”

            He gazed back at her and frowned. “Stay.”

            Minola bristled at the order. “I'm not a doggie.” She glanced at his

resolute expression and grudgingly replied, “Fine. I won't budge.”

Minola settled back in the gondola and saw Peter bend down.

Tiny pieces of glass were molded together to form what appeared to

be a blanket for whatever was underneath. The center was well-crafted,

and the colors brilliant. The edges, not finished well, were sharp and

haphazard. Suddenly, he felt those goose bumps on the back of his neck

that told him more than just glass rested on the secluded dock.

            “I have a bad feeling about this,” he murmured.

            “Peter, did you say something?” Minola raised her voice to be

heard. She rarely shouted and found the sound unpleasant. Her

preference lay in peaceful contemplation and quiet conversation. Loud

noises did not appeal to her gentle soul, and she avoided situations that

involved screaming and throngs of people. Even her art exhibits were

tempered, and Peter made sure she was protected at all times. He

understood her and would do anything to keep her from harm.

Anything. She appreciated that, but often did not agree with his

assessments and his need to shield her.

            “Stay put. I’m going to be a little longer.”

            “Nooo… not without me. I’m not staying in the gondola alone.”

             “You’re not alone. I’m right here, and so is Roberto.” Peter stooped

down and viewed the bizarre sight. The flashlight on his cell helped

him to see the blood around the base of the glass. He pointed the light

toward the edge of the pier and saw the blood trail lead to water.

Peter tried to lift the hefty glass, and using both hands, he could

hardly budge it. Straining hard, he lifted the mound a tiny notch,

enough to tell him all was not well. The familiar stench that reached his

nostrils caused him to instinctively control his breathing. He'd

recognize the odor of a decomposing body anywhere. The sweet acrid

smell, the reek that defies description but lingers long after, told him a

body was hidden underneath the glass sarcophagus. He turned, quickly

stepped down, and boarded the gondola before calling the police.

            Peter’s bleak expression told her all she needed to know. “Peter,

that’s a body covered by glass, isn't it? A dead body?"

            “Are there any others?” he quipped, running his hand down her arm

for support. “The police are on the way.”

            “What would it be doing there? This is Venice. A piece that large

had to come from a big furnace. Are there large furnaces in Venice? I

thought they all moved to Murano centuries ago.”

            “I don’t know. You’re the glass expert. That is why we spent so

much time in Murano, isn’t it?” His voice was short. He was in

unfamiliar territory, and at the moment, he had no contacts in Venice.

None that would allow him access to this investigation.

            “No, we came here on vacation, to be together, visit a friend, a few

galleries, and see Murano,” she spoke softly, afraid she ruined their

time together. “We came here to be married.”

            “So far, we haven't spent much time together. You've been busy.” A

muscle flickered in his jaw, and he felt himself tense. “And now we

won't have much peace.”

            “I know. I'm sorry. I wanted to visit the Castigli family. They are

friends, their furnace produces exquisite glass, and Jennifer needed to

talk.” She saw his reaction and bit her lip until she tasted blood, a habit

indicating her nerves. Licking her lips and swallowing, she looked up

and found Peter's gaze focused on her mouth.

             “Yes, I know. I was there…with you. How quickly you forget.” His

reply was curt. Nothing good was going to come out of this.

            “I didn't forget. Peter, I'm sorry.” She bent her head down to hide

the sorrow. She’d hurt him, something she never wanted to do. “I

always know when you're with me.” She took his hand in hers and

touched his palm, hoping to erase the pain she caused. “Peter, I always

know.”

            “You might want to let me know once in a while.” Peter looked out

to the Grand Canal and the narrow canal where they now found

themselves docked, gazing at the beauty surrounding them. The various

lanterns and lit homes that lined the Grand Canal reflected a burnished

glow in the water as a vaporetto, the typical utilitarian mode of travel

used by locals and savvy tourists alike, sped by. Even the standard

public transportation was romantic.

            He raised her hand to his lips, the embrace as soft as a gentle

breeze. Above all else, he loved the woman sitting next to him. His life

changed for the better when they met in Paris after she became

involved in a murder investigation. His murder investigation. She

bloody well wrapped herself around his very soul and very nearly died

in the process. It must not happen here. She would not become

involved. Despite his firm resolve, he knew she would help, and he, in

turn, would follow her anywhere to keep her safe.

            “Always. I promise. Peter, you do know that I'm in love with you.

That I'm yours and always will be.” She brushed her lips against his

cheek. The touch was at once gentle and erotic. The spark against her

fingertips as she touched him reminded her of their first meeting, and

her volatile and intimate reaction to him. She would later learn he had

an English and an American education. He could read people well, and

that made him excel at his job.

            “That's better.” Once she allowed him into her life, he never

doubted her love and commitment to him. His always savage response

to her when they were together was tempered by her gentleness. He

wanted her at all times, something he never imagined possible. The

more he knew her, the more he loved and the more he wanted. How is

that feasible?

            “Peter, you don’t think this is connected to the missing master glass

blower or the problems at the Castigli Furnace, do you?” The words

slipped before she had a chance to stop them. During their earlier visit

to the Castigli furnace, her friend Jennifer had been distracted. One of

her employees had not shown up for work for over a week, and Jennifer

knew he wouldn’t leave without saying a word. They were working on

a project together, and Minola’s inquisitive nature just couldn’t let go

of the mystery. “We're not in Murano, and I'm imagining things. There

are many furnaces in Murano.” A shadow of alarm touched her face.

            “No, this is Venice. This is where I wanted a romantic gondola ride

with the love of my life. This is where I wanted to…Damn it; you just

had to find a body,” he groused.

