Death of a Serpent (29 page)

Serafina roamed around, stopped at a gilded table. She lifted up a terra cotta cherub sitting on its top and discovered the inlaid profile of Dante, his gaze ‘unblinking into the future,’ Giorgio would have said.

Wishing she had Dante’s vision, she stepped over to the desk. Her eyes caught the miniature of a man in formal attire, a medal pinned to his sash. According to the gold inscription in the lower left-hand corner, it was taken several years ago by a well-known Palermitan photographer. Next to the picture she noticed a piece of paper lying on the desk, folded and held in place by a brass weight. She opened it, a draft for five hundred lire dated Friday, August 3, 1866. Drawn on account from the
Banco di Sicilia
, it was made out to Francesca Grinaldi and signed by Bella Maria Baldassare. It confirmed Nittù Baldassare’s story and the truth of what Bella told her father, that the prostitute’s departure from Rosa’s had begun two months before she was killed. Bella was shedding her old life for a new one, like a snake does its skin. Serafina returned the note.

She walked to the outside wall and gazed at the palms and domes and parapets of Palermo. In the distance, Monte Pellegrino brooded over the city.

While Rosa sat on the sofa coveting dolci, Serafina turned this way and that, picking up a book, fluffing a pillow, until she heard footsteps in the hall. When she heard footsteps approaching, she busied herself by studying a group of drawings on a nearby wall.

“Rosa, darling, you look wonderful!”

“Francesca—beautiful, even in grief,” Rosa said.

The two women kissed.

Handkerchiefs sallied forth.

“Since the last time I saw you, how the world has changed, like this: presto!” The contessa snapped her fingers.

Rosa cried.

The two women hugged each other again.

“How will I go on, Rosa, dearest? But I forget myself. Here is your old friend, Serafina. Saw her at the wake, didn’t I, but we haven’t met.” Francesca stirred the air with an encompassing gesture. “Doubtless she’s not comfortable in this unfamiliar setting.” Arm in arm they walked over to the wall of prints.

“How to introduce my Fina? She’s my oldest, my dearest friend. And, ‘Cesca, you know the police do nothing, so I’ve asked her to investigate the deaths in my house. She thought that you, being Bella’s closest friend, could answer one or two questions.”

Francesca pecked the air above powdered cheeks. As Rosa talked, they looked each other up and down, Francesca and Serafina.

Francesca nodded. At the mention of Bella’s name, both she and Rosa teared up again. Beneath the contessa’s heavy makeup, Serafina saw the pale transparency of skin below her eyes, the drawn look on her face, and, yes, the wrinkles.

Indicating the drawings, Francesca said, “By Serpotta, studies for
La Carita
. Fun, aren’t they?” She pointed a finger at the bare backside of the Christ child, the drawing in foreshortened perspective. “No doubt you’ve seen his work in the Oratory of San Lorenzo?”

“But of course,” Serafina lied.

Standing before her was a woman in her late forties or early fifties, considerably older than Serafina, a fading blonde, her hair held in place with a snood. Arresting eyes, dark green with flecks of orange. Tall, even taller than Giuseppina, and with those same long bony fingers. Unfortunate breasts, though, a pity.

Like the décor, her dress was a surprise. Her dress showed no signs of mourning. She wore a full skirt of honeyed maroon in watered silk that, when she crossed her legs, revealed the antique lace of her petticoat. A short wool jacket with ruckled sleeves in brown and yellow plaid with alizarin crimson stripes covered a low-cut linen blouse. Her black slippers had gold clasps, her stockings of heavy rose silk. A strand of pearls and a long chiffon scarf gave her a flowing look. Except for the tape measure draped around her neck, she could have emerged from a plate in
Godey’s
. On the spot Serafina decided she liked this woman, despite her melodrama.

“Chilly in here, even with the sun. Warmer near the fire.” Francesca motioned for them to be seated.

The contessa settled herself in the rose wing chair facing her guests. “Please call me Francesca,” she said to Serafina. “My late husband, Count Federico d’Alco, gave me a title but no children. He followed Garibaldi and what was his reward? An early grave. Now that Bella’s dead, I am so alone.” Chiffon floated in the air. “Oh, I feel too much for my own good,” she said, flapping her arms like damaged wings, “when all around me is chaos, the peasants starve, the bandits kill, madmen rule the world, and I, not content with my crust of bread, pursue impossible dreams, impossible now that Bella Maria…why did she have to die?”

