Death of a Serpent (16 page)

Rosa’s eyes sparked. “But? Out with it.”

“I’ll bet Don Tigro would love to get his hands on your business.”

“Never.” Rosa sat on her velvet seat like a Sicilian Buddha.

“I want to talk about this figure in brown that Scarpo describes lurking about your house.” She told them about her encounter with the begging monk in the piazza shortly after Bella died. “Wearing gloves and boots. Called himself Don Roberto. He smelled like a thousand foreign sheep. I’m convinced he’s the same man Scarpo saw at the blacksmith’s, the same one Arcangelo saw when he drove Gemma to meet her uncle on the evening before you found her body—the last time she was seen alive, except by her killer.”

Rosa’s eyes took on a haunted look. She reached across and stroked Tessa’s cheek.

Serafina read her notes. “’A man, tall, in wintry clothes,’ that’s the way Arcangelo described Gemma’s uncle, or his driver, at least the one who picked up Gemma.”

Rosa smiled. “Arcangelo, bad with his colors.”

“And here’s what Scarpo said about him, ‘There’s one, a stranger…he wears brown and smells funny, not from around here.’ And something else about their descriptions, something odd, the detail that convinces me it’s the same man they’re talking about, this man wearing brown: both Scarpo and Arcangelo say the man was wearing gloves and the weather was warm.”

“Gloves in August?” Rosa asked. “That’s it: he’s got something to hide, like a hand with six fingers or a missing thumb. The man in mocha, he’s our killer. Forget the others.”

“Speaking of forgetting, did you remember to ask Scarpo to talk to the smith? Did you ask him to get Eugenia’s address?”

Rosa shook her head. The four munched their food while the train slowly rounded a corner.

Breaking the silence, Serafina said, “Whoever it was, he plans on killing again. And soon.”

“Not while we’re eating. What’s wrong with you?” Rosa asked.

Serafina looked out the window. “Just thinking what it is you know that you’re not telling me.”

“Like a peasant with a gold coin, your mother.” Rosa pursed her lips.

Renata shrugged.

Tessa tapped her finger on Rosa’s sleeve. “Is brown the color that bad men wear?”

“Not always.”

“Once I saw a man in brown talking to Gemma and Nelli in the piazza. Bella, too. They called him ‘the monk.’”

Serafina looked at Rosa. “Have you seen this monk since then?”

Tessa nodded. “Sometimes in the morning when I buy bread.”

The feathers on Rosa’s hat quivered. Serafina wrote down Tessa’s information in her book and stared out the window.

The train blasted steam and headed for Bagheria, the end of the line, where they would hire a cab to Palermo.

“Who do you think will be the next to die?” Serafina asked. “Any of your women seem different? Need to visit relatives? Go out more often now, when before they stayed in? Change their pattern?”

“Changed? We’re all changed. Next time? No next time!” The madam’s eyes narrowed. “We’ll stop this madman before he strikes again.”

“We’re almost there,” Renata said, looking out the window.

Serafina reached for Rosa’s heavy package. “Hurry, we must queue up to get off the train. Tessa, take Renata’s hand. We’ll meet beneath the statue of St. Dominic between two and half past. That should give us enough time to meet with Bella’s father and the contessa.”

“The contessa?” Renata asked.

“Bella’s friend. They were going into business together. Keeps a dress shop not far from the Baldassare shop.”

“You should have taken Giulia with you. She’d love to see a dressmaker’s studio, especially one in Palermo. Already she dreams of making gowns in Paris.”

Serafina put her hand on her heart and glanced out the window at a line of peasants bound for the wharves. “Giulia’s a child, only sixteen. Let her grow up first.”

“You’re afraid of losing her, like you’ve lost Carmela. I know you. If Giulia leaves, you’re wondering who will sew our clothes.”

“Not more talk of leaving. You’re still children, all of you. Even you—eighteen is nothing. Living with your family, all of us together in this uncertain hour—savor it.”

“All of us together? Not all of us,” Renata muttered.

Nittù Baldassare

“I
don’t know what I can tell you of Bella, but I’ll try.” He wiped his forehead and led them to his study by way of the kitchen where a cook was preparing food. Serafina watched as the woman slid a long-handled spatula into the deep interior of an oven and fished out bread, oiled and steaming, crackling at the edges.

Rosa breathed audibly. “Heavenly, the smells—oregano, tomato, pesto, basil.”