            “This is where you wanted what?” Minola asked.

            “I’m not going there now. We’re waiting for the police, and we

have to tell them we found a body. We’re out of our element here, Miss

Grey.”

            “Why? You’re Interpol-that means International Police. Venice is

international.”

            “Not funny, Miss Grey.” He shook his head and replied smoothly,

            “I have no contacts here at this time.”

            “Shouldn't you have international contacts?” Her voice was fragile,

uncertain. She didn't want to inflict additional strain on their

relationship and hoped they had come to terms with his obsessive need

to always protect her.

            “I do, just not in Venice, not at the moment.” He sensed her

disquiet as they sat in silence and waited for the carabinieri to arrive.

Peter was quite familiar with their history. They were the national

military police of Italy, formally known as Arma dei Carabinieri—

loosely translated as Arm of the Police or Militia. Policing both

military personnel and civilians, their past was long and involved.

            “Minola, this will not be easy. The carabinieri are not just a police

force. Do you know they were originally the police force of the

Kingdom of Sardinia? They are not to be trifled with.”

            “That means they realize what needs to be done and will work with

Interpol—that’s you.”

            “Hardly.” Peter comprehended their mission, and that they took it

seriously. They had a unit that could defend Italy, plus another unit that

focused and dealt with organized crime, terrorist, and subversive

activities. They did their job well, understood the criminal mind on all

levels, and did not trust easily.

            He watched the gloomy gondolier sit down and rub his hands

together. He seemed nervous as he shoved his hand through his hair, a

sure sign of agitation. Peter didn't blame him. Roberto, like many other

Venetians, was trying to eek-out a living as a gondolier in a difficult

economy, and now he was stuck waiting for the police. Peter turned

toward Minola and saw her looking at him.

            “Peter, were you able to see anything?”

            “Minola, it’s dark. I couldn’t lift the glass, far too heavy, and

besides, if I were the local police, I’d be angry if someone interfered

with the crime scene. I’m a cop and should be well versed in police

procedures, no point in ruffling feathers. Especially carabinieri feathers.

We’ll just have to wait. All I can tell you—we have a body.”

            “Dead?” She whimpered, still hoping it was not so.

            “You didn’t just ask me that?” He smiled in spite of the difficult

circumstances.

            “Well, yes, I did. Wasn’t thinking,” she replied sheepishly.

            “I see.” His lips curved up a little. “Until we know more about the

body, we’ll refrain from discussing the issues at the Castigli furnace.”

            “Why?”

            “When you spoke with Jennifer Castigli, did she mention police

involvement?”

            “No, she just indicated Julio was missing, and they had issues with

the glass blending formula or something like that. They were going to

handle it internally. I didn’t ask any questions. She wanted to talk, and

then she didn’t. She was concerned, and I didn’t want to push her.

Didn’t see the point at the time.”

            “Maybe we should pay another visit,” Peter suggested

            “I think so, too, and we have an excuse. Should anyone ask, they

are friends who are making the vases for the wedding. She had her

glass pieces exhibited at the Standish Galley in Chicago. That is how

we met. She’s a talented glass blower, and I’ve always had a thing for

glass. We kept in touch.”

            “A thing for glass, Miss Grey?”

            “Yes, I love it. Sort of like a thing for you. I love you. Deeply.” Her

lips touched his neck, and she felt a brief shiver ripple through her

body. It would always be like this with him. He was her everything.

            “Thank you for that caress. You always know what to do.” He

gripped her hand in his and smiled. “Now you're bringing romance into

the picture, while we’re waiting for the police and a body is keeping us

company. There is something to be said for your timing, my love.

Jennifer. Tell me more about Jennifer. I need to keep my mind off your

body and the things I'd like to do with you, and to you,” he whispered

in her ear then took a deep breath.

            “Stop right there or I'm going to be in trouble.” A tingling settled in

the pit of her stomach. Every time he looked at her, her pulse

quickened. He’d unlocked her heart and soul. “Jennifer. Right,” she

sighed and continued. “Well, she went to Murano about three years

ago, just for the summer. She returned to Chicago, did some amazing

blown glass. The colors were just unbelievable. They seemed to glow

and float, one color next to the other. I’ve never seen anything like it. It

reminded me a bit of the Tiffany colors, but the glass was more

translucent instead of Tiffany’s opalescent and iridescent styles. I have

a piece. Becky is storing it for me.”

            “Storing it for you?”

            “Yes, when I left Chicago, I literally left with just the clothes on my

back and the necessary art supplies. Well, I did take the few vintage

clothing pieces I owned. I scoured countless consignment stores for

them, spent a lot of time finding my treasures, and I wasn’t about to

leave them. Anyway, Becky stored the few pieces of art I owned, and

the rest went to charity. When I make a break, I make a clean break.”

Her decision to leave home had been quick and matter of fact. What

she’d thought was a relationship did not exist, and she learned the hard

way to distrust men in general. Peter had his work cut out for him, but

he stuck around. For that, she was profoundly grateful.

            “I see.” He chuckled softly. She wanted a full partnership in their

relationship, and his gripping fear for her security led them along a

stormy path that only recently had calmed. He hoped. Peter knew well

that the criminal elements at the international level had a long reach.

Being with Minola Grey in the public eye did not give him any peace

of mind. He could be hurt through her.

            Minola was not immune to violence. Attempts on her life had been

made before, leaving Peter unable to focus on his job. Their issues

revolved around his lack of communication, as she put it, and her

determination to lead a normal life amidst threats and danger. He

understood the criminal elements and the danger they posed, while she

lived an innocent life and had believed in the goodness of others, until

she met him.

