Death In Bagheria (A Serafina Florio Mystery)

by Susan Russo Anderson

  “I’ve known him a long time, but not as long as I’ve known Betta. If I could stay, I would.”

  “We are family, you know. You owe it to me.” He flashed his teeth in what was, for him, a smile.

  “Betta is my dear friend.” The beast! Mama, a burden you’ve given me. “And you owe it to your wife to make sure she stays in bed for the next two months, even when she is feeling better and wants to resume her daily routine. It is a temptation you must not allow.”

  “Betta is given to, how shall I say, exaggeration.”

  “Be in no doubt as to her danger. She’s lost blood. If her water breaks and contractions begin, we cannot save the child and Betta runs a real risk of bleeding to death.”

  He nodded slowly, beginning to comprehend. “Think for a moment. Look at the two of us, brother and sister, same face, same hair, same mother. Why don’t you forget your hatred of me and fight for your children? I can give them so much help.”

  “You are not family; you are not friend. I am here for Betta.” Serafina walked out of the room.

  Bandits

  Thursday, March 24, 1870

  With help from the domestic and two of her daughters, Serafina bathed, packed, clothed, and rouged in record time. They insisted she take at least one gown and her dress shoes in case the baron dined in the evening. For traveling, she chose a dress of deep blue, a fine wool with matching hat and gloves. The outfit, one of Giulia’s new creations, had a narrow skirt except for several flounces on the bottom third, the overskirt pulled to the back to form a small bustle, which her daughters assured her was in keeping with the latest fashion. The bodice was tight fitting, the fabric layered over a plain linen blouse with laced cuffs and gathered collar. Although Vicenzu wouldn’t hear of new shoes for the family, Teo had polished and mended her good boots.

  As soon as the suitcases were secured in the rumble, the three women piled into the carriage. Rosa, attired in a light wool mauve dress with quite the bustle and multiple flounces and puffs and overskirts, ran the risk of losing herself in layers. She sat facing Serafina and Renata who balanced a basket of food on her lap and wore a pale lime day dress with a simple fringed overskirt.

  “Time for a new midwife’s satchel,” Rosa said, frowning at Serafina’s bag. “Why do you insist on taking that old thing—it’s been scratched up for years. Besides, there won’t be any babies to birth at the baron’s.”

  “Never know.” Serafina’s eyelids scratched. Her lashes were caked with sand. She missed Loffredo’s warming breath on her neck, and this morning of whatever day it was, she could barely speak, couldn’t stop the pounding in her head, and the madam sat there making sport.

  “At it all night?” Rosa kept flinging her barbs as they rolled and pitched down the via Serpentina. At least they traveled in the madam’s new coach, an elaborate affair with plush seats and push-down side windows, velvet curtains, hand made in Palermo by a fancy carriage maker to Rosa’s convoluted specifications. Presently, Rosa patted her hand. “Sorry, I was foolish; I shouldn’t have intruded. You look all done in.”

  “Betta.” Serafina closed her eyes to the sun and rubbed her brows. The neighing and blowing of the horses and the jingling of the reins sent spikes of pain into her head. Thank the Madonna for the waves; they pounded the shore, and there was a fine spray in the air. She dropped her window and let the breeze cool her cheeks while the smell of citrus seeped into the carriage and her curls tightened against her scalp. Mesmerized by the ghost of last night, she made a better attempt at answering Rosa’s question. “Betta kept me up. She’s out of danger for the moment but needs to stay in bed for the next two months; otherwise, she’ll lose her unborn child and, more than likely, her own life.” She recalled the sharp coppery smell in the room.

  Rosa shook her head but made no reply for a while. “And you’ve had no sleep, I can tell. But there’s something else too.”

  “There’s nothing else, and anyway, I don’t want to talk about it. Too complicated.”

  Gulls screeched overhead. They rode through fields on the edge of town, and Serafina saw peasants tilling the soil on her left, and to her right, when she looked down, her stomach felt the precipitous drop to the sea. Her temples throbbed. “I sent for Loffredo. He’s promised a visit to Betta, and her lady’s maid is a trusted companion.” Serafina closed her eyes and tried to sleep through the jostling, but the rising sun shone through her lids. She wondered how she’d be able to conduct herself today, but she owed it to Genoveffa and the dead baroness to begin the investigation before the baron and his household had too much time to prepare for her arrival.

  Her stomach did somersaults. Now that Carmela and, therefore, all of her older children knew about her affair with Loffredo, what should she do? Nothing, that’s what, and she didn’t plan to mention it again. She’d be at home as much as she could, but she wasn’t about to give him up; she’d just have to be more discreet. She crossed her arms and pulled her shawl around her shoulders. Perhaps their mutual attraction would fade, but she didn’t think so. She clenched her jaw. Oh, she toyed with the idea of telling Loffredo they would have to stop, but she just couldn’t do it to him. And if she were honest, she found herself having conversations in her head with him.

