Death of a Serpent (21 page)

Totò ran to her and pulled on her skirts.

She bent and kissed him. “My beautiful boy, good morning. Did you eat something?”

He nodded. “They did, too,” he said, pointing a finger at Maria and Tessa, “but Tessa didn’t finish it all.”

Maria and Tessa looked up at her. Serafina gave a kiss to both. “Maria, show Tessa your pianoforte. Play something soft.” The three children ran into the parlor.

She turned to face Arcangelo. “Lovely to see you again.”

He bowed. “La Signura asks that you come, please, at once. I don’t like to say more.” He flapped an arm at the room.

Serafina said, “Another—”

“Yes.”

Arcangelo kept nodding like a broken jack-in-the-box. The clock struck the hour. “But it’s not time yet. Only Sunday. It cannot be, not yet. We have until Tuesday.”

No one spoke.

Serafina closed her eyes. “Renata and Vicenzu, stay with the children while I go to Rosa’s. Carlo, come with me.”

He walked to her side. “And forgive my rudeness to you yesterday. It’s just that—”

“Enough!” Renata said.

The room stopped.

Serafina put her arm around his waist and pecked his cheek. “You’ll be a great help.” Turning to Arcangelo she said, “Did Rosa call the police?”

He shrugged.

“Vicenzu, get Beppe. Tell him to go to Colonna and ask the inspector to come to Rosa’s right away.” She blew him a kiss.

Vicenzu smiled, hobbled to the back door yelling Beppe’s name.

She took a step, combing fingers through her hair. She could hear a sonata coming from the parlor, the music flowing, timeless. “Tessa stays with us today. And Giulia, were you able to finish—”

“All done, Mama.” After she cut a thread and stuck the needle back into her pin cushion, Giulia stood and held the cape out for her mother to see.

“Oh, Giulia, my quiet precious, look at those braids.”

“The way you wanted them, ‘gold braids, just like the queen’s.’” Giulia grinned.

“Thank you.” She turned to the domestic. “Assunta, help me with my hair.”

Arrival at Villa Rosa

“I
know my way, thank you,” Serafina said to the maid. She led her son past several small parlors, their doors open to reveal wine-stained glasses, ash trays spilling over onto tables, plates with crumbs and dried bits of food. A gentleman’s top hat, cane, and silk scarf lay on one chair. Chiaroscuro paintings hung from the walls. She smelled cigar butts and stale sex. “Saturday morning,” she whiffed. “Time to open the shutters and clean.”

“Typical smells for a brothel,” Carlo said.

“I won’t ask how you know,” she said, buttoning her lips with thumb and forefinger.

Carlo knocked on Rosa’s door. No answer.

After a slight hesitation, Serafina opened it. “This way,” she told Carlo, pointing to a back door on the far wall.

“Rosa keeps her own books, I see,” Carlo said, glancing at shelves of ledgers. A fire burned in the hearth. “Beech. I can tell by the color of the flames.”

“How do you know?”

“Papa taught me. Look at the flame, a white light. Listen to how softly it crackles. Gives good heat, too. Beech logs burn cleanest, he told me. We used to burn beech, but now, too expensive, Vicenzu told me.”

“Bah, Vicenzu, tighter than bark.”

“Rosa must be doing well, despite all the murders.”

“Born with a vigorous business sense. Not a dreamer like me.”

“She’ll need to close her house or find a way to placate the don if these murders don’t stop.”

“What makes you think the don is behind these murders? Rosa pays him each month. Without fail, she tells me.”

“But—”

“Not the work of the don. You’ll see in a minute when you examine the body with me.”

“I’m a student, not a medical examiner, I can’t—”

“Haven’t talked about these murders with you. You’re away at school most of the time, but they don’t seem like the work of bandits, more like the work of a wild man.” She told him the characteristics, the timing, the autopsy results for the three victims. “When bandits kill, it’s different, and they’re not so precise about the date. How could they be? They don’t even read. No, these murders are not the work of bandits or a lustful killer.”

“Trying to convince me or yourself?

Silence.

Carlo said, “He’s called ‘mafia,’ Don Tigro.”

“Says who?”

“Worse than the bandits. A fair wind blows for them since Unification. Last year the prefect gave a speech talking about the mafia—a new kind of threat, he said, clandestine, with complex rules of initiation and belonging. They talk a lot about ‘honor,’ call their organizations ‘families,’ each family run by a boss and his deputies. Run it just like a business, they do, collecting their protection money from—”

“From us. I know all about them, Carlo. You don’t have to lecture me like I’m a—”

“And do you know who Don Tigro is? Do you?”