            “How did Jennifer wind up living in Murano?” he asked.

            “She fell in love with Antonio Castigli and decided to move

permanently to Murano. He was a master glass blower and may still be

blowing glass. The family goes back centuries. Jennifer once told me

he was a master at design and blowing. That is an impressive

combination. We haven’t really kept in touch until recently. They were

married a couple of years ago and seemed very much on love.”

            “If, and it’s a big if, that body is the missing glass blower, we have

a problem.”

            “Just one?”

            “For the moment,” he replied with quiet confidence. He knew the

carabinieri would not play nice. Their turf, and they protected it well.

            “How will we know who it is?” she asked quietly.

            “I assume, more like hope against hope, the local police might

extend a courteous hand to Interpol. If not, someone in the London

office might have a connection. Things are a bit difficult between

Interpol and the local police here. We’ll worry about that later. Now I

think you need to call Jennifer and have a chat.”

“Why would we believe it’s Julio? It could be anyone.” Minola was

afraid for her friends.

            “Yes, it could. But somehow, I doubt it. We have a coffin made of

glass, a missing master glass blower, and a recent visit to Murano. Not

to mention, you made the news, and so did I as your lover.” He looked

down at their intertwined hands. His grip tightened, and he continued.

            “Isn't that how the papers described me?”

            “Peter, does it bother you?” she asked in a broken whisper.

            “To be your lover? No. That is what I am and always will be.” His

fingers touched her collarbone, lingering there intimately. “But the

publicity and your safety, yes, you know I'm bothered a great deal by

any risk to you.”

            “I didn't say anything to the press. It was supposed to be a quiet

vacation. I don't know how they found out about us.”

            “Well, for one, you are here during the Biennale Art Festival.” He

knew she wanted to see the world-renowned festival that dated back to

1895, held every other year. The modern art exhibition turned many

unsuspected nooks and crannies into temporary galleries. “You're a

known artist, fresh from a murder investigation in Bath and a

successful showing in London. We have been together since Paris.

Need I say more? And I have been with you every step of the way as

your lover. They are right.”

            “Peter, I'm so sorry.” She swallowed hard and bit back the tears that

threatened to fall. He cherished his privacy as much as she did, yet her

profession somehow threw her into the public eye, along with Peter.

            “Nothing to be sorry about. This is our life, and I wouldn’t change a

thing. We’re together. That is all that matters.” His voice was calm, and

his gaze steady on her face. Above all, he wanted to reassure her that,

no matter what, they belonged together.

            “Thank you for understanding,” she whispered. “When I call

Jennifer, what do I tell her? That you found a body and it could be

Julio? Why upset her before we have concrete information? Maybe we

can identify the shards of glass as belonging to a specific furnace.

Wouldn’t that be a start?” Minola asked.

            “I’m going back to take a few pictures.” Peter stepped out of the

gondola, reached into his pocket, took out his cell, and then walked

over to the glass display and snapped about a dozen shots. He put his

cell away, stepped back into the gondola, and saw Roberto was quietly

and unobtrusively watching him. Taking out his identification, he

showed it to the gondolier. Roberto nodded and lowered his head in

acknowledgement.

            Waiting in silence, they saw the police boat smoothly maneuver

around the traffic on the Grand Canal and turn the corner alongside

their gondola. The flashing lights added another sparkle to the lively

water traffic. He remembered Minola comparing the Grand Canal to

other grand avenues in Paris, New York, and Chicago, except this one

was wet. Peter stared in the face of the agility of the boaters to

maneuver around tight corners and other boats, a well-choreographed

dance on water.

            Peter helped Minola step out of the gondola. He thanked the

gondolier and asked him to take them back to the hotel after the police

were done, with a promise of additional compensation. Peter watched

as the police questioned the gondolier. They were short and precise. An

effort was made to establish their time of arrival at the intersection and

why they stopped. Roberto answered succinctly and did not offer

anything else. The police then turned their attention to Captain Peter

Riley, Interpol, and Minola Grey, American artist. Roberto maneuvered

his gondola against a wall and waited.

            “What made you go there? Isn’t that a little insolito—eh—unusual

for a turista?” the first officer asked.

Taking out his identification, Peter introduced Minola and himself.

            “Miss Grey noticed the glass and was curious. We stopped so that we

could see it better.” Peter did not elaborate further. He didn’t have a

warm and fuzzy feeling about this interrogation.

            “Interpol?” the officer snorted. “And what did you find?”

             “I tried to lift the glass, and I was able to identify the smell easily

enough.” Peter was surprised at the ease with which the officer spoke

English.

            “I see. Who noticed the glass?”

            Peter wanted to be snippy. He already told him it was Minola.

What, did they think that in the span of a few minutes his story would

change?

            Minola quickly replied, “I did. The moonlight reflected the colors

brilliantly. So much color—unusual, vibrant…strange,” More than a

little nervous, she continued. “So vivid and beautiful.”

            “What else can you tell me? Did you know what it was?”

            “Well, no. I saw it from a distance, and in the moonlight, it

appeared to be a huge piece of art…because of all the many different

colors, I thought maybe a mosaic,” Minola advised quietly.

            “How did you know what it was?” the officer persisted.

            “I didn’t. From afar, it might have been a sculpture. I wanted to see

it a little closer.”

            “I ask again, why, Miss Grey?”

            “Because I’m an artist and was curious,” she replied simply.

            “What do you know of Venetian Glass that you would be so

curious?”

            What she wanted to do was tell him that she didn’t need to know

anything about Venetian glass, or any other glass, to be curious and

acknowledge its beauty, but instead she replied in an even voice, “I

didn’t know it was Venetian. It seemed intriguing and quite beautiful.”

