Murder On The Rue Cassette (A Serafina Florio Mystery)

by Susan Russo Anderson

  The thought made Serafina’s heart pound. Why did she always walk such a thin line? No one must ever know of the family ties between her and Don Tigro, the secret more difficult to keep now that their finances were so grim.

  Loffredo sat next to her, so near and yet untouchable. His wife was either buried in a fresh grave in Versailles or alive and hiding who knew where and with child. Either way, Valois must never suspect their affair. She glanced at Françoise Valois, gracious, effervescent, interested in what everyone had to say. And—more to the point—with a feline cunning, attuned to everyone’s traits, their strengths, their weaknesses, their desires. The woman was a troublemaker, Serafina thought, as she watched the waiters clear the table with deft movements. And she must take care with Carmela whom she caught glaring at her tonight.

  Waiters poured coffee. The sommelier brought a tray with several flavored brandies and snifters as the maître d’hôtel followed by the chef in checked trousers and white hat carried the pièce de resistance, a flaming glace au four. They placed it before Rosa who cut the dessert into ten large helpings.

  When she finished her cake, Carmela sipped her brandy and stared into the flames for a moment. She apologized, but said that for all their traipsing around Paris looking for artists, they were unable to find more information about Elena. “Victorine was not in her studio, and Berthe Morisot was not at the exhibit.”

  * * *

  After saying goodnight to the Valois, they walked through the Tuileries and down to the banks of the Seine, strolling along the quays, happy, quiet, Serafina’s shoulder beginning to ache. Tessa, Teo, and Arcangelo ran ahead, taking the steps down to the river. Rosa, Serafina, Carmela, and Loffredo followed at a slower pace. Serafina longed for some time with Loffredo, to speak or to sit quietly, just the two of them, and ask him about these last few weeks in prison. She sensed his fatigue, or perhaps it was her own, and yet she was reluctant to end the evening.

  “We are too serious, all of us,” Rosa said. “Maybe it was the food. Let’s forget this murder and what the French might think of us.

  “What does your heart tell you, Loffredo?” Serafina asked.

  “My heart tells me what it always has, I love only you.”

  With his words, all of Serafina’s earlier concerns, her convoluted thoughts melted away.

  Carmela said, “Careful, Mama. Everything is at risk.”

  Her daughter’s voice was grating, but she managed a weak smile in Carmela’s direction. “You’re right.”

  “I’m the last one who should be telling you to be careful,” Rosa said. “I’ve never been prudent, not once in my life. I built my business, but not by being circumspect. But think well: where will you go to be alone? To Loffredo’s rooms on the Rue Jacob? Will you be free from surveillance? I think not. The sixth arrondissement teems with spies. Or to Serafina’s room, guarded by two French agents de police? You don’t think word will get back to Valois? He’s waiting for the chance to call you a foolish strumpet. Or to Busacca sitting on his vast pile of gold in Palermo? To whoever it is who spies on us? Or to Elena if she is still among the living? To Sophie who prays for you to make such a mistake? To her sons? Go to your separate rooms and douse yourselves with ice water for the rest of this assignment, and I predict you’ll be together for the rest of your lives. If it makes you feel better, walk ahead a little way and make your vows in view of Notre Dame and the god of the Seine while we stand and wait, but don’t breathe too deeply, I smell fish.”

  As usual, the madam was right. Serafina stood still and smiled at Loffredo. Her stomach was doing somersaults. She breathed in, and yet felt the need for more air. How strange, it took hearing the right words at the right moment before she knew her heart. She loved Loffredo.

  “I dare not kiss you. If I did, we’d soon couple, right here on these rough cobbles. I’m so happy to see you, Loffredo. As God is my witness, we’ll be happy together.”

  “I love you, Serafina. Again I’ll say it. I always have.”

  Barges on the Seine flowed past. Lovers skirted around them, talking low. Sailors stared at them, and Rosa and her family waited. In time the five bells of Notre Dame began to ring, their deep discordant harmony like the feelings crowding her soul.

