“Exquisite!” murmured Oliver Joyce. His awed tone was scarcely above a whisper.
Nancy, Tara and Katrina van Holst rose from their chairs to admire and exclaim over the gorgeous work of art.
Soon after Oliver Joyce departed with profuse thanks to the Marchese, Katrina also left the palazzo to photograph the sights of Venice for the magazine she was working for. Nancy showed Tara the palace courtyard with its blooming garden, and then took her up to her room.
On the way, Nancy excused herself momentarily for a private word with her father. She asked him to use his legal connections to find out if Interpol, the international police organization, had any information on Oliver Joyce.
“What do you suspect him of?” Carson Drew inquired with a quizzical frown.
Nancy hesitated. “Just possibly of casing the Palazzo Falcone for a future robbery. Unless I’m mistaken, he was wearing a gun in a leg holster!”
Mr. Drew’s face hardened and his frown deepened. “I’ll see what I can find out,” he promised.
Tara was entranced upon seeing Nancy’s room. Its tall windows, curtained with brocaded draperies, opened onto a graceful little balcony overlooking the Grand Canal. Its wall paneling was intricately carved, and its ceiling decorated with small gilt plaster cupids. What caught her eye most of all were the two huge, canopied four-poster beds.
“Oh, Nancy!” she cried. “Why couldn’t the two of us share this room? Would you mind?”
“Far from it. I was going to suggest the same thing myself.”
“Then let’s!”
There was a knock on the door. It was the eye-patched butler, Domenic. He announced that the two signorine had a visitor downstairs. “A young man who calls himself Gianni,” he added disapprovingly.
Nancy sighed. “All right, thank you. Tell him we’ll be down in a moment. . . . Oh, and Domenic, when Miss Egan’s luggage arrives, will you have it brought to this room, please?”
“Va bene.”
Tara was obviously thrilled by Gianni Spinelli’s visit. He looked more handsome than ever in an open-necked shirt and summer suit, with the cuffed sleeves of his jacket turned up halfway to the elbow.
He explained that he had gone to the Pensione Dandolo to invite Tara out on a short sightseeing tour of the city; but on learning from Signora Dandolo that she had gone to tea with a friend, he had followed her to the Palazzo Falcone.
“Perhaps you would care to come with us, Signorina Drew?” he added with an air of sleek assurance.
Nancy was about to decline coldly, when she was struck by a sudden pang of concern for Tara. The happy expression on her girl friend’s face showed all too clearly how gratified she was at the prospect of a date with Gianni, and how eager she was to accept. Nancy also remembered Gianni’s contemptuous remarks about Tara behind her back.
What kind of a friend would she be to leave her at the mercy of such a hypocritical wolf?
“Thank you, Gianni,” Nancy replied with a cool, formal smile. “I’ll be glad to come along . . . if you’re sure three won’t be a crowd?”
“Not at all! We shall be delighted to have your company, will we not, Tara?”
Tara’s response was noticeably lukewarm.
Gianni had planned a gondola outing—with the girls no doubt paying the tab, Nancy reflected cynically. Considering the high fares, it would have been an expensive afternoon.
Instead, Nancy suggested that they leave by the courtyard and campo behind the palace and go on a walking tour of the island city.
Despite the heat of the afternoon, this turned out to be a happy inspiration. Following their noses, they strolled along narrow canals closed in on either side by high medieval buildings, over small bridges, through arching passageways and along flagstoned streets, glimpsing a side of Venice rarely seen by tourists.
In fact, the only typical tourist attraction spectacle the girls saw was a high pillared statue of a fierce-looking warrior on horseback—Bartolomeo Colleoni, once the mercenary commander of Venice’s land forces. Nancy remembered reading somewhere that the splendid bronze figure, by Verocchio, was the greatest horseback statue ever sculpted. It was a thrilling sight.
The only flaw in the afternoon was the constant attention Gianni paid to Nancy. Once in a while he would bestow a grudging smile on Tara, or drop a flirtatious remark that brought an eager glow to her cheeks. But most of the time he would ignore her with a patronizing, macho arrogance, and speak flatteringly to Nancy or try to slip an arm around her waist.
