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Act One:  The Teatro – Two ladies meet Carmen.

A tour group filed into Venice’s venerable opera odeon, the Teatro La Fenice, late in the afternoon.  The sound system was playing a recording of “Habanera” at low volume.  It was a tune most of us would recognize instantly, even if we didn’t know it by name.

At stage front a guide was talking to mostly American and British retirees.

“Bizet’s Carmen is currently in performance.  The story of a young couple in love – of course!  But the man is seduced by another and leaves town with his new inamorata.”

“Così triste!”

At the back of the group an elderly lady absentmindedly played with her necklace.  The hand which fingered the pendant wore a ring, the jewels reflecting light from La Fenice’s candelabras.  Their sparkle caught the eye of a tour companion – a younger woman dressed more simply.

“That is a beautiful necklace.”

“Oh – thank you.  It was a gift from my former husband.”

“And the ring?”

The lady paused, examining the questioner more closely – an athletic girl with a penetrating stare.  “This,” she looked at her hand, “was a gift from me.”

The young woman smiled and the two turned to listen to the guide explain how Carmen tempts José away from Micaëla.  At the end, José’s passion for Carmen is undiminished, and Micaëla remains the spurned lover.

As the tour continues backstage, the music changes.  It is another tune from the opera – the “Gypsy Song.”  Familiar again in melody, if not by name.

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Act Two:  Enter Synthia, Stage Left.

My name is Synthia.  Spelled not with an “C” but with an “S,” as in scintillating – like those gems in the lights of the opera house.  I had decided weeks ago on a whim to join this Italian package tour.

Tagging along in a tour group is not my usual mode of travel, but I was recovering from a recent breakup.  My former partner had kept one foot out the door – afraid of being unlovable, convinced I would leave once his true nature was revealed.  There was nothing to assuage that pain and so he bolted, wanting to be the first out.  As he had done before and would do again in his next relationship.  

Mel.  That was his name.  Like the crooner of the previous century, who was known on stage as the Velvet Fog. And like the singer it was short for Melvin, not Melody. But I still wanted to forget his song for a bit.  Taking this Italian junket seemed like a good idea in that regard; a distraction to help salve a broken heart.  

Initially, all had gone as expected. We started in Milan with the Duomo and Last Supper. Then it was on to Romeo and Giulietta’s Verona, and now Venice.  

It was here in the “City of Canals” that a wrench dropped into the works.

The first day came and went unremarkably.  We visited the opera house and ate pasta nearby, in sight of Rialto Bridge.  That was yesterday.  

Today we were scheduled to visit the Piazza San Marco, ride gondolas, eat gelato, and shop for carnival masks.  But I awoke to a commotion outside my door, hinting that things would not go as planned.  

The peephole revealed a hotel clerk standing next to a distraught woman whom I recognized from our tour group – Madame Dora.  She was bunking in the room across from mine.  A uniformed gendarme was listening intently to her.  Their dialog reached my ears from the crack under the door.  

“Upon waking my jewelry was gone from the safe! But my passport and wallet were untouched.”

There was a reply by the policeman, whose back was to me so his voice was muffled.

“Yes, I am absolutely sure the deadbolt was engaged.  I unlatched it to let the hotel manager into the room this morning.  You can confirm with her.”

This sounded interesting. I dressed hurriedly and went into the hall.

The officer was gone, but Madame Dora was still there, being comforted by the clerk.  She gave a look of exasperation when she saw me.  

“What have the police said?” I asked.

“They don’t seem to know what to make of it.  The theft happened in the early hours, so the captain thinks it may have been a guest or hotel staff.”  

When we first met in Milan, I had introduced myself as a private investigator – when not on vacation.  The madame must have remembered this, as she bid me follow into her room.

“Here – the safe was open this morning, as I left it. I don’t bother locking it when I am here.  Of course I regret that now.”

“The capitano’s theory is that the thief waited until I was asleep to enter with a pass key.  But he has no idea how they left.  The deadbolt was locked from the inside – I’m sure of it.  And we are on the secondo piano, with no possibility of leaving through the window.”

Her window faced the canal, far below.  There was a landing there but quite out of reach, unless one was a climber or acrobat.  Turning back inside I noticed that her bed, which had a heavy frame, was slightly askew.  

“Are you a sound sleeper?”

“I took a sleeping pill last night.  Hearing the story of Carmen had unsettled me a bit – it brought back memories.  But never mind that.”

“So I slept quite well, and didn’t wake until the sun was shining on my window.”

I asked a few other questions which did not add further insight, bid her goodbye, and made my way to the front desk.  The hotel manager was a simpatico sort who agreed to assist my inquiries. 