  Why was it so difficult? Why couldn’t she just enjoy life? No, she’d have to have been born a man for that. All the same, Loffredo was such a loving soul who’d regarded her with respect all his adult life. When she gazed at him, she saw him as he appeared, what, twenty-two, twenty-three years ago. Truth be told, she felt herself drawn to him from the first time they’d met, all those many years ago, yes, drawn as a moth to a flame. Carmela was mistaken; he wouldn’t leave her. Although the word love hadn’t yet crossed his lips, she knew he’d never looked at another woman. Except, of course, for Elena, whom he had married because his father demanded it. Both families thought it a perfect match. Now that she’d realized in her bones that Giorgio was never coming back—sweet, dear man taken too soon by a vengeful God—well, she couldn’t resist Loffredo. The thought of him made her ache.

  Last night’s dinner celebration had been a success. The meal was to be simple, Renata assured them, but it was exquisite. Why she’d ever let her work as a pastry chef for that loathsome monzù was beyond her ken, a mistake. She shouldn’t have listened to her older children who told her that she must. But last night, Renata outdid herself, fixing Serafina’s favorites—squid and eggplant, pasta con le sarde and freshly baked bread, a delicate, simple sauce over pork cooked to perfection, a salad with bits of ricotta and orange, and for dessert, a scrumptious cassata. Rosa said she’d never tasted anything so delicious.

  To be sure, the children’s eyes had widened at the sight of Loffredo, grinning and bowing when he walked into the room while Carmela and Badali conversed in a corner. After the meal, they had paired up for the game of charades as Serafina had planned, the young ones conniving together, and not once but twice, she’d heard Teo and Maria in whispered conversation.

  “Something smells delicious,” Rosa said, smiling at Renata. “And such a delight to have you with us. What’s in the basket?”

  “A gift for the baron’s cook. I plan on spending most of my time below stairs. I arrive as a representative of the monzù. We do that from time to time, you know, visit, exchange recipes and talk of the latest kitchen utensils. The monzù encourages it.” Renata kept her folded hands on top of the basket, swaying with the carriage.

  There was that monzù talk again, ruining Serafina’s reverie, and just when she’d managed a few moments of sleep. Her lids snapped open, and she said, “My dear, you are visiting the cook, and I’m sure she’ll be anxious to see you in your own right. Forget that dratted monzù.”

  Rosa made no reply but looked out the window with tight eyes.

  “Revising your expectations of the visit?” Serafina asked.

  “Don’t be
silly,” Rosa said and winked at Renata.

  There was silence for a time. They rode along the sea, then took a turn inland. Rosa leaned over to Renata. “I might have a taste of whatever’s inside.” She bent to the box and breathed deep. “Oh, yes, that delicious pastry you guard on your lap.”

  Serafina’s mind floated, thinking Loffredo had been correct: if uneventful, the trip from Oltramari to Bagheria would take not more than an hour in Rosa’s coach and four.

  All at once they heard shots, and the carriage came to an abrupt halt.

  “Where are we?” Renata asked.

  Serafina opened her door and stood on the footplate, straining to see. “Solunto, the ruins.” Sitting back down and closing the door, she moistened her lips and said, “Looks like there’s someone several meters ahead. He peeks out at us from behind a tall column. A bandana covers part of his face, but the rest of him is wild looking.” She shivered, wiped her forehead with a linen, and tried to calm her breathing.

  The driver banged on the carriage roof. “Bandits. Get down.”

  “On the floor!” Serafina pulled the madam’s voluminous skirt, and ever so slowly, Rosa slid off the seat and onto the floor. Renata followed.

  Lifting one arm, Serafina drew the curtains on the windows. She saw her friend’s face blanch, felt her own skin prickle. Both women huddled together, and Renata hugged her basket.

  “What do you want?” they heard the driver ask.

  “Get down, pig,” came a gravelly voice. “Open the door, or I’ll blow your head off.”

  This last command must have been directed at the three of them inside. She heard shots fired in the distance, a loud grunt, a thud.

  Silence.

  Serafina smelled the acrid stench of gunpowder. “Giorgio told me, ‘Never go with them, better to die by a bullet.’ Help me hold the handle. At least we die with courage, and not cowering in the corner!” Serafina felt the strain in her back and down her neck, but along with Renata and Rosa, she continued squeezing the door handle, holding it shut until her face was red.

  Rosa uttered an oath.

  Renata cried out, “Go away, you swine!”

  But the brute’s strength was too great, and with a jerk, they released the handle. The door shot open, then slammed shut.

  Renata stuffed a hand into her mouth, waiting for the intruder to appear.

  “Sorry for my tongue at times, it prattles so,” Rosa said. “You’ve been a best friend to me all my life.”

  “Not over yet. Ready to fight?” Serafina clamped her jaw and stared at Rosa and Renata.

