Without warning, the cobbles moved beneath her boots, and Genoveffa’s journal flew from her grasp. She thrust out a hand to retrieve it, but a gang of youths grabbed it off the ground and sprinted toward the nearest alley. Shouting, she scrambled to her feet and was about to run after them when she was seized from behind.
Serafina spun around, trying to wrest herself free from the intruder’s strong grip. As her vision focused, she recognized Badali, one of Colonna’s men who had worked on a case with her last month. “Why did you stop me? Those little thugs took my book, and I must have it back.”
The captain blew his whistle. “Shouldn’t go chasing after them. Dangerous ruffians about these days—you know that—deserters and the like who’d rather sell their grandmother’s bones than fence your book. But now that they have it, they’ll rip out the pages and trade the binding for a few centesimi.”
In a moment, more carabinieri appeared. After Serafina described the thieves and the journal to the newcomers, Badali barked orders, pointed to the alley where the thugs had fled, and his men chased after them.
For a moment, she stood there, shaking debris from her skirts. What would she tell Genoveffa? Her heart started to pound, and her breath caught in her throat, but to quiet herself, she began talking to Badali. “You’ve changed your uniform!”
“Took another job. I’m part of the military police now—no longer work for the town. Good promotion, too.” He straightened his hat. “Don’t worry. We’ll find your book, what’s left of it.”
“But I’ve got to report the theft. Who knows, Colonna might be able to—”
“Don’t count on that toad!” Badali rolled his eyes. “What were you reading?”
“The journal of a baroness—part of an investigation. I was hoping it would shed some light on her death.” Serafina tried on her most winning smile, craning her face up at him. “Won’t you come with me? Knowing the inspector as I do, I could use your help.”
As they walked to the Municipal Building, Serafina squeezed his arm. “This new post of yours has you working too hard. Is that why we don’t see you at the house anymore?”
He shook his head. “Carmela wouldn’t be pleased to see me.”
“Nonsense. Just the other day, she remarked on your absence, and I’ve gotten such a lovely idea—come for supper tonight, I insist. After the meal, Carmela will show you our garden—she’s an artist with flowers.”
Yawning and yanking his great bulk out of the chair, Colonna greeted the pair and gestured for them to sit. Squinting at Serafina, he asked, “What happened to you?”
“After months of deliberation, Sister Genoveffa has concluded that her mother was murdered and asked me to investigate. She gave me the baroness’s journal written shortly before the poor woman’s final agony, and as I entered the piazza on my way home, it was plucked from my hands by a gang of ruffians.”
Colonna chewed one end of his mustache. “Yes, I know all about your commission and the diary.
Serafina’s jaw dropped. “How could you?” She looked at her watch pin. “I met with the nun only a short while ago.”
“Experience, my dear. I make it my business to know everything, sometimes before it occurs.”
“Creating evidence where needed?” she asked. While he continued to play with his mustache, Serafina felt a twinge of remorse soon after the words flew from her lips; sometimes she was such a shrew. After all, Colonna did have a certain, what to call it, peasant canniness. Her son never tired of warning her that she was envious of his position. Was it true? She doubted it. Last time they’d worked together, she tortured herself into collaborating with Colonna, forcing herself to confide in him, asking him to question his beliefs and re-open a case he’d considered closed. She was amazed that her efforts had wrung some semblance of shrewdness from him, to say nothing of the police commissioner’s increased admiration for her. Lest she forget, when all was said and done, in these times of treachery, the inspector managed not only to survive, but to prosper.
Colonna pulled out some papers from a drawer in his desk. “Fill these out, a copy for me and one for him,” he said, flapping a hand at Badali.
“They are?” Serafina asked.
“A record of stolen properties.”
Badali pulled on his watch chain and produced a thick gold timepiece. “Must take my leave.” He turned to Serafina. “This evening, then, with pleasure.”
She thanked the carabiniere for his help and began writing down the particulars of the theft on the inspector’s form.
