Murder on Ponte Vecchio #Mystery #Crime

Posted: October 27, 2020/Under: Uncategorized/By: Christine Young

Murder on Ponte Vecchio: Murder on Ponte Vecchio is a Vena Goodwin contemporary murder mystery with ancient echoes of Renaissance beauty comingled with violence in Florence, Italy.

Murder on Ponte Vecchio: Mystery/Crime

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BLURB: Murder on Ponte Vecchio

A model is murdered on the old bridge shortly after Vena Goodwin arrives in Florence, Italy. Third in the Vena Goodwin murder mystery series, the novel finds the young amateur sleuth again paired with a Carabiniere officer to untangle a web of murders. The narrative moves between contemporary Florence and its Renaissance past through echoes of artists in the city Vena discovers in her search for justice. Working with the Carabinieri, Vena comes to very different conclusions as to the murderer. Portraying the birth of art comingled with violence, Dafoe’s novel moves in tension between a man and woman, between artists, and between Dante’s Divine Comedyand what it has inspired.

EXCERPT: Murder on Ponte Vecchio

Already a clock was ticking on the last twenty-four hours of Oriana Elena Fiorentina’s life, and she was careless with it, sleeping until nearly noon, getting up to pour herself a glass of wine, skipping breakfast and ignoring the plump fresh grapes on her table. Pulling out a cigarette with two fingers, she opened a tall, narrow door and squeezed her thin frame out onto a compressed balcony with nothing on but her ex-boyfriend’s oversized sweater. She lit the cigarette and inhaled slowly, the cold, sharp air closing her pores and causing her large eyes to water. Shopkeepers were counting their change, and a murder had been carefully planned down to the last detail, laid out with a blueprint like those of the finest architects. Oriana exhaled, without a thought in her head about the city’s art, its long history.

~ * ~

Anxiously awaiting an official visit, Enrico Pazzi examined his sculpted marble likeness of Dante, at once calling up severity and the superior intelligence of the long dead poet. Pazzi was pleased with the work, but knew his next moves would have to be political as opposed to artistic. Rather than knock, the Count of Syracuse, known to Pazzi as Prince Leopold and brother to the King of Naples, marched into Pazzi’s workroom with his emissary Trapani. Neither man spoke a greeting nor requested permission to enter. The two men—Leopold and Pazzi—of vastly different circumstances and positions—eyed each other with suspicion. Pazzi guessed from the Prince’s abruptness he would not convince his judge and jury to commission payment for his work and placement in Firenze. He had already been turned down to have the work placed in Ravenna. Yet, Pazzi also knew with equal certainty his marble sculpture of Dante belonged more to Firenze than to any other city, just as the once exiled Dante still belonged to the Florentines. All would look upon his sculpture of Dante Alighieri and know Pazzi had brought their poet home.

A few steps behind Prince Leopold and Trapani, the Interior Minister to the Grand Duke, Leopold II entered and turned his head to Pazzi, a gesture which held a surprising familiarity and, perhaps, hoped Pazzi, some degree of sympathy. A few guards quickly surrounded them, mute, at attention. The flurry of sudden visitors in his space further agitated Pazzi who was trying not to appear nervous or servile.

Although the nineteenth Century and not the fifteenth, some age-old resentments never entirely die. In 1478, members of the Pazzi family plotted against the de’Medicis, managing to assassinate Giuliano de’Medici. Although they badly injured Lorenzo and killed Giuliano, the Pazzis were defeated and banished from Firenze. All was ancient history, yet Prince Leopold was aware of this past and still saw only a Pazzi when he entered.

The prince said nothing before slowly walking the sculpture’s circumference, touching the work several times and pulling back his hand from the warmth of the marble as if bitten by a serpent. Once, his finger traced the figure’s hand as if coming across a relative. The Prince and the statue appeared too familiar and old rivals.

“Why is our Dante Alighieri surrounded by beasts? What is your intent here with this placement?” the Grand Duke held nothing back in either his words or disdainful tone.

“The lions, your Grace, are Marzocco lions, as you must be aware, a symbol of Firenze. They are meant to honor our beloved city.”

“Or to tear apart imperial power. They look threatening,” said Leopold II, scornfully, “and as if they might devour both our Prince and the poet you were meant to honor.”

Prince Leopold raised his eyebrows but remained silent as he watched and listened to Leopold II’s critical evaluation of artist and his work. The Prince knew this would be a political decision, not an artistic one, and had not yet decided how he was going to weigh in on the sculpture.

“And the eagle? Why does the bird not have the double head of the Habsburgs?” The Interior Minister leaned toward the carved figure as if to question the marble itself.

With his chin jutting out and head high, Pazzi replied, “This is a Roman eagle, risen from ashes of the Roman Empire.” His pride in his art nearly overwhelmed him as he spoke. He believed his sculpture carried the weight and beauty of his city.

This time, Prince Leopold raised his brows then let them fall with sinister bent. The Prince looked around the workroom, taking in the artist’s sculptures before speaking. “I see you are acquainted with the craft of carving tombs.” Pazzi stiffened, holding his breath. “Such work will keep you fed. You appear suited to the task. We are done here,” Prince Leopold said, waving his hand grandly, and the small retinue of guards, Prince, and Interior Minister turned to exit.

