Deep Midnight

“But you’re upset?”



“And apparently, I have to get over it.”



“Jordan, wherever you’re going, I’ll go with you?”



“I just need to walk, Cindy. Alone.”



“Jordan, please ...”



Cindy looked so upset that Jordan forgot some of her fear as well as irritation with Jared. She paused, touching Cindy’s cheek. “I’m okay, honestly. I’m going to walk around the Square and look into some of the jewelry store windows.”



“But you can get better deals off the Square. You’ll find nothing but tourist prices. I’ll take you to some more moderate places?”



“Cindy, you’re a sweetheart. I love you, honest to God, and I’m not in the least upset with you. See you later.”



“Don’t forget that we’re going to the artist’s ball tonight?”



“I won’t,” Jordan said, and determined, she shoved the vampire book into her large carryall bag and started out of the restaurant. She didn’t wait for the elevator, but started down the steps of the hotel, noting none of the beautiful decor which usually held her so enthralled. On the ground floor, she encountered a bevy of activity. The parties in Venice would last the week. A costume shop had been opened behind the concierge desk, and people were milling about, renting costumes, returning them, talking about various parties and events. The registration desk was busy as well, with travelers coming and going, and the bar and salon seemed equally busy. Making her way through the crowd, she suddenly felt as if she was being watched. She turned, irritated with herself, hoping she wouldn’t have this feeling of everyone looking at her all day.



She wasn’t being absurd?she was being watched. Openly. An attractive young woman was staring straight at her while whispering to a stocky, older man standing by her. She saw Jordan look at her. She didn’t blush, look away or pretend in any way that she hadn’t been talking about her.



The woman approached Jordan. Frowning, Jordan waited. As the woman neared her, Jordan realized that she wasn’t as young as she had first thought. From a distance, she might have been in her mid-twenties. At closer range, she was closer to forty, extremely trim and shapely, her hair cut stylishly short and highlighted to a silvery blond. Smiling, she extended a slim hand heavy with rings. “Hello, Miss Riley. I’m Tiff Henley, a fellow American.”



Jordan accepted the hand that had been offered her. “Hello, how are you? Yes, I’m Jordan Riley, but...”



“We never met last night, but I was at the ball. I’m so glad that you seem to be doing well. You caused quite a stir last evening.”



Jordan felt a flush covering her cheeks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you?”



“I believe you wound up on the second floor during the entertainment, while most of us were dining and dancing on the ground floor. I didn’t see the show, but you know, the contessa is known for her extravagance, so I’m sure it must have been simply wicked. I’m not that familiar with the contessa, but I’ve heard that she never leaves a party with guests still in attendance, so she must care for you very much. You are all right?”



So this manicured socialite had been at the ball as well. And she had been whispering about Jordan.



Jordan Riley, the American woman who had called the police in on one of the most notable women in Venetian society. Great. Maybe everyone in the city had heard about her, and was whispering.



In the bright light of the elegant hotel, with dozens of people near, Jordan did suddenly feel somewhat foolish. Had the entertainment been so excellent and professional, the special effects so good, that she had let her imagination take flight?



“I suppose I did create quite a stir. I’m afraid it all seemed very real,” Jordan said. The woman was still sizing her up. For Jared’s sake?even if he was being a horse’s ass?she was going to appear sane.



“You’re a writer?” Tiff Henley queried.



Tiff? Was that short for Tiffany? The woman looked like a Tiffany?all decked out in diamonds, hair a mix of champagne and silver, her long wool dress and jacket stylishly cut to the perfection of her figure.



“Book critic, ”Jordan said. “If I could write, I would. I’m afraid my talent is in finding treasures put out by others. And you ... ?” She queried politely.



Tiff smiled ruefully. “I’m simply filthy rich,” she said. “But not well known in the best circles of society.



Well, there, that admitted, would you like to have coffee sometime?” The woman was openly friendly, brash, and had probably become filthy rich in some scandalous way.



“Sure, I’d love to,” Jordan said.



“Maybe tomorrow?”



Why not? Jordan thought. “Sounds great. Are you staying here?” Tiff shook her champagne-toned head. “No, I’m here with a friend, Mack over there?” she pointed out the stout man?“who needs a costume for the artist’s ball tonight. Are you going?”



“Yes, I believe we are.”



“You’ll enjoy it. The tickets are cheap, the food is so-so. The artist’s ball celebrates the often talented and more often broke creative element in Venice for Carnevale. And, when all else fails, the drinks are usually strong.”



