Death of a Serpent (9 page)

Rosa continued. “Bella could embroider the bodice of a dress with her eyes closed. Beads and tassels, oh, all over and where they belong, too. Dreams our Bella had. Saving to buy her own dress shop.”

Rosa paused, cocking her head to the side. “Close to thirty and getting sour, Bella, but customers, they asked for her, and she couldn’t refuse. Now she lies stiff in her grave. Oh my sweet, sweet girls, how they suffered.”

Rosa dabbed her eyes. She waited until Serafina’s pencil finished scratching. “Don Tigro’s men are useless. They lurk in the shadows with their filthy clothes and flat eyes. I won’t let them near my house.”

“Describe finding Gemma’s body.”

“Came down here, didn’t I, to count the money. Early, about midday. The angelus had just rung.” The madam flapped her fingers to illustrate the campanile bell.

“What day?”

“Been through this before.”

“Day of the week, I meant.”

Rosa canted her eyes. “Let’s see, too warm outside it was, bad for business. A Tuesday, I know because Bella asked me if I had anything to mend, and Tuesday was the day she did the mending. Monday was her night off, and I had something for her, my crinoline with the iron hoops.”

“Go on.”

“I came in here to count the money and got a feeling.”

“Feeling?”

“Like a spider crawling up my neck. I looked around. Nothing. I opened the door to the back, and there lay Gemma with her face all stiff, wearing the mask of death, my dear beautiful girl, the insects already buzzing above her open mouth.”

“What did you do?”

“Sent for the inspector,” Rosa said.

“And Nelli?”

Rosa’s jeweled fingers caught the candlelight. She pounded her chest and said, “I found her body. In the same place as Bella’s, it was, by the door leading to the sea.”

The two women were silent.

Serafina heard the rasp of the wind. “Do your women go out at night after work?”

Rosa shrugged. “I’ve told you. I don’t ask them questions. I trust them. They take pride in their work. Every morning I give them their share of the take. If they receive tips, they share them with me, unless they’re trinkets—those they keep. They want to know who earned the most. The best girls clamor for a spot here, or at least they did. Now, who knows what will happen, although I still have a steady stream of knocks at the door. Unrivaled, my house.”

“No doubt. The grounds, beautiful.”

“And the girls are free to graze. They go down and bathe in the sea, walk on the shore, some of them. Carmela, for instance. Good exercise, climbing up and down the rocks.” Rosa winked.

Serafina rubbed her forehead. “Scarpo and his men watch the doors?”

“Yes, but they saw no one except for the customers.”

“A list, do you keep one?”

“Of what?” Rosa poured herself another Marsala, offered the bottle.

“You know what I mean. A list of customers.”

“List? Never. It would ruin me if word got out that I keep a list. This is a respectable house. Why do you keep asking that same question? Stop trying to trick.” She quaffed her drink, tapped the side of her nose and whispered, “But I know most of the men and if I don’t, Scarpo does. Some of them come to the door in costume—priests and council officials, mostly. We pretend not to recognize them. The police commissioner, for instance, he wears a wig.” She paused. “Don’t write that down, Fina. Are you mad?”

“Have you entertained strangers recently?”

“Admit a stranger? Never. Unless he has a recommendation from someone we trust, a member of the city council, for instance. That’s different.”

“So you reject?”

“All the time.”

“Make a list of the rejected in the last few months,” Serafina said.

Rosa pulled the cord.

“Get Scarpo,” she said to the maid.

• • •

Candlelight reflected from the bumpy surface of Scarpo’s pate. It reminded Serafina of a scarred cabbage. He wore red suspenders and his stomach was a flat rock. The butt of a revolver stuck out of his belt. A shepherd’s knife hung from the other side. He bowed to Rosa, nodded to Serafina, arranged himself in the chair facing La Signura.

Serafina smelled week-old sweat. What is it about him? She said, “Rosa tells me you turn men away all the time. Can you describe any of them?”

He snapped his braces, directing his gaze toward Rosa. “There is one who keeps coming back, Signura, a stranger, he has a funny smell, not from around here. Pigheaded, too. Returns many times. Wears a brown cloak and hat. The other day he’s in town when I go to the smith.”

Serafina asked, “Same man? You’re sure?”

He shrugged. “Same smell.”

“When did you last see him?”