  Chapter 22: Françoise and Alphonse

  He straightened his lapels and faced his wife. “The Sicilian woman was right.”

  As if she had not heard him, Françoise smiled. “What a surprise to see you so early. And perfect timing. Two minutes later and I’d have been gone. Come to Louis Le Grand with me. It’s Charlus’ Latin again, I’m afraid. He takes after you. I have an appointment with his professor in thirty minutes. We can walk through the Luxembourg Gardens. The weather is lovely. On the way we can talk.”

  They strolled through the gardens, past the Palais du Luxembourg and the Medici reflecting pool with its placid water. Françoise bent, dipping her hand in and quickly withdrawing it. “Too cold still, but the earth warms.”

  Valois stopped to gaze at the imposing apartments on the Rue de Medicis. “Someday we’ll have our residence there.” He pointed to the roof garden on the top floor of the nearest building, its awning drawn against the sun.

  Françoise faced him, one hand holding the skirts of her French blue day dress. As always, she was magnificently attired. She nodded once, her eyes boring into him, flashing her intellect, giving him the strength of her certainty.

  “Let her win and so will you.”

  “But Renault—”

  “Renault wants the incident settled to the satisfaction of the Italians and the French. As far as he’s concerned, more evidence turned up causing you to reopen the case, and in your brilliant handling you have involved the visiting sleuth. Hold off on questioning the scholar.”

  “But perhaps he can identify the gun.”

  “Perhaps. But he’s a scholar, interested in books and history, ideas. And you told me he prepares a paper for the Académie des Sciences. Wait until we know for sure that Elena lives, and even then demur. Find an excuse until you’re absolutely sure.”

  They turned onto the Rue Soufflot and he was strengthened by her words and the view of the Pantheon, commanding and sure, like Françoise. She whispered the words found on its pediment, “Aux grands hommes, la patrie reconnaissante.”

  He turned to her and lifting her veil, kissed her lightly on the cheek.

  “Thank you. I must tell her today.”

  She nodded.

  Together they walked on the Rue St. Jacques. He left her at the school, calm now, continuing up the street toward his office.

  Chapter 23: Busacca et Fils

  Carmela sat across from her mother in one of the hotel’s many small cafés.

  “We don’t know enough about Busacca et Fils,” Serafina said. She slapped the newspaper on the table and took a sip of coffee. The waiter brought out a basket of warm croissants and brioches wafting steam and the smell of bread their way. A ray of sun lit the silver carafe.

  “Ricci’s debts bother me. I need to find out more about them,” Serafina said.

  “We could ask him?”

  “We will. But first I need to understand him and what he does for the firm. And I need you to find out the condition of the Busacca business in Paris.”

  “That’s not your commission.”

  Serafina bristled, but she ignored Carmela’s remark. “Still, I think it has something to do with the murder. I know what Sophie told me about the three stores here, and I believe her as much as I believe Elena lies in her grave. Do you think you can manage it by tomorrow? By then Valois will want to speak with Sophie, and I want us both to be there, armed with all the information we can learn about her family and her shops.”

  A few hours later, Carmela and Tessa entered the smallest of the three Busacca shops. It was tucked away in the middle of a narrow street in the student quarter on the Rue de Verneuil. Like most of the stores in Paris, the façade was lacquered wood, this one painted a light French blue with “Busac
ca et Fils, depuis 1282” written in script across the top panels. In the lower right-hand corner of the window were the words, Paris & Palermo. A few hats were displayed, none of them exciting, all covered with a thin film of dust. The plume on one wafted in the air, and sunlight from the street oozed into the interior.

  Carmela turned the ornate knob. A bell announced their arrival. Tessa ran her finger through the film on the tops of tables while Carmela stood at the counter. The wooden floor was in need of sweeping. Tables and chairs were scratched and several of the mirrors bloomed. Carmela turned her attention to the ceiling where an attractive crystal chandelier hung, decorated with filaments from a spider. She looked at Tessa who shrugged and peered into the corners where motes swirled, at the walls where paint peeled.