At the sound of Tigro’s name, she stopped, looked at her son who regarded her with that goading persistence of his, standing there, waiting for her reply. If he only knew Maddalena’s secret, he wouldn’t be so smug. But how can she reveal her mother’s dying words uttered in a state of delirium, and…of course, that’s it: Maddalena’s last story was the fantasy of a dying woman.

Carlo continued. “Known in Palermo as the capo of Oltramari. Peasants adore him. The large landholders support him, or else.”

“I know all about Don Tigro and his kind.” Her temples throbbed.

He raised an eyebrow. “I doubt it. You’re a woman. And how can you fight them?”

Serafina said, “These murders are not the work of the mafia or the bandits. And another point I need to make.” She wagged her finger at him. “If the land is strewn with dead bodies, as our land has been for centuries, does that excuse another dead body? Do we bury our dead and forget them and try to stay out of harm’s way? Do we hide in the house and not hunger for truth? Cave into the bandits and the mafia and an inept government? No, we find the murderer and bring him to justice, for the sake of our children and grandchildren, for the sake of our nation. We find the truth. We stop the killing.”

He rolled his eyes.

“And don’t let me talk of Inspector Colonna and his men. No, I’ll say nothing. My lips are shut tight, lips that would never blame an overworked police force for starting the rumor that Don Tigro and his thugs killed Rosa’s women. Now, no more talk of the who, not yet. Let’s look at the what and the how.”

“Why did I start with her?”

“And God doesn’t agree with you, either,” she added, rubbing her eyebrows and walking over to the window. Looking out, she saw Gusti’s body lying on the stones, Scarpo guarding it.

• • •

Alone before the sea Rosa stood, clothed in a dress of black bombazine, the wind whipping her skirt. Hearing the crunch of gravel behind her, she turned. She held a handkerchief to her unpainted face.

Serafina walked up to her, arms outstretched. They hugged. They cried. Serafina gave her a double kiss. “Remember Carlo?”

“Look at him now,” Rosa said. “Madonna, what a fine young man. This high,” she said, chopping the air close to her stomach, “last time I saw you. Carmela’s coloring he has, but with dark curls, and the eyes of a god born in the sea.”

“Studies medicine at the University of Palermo now. Home this weekend for
Li Morti
. Comes with me today to take a look at poor, dead Gusti.”

Rosa dried her eyes. “Visit us when you’re home again, after your mother solves these horrid murders, when things are better. A visit on the house, a glorious toss, I promise—”

“Rosa! I, the mother, stand next to you. On your other side is Gusti’s corpse, not yet cold, and you invite my son to visit your house?”

Carlo’s eyes brightened. “Accepted with pleasure.”

“Don’t be silly. She jokes.”

Rosa opened her mouth, but snapped it shut when Serafina pointed to the body. “That’s where you found her?”

Rosa nodded.

Serafina put an arm around her shoulders.
Not the same sorrow for Rosa as Bella’s death.
“Beppe should be arriving any moment with Colonna.”

“Thank you, both of you. Colonna, a useless goose, but we need him now.” The rims of her eyes were red, and Serafina noticed dark circles beneath them. Rosa began to cry again. “My fault, I should have listened to her last night.”

“Gusti?”

Rosa nodded.

“Tell me.”

“Through with my bath—powdered, perfumed, trussed—when I heard a knock on my door. Gusti. And what did she say to me? Oh Madonna, I thought she was only talking.”

“A rambler, Gusti. In the end she gave me some interesting information when I interviewed her the other evening, but I interrupt,” Serafina said.

“’I know who did it,’ she said. ‘Are you sure?’ I asked. Thought a moment, she did. ‘Well, almost sure.’ She wanted to talk to you. Said you told her to come to you if she had any information. Told her it could wait. Friday night, and all I could think of was—” Rosa began crying. “Told her to think it over while she worked, that her Friday clients were important. She agreed. Now she’s dead. My poor girl, my poor dear girl. My fault.”

Serafina reached into her pocket and handed Rosa a fresh handkerchief. “You got up early?”