Scarpo sucked his mustache. “Remember, Signura? Middle of last week. I wait for him to finish his business. I sniff. I think, that smell. It’s the same one who comes around here. I wait. He talks, talks, talks with the smith. I wait more. Same man I tell ‘no girls for you tonight.’ And something else I note: he wears gloves. Not cold.”

“That’s one, Scarpo,” Serafina said. She ran a hand through her hair and wrote down Scarpo’s description of the gloved stranger. When finished, she frowned at the page.

“Write what the man tells you and be done with it. You can rely on Scarpo. Whatever he says, take it. Customers arrive soon and you are slow as usual. Even as a child, you ate the cannoli like a toothless hag.” Rosa looked at Scarpo, waved her pinched fingers in Serafina’s direction. “She doesn’t change, that one. When we were children, she always had to have the last bite and there I sat, wishing I had more while she poked and played and dreamed.”

Serafina chewed her cheek.

“Well, what is it? Slower than a child eating spinach, you are.”

She told them about the begging monk she’d seen last week. “Smelled of foreign dung. Said he was from a monastery north of Naples. Didn’t like my questions.”

Scarpo shook his head. “Not a monk, the stranger. And not begging.”

“I want to know about all of the others you’ve told to leave. And anything else unusual that comes into your head—men walking outside or in the back, someone sneaking in the shadows, anyone who picked a fight or followed you in the
Centru
.”

“Well, there’s another, he limps, one of Don Tigro’s men. Keeps asking for a turn, such like that. You told me, ‘Nothing on the house,’ Signura, you know the one I mean.”

Rosa nodded. “The snake. Of course.” She snapped her fingers at Serafina. “Add him to the list.”

“Whatever you wish, sweetness.” Scarpo described a few first time customers who, because the prostitutes did not like their demands, were not allowed to return. When he’d finished, Serafina had seven descriptions.

“What about Falco? He’s your client. Has he ever given trouble?”

“Who?” Rosa glared. “No client called Falco.”

“At the wake I saw him with a few of your prostitutes. Two in particular: a redhead and a blonde. But the rest of your women gathered round them. They formed a group.”

Rosa shook her head, hunched her shoulders, and looked at Scarpo who said he didn’t remember him.

“Addled, your brain, Fina. Not my customer.”

Serafina rolled her eyes. “Did any of these men return, other than the blond stranger?”

Scarpo considered, shook his head, stood. “Getting late, Signura.”

“Thank you, Scarpo.” She glared at Serafina.

• • •

After he’d gone, Rosa said, “You’ve no sense of time, of right and wrong. Scarpo—”

“I don’t have a sense of right and wrong? What about your sense of right and wrong when my daughter came to you?”

“We’ve been over this before. She needed—”

“Don’t
you
tell me what she needed. She needed her mother. She needed her family. She needed sense knocked into her.” She stopped, gazed at the dark. “After Giorgio’s funeral, I don’t know, I just couldn’t do any more about her. I must take care of the other children. Better not to think of Carmela.”

Rosa bent to Serafina, handing her a linen. “My mouth is shut, but it’s an effort. More Marsala?”

Serafina shook her head and blew her nose.

“All right. Let me say it one more time. If she knocked on my door again, I wouldn’t be so beguiled. Such a darling, except for her tongue, of course. Too much like yours.” Rosa paused. “Yes, I want you to find the killer. And, yes, I should have sent for you when Carmela knocked on my door. I was wrong. Forgive me, but that was almost four years ago and you never mention her name.”

Rosa, for once, was right. Better not to think of her, Carmela. Sometimes life was just too crowded with the right things to do. Let the images float away. After all, Carmela chose her life. She wasn’t in danger, was she? She couldn’t be dead, could she?

“Stop staring into space and blow your nose. Take all the time you need. Only, mind the hour.”

“I’ll take plenty of time, don’t you fret. I have questions and more questions, questions galore. I might need to return.” Serafina chewed on the inside of her cheek and looked at the list. “Two of these descriptions, the brown-cloaked stranger and the one who limps—I have a feeling about these men.”

“Plenty of brown-cloaked strangers,” Rosa said.

“And there’s another.” Serafina brought up Falco’s name.

“Again we’re back to him? Like a cur and a bone. Falco, slippery: about to kiss my hand when someone tapped him on the shoulder and he was off like a cat hunting prey. But he’s not a customer. Nothing more.”