            “You had to satisfy your curiosity,” he insisted.

            “No, I did not. Captain Riley went to do that. The pieces seemed to

be shard leftovers from a furnace.” Minola bit her lip when she realized

she’d said too much.

            “How would you know that?”

            “I’m an artist. I paint,” she repeated. “And I also love glass. I

visited Murano today and know that the shards are often reused, kept in

a bucket and eventually wind up in smaller jewelry pieces or glass

bricks. They are sharp, therefore kept in containment for safety reasons.

Outsiders have no access. Out of courtesy, I was given a private tour. I

just wondered what it was and why it was left on the pier. I was

curious. That is all.” She took a deep breath and literally could have

kicked herself for allowing him to get the upper hand. She knew better.

            “As an artist and a tourist, you visited a furnace in Murano?” he

emphasized.

            “Yes, like all the other tourists and artists who visit Murano, I did

the touristy thing and saw a couple of furnaces. That is why I wondered

how such a huge sculpture was just sitting on a secluded pier. We

turned from the Grand Canal into this small canal, and I…It does look

like a sculpture.” She glanced at the pile and shuddered. “The fact that

it resembled a sarcophagus seemed bizarre. Rather striking if you don’t

think about what it covers…don’t you agree?” She tended to babble

when nervous, and this was no exception. She reached toward Peter and

knew he'd be there to support her, and he didn't disappoint. He wound

his fingers around hers.

            “That seems to be sensate… reasonable explanation,” the first

officer nodded and turned toward Peter. “Captain, where are you

staying? I would recommend you do not leave town.”

Peter smiled at the pronouncement, giving them the name of the

hotel and their length of stay.

            “Are you here on holiday?” the second officer asked, addressing

Peter.

            “Yes, we are. As stated before, Miss Grey is an artist, and we came

to enjoy the Biennale.” Peter wasn’t about to share the more intimate

reason for their visit. It would most probably have to come out, but as

far as he was concerned, at this time, there was no incentive to divulge

anything remotely personal. They already had more than enough

information.

            “We will wait for the…medico legale to arrive, but you may go.

We know how to reach you,” came the warning. At least Peter took it

as a warning. Do not leave town.

             “Is there a possibility that we can find out the identity of the victim?

As a police officer, you understand…” Peter let the request trail, and

watched as the scene was photographed from every angle.

            “Yes, of course, unfinished business. Common courtesy would

signify that we notify you of the victim’s identity.” The officer’s reply

was terse and non-committal.

            “Thank you.” Peter felt effectively dismissed and wasn’t sure if he

would ever find out who the victim was, certainly not from the police.

They didn’t even promise anything that vaguely resembled a courtesy

call. Peter asked Roberto to take them back to their original destination.

No point in pursuing a romantic rendezvous with the image of a body

still fresh in their minds. Peter watched Minola’s silent retreat. The

horrific mound of glass so starkly visible in the moonlit sky was

hauntingly beautiful.

            The big question was why dump the body and cover it with what

was essentially a work of art? The piece was stunning. The various

earthy colors were uneven and most likely discarded pieces. Such a

large piece took time to create. Was it a work of art that was meant to

be used elsewhere, or was it specifically designed to become a casket?

If so, the murder had to be premeditated. Why use the remnants of

glass? Or was the piece already made and only used as a coffin at the

last minute? Was it commissioned? If so, would it be missed?

            “Minola, the composition of the shards, the colors used, it must

have been somehow relevant to the crime. If it is indeed Julio, then how

he was killed and covered must be significant. Something so elaborate

can’t have been just a body dump.”

            “I thought the same thing, but only Jennifer can tell us. Good thing

you took all those pictures. Hopefully, she’ll know if it came from her

furnace,” Minola replied.

            “I think the death is somehow related to the furnace, and the

missing person.” His instincts never failed him; he’d been in the

business too long to take things at face value.

Peter wondered what they had gotten themselves into. He was a

seasoned cop, and he didn't believe in coincidences. If the glass was

from the Castigli furnace, Minola was once again in the middle of a

murder.

            He’d met Antonio Castigli briefly on their earlier visit to the

furnace. Minola introduced them, and they also met a family friend and

member of a competing furnace, Pia Deniccali. The striking, self assured

woman, who Peter felt sure would demand to be the center of

attention in any gathering, left him untouched by her cold and

calculating beauty. He was all too familiar with the type.

Peter remembered that, after the introductions were made, he found

Pia Deniccali staring at him as if she were appraising his worth, or

maybe something else. He couldn’t understand her fascination with him

and felt uncomfortable with the scrutiny, but he thought maybe she

wanted his help. Odd that Minola did not matter to Pia. She glared at

him. He’d heard the expression man-eater before, and she fit the

description quite well.

            So far he’d met some interesting people, and a fascinating mystery

beckoned. In this case, Peter had no contacts, unless he ingratiated

himself with the local police, and the carabinieri did not seem too

receptive. In fact, they seemed downright hostile.

Cheers,

Margot Justes

www.mjustes.com

A Tourist in Chicago by Margot Justes

My recent trip to Chicago was to a wedding at the historical Warwick Allerton Hotel.

It reminded me of the rich and wondrous architectural history in Chicago.

Not only is the hotel an historical treasure, but the management took great care in providing an elegant venue, delicious food and wonderful service. The wedding was truly a memorable occasion.

The hotel was designated “an official Chicago Landmark” by Mayor Richard Daley in June 1998. Built in 1922, and opened in 1924, it is a Northern Italian Renaissance Revival design and it is opulent and rich with wonderful windows, marble floors, and with incredible views of the city from the reception ballroom.  It was the first 25-story skyscraper built on North Michigan Avenue.