“Middle of the night it was. I heard a sound, like a creature from the netherworld had me in chains, dragging me away. At first I thought I was having a bad dream. But, no, I wasn’t sleeping. I got up, lit the lamp. The noise continued. Then I thought it must be a rowdy customer. The sound grew louder. Coming from inside? Outside? Couldn’t tell. Awake by this time, I got that feeling again. Terrible.” She blew her nose.

Serafina asked, “What feeling?”

“The spider crawling up my neck. Knew something bad had happened, I did. I thought, if I dress, the dream and the spider will go away. First light, fuzzy and still, the world. Opened the door, held up my lamp. Looked to the right, saw the creep of dawn. I reassured myself it was only a nightmare or a swallow of bad wine. Looked to the left, and, oh, Madonna, I saw her. I screamed. Arcangelo and Scarpo came running—”

“They were here?” Carlo asked.

“They heard me yell. I asked Arcangelo to get you.” Rosa blew her nose. “Let’s go to my office. I need food. My head throbs. Nothing I can do for her now, I could have last night, I could have saved her.” She sobbed.

“Rosa, you didn’t kill Gusti.”

The madam closed her eyes, held up her palm. “Nothing more you can say.”

“You go inside. Carlo and I want to look at the body.”

The Fourth Victim

T
he body lay in back of Rosa’s house, a few meters from her office, in full view of the lawn and the rocks and the sea.

“Looks like asphyxiation,” Carlo said. He and Serafina knelt by the victim. “Been dead for a while, six or seven hours at least.”

Serafina rubbed one knee, then the other. “This killing, not the same as the others.” The wind lifted her skirt, revealing a lace petticoat. “They died of a single stab wound to the heart. And there’s no image carved into Gusti’s forehead, either. Not the same killer.”

Carlo said, “Don’t know that for sure. Just like we don’t know the cause of death, not for sure. Remember, I’m not the—”

“I know, you’re not the doctor.” She didn’t want to argue with him. She didn’t want to argue with anyone ever again. Four of Rosa’s prostitutes murdered, one by one, in less than four months, and, gazing into the dead face of poor Gusti, Serafina’s mind was numb. Despite her speech to Carlo a few minutes ago, she had no inkling of this killer’s identity. Could it be the don? Bandits? If that were the case, what would she do? She’d prove it, but she’d need the help of Colonna’s men. And more. She shivered.

Of all the women she’d interviewed, she had liked Gusti the most, and there she lay—well, not Gusti, exactly, but a grotesquery, as if some vengeful god created her effigy, then set about destroying it. What could any human have done to deserve a death like this?

The body lay on its side, head twisted and slightly upturned as if to view its startled audience. The face was swollen, mottled in caput mortuum. The eyes were bloodshot, wild with the knowledge of imminent death. Knotted around the neck, a scarf—probably the instrument used to strangle.

Gusti was clothed in a fringed evening gown with a matching bag. The straps on the dress were thinner than the legs of a spider. Stuffed into her mouth was a purple slipper; on her left foot, its mate.

No jewelry. Strange. Hadn’t Gusti been wearing a cartload of gems the other night?—pearls, strands of gold, earrings, rings, bracelets.

Serafina opened the bag: one handkerchief and a twenty lire gold piece stamped with the king’s likeness. “Vittorio Emanuele Due,” she said, holding them in her fingers for Carlo to see. “Look at her hands. Anything?”

“The right one’s clenched. Don’t want to touch the body. Let Loffredo see it first. Might give him a better idea of the time of death. Won’t he be the one to examine her?”

She nodded.

Carlo continued. “The left hand, let’s see, looks like a clump of hair or material of some sort caught on one of her fingernails. Without touching the corpse, he tugged at the strands of caught hair. “Oops, broke the nail.”

“Take it, take them both, the fingernail and the hair. Give them to me.”

“I don’t think—”

“Do it.” She gave him half a smile.

He passed them over, not looking at her.

She examined the hair. Fair, she’d call it. Curled. Falco’s? She laid the strand and the piece of fingernail on a blank page of her notebook. Serafina was about to close her bag when a glint of metal near Gusti’s head caught her eye. She grabbed it.

“What?”

“An earring. Into my reticule it goes.”

Carlo took another look at the body. “No other wounds that I can see. No other marks, except for facial bruising caused by the slipper being forced into the mouth.” Carlo stood up and brushed dust from his pants and frock coat. A few black curls slipped over his forehead and he pushed them back with splayed fingers.

“Anything strike you as odd?” she asked as she rose.