They walked down a long hallway into another room washed in tawny gold. Serafina smelled tobacco, leather, the mustiness of old books. Not a mote of dust. In the middle of the room was a carved mahogany desk piled with papers, and on the wall behind it, shelves stuffed with books. Several large volumes lay open on the desk, some containing plates of women’s gowns, others with drawings of men in uniform. Underneath the window was a long table heaped with fabric. Swatches of brocades, silks and wools spilled onto the carpet. In front of Baldassare’s desk were two chairs covered in damask. He invited Serafina and Rosa to sit.

Serafina took out her notebook and pencil. “Tell me about yourself,” she said.

He passed a hand over his eyes. “Born into a trade that has served me well. Inherited my father’s shop. Across the piazza. You noticed it?”

They nodded.

“Built up that business with these,” Baldassare said, holding up his hands. “Decided to specialize in uniforms—Bourbon, Redshirt, monk, didn’t matter. My wife and I made a good life. All my sons attended university. They were about to take over the business when Garibaldi landed at Marsala.”

Serafina waited for Nittù Baldassare to continue, knowing he must repeat the tragedy many times.

As he spoke, his voice grew soft. A line of color moved up his cheeks. “My sons followed him. The oldest wrote telling me it would be over soon. He was right. When the messenger came with the news, I’ll never forget it.” He pushed himself away from the desk.

He continued, talking more to himself than to his guests. “Killed in one battle, all five of them. Our world vanished. You see what the news did to my poor Addolorata.”

Rosa began to speak, but Serafina sent her a daggered look.

“And, so, to Bella. When she was born, she was betrothed to Pirandello’s youngest son. You know the family? They own a shop on Piazza San Domenico, tailors who make fortunes with every stitch.”

Rosa nodded.

Baldassare pointed to his books and swatches. “But when she came of age, Bella told us she didn’t want marriage, not to Pirandello, not to anyone. She broke our hearts. Instead, she left.” He looked at Rosa. “Her mother would have been devastated had she known about Bella’s life with you. And when I heard what she was doing, I couldn’t believe it. Now, when I think of it…” He stopped.

The room was still.

“You must have been wild with anger,” Serafina said.

“I disowned her.” He cradled his head. “She wrote to me. At first I threw her letters into the fire, but she persisted. When she stopped writing, I became worried.”

Serafina looked at Rosa.

“In time, we reconciled. Such plans she had—to earn enough to open a business of her own, ‘twice as grand as Pirandello’s,’ she told me, ‘at first, serving only royalty; in time, the wives of wealthy merchants. I’ll make the name of Baldassare as famous for high fashion as the House of Worth. Women from all over the world will flock to our door.’ She took my dreams, blew them up higher than Monte Pellegrino.” He gestured toward the ceiling. “For that kind of enterprise she needed money, far more than she’d inherit from me—and she’d have gotten everything with my death.”

He frowned. “Began to see my daughter as if she were a son. Finally, after all these years, I understood her. Earned good money working for you—far more than she could make being a seamstress, even in Paris. Oh, they asked for her, those fancy designers. La Contessa would have arranged it. Would have given Bella experience, prestige, but not the capital she needed for the control she wanted. Oh, La Grinaldi, she would have hired her as a designer. But not as an equal.”

Rosa said, “And never spent, my Bella, so frugal. ‘You want a dress? We’ll find the right fabric,’ she’d tell me. And charged me for the thread, the needles. Oh, she was a saver, our girl.”

Nittù Baldassare grinned. “And smart. She thought of everything, that one, everything. She even had a scheme for salvation. So clever, my daughter.”

Serafina stopped writing.

“Do I know about this, Nittù?” Rosa asked.

He shook his head. “Nor did I. But the last time she visited—July, it was—she told me it wouldn’t be long. She’d given her money to La Grinaldi. She was ready to move back into town. ‘Just some unfinished business,’ she said.” He shook his head before continuing. “She told me that she’d met a monk who offered salvation. Permanent absolution, even for one such as herself.”

Silence except for Serafina’s scratching pencil. When she finished, she looked at Rosa.

“Don’t give me the evil eye. I didn’t know about this scheme of salvation, or the monk. The first I’ve heard.”

“I never saw her again.” He looked at the floor.