The Tip-Top-Tap lounge that served as host to Don McNeill’s nationally broadcast “Breakfast Club” was closed in 1961, but the neon sign remains and is an iconic reminder of the rich history of the building.

If your taste runs to architecture, you won’t be disappointed, there are many more fantastic buildings. A simple walk along Michigan Avenue, will get you the Wrigley Building, and the Chicago Tribune; if you look closely at the Tribune building, you’ll see stones imbedded from many of the world’s greatest treasures, all are labeled from point of origin.  Even out latest mega Trump Tower, has the perfect location, overlooking the Chicago River, and can be clearly seen from the corner of Michigan Avenue and Wacker Drive, and from the Allerton Hotel.

This is the city where Mies van der Rohe, Louis Sullivan and Frank Lloyd Wight to name just a few built a few treasures.

The city has been called the windy city most probably because Chicago was trying to get the 1893 World Exposition, and as an ad campaign, the lake breeze was heralded as a city wonder. The more popular version is due to the politicians, and the hot air that continuously blows from City Hall. Either way, the name stuck. I personally prefer the more recent political version.

Chicago is multi cultural, vibrant, and has stunning architecture. Not a bad start to a city that is filled to the brim with world renown museums, an abundance of fine dining establishments, local eateries, a world renown orchestra, and theater productions that rival New York. I love this city, and play tourist whenever time allows.

My favorite museum is the Art Institute, beautifully situated on Michigan Ave-the Grand Avenue-that gives Fifth Avenue, and the Champs Elysees, a run for their money. The wide sidewalks are lined with pots of flowers, trees and miniature gardens, decorated for every season. Along with occasional sculptures, from cows to couches. Sometimes whimsical, sometimes serious, but always fun to see.

There are many museums, but only a few have the envied lake shore location; the Field Museum, the Planetarium and the Shedd Aquarium are aligned in the ‘museum complex’ in close proximity, and are a must see. All this can be yours, within walking distance , if you really like to walk, or a short bus, taxi, car, or trolley ride.

If your taste runs to modern art, just a bit off Michigan Avenue is the Museum of Contemporary Art.

Don’t forget State Street, and the loop area that has been greatly revitalized, visit the Macy’s store, that once was the great Marshall Field’s, and to me always will be.

There is the Buckingham Fountain, Millennium Park, an architectural gem, and the over used word  world renowned. The building costs of Millennium Park went way over budget, but the park has become a main tourist attraction. We have Grant Park, and an amazing lakefront, and bicycle paths everywhere you turn. Not to mention ethnic food galore; I don’t think there is an ethnic food you can think of that you won’t find in Chicago.

On the south side of the city we have the Oriental Museum, and the interactive Science and Industry Museum. This city has it all, and at a slower, more relaxed pace than New York.

I listed just a few of the main central tourist attractions, that by no means limits the rich cultural history that abounds in many neighborhoods in this city. This is just a brief glimpse of what Chicago has to offer.

I haven’t even mentioned the fantastic food choices.

Cheers,

Margot  Justes

A Hotel in Paris

A Hotel in Bath

A Hotel in Venice

Blood Art

Hearts and Daggers

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Murano Glass by Margot Justes

Murano is world renown for blown glass, and since I just finished A Hotel in Venice, and the story deals with the intrigues of blown glass, ancient formulas and secrecy. I thought I’d share a visit to a Murano furnace with you.

Murano is 30 minutes by vaporetto (ferry) or a 15 minute water taxi ride from Venice. Murano has been in the glass business since the 13th Century. Afraid of fires, the political leaders of Venice, moved the furnaces to Murano.

The concierge at the hotel was able to arrange a private visit to the Schiavon Art Team. I have seen a working furnace before that was geared toward the tourists straight off the boat or the ferry, as it were, and I have stopped in many Murano and Venetian tourists shops, glass is always for sale. From little tourist trinkets, vases, lamps to magnificent chandeliers that cost thousands of Euros. 

For the most part the pieces are pretty similar in the shops, and geared toward the tourist trade. This furnace had some spectacular pieces of art.

I was totally unprepared for the sheer beauty and originality of the work, contemporary glass art work that came to life when properly lit.  I loved every piece I saw, they were not the common pieces sold everywhere you turned, but unique pieces with astounding colors and textures.  Terrific variation of African baskets with dark reds, black and tan deep opaque colors that if not touched would pass for a woven basket. The work is sublime.

Not only was I able to watch a master glass blower at work, I was also allowed to take all the pictures I wanted. Starting with the furnaces, the annealing area or drying room, polishing room and the galleries. The host and designer and master blower-that is rather a rare combination-was willing to answer my questions, and assured me that secrecy still prevailed in the design and processes involved.

Some were custom pieces ordered by individual clients and businesses, but there were many pieces for sale in the gallery upstairs, as well as a gallery down the street from the furnace that is open to the public.

 It takes many years to become a master blower, and it is incredibly hard work. Try blowing through a tube and shape a piece of molten glass. If it’s your first try, your face will turn beet red from the effort-but the master blower makes it look effortless. 

The visit was a most memorable and inspirational experience, one I will always cherish, that being said-I want to go back and revisit.

I have included a few pictures, hope you will find then as incredible and beautiful  as I did.

Cheers,

Margot  Justes

Blood Art

A Hotel in Paris

A Hotel in Bath

A Fire Within

www.mjustes.com

Close to Home by Margot Justes

Often times it is delightful to play tourist in your own neighborhood, and rather easy to postpone visits if one is close. I live in an area that is rich in American history, and am finally taking advantage of it.