  Carmela presented Busacca’s card to the woman who appeared some minutes after the bell sounded.

  “My family is in town on business for Levi Busacca. He invited us to visit his shops and report back to him. The woman took her card and in a moment, a tall, rotund young man emerged from the back, brushing crumbs from his vest. He wore a kippah and morning suit, displeasure written across his puffy face.

  “We don’t need your help,” he said.

  “I’m not here to help. Your uncle is interested in how his Paris business fares. And as far as help goes, I think you need it from someone. Where are your customers? Where are the hats?” Carmela waved her hand around the room. “There’s dirt everywhere and very few hats in the window, nothing that intrigues me or beckons me inside.”

  She could see red rising from his neck, flooding his face. Drops of water appeared on his forehead.

  “In this neighborhood, we maintain a presence only. This is the student quarter. Students don’t wear hats.”

  “Because you create nothing exciting for them to wear.” Carmela lowered her eyes. “Please excuse my tongue, I haven’t learned the art of conversation. My name is Carmela and this is Tessa. We’re from Oltramari, the birthplace of your ancestors. Mind showing us around?”

  He smiled—it was a flicker on the lips, nothing more—and Carmela, no stranger to relationships between men and women, felt the air shift when he looked at Tessa. He ignored her and introduced himself to Tessa. “Monsieur David de Masson, the middle son. My father used to run this shop and sometimes I hear him scolding me, but the voice is soft now.”

  “What does the voice say?” Tessa asked.

  “It’s easier to cut than to innovate.”

  Carmela said she wanted to get to know the three Busacca millinery shops, and she was surprised at the sparseness of the store’s interior, but it was as if she didn’t exist.

  “Making hats can be a form of art,” Tessa said, “a unique statement. I like your shop on the Rue de la Paix, but this store has the potential for so much more.”

  David examined Tessa’s face, lacing his fingers together and resting them on his stomach. “I had to let most of the staff go. Not enough business. Our head designer does everything now.”

  “And you do what?” Tessa asked.

  He shrugged, wiping a palm across his beard. Crumbs fell onto the front of his coat and scattered over the floor.

  “We’d like to see your workroom, if we may,” Tessa said.

  He pointed toward the door with a deflated gesture and led them into the back room.

  Musty and dank, the workroom needed a good airing. As she looked around, Carmela was surprised at herself. It was as if she were born with a handful of straw, ready to be woven and dyed, shaped, fitted, and trimmed. She felt her soul leap. Even in this mess, she understood what she saw and the process of designing hats. She didn’t discount David, no. She thought he had a brain, but somehow it had grown dormant, and the store, barren.

  A woman sat in the corner, a bit older than Carmela’s mother, sipping her morning coffee and reading the paper by a single gas jet. Next to her was a long table and at the end, two sewing machines. David introduced her as the designer, and she nodded to Carmela and Tessa. Although there were enough gas jets and lamps to light the room, only a few were in use. David’s desk was filled with papers, envelopes, patterns, pieces of felt, some thread and feathers. A half-eaten baguette was perched on top, the montage illuminated by a single lamp. Carmela went to the far wall and opened the windows.

  David started to speak, but Tessa stopped him.

  “You need air, light,” she said.

  David furrowed his brow but said nothing, continuing to stare at Tessa.

  Dust lay thick around the room, covering rows of wooden hat blocks in various shapes, stretchers, pressers, turntables for gluing and trimming, powder for making glue, and Carmela wasn’t sure what else she was seeing. One wall was covered with shelves containing bobbins of glazed thread, rolls of buckram, some already formed into crowns and brims of different shapes and sizes, lace, feathers, buttons, horse hair, ribbons, pieces of wool, felt ,and netting, rolls of silk, wool, boxes of straw. All the supplies and tools necessary to create glorious hats, but the shop was empty and the hats were forgotten dreams.

  “When was the last time your uncle was here?”

  David held up his hands. “I can’t remember.”

  “And your mother?”

  “She comes, but ...”

  “Let me guess, she doesn’t seem to care,” Carmela said.

