Death of a Serpent (28 page)

“Then we must go to Palermo. To the finest of shops. You pick out the fabric and improve on the design of Worth and Whatever by making your own. For once in her life, Aunt Giuseppina made a good choice, sending you the subscription to
Godey’s
.”

Renata rolled her eyes.

Serafina heard a ping. The carriage swayed. They rocked back and forth.

“What was that?” Renata asked.

“Nothing, my genius. A stone hitting the side of the coach.”

“I counted her gowns—one hundred and forty-seven. Why does she need so many?” Giulia asked.

A shot rang out. Serafina’s eyes popped. Her daughters seem unconcerned. “They entertain, my cherub. And they are invited. That’s all they do, give dinners and go to dinners.” Serafina grabbed the blanket behind her seat bench. Turning to Renata, she said, “Why the frown?”

“I was just thinking. All that splendor, and look at the peasants. See them?” She nodded to a group walking by the side of the road. “Shoeless,” Renata said.

Except the one who rides in the weather-beaten cart, Serafina realized, but kept it to herself, hoping her hunch about the ragpicker was wrong, hoping he would be intimidated by the rifle Vicenzu held.
Why didn’t I ask to borrow the guards?
“Yes, our shame. For thousands of years, they’ve been used.” Her eyes followed the cart, twisting her neck to watch through the rear window as it shrank, partially hidden by dust.

More shots. The coach sped, swayed.

“Quick. On the floor. Now!”

Serafina covered her daughters with the blanket. “Not a peep.”

Then she saw someone on a black steed speeding toward them. She thought it might be…yes, it was the man she saw in Betta’s park today. Her throat swelled. Blood pounded in her ears. Maria popped her head up. “Down, Maria,” Serafina said.

“But I’m suffocating under this horsehair,” Maria said.

Gunshots, too many to count.

A silvery ping, a scream from Vicenzu.

Largo in the lead gave a hee-haw bray. The carriage halted.

Sound of hooves growing louder.

She looked back to see the rider very close now. Coming to kill us all. Must divert him. Opening the door, she said to the moving blanket, “Stay here, all of you. Don’t move a muscle until I say it’s safe to come out. That means you, Maria!” The blanket stilled.

Shaking her skirt and holding a linen to her nose, she peered up, saw Carlo bending over Vicenzu. Untying his bandana, the limping man slowed alongside their coach, his horse kicking clods of dirt into Serafina’s face. He grabbed the rail, pulled himself up to the driver’s seat, and bent over Vicenzu.

“You! Off now!” she said.

Cobra eyes looked at her, continued holding Vicenzu.

“Off!” she yelled. She grabbed the rail, started to climb.

“It’s Carmine from the don’s stable. He’s helping!” Carlo shouted.

Vicenzu lifted a pale face to her and managed a smile. “Lucky for us he rides to Oltramari to visit his parents this evening.”

“Bullet ricocheted, nicked his upper arm. Bad aim, the bandit,” Carmine said. He gestured to a moving cloud of dust in a distant field. The cart, she was sure. The peasants had gone. They must have scattered with the first shot.

On the rest of the ride they were quiet. Dusk mantled the fields, and Serafina felt the chill of early evening. Fingering gold braids, Serafina was glad for the warmth of her cape. She dozed. Saw her husband’s face in the casket. It changed to Vicenzu’s lifeless form. Nearly killed, thanks to her, her innocent, beautiful son. Leg maimed by a galloping horse, left for dead in the streets. A genius with numbers and she’d disregarded him. She hit the side of her thigh.

They should be home before curfew. If not and they’re stopped, Serafina would talk to the roadside guards. For her family and to find the killer of Rosa’s house, she’d do anything. Anything. She gazed out the window, not at the passing scenery, but at the plan she was forming. It was spread out before her, shining, a rough sketch right now. Today she had eliminated two suspects—Don Tigro and the limping cobra. Time to catch the monk.

A Lair in the rocks

Sunday, November 4, 1866

S
erafina tossed. The Duomo’s bells chimed midnight, half-past. She turned, tangled up in sheets. Slept. Woke. Worried about Vicenzu, the safety of all her children. Worried about coins. The bells gonged: two o’clock.

Throwing off the covers, she pounded out of bed, opened the shutters, nodded to the moon. She breathed in the night air.

Since she couldn’t sleep, she might as well go over her notes. Sitting at Giorgio’s desk in far corner of the bedroom, she scrabbled about in her notebook, sure that she’d forgotten something.