Colonna’s brows lifted, holding his pose until the door clicked behind Badali. He waved a hand over the papers. “No need to be too precise with the information. Not that I have men to spare, mind you. Besides, you should be able to hire your own crew with such a fat retainer.”
Serafina stifled her surprise. How could he have known? Then she remembered the sound of footsteps in the sacristy, the grim postulant who brought Genoveffa’s coffee, the custodian lurking in the shadows. If they were Colonna’s spies, why would he be wasting them on Genoveffa? In the future, she must take greater care.
She handed him the completed forms. “Whatever you can do.”
“Oh, we might come to some arrangement. I myself might be available—at odd hours, you understand—for consultation and advice when you’re in need.” He leaned closer to her, his good eye uncomfortably close to her face. “Don’t hesitate to call upon me. My fees are reasonable. Should Genoveffa find that you’ve been careless with her property—”
She rose. “Badali’s men search for it already, but thank you for your offer … And if my client hears of the journal’s theft before I tell her, a discomfort of which she has as yet no need, I’ll know the source of the information.” Her finger wagged back and forth. “Your spies were all over that sacristy today, and don’t think I didn’t hear their scuttling sounds. That’s how you knew about my retainer, but how did you know about the theft so soon after it occurred? If I didn’t respect you, I’d almost think you had arranged it yourself, or perhaps looked the other way.” She paused for breath. “Now, unless you have a clean bit of information that will lead to the journal’s retrieval, I’ll say good day.”
Rosa
On her way to Rosa’s, Serafina hurried across the piazza to her neighborhood in back of the public gardens. Built by her forbears, Serafina’s home had been handed down for generations until she’d received it as her dowry, and her mother had moved to the third floor, living there until her death. Most of the other houses in this upper-class neighborhood had, like hers, gone slightly to seed, except for the refurbished villa next door to hers, Rosa’s new dwelling.
After climbing the marble staircase, she knocked, and a maid ushered her into Rosa’s study, an airy room taking up one wing of the villa. Frescoed angels flew in the ceiling; three walls were lined with books, and the fourth had large windows facing the piazza and gardens.
Not yet dressed for the day, Rosa sat, rouged and robed, behind an elaborately carved mahogany desk, which contrasted nicely with the rest of the gilt furnishings. “You’re a wreck and the angelus hasn’t even rung. What happened—you and Loffredo playing rough these days?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” She told her about her brush with thieves.
“You need dolci.” Rosa got up to kiss Serafina on both cheeks and pulled the cord. “But tell me why anyone would want to steal your journal?”
Serafina sat. “Not mine. Belonged to the Lady Notobene. A complicated case just became more so.”
“As usual, you speak in riddles, and the baroness has been dead for ages.”
Glancing at the desk, Serafina said, “At your ledgers, I see. Must be hard work, biting into all those gold coins.”
“Your timing is perfect. Finished this minute.” Rosa swept the pile of money aside.
“I could ask why you continue to count money after you’ve sold your business, but I won’t.”
“Secunda’s money. She trusts me, and she’s between accountants.”
“No matter, now that Tessa has a nice home and we have you as a neighbor.” A moment of pure friendship, Serafina thought, fishing in her pocket for a linen. They’d been through so much together, she and Rosa. As she blotted her face, Serafina told her friend about the visit with Genoveffa and her commission to find her mother’s killer.
“Some nerve. The baroness has been dead for years, and she snags you into her fancy scheme. And you’re worse—why do you waste your time with her whims? You’ve got hungry mouths to feed, a son at university. Do you really have time to go chasing after chimeras?”
“Loffredo thinks the baroness may well have been poisoned, judging from Genoveffa’s description of her mother’s symptoms. Besides, I feel sorry for her. She has no one.”