“I need to know more about her life, especially in her last few days. That’s why we’ve come to you. We’re hoping you can shed some light,” Serafina said.

The domestic entered carrying a silver coffee service. Surrounded by silver and china pieces, a cassata caught Rosa’s eye.

“It’s early and you have a long journey back to your little village, Oltramari, but do have some refreshment while we talk.”

“You are too kind,” Serafina said.

“I’ve heard so much about you. Bella told me that you saved Tessa’s life.”

Accepting a large slice of cake from the domestic, Rosa thanked her and said, “Enjoys full life my girl, Tessa.” She took a large bite, swallowed her caffè, and, chewing, said, “A wizard, Fina is. If anyone finds the killer of my girls, she will.”

“Please, if there is anything at all I can tell you, anything.” The contessa’s eyes filled with water. She dabbed at her eyes, drank her caffè, and leaned over to take a cookie.

“What I’d like to know,” Serafina said, sipping her caffè and reaching for her notebook, “is there any reason why someone would want to kill Bella? My best guess is that she and two other prostitutes were murdered by the same person, a madman, a killer acting alone.”

The contessa nodded. “I read an article in
Giornale di Sicilia
about the first two killings. Bella Maria was alive then, and showed it to me, and I remember telling Bella it was time to leave.” The contessa blotted her lips with the napkin. “Afraid, Bella was, but for the others, not for herself, no, never for herself. ‘I am old. He’d never choose me,’ she told me. Oh bitter words.” Francesca sniffed. “We never had a disagreement and, let me see, we’ve been working together, had been working together—” Francesca looked out, lost now, like a bird felled in mid-air.

“My deepest sympathies, Francesca. How did you and Bella meet?”

“Childhood friends, like you and Rosa. Our families are both costumers, have been for centuries. We’d get together for feast days.” Francesca, with an empty look, gazed into the room. Minutes passed.

Serafina felt the rawness of Francesca’s grief.

Still peering into middle distance, the contessa said, “Brave, even as a girl, Bella Maria. I often wonder what her last thoughts were and if she…if she cried out in the end.”

Silence except for the ticking of a clock somewhere, and the muffled sounds of the city.

“Told me she was leaving in November, this month,” Rosa said.

Still writing, Serafina asked, “Did Bella have enemies?”

Francesca shook her head. “Sweet-tongued, Bella. Not like me. Mine is like a serpent’s sometimes.” She gave a lopsided smile.

“And you planned to go into business together?”

“We were in business together. She gave notice to Rosa, I think, after the Princess Rosso asked us to design her wardrobe for next season—day dresses, gowns for at least six balls, outerwear, even a coat for her dog. Oh, I rushed to Bella Maria to tell her, had my driver take me, didn’t bother with my hair, brought material for Bella Maria to see, samples the princess picked out from our scraps.”

“And this was?…”

“In July. I’ll remember it on my deathbed. Third Wednesday, July 19. My domestic rushed in. ‘Contessa,’ she called, ‘it’s the Princess Rosso and her French dog.’ Bella Maria and I were so happy.”

Serafina wrote down the date. Rosa helped herself to a few cookies.

“The first large order. Our dream appeared before our eyes.” The contessa blew her nose. “I don’t know how much you understand of high fashion.” Her smile was withering. “A man from London established one of the first houses. Worth is his name. Met through friends of my husband when he first came to Paris. He designed a wardrobe for the Queen. Sissi wore one of his gowns for her royal portrait. The court talked of nothing else. That gave him his start. But, you see, wars have changed us, especially women. Now not exclusively for the court, fashion design spreads to anyone with a title and money. Or if only money, no matter—the title will follow. Bella and I wanted to be a part of this. She was the creative force; I have the contacts.”

“Designed our gowns, didn’t she, gave our house a look.” Rosa patted her curls. Turning to Serafina, she said, “Must you make so much noise when you write?”

“Scratch away, I’m used to being around all sorts of people.” The contessa lifted her beak and smiled. “As a child, Bella designed our dresses. Always sewing, unhappy at school until the nuns gave her the job of making the vestments and whatnots. Loved to sew for the priests. Had that awe of the church and its clergy. I never had it, never, but Bella did. You might say, she had a craving for such things.” Francesca brushed crumbs off her skirt. “I’m the one who knows people and, being from a family of tailors, I know how to sew a little, but more important, I know the language of the trade.”