  “It’s not that, exactly. She is ... confused,” David said.

  “You have all the supplies you need, and you’re not using them. Why?” Tessa asked.

  David blew out some air. “As I told you, students aren’t interested in hats.”

  “How can they be? Carmela asked. “They’re aren’t any hats for them to see in the store, not even a beret, just some old general’s ostrich feather wafting in the window. Nothing glittering. Nothing with fine lines, exciting angles, daring color and fabric to tempt them. Nothing to make them memorable.”

  “Where’s your fire, man?” Tessa asked, her arms waving. “You’ve made this store into a home for spiders.”

  David said nothing. His complexion mottled. He straightened a pile of papers on his desk and rubbed the wood free of dust.

  “Can you tell us the quickest way to get to Rue du Mont-Parnasse?” Tessa asked.

  “You want to see our store, of course. It’s in a quarter of Paris called Montparnasse filled with students and cabarets. It’s our most interesting store, close to the Boulevard du Mont-Parnasse. Caters to the cabaret crowd. But don’t look beneath the surface because you’ll find debt.”

  “Will we find the same disuse?” Carmela asked.

  “Perhaps. I never go there.”

  “Too much to do here?” Carmela arched an eyebrow.

  He folded his arms. “Pay a visit if you must. My brother manages it, but on such a day, he’s probably at Longchamp.”

  “Ricci,” Carmela said.

  “You’ve met him?”

  “Quite charming, I hear,” Tessa said.

  David frowned. “Visit, by all means, but I’d like you to return in a few hours.” He slid his eyes to the side where Tessa stood, arms crossed.

  After they’d left the store, Carmela shook her skirt free of dust. “He suffers without his father.”

  Tessa gave her a strange look. “Perhaps.”

  * * *

  In front of Busacca et Fils on the Rue du Mont-Parnasse, a clown met them in white face wearing a chapeau melon, striped shirt and white gloves. A street performer, he drew a crowd, bowing and producing flowers, scarves, an agitated rabbit. The magician tossed his hat high in the air, catching it on top of his head, stepping aside so that customers could enter.

  The store’s windows and red wooden façade gleamed, as did the inside where clerks and designers were busy helping customers try on hats and admire themselves in long mirrors. The store bustled with people and hats, women and men, pill boxes, small vertical feathery things, straw boaters with floppy brims, berets, and small woolen contrivances. There was a display of military uniforms, kepi, tricor
ns, some weathered and drooping; others, great plumed affairs, smelled of distant battles.

  They were greeted by a woman wearing the smart dress of a clerk who had a ready smile. After Carmela asked to speak with the manager, she disappeared. Carmela and Tessa waited, remarking on the difference between the two stores. In a minute the clerk returned followed by Ricci Busacca wearing a morning suit, his long red curls wound in the back and fastened at the nape in a style she’d only ever seen in paintings. He smiled. She introduced herself and Tessa, stating the nature of their business.

  “My uncle hates Paris so he sends his emissaries,” Ricci said and grinned, “but this is a charming surprise. I met your mother last week, I believe.”

  “And mine too,” Tessa said.

  “You prosper here,” Carmela said, feeling a bit foolish.

  He led them to his office through a long, neat workroom where several hatters were busy at long tables and asked a young woman sitting at the end to bring them coffee.

  “Did he ask you to examine the books?” Ricci asked.

  Carmela looked at Tessa. “In this instance, there is no need. We’ve seen your other stores and by comparison—”

  “Looks can often fool. I know how to entertain, not how to run a business, I’m afraid. And I’m the first to admit it. But you may tell him we’ve recovered from the worst. The last four years have been hard—the Siege, the Commune, but especially my father’s passing. He was the businessman who knew how to hire good workers, inventive designers. He knew where to shop and how to cut expenses. We lost a lot when we lost him. I know about racing horses and how to charm.”

  Carmela looked at Tessa. She was surprised by his honesty and his ability to know himself. He’d show her the books, of that she had no doubt, but she wouldn’t know what she was looking at. Instead, she asked him to pick out a hat for Tessa.