Once, when they stopped in a little trattoria for some fruit ice, Gianni even reached across the table to caress Nancy’s hand. She saw the hurt, unhappy look that flickered over Tara’s face and jerked her hand away as quickly and pointedly as she could.
Not long after passing the horseback statue, they came out onto the Fondamenta Nuove just as passengers were debarking from a steam launch. Among them, Nancy glimpsed Don Madison.
Her pulse raced and she found herself waving eagerly. “Don!”
Heads turned as the pretty strawberry blond called out his name. Don waved back and hurried toward them with a pleased grin. “Hey, what a nice surprise! What are you doing up this way, Nancy?”
“Seeing Venice—on foot,” she chuckled, and introduced him to her two companions. Gianni’s nostrils flared with ill-concealed dislike as he shook hands with the American.
“It’s after five,” Don remarked. “Going back to the palazzo?”
“We haven’t decided yet,” said Nancy. “So far we’ve just been wandering around, playing it by ear. Why?”
Don turned to Tara and Gianni. “Look, I hate to break up this happy trio, but would you mind very much if I snatched Nancy away from you?”
Tara certainly didn’t. But Gianni looked sulky as Nancy smiled, “What did you have in mind?”
“Dinner. There uh . . . there are some things I want to tell you about Pietro and the glassworks, things I’ve just remembered.”
“Then we’d better talk, by all means.” Nancy excused herself to her two companions, and Don promptly flagged a motorboat-taxi.
As they put-putted away down a rio, Nancy waved goodbye to Tara and Gianni. The handsome young Venetian watched sullenly and made no response. Tara, however, waved back with a happy smile as she clung to Gianni’s arm.
“Was I rude?” said Don.
“Not in the least. And you couldn’t have shown up at a better time,” Nancy assured him.
Don took Nancy to a charming old inn, the Antica Locanda Montin, well off the tourist track in the Dorsoduro, a quiet residential area on the Right Bank, near the southern end of the Grand Canal. “My favorite eating place in Venice,” said Don. “In fact, I had a room here before I was invited to stay at the palazzo.”
The inn occupied a seventeenth-century building with a quaint lantern hanging over the front door. It was run by two brothers and favored by writers and artists, as indicated by paintings hanging on the walls. Don led the way to an inner courtyard where tables were arranged in a tree-shaded arbor. Nancy fell in love with the place at once.
“Do you really have something to tell me about Pietro and the glassworks?” she asked when they were seated.
Don smiled sheepishly. “Not really. It was just an excuse to—to have you all to myself for the evening.”
“I’m glad,” Nancy said softly, and their eyes met. She knew at that moment that a new, wonderful relationship had begun. The attraction that had sprung up when Don had seized her in his arms to save her from falling into the lagoon was now flowing strongly between them.
Both began to talk at once, then broke off, laughing. “When we first met,” Nancy confided, “I thought you didn’t like me.”
Don shook his head. “Far from it. I found you so attractive, it . . . it frightened me.”
“Don’t tell me you’re all that bashful?”
“Not exactly. I intended to explain over dinner tonight, but now I suddenly seem to be losing my nerve again.”
; Nancy was puzzled, but she was enjoying their tète-â-tète too much to press him.
The dinner of grigliata misti, mixed seafood grill, was delicious, and dessert even more so—a mouthwatering wild-strawberry torte smothered with cream. Nancy reflected with a giggle that it would have sent her plump hometown girl friend, Bess Marvin, into swooning ecstasy!
Conversation ranged over all sorts of topics, including the Marchese’s masquerade ball the following evening. “I’m going as a masked bravo, an old-time hit-man,” Don chuckled. He recommended a shop where a wide assortment of costumes could be rented inexpensively.
Nancy was floating on a cloud when they returned to the palace. She went looking for her father and found him in a sitting room, listening as Katrina van Holst, seated at a piano, played a heart-melting Chopin sonata.
My goodness, Nancy thought with a gentle inward smile, are things getting serious?
“Well! We missed you at dinner, honey,” Carson Drew remarked as she came into the room.