I wanted to check out a few leads on my own that morning, so the tour group left for the piazza without me. The water buses are quite convenient, and I had no trouble to begin with.  But after finishing my inquiries there was time to wander, and like most visitors I got lost in the maze of narrow streets.  It was quite fun. 

Later I was sitting at the hotel sbarra when the ensemble returned from their day on the town.  I had just ordered bourbon when a fellow tour member named Michelle walked up.  My eyes followed her in the mirror behind the bar as she came over, taking the seat next to mine.

“How is the investigation going?”  

“Ah, you heard I was on the case, as they say?  It’s finished.  Well, the “how” and the “who.”  Just the “why” is still open.”

“Yeah?  Have the police made an arrest?”  She sounded quite surprised.

I smiled.  “Of course not.  Actually quite happy you dropped by, as I wanted to speak to you before talking to them.”

She gave me a questioning look.  “Pray tell.”

Just then the bartender brought a glass and placed it on the counter, pouring caramel-colored liquid over a large ice cube.  After he was done, I replied.

“Social media has a habit of revealing old ghosts.  A former college roommate posts a photo of friends on a rock climbing trip.  Years ago.  One of the girls in the photo grows up.  She starts a company which goes public.  Wealth seemingly comes all at once and in abundance.”

I lifted my glass and inhaled slowly.  The first sip lingered against my palate.  But Michelle was sitting restlessly, so I swallowed and continued.

“Why does she book a cheap tour to Italy when she can afford to travel much more lavishly?”

“She has plenty of money to buy baubles and trinkets – there is no need to steal them.  This crime was personal.  I want to hear her story, to know the “why.””

“So no – I have yet to provide the police with a solution to this riddle.”

Michelle took a breath and looked in the mirror toward the door behind us.  Perhaps she didn’t trust my words and was suspicious of carabinieri waiting in the wings.  I waited in silence.  Finally she replied.

“The thief could deny the insinuation, I suppose.  Especially if she covered her tracks well.”  

She waited for my response.

“In my business, I have found that sometimes a wrong done to “make things right” may have a sympathetic quality,” I replied.  “Save the denial for the police if it comes to that.  Let me in on the secret.”

One of her eyebrows went up.  Then her body relaxed a little – her shoulders dropped almost imperceptibly and her lissome body sank deeper into the stool.

“Listen to a story then.  What you do after that is up to you.”  

“A long time ago a man fell in love with a woman.  They were young, and dreamed as young lovers do.  Actors in a local repertoire theater, they planned to conquer the thespian world.”

“She went off to New York while he stayed in Los Angeles to care for his ill mother.  They wrote letters to each other.  Back then letters were still something people did.  The curve of the ink, the texture of the paper, the smell of perfume.  A letter is something more than words – something to save in the back of a desk drawer.”

“Her letters became less frequent.  The man despaired, so when she did write his despair was reflected in her assurances.  But finally she wrote that she had found another.”

“The woman, a minor star on Broadway by now, spurned her first paramour for a wealthy suitor.  She chose a life filled with splendor over a life filled with love.”

“The heart that was broken never quite recovered.  A fire eventually grew in his soul, and he left the theater to become a success in business.”

“Perhaps to find a wealth of his own, to prove she had made the wrong choice? But as such things go, his new trajectory took him to other places.”

“He met my mother and I was the result.  I never knew that part of him, until he was gone.  I found the old letters in the back of his desk.  I wanted to meet the woman who wrote them, and hear her side of the story.  And as you say, social media does have ghosts.”

“She lived in the grandeur of her expectations for many years, and moved to Paris.  But her husband got into trouble and made some bad bets.  Their marriage failed, and she was left with lesser means, including an annuity that allows her to travel once a year on a package tour.”

Michelle paused to order a drink before continuing.

“I made inquiries – actually via a private investigator like yourself, which my company retains for such exigencies.”

“Madame Dora uses the same travel agent every year, an old family friend.  It was probably an easy job for my guy to figure out her next jaunt – but you would know best.”

“She is quite insular these days – seeing few people and seldom venturing out of her apartment.  Intercepting her on this tour was probably my best shot.  So I booked the same package.  My original intent was to explain how she broke the heart of a good man and see if she regretted her choice.  But you’ve met her.  We already know the answer – at least for the vain woman she has become.  I noticed the jewelry, and a plan came to mind.”

Something wasn’t making sense.  

“But Dora doesn’t connect the two. She thinks it is a property crime.  Surely you are not satisfied when the person who wronged your father is not aware of the cause of her current pain?”

“I know.  Perhaps you can help me with that.  If it is not your intention to turn me in.”

Now I was left not with one pickle but two.

“I need to go off and think about this.”

My whiskey done, I was about to bid her goodnight but had one last question.  “Where would the jewelry be, hypothetically – at the bottom of the canal?”  She smiled.