Two weeks ago, a replica of the French Tall Ship Hermione visited Alexandria, Va.  Docked at the waterfront, it gave tourists and locals alike an idea of what life was like in the late 18th Century. Not only were people allowed to board the ship, but crew dressed in period garb walked about and gave lectures on the culture, exhibited the navigation available at the time, even clothes worn at the time.

A living breathing taste of history, the kind that stays with you. The kind that makes you want to pick up a book and read more about it. The amazing rigging, the heights the sailors needed to reach to sail the ship, looked terrifying to me, yet it was a matter of routine for sailors of the time, and I might add for the crew aboard the replica as well.

The original ship sailed from France in 1780 bringing the Marquis de Lafayette to American shores to deliver a message to George Washington. Lafayette, the French military leader fought in the American Revolutionary War, and became an American hero. His efforts on behalf of the revolution are legendary, and many books have been written about his life. The exhibition brought the remarkable life of the adventurous Marquis to the forefront.

It took twenty years to build the replica, and it is on tour to celebrate the building of the ship, and to celebrate the momentous history that brought Lafayette to America.

To actually glimpse a bygone lifestyle, touch the clothes, imagine how difficult the life was, the hardships people endured and survived, and moved forward under extreme duress. That is something that should be cherished and never forgotten. That is history remembered.

Cheers,

Margot  Justes

Blood Art

A Hotel in Paris

A Hotel in Bath

A Fire Within

www.mjustes.com

margot@mjustes.com

CT Commie Tiger Mommy: Robert Walker - a crime writer (blame it on Huck F...

CT Commie Tiger Mommy: Robert Walker - a crime writer (blame it on Huck F...: I am  pleased to welcome Robert Walker , an astonishingly prolific and charmingly daring (with a strong self-deprecation streak) crime write...

New Cover for Blood Art by Margot Justes

A new cover for Blood Art.

I've been on the road for the last three weeks, and have not written any blogs, but with the new cover, I thought it would be a perfect opportunity for a little more of Nikolai and Leonardo.

Chapter 1

Florence, Italy 1503

“I am a vampire, Leonardo.”

“I am well aware of that fact Nikolai, but you have the soul of an artist.”

“I repeat. I am a vampire. And make no mistake—I have no soul.”

As a course for survival, Nikolai lost his soul centuries ago, but there was no reason in belaboring the point. Leonardo da Vinci was entitled to his belief.

Nikolai stood in the middle of the cavernous room and looked around him. Flickering candles cast shadows on the walls. A massive wooden desk was shoved against bare brick, one end piled with old rags coated in deep and rich colors. Leonardo's palette lay on the floor recklessly abandoned, and paint splashes had spilled onto the wooden floor, filling the wide cracks between the boards. A stale oil smell permeated the room; used candles were everywhere, surrounded by mounds of spent wax. A few books were stacked up on the floor against another wall, one on top of the other. An old wooden chair pushed against a corner, stained with crimson paint; the cushion looked like a splash of blood. A tapestry covered the wall where a makeshift straw bed lay on the floor.

“I repeat. You, my dear friend, have the soul of an artist. Vampire or not.”

“I collect art, hence our deep and abiding friendship—all due to your masterful accomplishments. I have no other such talents. At least, other than being eternal, ageless, and have an uncanny ability to amass a fortune at every opportunity. Typical vampire standards; anything I want, when I want, and how I want. Staying alive for eons does allow one to become complacent. Despite the danger, eternal existence does permit certain pleasures. And for me, the building of a sizable art collection is most gratifying, and a venture which I intend to continue through the ages.” The brusque, low voice was mesmerizing in its intensity, and hid any emotion, any visible trace of anguish. He simply stated these facts as if they were nothing, and common.

Nikolai Volkov watched as Leonardo picked up burned out candles and stray brushes he had left everywhere.

“Nikolai, you support artists that are being ignored, ridiculed. You redeem us. You recognize ageless talent. I am egotistical enough to say that in the coming centuries I will survive through my art.”

“Of that I have no doubt. Again, that is why I collect your paintings; your drawings alone are incomparable. I know you will survive. And you will increase my wealth substantially.” Nikolai turned and looked at the various paintings leaning against one of the stone walls. In the corner canvases were stacked in no particular order, and next to them wooden planks.

Leonardo's studio was plain, utilitarian, and filled with finished and unfinished works of art, all of which Nikolai coveted and wanted to own. Possess.

“Yes, I am sure I will survive, but only through my art. You have and will continue to survive through other means. Ones I do not wish to think about.”

“I have paid dearly for my survival.” Nikolai touched his cheek, feeling the ridge of the deep scar on his face. That attack had been particularly brutal. The cut went all the way to the bone, and not allowed to heal. Lucrezia Borgia told him it would mar his stunning beauty and further bind him to her, both physically and emotionally. She was wrong on both counts. He considered the scar his badge of courage and tenacity.

His surreal beauty, as she had once described it, now marred by that one scar. A reminder of torture. A memory not to be forgotten. Vampires do not scar, yet that one single scar on his body remained, as if an omen of things yet to come. Centuries of memories all held within that singular ridged cut on his face that slashed down to his very soul. The one he claimed not to have.

He was tall, over six-foot-three, with hair black as night. His eyes were as blue as sapphires and frigid as the Arctic ice. Nikolai was built hard, like Michelangelo's David, and just as cold.

The lethal combination fostered first and foremost fear from man and demon alike. And admiration, from women. All women. He never lacked for company. Yet, they all left him unsatisfied, and yearning for something he didn’t understand.