“Then how does he know your women?”

“A fantasy you entertain. Not a customer.”

Serafina nodded.

“Not a customer,” Rosa said again. Her cheeks puffed.

She told Rosa about her affair with him. “It was years ago. Both in school. Stopped studying, so infatuated I was with him.”

“Let me understand. A flirtation you had with him years ago. He’s the one who stopped it, and that’s why you don’t trust him?” Rosa’s eyes twinkled.

Serafina narrowed her shoulders, leaned over the madam’s desk so that their faces almost touched. “A customer, Falco.”

The madam’s face purpled. “Not a customer, Falco.”

“I saw him cooing with your women.”

“A fast worker, Falco.”

“Behind my back, he was dating other women. Betrothed besides, and I never knew it,” Serafina said.

“Like half the men in Sicily.”

“But there was something about him, about the way it ended.”

“Tell me,” Rosa said.

“I saw him kissing another woman. He was in disguise, wearing a cheap actor’s wig.”

“That’s good.” Rosa grinned. “And you remember this from school? Tell me more of the story, oh wizard.”

Serafina touched her temples. “And when I called out his name, he stopped kissing the little vixen, turned to me, doffed his cap, and bowed.”

Rosa laughed so hard she cried.

Serafina frowned. “Handy with a blade, Falco. Passable actor. Plays to the cheap seats.”

Rosa wiped her eyes. “Better than dolci, that story. So add him to the list, but circle Brown Cloak and Limping Cobra.”

“He’s Bella’s uncle. Might have gained from her death.”

The madam was alert. “How?”

“She was the last living child of the oldest son, no?”

Rosa’s eyes widened.

“We must visit Nittù Baldassare again. I’ve got questions,” Serafina said.

• • •

Rosa reached out, held Serafina’s hand. “You miss Giorgio, I know. But this nasty business, good for your brain.”

“How do you know what’s good for my brain?” Serafina wiped her eyes. “As soon as I’ve finished talking to everyone here, I want to ask Baldassare some questions. Both brothers. Perhaps we can see the black swan as well.”

“As long as we return by six o’clock.”

“We’ll leave early, take the train to Bagheria, then a cab to Palermo. More reliable than the roads. Renata can come with us and shop in La Vucciria while we talk to Bella’s father. Bring Tessa. Has she ever seen Palermo?”

“Too young.”

“You need to show Tessa the world. Bring her. Renata will mind her while we do our business. Meet us at the station at seven.”

“Seven? Too Early.” Rosa stared into the flame. “Still, a trip to Palermo would be good for her.”

“Settled.”

“Now I want to speak to your women, Scarpo and his men, the cook, the laundress, the maids.”

Rosa shook her head, “No time.”

“I’ll use your office. I might have to return, but I’d like to start this evening.”

“Colonna’s already talked to everyone.”

“And was he as thorough with his interviews as he was when he searched the rooms?”

Rosa ran one painted fingernail on the edge of her holy ledger. “If you must, but—”

Serafina said, “Organize it. I might be a wizard but I’ve yet to learn the trick of making handcuffed villains appear, presto, out of nothing. Oh, we’ll find the killer, all right, but it will take our time and our brains and all our might.”

Scarpo

S
ullen creatures with hooded eyes, the first few women she interviewed entered the room one at a time, bathed but not yet dressed for the evening. Like parrots, each one said the same thing. No, the prostitutes had no trouble with their customers. No, they’d seen no one suspicious, not around here, not in the straw market, not in the piazza. And the maids barely remembered Gemma, Nelli or Bella. At the time of the prostitutes’ deaths, they saw, heard, felt nothing unusual. Serafina was beginning to despair when Scarpo entered.

He looked at her. “Cold in here.”

As he carried wood over to the hearth, his hobnailed boots shook the furniture.
He struts around like King Bumma in a pair of braces.
Serafina watched the muscles of his upper arm pump while he stoked the embers and added another log to the grate. If Rosa were out of the way, would he gain or lose? Mentally she added him to her list—the brown cloak, the limping man, Falco, Scarpo.

She asked him if he had time for a few questions.

He nodded and sat in the chair she’d pulled up in front of the desk. Displaced, the air rippled the flame in Rosa’s lamp. Serafina heard the new log crack as it fed the fire.