“Please stick around until we can talk again.”  I left her at the bar.

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Act Three: Micaëla and Michelle.

The next morning I reserved the ristorante after breakfast hours and asked our tour host to corral the group.  Some hotel staff and the carabinieri detective were also present.

“I will get to the point.  I’m a private investigator and at the behest of Madame Dora, made an independent inquiry of her missing jewels.  There is not much to add to what you may already know, but here are my findings.”

“The hour of entry, just before dawn, meant most of us were sleeping.  Madame had taken a sleeping sedative so she was oblivious to the crime as it occurred. Indeed the narcotic worked so quickly that she neglected to engage the dead bolt before nodding off. The perpetrator entered using a pass key lifted from the office during that fire alarm the previous evening – when the front desk was temporarily unstaffed.”

“The thief must have gambled that the safe would be open when Madame was present in the room.  In this, he or she was correct.”

“After accessing the room and grabbing the jewelry, the perp then belayed from the window using a bed leg for securement – the heavy frame providing ample anchorage – doubling the rope so it could be pulled through and retrieved once on the ground. First of course, they closed the dead bolt, doubtless to create confusion and delay the investigation.”

“In Venezia Mestre there is a climbing shop.  I inquired there yesterday, while many of you were touring the city.  My question to the staff?  What would be needed to rappel from a third story window.  The reply was some rope, a harness, and a rappelling device called an Air Traffic Controller or Figure Eight.”  

I refrained from mentioning this next bit.  We’d posed for a group photo in Milan on our first day.  When I pulled up this photo on my phone and showed it to the shop clerk, she excitedly pointed at the figure of Michelle.  The clerk confirmed that Michelle made just those purchases the day before.  It was right before the shop closed.  Indeed Michelle skipped dinner – the only member of the party who did not dine with us at the Rialto.

There were few questions with my version of events. The police detective spoke, suggesting the narrative sounded plausible and was along the lines that their own investigation had been developing.  He added that they were keeping an eye on the usual places where stolen goods show up.

Madame Dora’s face reflected displeasure.  After all, the perp remained free and her jewels were still missing.

Michelle also looked disappointed.  It was an unsatisfactory end game. But I had found no explanation to offer that would not incriminate her.  

The group dispersed.  That morning we were scheduled to enjoy the city on our own.  I made my way to the bar.

I was sipping my third espresso when Michelle spied me from the hall.  She was pulling a valise.

“Glad I found you – to say thanks before I left.”

“But you know Dora still hasn’t connected the dots. I thought you were going to help me with that.”

“I think we have to leave it like this,” I said.  Her brow furrowed.

“Sit for a minute.”

She sat next to me in an anxious posture, much as the evening before.

“I’ll start with the adage that our loved ones do not belong to us.  We only borrow them.  They will leave, either when they pass, or because they want something that we can no longer provide.  If we aren’t ready for them to go, it hits our heart like an arrow.”

“Have you heard about the second arrow?”  

She looked at me blankly. 

“When misfortune comes it often arrives as two arrows.  The first is a loss – which will cause unavoidable pain.  The second is optional suffering – our reaction to the first.”

“We lose someone we love. We feel that irresistible hurt – the first bolt. Its twin could be guilt, remorse, or regret – that we didn’t spend more time with them, say more words of love, or – on the flip side – that we trusted the wrong person with our heart.”

“We need to let go, Michelle. We need to let go of the second arrow.”

Her face was drained but she sat in silence.  I continued.

“Remember the opera Carmen, from La Fenice?  Micaëla, the spurned girlfriend, once referred to José as “l’homme que j’aimais” – the man that I used to love.  Yet perhaps a passion remained which drove her to rescue José from Carmen.”

“Imagine that Micaëla could love unrequitedly.  Your father did.  From what you’ve told me, your dad continued to love Dora – that is why he kept her letters.  Let Dora have the comfort of her trinkets for the time she has left.” 

“If luck is in the cards, she can be made whole again.  I told the captain to have divers search the canal under her window.  He was perplexed at my request, but reluctantly agreed.”

Michelle let out a long, slow breath.  After a while she realized I’d said my piece.

She rose with a look of resignation.

“It ends better for me this way.  Better than an Italian jail. Thank you again.”

I watched her walk away.  Hopefully the tour’s next stop would be just as exciting without her. But probably not.  

Before we left Italy Dora got her keepsakes back, courtesy of a Venice police diver.  And I would start to let go of a song in my heart.  A velvet melody which needed to fade to make space for a new one.  

The now smaller tour group boarded a train to Rome that afternoon.  As the Frecciarossa express pulled out of Santa Lucia, I began humming “the Toreador.” From Carmen.

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Venice © 2021-2025 by D. Jen.  A Synthia Spade mystery.