“Leonardo, will you paint a portrait for me?” Nikolai spoke quietly, staring at a painting stacked against a wall, his back to Leonardo.

“You?”

“No. Not me.” Nikolai replied, his bleak smile was more of a grimace that did not reach his eyes. “This will be from memory. My memory.”

“Does she mean something to you? I assume you are speaking of a woman.”

“Yes, I was. And yes, she meant something to me.” He ran his finger along the jagged scar.

“Ah, I see. I gather she was not a pleasant memory.”

“You gather correctly.”

“I will do it for you. Tell me everything you know about her. Every single memory. Every movement. Everything you remember. Give me a perfect description of the mysterious woman. It will be my gift to you.”

“I do not wish to keep the painting.” Nikolai visibly shuddered at the thought. “You may do with it what you will. Burn it in hell for all I care.” His reply was savage.

“I see.” Leonardo replied thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. “Why do you want me to paint it?”

“To exorcise a demon. One among many.”

“Do you wish to discuss it, my friend?”

“No. Just paint the damn thing. You will be well paid.”

“No,” Leonardo replied vehemently, shaking his hand in the air. “There will be no money changing hands. I will paint it. I will not burn it; I will sell it. I do have a payment to demand of you. Once I am done, I expect to hear why I painted it. That is my demand. Do you agree?”

“Yes, damn you. I will agree to your terms. Your absurd demand.”

“Why absurd? She obviously damaged you. I would have to be an idiot not to recognize the symptoms. And I am not an idiot.”

“Yes, I am fully aware that you are not an idiot. You should be terrified of me. Yet you are not. You reason things out. You think. A vampire, even in your century, should horrify you. Yet, I do not.”

“You terrify me, all right. Your power. Your strength. Your ability to kill without thought. Your survival through the centuries. Your knowledge of the past. Yes, you alarm me, my friend.”

“Alarm…that is a milksop statement. Leonardo, look at your own drawings. You see what is to come. What does that say about you? Your work foreshadows the future. It is there, in your drawings.” Nikolai pointed to a canvas leaning against a wall. “You are more than an artist; our long discussions have proven that. You are a genius. A man of re-birth. You, here and now, could be considered demonic. That is how some would interpret your work.”

“I will ignore that. It is safer not to discuss people and their survival methods—it might be misunderstood. Fortunately for me, my work is not well understood. Most everyone sees a painting or a drawing, nothing more. Perhaps they even think I am mad. A simple man cannot interpret what I imagine simply by looking at my work. That is indeed very good for me.” Leonardo sighed. “Now, let us get back to your description of the woman.”

“Have I touched a sensitive spot?” The vampire asked, sarcasm dripped from every word.

“Yes.” Leonardo hissed between his teeth. “Now, give me the damn description.”

“Paint her as you would a beloved portrait. Make her mysterious. Enigmatic. Serene. Perfectly poised to attract attention. Paint her as the central and pivotal person in the scene. In fact blur everything else. Nothing should matter much save her face and hands. Long, beautiful fingers, elegant hands with perfect skin, relaxed. Incapable of hard work. Make her look innocent. Wistful.” Nikolai stopped speaking, and again touched his face along the line of the scar.

“Make the damn demon, the savage beast…saintly. That will be the joke for centuries to come. Paint it dark, yet give her light. A shimmer, so that she almost glows. Make her irresistible. Give her eyes that damn the soul. Eyes that see beyond the present. Is that enough for you?” Nikolai demanded.

“Yes. Do I have leave to choose the color of her hair and eyes?” Leonardo asked quietly, captivated by Nikolai’s mesmerizing voice and the tortured memories he was reliving.

“I do not care what color you choose. Dark is what I desire.”

“It shall be done. You want her to look enigmatic, a mystery through the ages. How is that for conceit? She will survive centuries, whereas I will die.”

“You, my friend, will be reborn every time someone looks at your work. But you already know that. Your art will speak for you for eternity.”

“Let us continue as we have in the past, Nikolai.” Leonardo preferred to ignore rather than acknowledge the reality of his existence. “Your life is eternal. You do not age. Let us leave it at that. Be careful not be recognized, it might endanger you.”

“I am four hundred years old. Through the centuries of battles, corruption, and betrayal, no one pays any attention to whether or not I age. Everyone is consumed with their own survival. I expect that in the future, I shall need to take better care.”

“Take better care, but live. Even if you cannot be killed, live as you have done in the past.” Leonardo spoke softly, as if afraid of being overheard.

“I aim to live better, and I can be killed; one just has to know how. I certainly do not discuss that aspect of my survival. I am alone, removed from my clan. Solitary, my lair and art my only comfort. It has been this way for centuries and, make no mistake, Leonardo—it is a lonely existence. You, my friend are a true master and you bring me a great deal of pleasure. Someday your work will be priceless. Look at your drawings. See the things I see in your work. You behold the future in front of you.”

 “Indeed.” Leonardo dismissed Nikolai's predictions with a wave of his hand. “I may need you again, after I begin the portrait, of course.” Leonardo spoke absentmindedly, stretching his fingers, already thinking about the unusual commission.

“Of course, I am always available to you. How will you explain the mystery woman?” Nikolai's curiosity got the better of him.

“I will not. There will be rumors. A model. A mistress. A wife. A requested portrait by a well to do merchant.  I myself will perpetuate said rumors,” Leonardo replied, a wide smile lining his face.

“Brilliant, Leonardo. As I have said, your work will be priceless.”

“Do you wish to change your mind and purchase the portrait?”