Patting her lips with the napkin, Francesca examined her watch pin, rang the bell, and stood. “Bella and I knew it would be hard to plant our feet in this business, so we had this room decorated. Bella’s design, no expenses spared.” Flinging her arm upward, she said, “Hired a painter for the ceiling. Needed to have a room suitable for greeting our clients.” Her voice faded. Serafina could see the woman clutching at the back of her dream.

The domestic entered. “Finished, La Grinaldi?”

“Kindly take away the tray.” She turned to Rosa. “Two o’clock. You have only thirty minutes before you must leave, and I want to show you Bella’s work.” She teared up again.

“Get up the stairs, La Grinaldi. Move now. Make Bella proud,” the domestic said, and left, casting a glance over her shoulder.

With a toss of her head and a remark about the insolence of servants, Francesca led them up a winding staircase, her scarf trailing behind.

The workroom was high-ceilinged, surrounded by windows, the view of Palermo and the sea, breathtaking. There were at least six sewing machines, five or six cutting tables, scissors, tape measures, mannequins. Shelves on one wall held bolts of material, large spools of thread. In the middle of the room, an iron figure stood, draped in a satin gown of emerald green with gossamer sleeves and high collar.

“Princess Rosso’s favorite color is green. How she loves all the shades—green of the sea, tender leafy greens, greens of the forest deep. Expects a fitting in a month. Now, I don’t know what to do.”

“When was the last time you saw Bella?”

“Saturday, October 6. She came on Thursday to spend the weekend. How busy we were, discussing our client, her wardrobe. The princess wanted two new gowns right away, wanted them ready for the Christmas season, wanted to see sketches for a complete wardrobe for the new season—dresses, skirts, coats, evening wear, leisure—everything. Bella designed two frocks, dashing the drawings off like a crazed woman. We pinned fabric together,” she said, indicating the mannequin robed in green, “both of us leaning over the drawing table, laughing, poring over the sketches, the domestic bringing us caffè and
caponata
. Ate standing up while we worked. On Friday, Bella told me that she must leave the next day for Oltramari, that she was to meet her confessor in the Duomo, in front of the Madonna’s Chapel at dusk. ‘Permanent absolution he’d grant her; she’d earned it, no matter what,’ she told me.”

• • •

“Still must do the ledgers,” Rosa said. “Stayed in the parlor too late last night.”

“Good. Drop me off. Tessa stays with us tonight. I’ll bring her home tomorrow after Carmela and I have done planning. Then we can discuss and finalize.”

The Plan

Monday morning, November 5, 1866

V
icenzu had already gone to the shop, Maria and Giulia to school, Carlo to the morgue.

Serafina kissed Renata good morning. “Carmela’s door is closed. I don’t want to disturb her. She and Carlo stayed up late last night talking. Probably take her a while to get her strength back, fall into our routine,” Serafina said. “Always a late sleeper, Carmela. Takes after me.”

“Carmela? She’s been up for hours. Helped me with the breakfast. Walked Maria and Giulia to school. Paid a visit to Mother Concetta. Helped Assunta and me feed Tessa and Totò. They’re outside now with her—she’s showing them how to milk the goat. And she’s been giving the gardener directions about creating something interesting around the chestnut tree.”

Serafina looked out the window and saw Carmela holding Octavia’s leash.

“Totò, don’t!” Tessa yelled.

“Big squirt, Tessa, big, big squirt,” Totò said.

“Carlo left the paper for you. It’s on the table,” Renata said. “Sit down. Eat.”

Serafina leafed through the pages. “A lot to do.” Assunta brought her
biancumanciari
and coffee. Serafina sensed a certain quiet about the house. Peace, she might call it. Yes, that was it. She took a bite of breakfast.

• • •

“More food?”

“Full.”

Serafina gave Carmela more background on Falco. “He gained from Bella’s death. He was a regular at Rosa’s, apparently had his choice. You knew him? Tall, light brown curls. Slippery. An actor.”

Carmela shook her head. “Don’t think so.”

“I think, especially after yesterday, that someone acts the part of a monk, someone familiar with Rosa’s. Who, better than Falco?”

But Serafina stressed her conviction that the killer must have an accomplice within Rosa’s walls, someone on whom he relied for his information, someone without whom the killings could not have happened. One of the prostitutes.