Serafina heard the faint noise of traffic and a dove cooing to its mate. Minutes passed. Through clenched teeth, Nittù Baldassare turned to Serafina and said, “Bring her killer to me. I’ll take care of him.” He stood up and brandished a fist. “Flailing, too good for him, but I will find something worthy of this beast.” He sat, hung his head. His desolation hung in the room like acrid smoke.

“What can you tell me of this monk?” Serafina asked. “Where did Bella meet him? Was it here in Palermo or Oltramari?”

He shrugged.

“Is there anyone who’d know? Bella’s contessa friend?”

“She might. In Paris at the moment, I think.”

A maid announced the afternoon meal.

• • •

Standing before the vestibule’s mirror, Rosa patted her curls, straightened her hat while Serafina fastened her cape.

Rosa put a hand to her mouth, “Something for you, almost forgot.” She dug into her front. “Bella’s record of account at
Banco di Sicilia
.” She kissed him on both cheeks.

Serafina asked, “Who inherits your business, now that Bella’s gone?”

“What a question!” Rosa said.

“My brother. Last month after Bella died—” His voice cracked.

Rosa clasped his hand. “Take your time, Nittù. For your sorrow, we have all day.”

He continued. “After Bella died, I changed the will. The
avvucatu
, he took care of it: my brother inherits the business.”

Rosa raised her brows.

“I’d like to talk to your brother,” Serafina said.

Falco

“F
alco, it’s Nittù!” Baldassare called out, opening the door.

As they entered, Serafina smelled wool and something else—perhaps sizing used on fabric. Her eyes smarted. She waited until the room focused, a place of fantastic-looking bodies, weird presences, like something out of a dream.

As the objects took on familiar shapes, headless bodies became models wearing uniforms or clerical garb. On one wall, shelves held spools of thread, braids, buttons, bric-a-brac. On the opposite wall, rolls of fabric leaned against a tall chest. Serafina walked over to it. She reached out to examine one of the small carvings sitting on top of the chest. Smiling to herself she put it back: Falco’s clay figures.

Baldassare pointed to a dress uniform worn by Joachim Murat, an ostrich-feathered hat sitting on its shoulders. Another mannequin sported a red Garibaldi shirt beneath a leather jerkin. Others were draped in grey or blue homespun—for soldiers in America, Nittù told them. Several figures wore monastic scapulae and hoods. Neat and well-ordered, the room, almost a museum.

Serafina wiped her eyes. Presently she heard footsteps. A door opened and Falco entered, stroking his mustache with a table napkin.

“This woman with eyes like the sea—she investigates the killing of Bella and wants to meet you,” Nittù said.

“We’ve met,” Falco said, not taking his eyes from her face.

“Good. While you two get caught up, I’ll take Rosa over to the shelves. There’s some silk I’d like to show her.”

Serafina stood still. Such an actor, Falco. In school he imitated teachers, mimicked the priests, her father, her mother, Giorgio, his fiancée. He betrayed her ardor with casual abandon.

“We’ve just finished our dinner,” he said, gesturing with the hand still clutching his napkin, “and the domestic cleans the kitchen, but perhaps she can make us some tea. If you will wait—”

Serafina shook her head. “This won’t take long. What I need to know is, where you were the evening of October 6, almost a month ago.”

He smirked. “You are serious? The evening of October 6, around the time of Bella’s murder? This is me you’re talking to, your old Falco.”

“Yes, I’m serious.” She felt her face burn. Oh Madonna, how she hated this. But she persisted, a small atonement for her betrayal of Giorgio so many years ago.

“Think I had something to do with my cousin’s death? Shame forever on my soul.” He crossed his arms. “I don’t know where I was on October 6.”

“A Saturday evening.”

“Probably at home here with my family.” He pointed to the stairs. “Yes. With my family. Of course, where else would I be?”

“The shop would be open until when, seven or eight on a Saturday evening? As the proprietor you’d keep a record of sales and appointments with customers for fittings. Documents written in your hand on that date, any fittings you may have had—especially for late in the day—they’d confirm your whereabouts, at least until the shop closed Saturday evening. And if you’d also supply evidence of your location Sunday morning, it would let me eliminate you as a suspect in Bella’s death.”

“Preposterous. It is I, Falco. We made love in the blossoming days of our life, and you question me like this?”

Serafina pressed her lips together before she spoke. “Death is ugly. It demands an accounting of us all. I need to know where you were at the time of the murders. I need to place everyone who was close to Bella, including Rosa herself.”