“No.” Nikolai shuddered, turned, and slammed the massive door behind him. He took a deep breath, a normal human reaction one he'd used so frequently that he no longer even thought about it. He walked outside and realized that had his heart been beating, it would have stopped at the mere suggestion that he keep the portrait of his tormentor and captor. Damn the Borgias. All of them.

Nikolai walked to his lair and thought about his life, lost in memories of long ago. He heard a rustle of leaves, a shrill scream, and then silence. His speed was as fast as the wind, and as quiet as death. He reached a man kneeling over the body of a woman. She lay on the ground, unconscious, her face bloody and leg twisted unnaturally, her arms outstretched. The man reached to lift her torn skirt. Nikolai lost all veneer of civility, his fury reflected in his blood-red eyes and extended fangs. He showed no mercy.

He grabbed the man, then effortlessly lifted him off the ground and threw him against a tree. He heard a crunch but didn't bother to look back. He reached down and tenderly touched the bruise on the woman's face, her split lip where the man had obviously hit her with his fist. Nikolai's touch healed her. He straightened the leg and massaged it. She would have a few bruises, but nothing that would last more than a few days. He lifted her in his arms and carried her back to Leonardo's.

Leonardo would help the less fortunate, the few strays Nikolai occasionally brought him. He always did.

On his way home, hunger struck. His fangs lengthened, but he would not feed from the vermin he'd destroyed. He'd lure someone else.

Nikolai once again pondered his existence. He'd just destroyed a life and felt no remorse. He knew that if he had not interfered, the woman would have been raped and most likely killed. He felt nothing for the life he so easily extinguished. The bastard deserved it.

Alone, Nikolai had few friends, and he chose not to search for any members of his clan, or any other vampires. He'd had his suspicions about several people he knew, but preferred not to bring any attention to his own existence.

His path to emotional survival and redemption forbid getting involved in battles not of his own choosing. He searched for his salvation and ultimately some meaning to his eternal existence. His senseless killing sprees subsided long ago. Finished. Now he only killed when necessary. To end evil, be it human or otherwise.

Nikolai thought about his captor and tormentor, and as always waited for her to come after him. Addicted to his blood, Lucrezia would move heaven and earth to get him back. She could do nothing else; the addiction was like a disease. He promised himself next time that she would not survive. He learned a great deal through the centuries, including how to outlast and outwait a demon. Patience. He had a great deal of patience for certain things. Eternity will teach you that, if nothing else.

Long ago, Nikolai escaped from his torments. He emerged into putrid air contaminated with lost souls, but he was free. Alone. No longer a captive to be tortured against his will. No longer raped. No longer beaten. No longer slashed and starved. She taught him to kill without thought, whether for revenge or retribution. He did not care; he had killed to gain physical and mental freedom.

The paintings and sculptures he'd gleaned while still a captive brought him salvation. Those pieces he took from her as payment for his suffering. She paid a heavy price for the abuse she gave, and in his mind, she would forever be a living nightmare. Her name was indelible in his memory: Lucrezia Borgia.

He'd called her the demon queen of torment, for indeed she knew how to inflict the utmost pain. The rack became a pleasure in comparison to what else he'd suffered. His limbs were stretched and pulled, his life's blood spilled, and still that wasn't enough for her. She'd turned him to keep him forever young, make him hers to use  as she pleased. Lucrezia became addicted to him, and that was her folly. His doom. Her ultimate mistake.

Once freed from her rule, and on through the ages, he saw redemption in art and the painters and sculptors who made a difference in the art world. The geniuses of the centuries, like Leonardo da Vinci, one among so few.

Nikolai's speed increased. He was eager to reach his home atop a hill, his fortress built with massive stones and rocks that allowed for defense, along with an underground chamber where he could rest in peace, unencumbered by anyone or anything. The fortress was designed so that any room could be kept pitch black—the windows tiny, the glass that was there was thick and crinkly. The curtains were made from heavy brocade that blocked all sunlight and the world outside.

Priceless tapestries hung on the walls, for warmth that he didn't need, and the pleasure that he craved. The absolute joy of holding a canvas, or feeling the texture of a magnificent tapestry, was his salvation in life, offering comfort and contemplation.

Nikolai longed for peace and searched for the one woman who would matter, who would end the unbearable loneliness. In the meantime, he did what he could to make life better for others. He tried to hide the arrogance, the strength, and all the other characteristics, everything that comes with being a vampire. Not ashamed of who and what he was, but age has taught him the old adage that discretion was indeed the better part of valor.

Through the centuries, he added to his already enormous art collection, and added to his own power as a demon.

The instinct of the vampire to survive was always present and a huge part of his survival, but he adapted to humanity. His chosen style of solitude served him well. Over time, he learned not to kill to feed, but allow his victims to survive without ill effects, and without memories of his presence. He no longer destroyed unless threatened, but then he had no mercy, his brutality hidden beneath the veneer of sophistication and age-old wisdom. But the brutality existed when needed.

His countless properties were managed by people he trusted and of whom he took great care. His people were loyal to him beyond question, and from one generation to the next, they stayed and worked with him, providing a sense of family and belonging. A ruthless businessman, he was fair and honest in his dealings with others. Betrayal was not in his vocabulary. No one crossed him; the sheer power that emanated from his presence, his cold, frigid eyes that appeared to look through to the deepest and darkest secrets of an adversary, instilled fear in anyone that he came in contact with.

Through the lonely centuries he'd had a foreshadowing of a looming battle, one he'd personally have to fight.

The when, how, and where wasn't clear as yet, but he knew it was coming.

Cheers,

Margot  Justes

A Hotel in Paris

A Hotel in Bath

A Fire Within

Blood Art

www.mjustes.com