“I suspect she and Don didn’t miss the rest of us in the least,” Katrina added humorously.
Tara Egan was waiting in their room. She seemed in a contrary mood. Nancy gathered that Gianni Spinelli had taken her to dinner at some not very romantic spot, and that Tara was still feeling resentful over the afternoon’s events.
“I don’t understand you at all, Nancy!” she complained. “Are you in love with Gianni?”
Nancy was surprised that her own attitude hadn’t seemed obvious. “Not at all,” she declared. “Cross my heart, Tara!”
“Then why don’t you stop playing games? You didn’t have to come sightseeing with us!”
For the life of her, Nancy couldn’t think how to reply. How could she possibly explain that she thought Tara was emotionally vulnerable and that Gianni was just a macho stud, out to exploit her longing for affection and romance?
In the end, she shrugged, “I’m sorry, Tara. From now on I’ll try to stay out of the way.”
Tara seemed mollified and ready to make up. Nevertheless, the bedtime atmosphere remained a trifle strained. Luckily Nancy was tired from her long, full day and quickly drifted off to sleep.
She was awakened some time later by a piercing scream. She jerked upright, striving to clear away the mists of sleep from her brain.
A faint sheen of moonlight was filtering into the room through the draperied windows—enough to reveal a dark something or someone in the center of the room.
Nancy’s heart leapt to her mouth. She reached out in the gloom, groping for her bedside lamp, and switched it on.
A hooded figure was moving toward Tara’s bed! It seemed to hear Nancy’s stifled gasp and whirled around sharply.
Her eyes widened in horror as she saw a hideous skull face!
9
Ghost Story
Nancy willed herself to leap out of bed and confront the ghastly intruder. But she was petrified with fright and her limbs refused to obey.
Another scream by Tara sent the weird phantom darting toward the doorway. It seemed to pause for just a moment, as if reluctant to be driven out by mere flesh-and-blood humans. Then as Nancy finally launched herself out of bed, it streaked into the corridor and the door closed behind it.
Nancy started in pursuit, only to stop short as Tara cried out fearfully, “Oh, my God—no! Don’t go, Nancy! Don’t leave me—please!”
She sounded hysterical. Nancy turned and hurried to her bedside and put her arms around the terrified girl. “It’s all right, Tara! There’s nothing to be afraid of! The spook’s gone now, whatever it was!”
“Oh, N-N-Nancy! Did you see its face?”
“Yes. . . . I was hoping you hadn’t,” the teen sleuth added with wry humor, trying to relieve the tension.
“It was h-h-horrible!” declared Tara, shuddering. “When I woke up, that thing was coming toward me—and j-just for a second, the moonlight shone on its face! It was like a skull!”
The recollection brought on another spasm of weeping. Nancy held her close until the sobs died away. Then she rose from Tara’s bedside and started toward the doorway.
“For heaven’s sake, Nancy—be careful!”
She opened the door and looked out. The corridor was in semi-darkness, illumined only by the dim glow from a light in the gallery overlooking the ground floor. As Nancy’s eyes adjusted, she peered intently in both directions, but there was no sign of the ghostly midnight marauder.
With a sigh of relief, she closed the door. “Whatever, or whoever, it was—is gone now!”
Apparently the inner walls of the old palazzo were solid enough to have muffled Tara’s screams. They seemed not to have disturbed the household.
“What should we do, Nancy?”
“Good question. We could wake up the servants, I suppose, but I doubt if they’d appreciate it.”
The two were feeling calmer now. In the end, they settled back on their pillows and pulled up the covers. Tara kept her bedside light on as they chatted drowsily. Minutes later, both girls had fallen asleep.
Next morning, a maid brought them coffee and croissants. Tara tried to ask her if the palazzo was haunted, but the maid’s English was too poor to carry on a conversation.
Soon after the girls finished dressing, there was a knock on the door. It was Domenic, the butler. “The maid, Eufemia,” he grumbled in his hollow, heavily accented voice, “she say you see something last night.”
“We certainly did,” said Nancy.