With care she read again her impressions of everyone she’d interviewed. She reviewed the list of suspects she and Rosa made, now whittled down to two, Falco and the monk. Then she made another list. She labeled it ‘Sitings of the Cart’: 1) Outside the shoemaker’s, spewing feathers and old clothes; 2) On Via Saturnalia with Minerva; 3) Near the rope seller’s shop; 4) On the highway (the wounding of Vicenzu). The last one, she circled. Serafina rubbed her eyes. Something, a ragged bit of information she failed to understand tossed about her mind. Important, she was sure.

Scrambling to her feet, she gave one last look outside. Leaning against the sash, she pictured Giorgio, his body lean, his curls dripping neroli oil. The image vanished. Beyond the chestnut tree in the front garden, she could pick out shapes in the piazza next to the statue. A cart near the fountain? Her breath caught in her throat. Was it the ragpicker? The begging monk?

She shut the window, sat on the edge of the bed and thought. In a while, when her eyelids felt like splintered shells in sand, she snuggled into the covers and fell into a sound sleep.

• • •

Serafina watched the sun melt the mist. Deserted the shore, as usual, at this hour. She stared out at the Tyrrhenian Sea, telling herself to be watchful. From now on her movements must be deliberate: she had two more days to catch the killer.

For the past several mornings, she had combed the beach close to where she found Bella’s reticule. So far the tall grass yielded nothing more than bits of old newspaper and cloth, the shells of sea urchins, the sticky remnants of a spider’s web. Had Bella been killed elsewhere; her purse washed here by chance?

Yesterday she noticed a boulder and some smaller rocks partially covering what looked like an opening in a massive outcrop that stood below the orphanage. She was able to squeeze through the fissure into a small space, but the darkness prevented further exploration.

Before she set out this morning, she shoved her notebook, a lantern, some candles and match sticks inside Giorgio’s old knapsack. She slung the bag over her back and started off on her usual trek down to the lower part of town, determined to uncover as much as she could before leaving for her appointment with the contessa.

Serafina consulted her watch. Seven o’clock, still plenty of time before there’d be others on the shore. She squeezed past the boulder, its sides slick with dew, and stood for a moment. After mopping her brow with a linen, she lit the lantern and peered inside at a long narrow hall of stone leading into blackness. She was interrupted by a voice behind her.

“What are you doing here?”

Part Three
November 4-12
, 1866

Biancumanciari

S
urprised, Serafina swiveled, slipped on wet stone, catching herself for a moment on the boulder before tumbling to the ground. The lantern, by some miracle, landed upright.

The figure rushed to her. “Hurt?”

“Fine, I think.” Serafina brushed sand from her skirt. Her hand flew to her chest. “I might ask the same of you. I mean, why are
you
here?”
Mind your tongue, let her lead the way.

“I’ve been watching you snoop around these rocks for a couple of days. Orphanage above us. See? Why are you up so early?”

“Investigating the murders of Rosa’s women. Police do nothing. I found Bella’s reticule here, looking for more evidence. Why aren’t you with the orphans?” She bit her lip.
No more questions.
She smiled at her daughter.

“My day off. You’d better rest.”

They leaned on the rocks and looked at the sea.

“Carlo told me about Gusti.” Carmela looked down. “And Mother Concetta gave me a mighty lecture.”

“Don’t pay attention to that old nun.”

“No, she was right. Always is. Hate to admit it, but—” Carmela’s eyes were wet. “I should have said, I shouldn’t have said—”

My poor girl
. “Enough words. No need for more.” Serafina held her daughter, not for the first time and, she vowed, not for the last. No more separation. Never again, never.

They sat. Then Serafina told Carmela what she’d learned so far about the murdered women, the suspects, Rosa’s other prostitutes, the guards, the maids, Formusa, Scarpo, Falco. She summarized the meaning of the marks on the victims’ foreheads, the significance of the six and seven. She retrieved her notebook from the knapsack, went through the pages, making sure she’d left nothing out. “The killer strikes on the sixth day of the month, kills on the seventh. We have two days to create a foolproof plan.”

“Turn up the wick and let’s go,” Carmela said.

“Not in your condition.”

“What would
Nanna
say?”

Serafina chewed her cheek. “She’d say, ‘Baby the baby, not the mother.’”

Eight o’clock. She still had a few hours.