“She has a fortune and a family, and they’re aristocrats. If she’d just stop playing saint and go back to her family, she’d have her pick of thirty-room palaces scattered all over the province. So her fiancé was killed in some accident, so what? It happens. Time to get another. She could be surrounded by dukes and counts and such, salivating to get into her—”
“Don’t say it!”
“My heart thumps just thinking about all of them lined up. But no, not Genoveffa: she mopes about in some convent.”
“She’s the Duomo’s sacristan.”
“Oh, yes, well, fancy that—there’s a rich treasure for you. And when was the last time you saw a nun sacristan? Haughty creature, Genoveffa. Stole someone’s job, I tell you, but that’s a story for another day.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I didn’t run a brothel for nothing. Oh, yes, I made a good living. Tessa’s secure.” She paused for breath. “What am I saying—Tessa’s great-grandchildren will have untold wealth. More important, I know everything about everyone. How do you think I survived? Before you waste more time, go back to Genoveffa. Tell her you work for the state, and when you’re not birthing babies, you’re snooping around dead bodies. Tell her you have seven children and you’re caring for two orphans besides. Tell her your fortune’s dwindling and you don’t have time to chase after a nun’s wild imaginings. What’s that you’re waving in my face?”
“Open it,” Serafina said. “I promised you that if you gave up your business and moved next door, we’d go questing together.”
Painted nails clutched both sides of the cheque.
The maid entered.
“My friend needs sweets,” Rosa said, fanning herself with the retainer. “Perhaps a crumb for me. Better yet, tell cook to surprise us with a pot of strong coffee and something large and sweet and oozing sauce.”
The maid shrugged and withdrew.
Rosa gaped a moment longer at the note. “Typical. This retainer will feed your family for three years and you neglect to tell me until now. You have no mind for business.”
“But that’s not why I took the case. I believe Genoveffa. I want to help her.”
“Rubbish, we’ve got to form a plan, catch the killer. Pack your bag. We leave for Bagheria.” Rosa patted black curls. “The cheque’s a good start, and there will be more for you when we solve the case. Come to that, I wonder how much?” A sly look came over Rosa’s face. “Let me guess—you didn’t discuss the final fee, did you?”
“Why should I?” Serafina detailed her conversation with Genoveffa, and for once, the madam did not interrupt. “The poor woman,” Serafina said. “All that pent-up grief! And such an enigma: sorrowing for her mother, to be sure, but angry, also, and not opening the door to all her secrets.”
“Why should she? After all, she’s a woman. We all have our favorite secrets, the ones we’re entitled to keep. And speaking of keeping, what will we do about the baroness’s journal?”
“The carabinieri are searching for it, and Genoveffa thought there’d be more volumes lying about the villa. She said her mother was always writing in one.” Serafina told her about meeting with Colonna.
“That clown, Colonna, up to his old tricks! He’d love to have a cut of the money.”
“He already knew about my retainer and the theft.”
“Of course. Not dumb, Colonna,” Rosa said. “He’s got his spies placed wherever there’s a remote chance of a ca-chink.”
The two women were silent a moment. “With luck, Badali and his men will return it to me tonight, and we can leave for Bagheria in the morning.”
“Assuming the baron’s at home,” Rosa said.
“He’s expecting our visit, Genoveffa told me.”
As if she hadn’t heard, Rosa continued, now in a pensive vein. “The nobility are haughty birds. And worse, Genoveffa is her father’s daughter.”
“You know him?”
She shrugged. “Slightly. But his father-in-law, now there’s a man. Why are you looking at me like that?” Hands twirled in the air. “A story for another day. He was enraged when his daughter married a Notobene. There’s bad blood between the families.”
Serafina shook her head and began writing in her notebook. “I need to make a list.”
“And I’ll write a letter to Geraldo, telling him of our arrival.”
“Who?”
“Geraldo, Genoveffa’s father, the baron, husband of the deceased. You said he expects our visit.” Rosa snapped on her spectacles.
“You just told me you barely knew him.”