Tara described the spook and repeated her question about the palazzo being haunted.
Domenic seemed both sullen and upset. “This is foolish talk,” he scolded. “Only girls and women see any ghost.”
“This wasn’t just ’any ghost’,” Nancy retorted. “We’re talking about a terrifying figure that came into our room last night. Into this room right here!” She was determined not to let him evade the issue, as he had done yesterday afternoon when she wanted him to serve tea in the courtyard.
“Si, si, capisco,” Domenic nodded impatiently. “You tell me you see a ghost. What can I say?” He shrugged his bony shoulders. “This Palazzo Falcone, it is very old. Many times donne think they see something in the dark. Some see death’s-head, like you say now. Maybe it is true, maybe they just imagine so. Who knows?”
The butler rambled on, shrugging and lapsing into Italian. The girls finally gave up. But on the way down to breakfast, they encountered the Marchese himself on the staircase.
“Is your palazzo haunted?” Nancy asked.
“Haunted?” The Marchese’s face went blank. But when the girls described the apparition they had seen, and the butler’s reaction to their story, he nodded understandingly. “Ah, si, the ghost! So Domenic has told you our old family legend, eh?”
“Not really. You mean the Palazzo Falcone has a legendary ghost?”
“Indeed it does.” He explained that, centuries ago, a member of the Falcone family had been accused of plotting against the Doge, the elected head of the Most Serene Republic. So the dreaded- Council of Ten, which controlled the secret police, had sentenced him to death.
The Falcones’ kinsman was never seen again. It was assumed that he had been executed by the official strangler. But rumors persisted that he had been glimpsed at the palazzo, at first as a fugitive in hiding and later as a ghost with a death’s-head.
Tara shuddered. “Are you saying that’s what Nancy and I saw last night?”
“No, no, my dear, I’m only telling you the legend. I am devastated that you have suffered such an unnerving experience, whatever the reason, and I apologize deeply. If it will help at all,” he added, “I can assure you that there has never been any report of my restless ancestor harming anyone!”
The last remark was spoken with a sympathetic smile. Clearly, he was inclined to write off the weird specter as a figment of their imagination.
After breakfast the girls set out for a day of sightseeing and shopping. Nancy proposed that they go first to see the Ca d’Oro
, or House of Gold. It had caught her eye when she arrived in Venice and seemed to her the loveliest palace on the Grand Canal. “The guidebook says it was built for a pair of wealthy newlyweds,” she told Tara. “Once upon a time, it was actually covered with gold.”
“Wow! They must have been rich!”
Viewed from the water, it looked as light and airy as a dream, with three stories of delicate columns and lacy arches. The girls entered on the land side, through a courtyard with a pink marble wellhead, and ascended a flight of stone stairs to the interior.
The palace was now a museum, filled with paintings and sculpture. As they wandered about, the two friends separated, each following her own interests. Tara became absorbed in a collection of doll-sized, bronze statuettes.
Nancy was looking for a picture by Titian, mentioned in the guidebook. Her interest in this artist’s work had first been mere curiosity, prompted by hearing her own red-gold hair described as “titian.” But the more of his paintings she saw, the more she had come to admire his vivid use of color, which had revolutionized the art of the High Renaissance.
The particular work of Titian in the Ca d’Oro was a voluptuous painting of Venus decked with pearls. How magnificent! What artistry! Nancy marveled. For that matter, what a woman! she mentally added, with an admiring twinkle.
“Her hair is almost as beautiful as yours, eh?” said a masculine voice behind her.
Nancy turned coldly, vexed at the way the spell had been broken, and even more vexed by the fact that the speaker was Gianni Spinelli.
“What are you doing here?” she snapped.
“The same thing you are doing, cara—worshiping beauty.”
“Please! Spare me your corny line!” Nancy retorted, tight-lipped. “You’ve been seeing too many movies.”
“Movie stars no longer turn me on,” Gianni said softly, “now that I have seen you . . . !”
Nancy felt angry and helpless, all the more so since she couldn’t help thinking how handsome he looked with his curly dark hair, finely chiseled features and muscular grace.