“I’ll see you there then,” Jordan told her.



“You’re not supposed to actually see me?I’ll be costumed, of course. But we’ll find one another. And make arrangements for coffee. I’ve rented a villa, next island over. It’s a fabulous old place, owned by the family of a doge long past. If you like, you can come there. Great history, ghosts, scandal, and all. I’ll tell you some of the tales I’ve been told. Oh! Sorry. I mean, I don’t want to scare you or anything?”



“I’m really not scared that easily,” Jordan assured her.



“Good!” She smiled and started away. Then she paused, coming back. “Don’t let it bother you if people whisper about you today. They whisper about me all the time, and I’ve survived!” Before Jordan could say more, Tiff had walked back to her friend. Jordan was surprised to realize that she felt much better after her conversation with the very blunt woman. She smiled, starting out of the hotel again. She mused over the woman’s reassurance without really having to wonder why people would whisper about Tiff. Surely, it had something to do with her lifestyle.



Outside the hotel, vendors displayed their goods. The usual T-shirts were for sale, as were dolls and masks by the hundreds. By day, many people were in street clothes, as she was, but even by sunlight, many people were costumed. Walking in broad daylight, Jordan saw the masked and elaborately dressed strollers for what they were?revelers enjoying the beauty and make-believe of the immense party which was Venice at Carnevale. The air was cool, the day was bright, the sky was blue. Crossing the bridge outside the Danieli, she paused, looking down the canal to the Bridge of Sighs, connecting the Doge’s Palace and the old prisoners to the new, where many a poor man had passed to his imprisonment, or his doom. That had been the past. This morning, a gondolier with a young couple in his sleek black gondola was singing an Italian love song. As he then came through the canal and glanced up at Jordan, he broke into English verse. “When the moon hits your eye like a big piece of pie, that’s amore!” He winked. Jordan lifted a brow with a half smile and waved to the happy couple.



The gondolier stopped rowing, drifting slowly as he passed beneath her. “Buon giomo, signorina!” he called to her. “Care for a ride?”



“You have passengers!” she told him.



“Ah, but they are in love. I am alone.”



“Ah, well, such is life,” she teased. “Your gondola is occupied.”



“Then you must ride another time. I’m Sal. Salvatore D’Onofrio. The best. The most fun, the most handsome.”



“And the most modest!” she supplied.



He grinned and shrugged. “No, not the most modest. But you look for me, some other time, eh?”



“If I decide on a gondola ride, I will definitely look for you,” she promised.



The girl in the back of the gondola, huddled to a young man who couldn’t be much more than twenty, called out to Jordan, her accent French. “He is the best!” Jordan laughed. “Thanks! Enjoy!”



As the gondola drifted beneath the bridge, Jordan moved on.



St. Mark’s Square was crowded with people. Passing the entrance to the basilica, Jordan looked over the heads of the ever-moving horde to see that a costume parade was going on by the makeshift bandstand at the opposite end of the Square. A rock band was playing, and a jester was introducing the contestants in English and Italian, throwing in a few words of French here and there. Those in the most fetching and extravagant costumes posed at the columns around the Square for tourists who snapped endless photos. With their masks, most of the elaborately dressed people were wholly anonymous?it was impossible to tell a person’s nationality, color, or even sex.



Anonymous . .. there is the key, she thought. It’s so easy to come here, don a mask, slip into the crowd, and ...



The thought brought back a strange sense of unease. In truth, she wouldn’t know anyone she had seen at the ball last night. Except for the contessa, of course. They had met face to face. But the others who had been there ... they might be in the Square with her now, and she would not know.



She walked through the crowd, suddenly anxious to reach the streets beyond the Square where she would not be quite so tightly packed in by the throngs. An excellent Napoleon?followed by his court?was at her side. He stopped, bowed low, and indicated that she should precede them. She thanked him quickly and walked on by.



Passing by a plate glass window that displayed mannequins in various costumes, she suddenly went dead still, staring into glass.



For a moment.. .



No. It was just a mannequin. This one with a male form, with a short cut, sable brown wig. For a moment, she thought she had seen Steven’s face on the mannequin. Serious hazel eyes, lean features, firm chin. But she was looking at a plastic mold, expressionless features. No hat and no mask adorned the dummy; it was just a well-painted figure in the typical cape. Still, her heart raced, and she mistrusted her own judgment more than ever. Maybe Jared was right. Steven had been dead only a year. He had died chasing down deadly game players. Cultists?with a yen for murder, for sacrifices to their cruel beliefs.