The unfathomable madam, about to dip her pen in the inkwell, paused in midair. “Did I?”
“Either you are on familiar terms with the baron or you’re not. And if you are, then he must have been one of your customers, but you guard that information as if I were a robber trying to steal your last coin. How ignorant do you think I am?”
Rosa puffed her cheeks and was silent for a moment. “You’re right. He might have been.”
“Finish the sentence. ‘Might have been a …’”
“A customer, a customer!”
“Tell me about him.”
She gave Serafina a wounded look.
“You do remember him?”
“After a fashion. Not much to tell. He knew what he wanted, took it, departed. Imperious. Little charm.”
“Could he have poisoned his wife?”
She was thoughtful for a moment. “Could have done. But we didn’t sit around all that much talking about wives.”
“Very well. Tell him we arrive tomorrow. Don’t be specific as to time. Before we leave, I’d like to get my hands on that journal and study it. And we celebrate Renata’s return this evening—you and Tessa are invited, of course.”
Rosa scratched with her pen, looked beyond Serafina from time to time as she composed. When finished, she blew on the ink and pulled the cord. “Simple matter, anyway. I’ll bet it was the cook,” she muttered.
“Rid your mind of preconceived notions. Investigations take time and a clear head, so plan on being there for a couple of days. I must be home Saturday. Totò’s big altar boy event is Sunday, and I have to make sure he’s prepared.”
Rosa tut tutted.
A knock on the door interrupted them, and the maid entered with a silver tray laden with cups, saucers, and a large cake slathered with sauce and sliced almonds. “From cook: orange cassata filled with ricotta.” She began serving.
“A tiny wedge for me, thank you. And no cream in my coffee.”
“Saving your appetites for tonight? Loffredo, of course!”
“That’s not it.” She wondered how much she should confide in Rosa. Her friend had an eye for the main chance and a heart of gold, but didn’t understand the give and take of a large family—the innuendos and the jealousies, the upheavals to their daily rou
tine—these were beyond Rosa’s ken. And recently, Serafina’s children had been through so much—their father’s death, the uprisings in town, and last month, the arrival of Teo and his baby brother for a stay of indefinite duration. Both Loffredo and Rosa thought Serafina should have sent the orphans to Guardian Angel, but after the horror they’d witnessed and her involvement in the case last month, she just couldn’t abandon those two boys, just couldn’t do it. Her older children had welcomed them, but Maria and Totò hadn’t. From the moment Teo stepped inside the house, she’d felt Maria’s hostility and Totò’s resentment. She needed to spend more time with them, that was it. Tonight would be a family evening, a celebration, nothing to mar the festivities.
“Some day your mind’s going to wander off a cliff and fall into the sea.” Rosa helped herself to another large slice. “And Gesuzza,” she said through the cake, “tell Arcangelo I need him here, right now.”
While she and Rosa finished their coffee, Serafina began planning the evening. She’d have to work miracles with her children tonight, salving their wounds and restoring harmony. Who said she couldn’t? She’d done it before. For starters, she’d arrange the table seating, putting Badali next to Carmela, saying a prayer to her dead mother, the matchmaker; placing Totò and Maria on each side of Teo, Tessa across from the three. And afterward, they’d play charades. Teo ought to be good with guessing, and she’d think up some churchy pantomimes so Totò could show off his new altar boy skills. Carmela and Renata could help her create the riddles, each of them manage a group of players. Vicenzu, her son who ran the family’s apothecary, must leave his abacus alone tonight and join in the game; a pity Carlo and Giulia wouldn’t be home to enjoy the merriment. Perhaps she ought to invite Loffredo. Yes, of course, why hadn’t she thought of that earlier—to even out the teams. Anyway, she’d promised him a visit this evening, and she had a duty, after all the help he’d given her, to soothe his spirits. She felt the heat beginning to rise to her face.
Death In Bagheria (A Serafina Florio Mystery) Page 3