They walked through a long winding hall, the ceiling at least five meters above them, heard the sound of dripping water, of slithering creatures. Serafina smelled must and human waste. Her curls tightened. She held up the lantern, lit a candle for Carmela.

Their wicks guttered as they entered a cavernous space. Water dripped from the ceiling, beaded on the walls, pooled on the floor. In the middle was a long table with a few chairs scattered about. One was overturned. In the corner were piles of rags and papers, a matted brown cape, gloves, a skein of rope.

“Look at this.” Carmela pointed to a red spot on the table.

“The mark of the serpent,” Serafina said.

“Freakish, this lair.”

“The den of a madman, I’m afraid.” Serafina lowered her voice to a whisper. “Doubtless the place where he executed Rosa’s women.”

Their flames were nearly extinguished when they clambered out of the cave.

“Go back and rest, my sweet girl.”

“Not a chance. Let me help. I’ve got to. Gusti was my friend. Bella, too. I owe it to them. I know so much about the women and the life at Rosa’s.”

Serafina held her breath.

“And right now I have a hunger for Renata’s
biancumanciari
.”

“Rosa picks me up soon to visit the contessa. When I return, we plan.” Serafina cuffed her tears and followed her daughter home.

• • •

Tears. Kisses. Hugs.

“Carmela’s home!” Vicenzu yelled up the stairs.

“At least for today. My day off. I haven’t told Mother Concetta—”

“We’ll tell her,” Vicenzu said.

“Renata, some food for Carmela. And get your poor sister something to drink. Assunta, change the linen on her bed. Giulia, Carmela’s clothes need pressing. What can we get you, my sweet girl? Oh, where’s the food for this poor child, Assunta? And do we have—”

Carlo came into the room with the children. Rubbing her eyes, Tessa wanted to know if it was Christmas. Totò, hiding in Maria’s robe, pointed to Carmela. Maria was silent.

“You see?” Serafina held out her arms like Cicero addressing the senate after one of his fat orations. “My daughter, she knows. She knows how much I’ve missed her. She knows how much this family needs her. Suffered too much. No more loss. No more words.”

“You? No more words? Not a chance!” Carlo said.

“Now we are whole. When I return, we plan.”

“Return from where? No, don’t tell me, it’s too early.”

“Where’s my
biancumanciari
?” Carmela asked.

The Contessa

O
n the way, Serafina told Rosa that Carmela was home. “The news of Gusti, I think, brought her to her senses. Insists on helping us.”

After the tears, the hugs, the madam said, “Glad for you I am.”

Serafina summarized her meeting with Don Tigro yesterday afternoon. “Can you imagine? He didn’t know about Gusti’s death, or even about Eugenia’s body swinging from the rafters.”

Rosa laughed. “Don Tigro’s got his spies everywhere. Like urchins on the bottom of the sea, they scuttle back and forth to him with their stories. Worthless crabs—should have told him all about Eugenia. A prostitute who steals? Dangerous business. He should have known about the likes of her. But far worse, he hadn’t heard about Gusti’s death? How stale the air he breathes.”

Serafina said, “Proves he’s not the one killing your women—got his ear to another ground.”

“Good. Then I’ll forget to pay his—”

“No!” Serafina said.

“And we can forget about the limping cobra, too.” Serafina told her about the shooting incident on the road late Saturday. “If it weren’t for Carmine’s help, I shudder to think—”

“Too many chances you take.” Rosa crossed herself.

“Can’t sit at home, afraid of my own shadow.” The carriage swayed. The wheels hummed. “I’ve a family to feed. But I should have asked for two guards. Vicenzu was shot. A graze, thank the Madonna.”

“Fina,” said the madam, clutching her chest, no more rides on the road without the guards.”

• • •

Rosa sat next to a plate of sweets while Serafina feasted on the bold design of the room. Each corner was decorated with contrasting furniture: a red lacquered Chinese cabinet next to a zebra-striped chaise lounge, carved walnut tables paired with plush chairs. Near the hearth a sofa upholstered in green velvet faced a pair of wing chairs, one in red and green plaid, the other in deep rose damask, the footstool in chrome yellow sailcloth. A chestnut desk stood in front of shelves holding books in no apparent order. Paintings hung on ochred walls. Oriental carpets lay on black and white-tiled floors. Drawing the eye upward, angels twisted into a vaulted ceiling. None of the usual shabbiness of the nobility here.