Pazzi slumped after his door closed and sat on the pedestal of his creation. Why couldn’t he have shown more deference, flattered Leopold II and the Prince? His pride and temper were barely concealed. He, too, touched his marble sculpture in the place where the Prince had rested his hand momentarily. Then, Pazzi’s heart leaped. He could feel a rush of blood in the veins of the great poet’s likeness he had created. What a fool the Prince and Interior Minister are,Pazzi said to himself. How could they not be aware of the life I have given to dull quarry stone hauled by oxen down from the mountains?

It would be some time, however, before the marble sculpture of Italian poet Dante Alighieri would proudly stand in Piazza Santa Croce near the entrance to the Basilica. Pazzi would have to get by on commissions from his gravestones and the occasional emblem for patrons’ houses, as a Prince had no use for a such a carver with the name of Pazzi.

“I’ll meet you on the Loggia dei Lanziin the Piazza della Signoria,” Dante Canestrini said. “There is a roof for you to take cover from rain.” The brother of her former lover might have said, “This location will put you in the midst of our art and myths at once,” but he was curt rather than generous on the phone.

“I will be wearing a long red coat; easy for you to find me,” said Vena. Before leaving the U.S. for Italy, she had purchased the coat then had taken thin hemming tape of white, blue, and green stripes and sewn them on the underside of the cuffs and at the back of the collar. The purchase had been her one extravagance. She knew she might regret the expense if her Italian employers did not pay on time. After she removed her wallet from a string around her neck to buy a coffee in the airport, she found Bill had tucked in two hundred Euros in its folds. If she had entreated her father for the money, he would likely have told her to save her money, but when she did not ask, he was more generous. She smiled, thinking about Bill’s kindness.

“I don’t imagine I will have any trouble finding you,” Dante answered with a trace of ambiguity. After hanging up, Dante could still hear Vena’s soothing voice which sounded musical, like an alto in a church choir. On the way across the city, Dante tried to imagine his reaction to seeing Vena again. Setting off on foot across the historic center of Firenze, he was expectant, nervous, and determined to show little emotion when he met his little brother’s ex. Pre-determining there would be a pleasant exchange, not fraught with angst or confusion, he couldn’t help but remember the last time he saw his brother’s old girlfriend. What was far more troubling were inappropriate feelings he had successfully wrestled to the ground a year ago. Now, he was testing himself again.

Apparently, Dante wanted to keep some distance by greeting her in such a busy, touristy spot in the city rather than in the more intimate setting of a restaurant or her apartment, Vena decided. But she was also reminded once again of the handsome Carabiniere’s attention to detail as she explored the famed L-shaped square in the city. He would not want her waiting out in the rainy weather without some protection and the larger than life figures on the terrace were spectacular. The rains, however, stopped temporarily.

Walking along a narrow street on her way to the Palazzo, Vena saw an artist, one of the Madonnari, creating a chalk and pastel copy of Agnolo Bronzino’s Elenora on the stone road. Still damp, the pavement had slightly blurred the street artist’s lines but not yet caused their disappearance. Vena wondered about the kind of man who persisted in creating art so very temporary, working on such a beautiful portrait on a busy side street, in poor weather no less. Elenora’s face would later be trampled by pedestrians on their way to museums; motorbikes would leave horizontal tracks across her aspect. In a city in which art was so abundant, artwork was both highly treasured and carelessly abandoned or disfigured with near equal measure. Already, Vena knew she would not want to leave Firenze easily.

Looking up from glistening pavement, she surveyed Palazzo Vecchio, the old city hall, in front of her, its stone tower’s medieval aspect defining the space. Craning her neck, she gazed at the tower and its clock, already an antiquated way of telling time. Dizzy, she held her head down again for several seconds to restore balance. No part of her body had fully adjusted to the six-hour difference from Eastern Standard Time in New York to Rome, Italy before she rode the train to Florence. A day or two, she told herself, and she would feel normal again.

On a corner of the Palazzo was a crude, engraved outline of a man’s head on the wall. She had read about speculation the tile was a joke of Michelangelo’s who drew himself in reverse. Just beyond the strange relief was the famed, arched connector between Palazzo and the Uffizi. Once open to the public, the Vasari Corridor now stood above pedestrians as reminder of hidden passageways in this city of secrets, of art and politics intermingled.

Vena imagined there would be surprises everywhere in Florence as she ascended nearby steps to the open-air gallery of Loggia della Signoria. Turning back again, checking quickly for Dante’s approach, she scanned the open space. After a few seconds, her eyes arrived at a magnificent copy of Michelangelo’s David on one side of the entrance to Palazzo Vecchio. She knew the original sculpture was housed in the Accademia and made a mental note she would see David before she left Florence. Although there were fewer tourists about than usual due to the winter season, early hour and light rain, she still had to look past a number of bodies in the square before deciding Dante was not yet on his way. Nervous energy worked its way into her stomach, and she felt an unexpected twinge.

KEYWORDS

History, Murder, Florence, Italy, Artists, Woman amateur sleuth

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KEYWORDS

History, Murder, Florence, Italy, Artists, Woman amateur sleuth

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