  Both nodded.

  The door flew open.

  Before them stood a tall man wearing smart leather chaps and a matching vest. Serafina smelled fine hides, saw clean hands and kept nails. His face was magnificent, like a Roman god’s, she thought, and she noticed Renata staring at him. When he pushed his fedora back on his head, a few wet curls draped over his forehead. His shirt was open at the neck, and his eyes, like the sea, were flecked with turquoise and purple. In his belt were two revolvers and a shepherd’s knife.

  “Luca della Trabia, Lord Notobene’s gabelloto. The baron sent me to watch for your arrival because he worried for your safety, especially in Solunto, where bandits hide in the ruins waiting for unsuspecting travelers.” He circled the surrounding hills with a hand. “And with such a fine coach, you’re an easy target. They’d have taken your jewels, your money, and whatever else you had to offer. Would have been a pity to lose such fine steeds.”

  The sun, higher in the sky, sent shards of light shooting off the sea, so Serafina visored her eyes, squinting up at the man. “Oh, Madonna,” she muttered.

  Arcangelo appeared, pistol in hand. “This man saved our lives. Bandits!”

  “Don’t worry, they’ve gone, except for this poor sod,” he said, nudging the body on the ground with his toe. “They won’t return.” He and Arcangelo pulled the dead man to the side of the road.

  Serafina expressed her thanks, introducing him to her companions.

  Della Trabia smiled at Rosa and turned to Renata, removing his hat and bowing slightly. “I think I might have seen you in town one day last month with a man.”

  Renata looked at him, puzzled.

  “Short, fat, waxed mustache, wearing a long white apron and chef’s hat?” His smile matched the dazzle of the sun.

  “If he waddled like a duck, it was the monzù,” Serafina said.

  Renata blushed and looked away. “He hired me to be Prince Zazzu’s pastry chef for the winter festivities, so I spent two months in Bagheria but never made it up here. How magnificent the view—Greek ruins against the backdrop of a wild sea.” She turned back to him. “Today I pay a visit to Lord Notobene’s cook.”

  Arrival

  After descending a steep hill, they continued on the road near the sea, passing scores of Bagheria’s villas, marveling at the masonry, the grillwork, the size of the homes on both sides of the road. Finally the carriage stopped by an ornamental gate of heavy iron and stone. Della Trabia, who had ridden ahead of them, spoke with the guards, then disappeared. Slowly the gate swung open, and the vehicle’s wheels crunched fine gravel, and they began a slow approach up the long drive leading to Villa Caterina.

  It was as if they’d entered another world where nothing was out of order. Palm trees lined the long drive, and Serafina could see small gardens dotting a lawn of deep viridian. Exotic birds flew; water sprayed. In the distance, peasants worked in citrus groves, and from time to time, she glimpsed the sea. Men in blue aprons and straw hats were everywhere, pushing wheelbarrows or pruning fronds or tilling the soil.

  Two footmen greeted their carriage, one holding onto the reins of the lead horse.

  The madam straightened her skirts and descended, looking out and up at the mansion in front of her. She was followed by Serafina and Renata, who smiled and handed her box of pastries to a footman with instructions to take it to the cook.

  Serafina gazed up at a baroque façade of soft limestone, topped with a blue copper dome rivaling the great churches of Palermo and Rome. Carved lintels dripped with stone putti, vines, and roses. She estimated that the main wing had about thirty rooms.

  “Too fancy by half,” Rosa whispered.

  “I could live here,” Renata said, brushing her cape. “And I’ve heard the kitchen is a magnificence and that the cook …”

  “What about the cook?” Rosa asked.

  “And that the cook doesn’t deserve it.” Renata bit her lip.

  “Then you’d better make the desserts.”

  Serafina continued taking in the splendor of the villa and its grounds. Flanking the main building stood tall cypress trees, their languorous branches drooping, and in the front, close to the carriage circle, a stone fountain gurgled. They lifted their skirts, Rosa hanging onto her hat with one hand, and swished up the curved staircase, where a man in formal daytime attire waited to greet them, his back to a grilled double door. Tall, with an aquiline nose and black curls plastered to his head, he stood expressionless until they reached the top, when, like the sun appearing from behind a cloud, he smiled and said, “Follow me, dear ladies.” He regarded Rosa for more time than was necessary, Serafina thought, as he took the madam’s arm, ready to escort them inside.

  In the atrium, Serafina said, “My friend and I are here to see the baron. My daughter is here to visit the cook, but before she does, I’d like to help her settle into her room.”

  Renata blushed and looked at Rosa.

  “Just so.” The butler snapped gloved fingers to a maid standing next to a potted palm. Gesturing to indicate the three women, he said, “Take our guests to their rooms.”

  They were met on the second floor landing by three chambermaids, who escorted Serafina, Rosa, and Renata to their accommodations on the third
floor. As they climbed the massive staircase, Serafina looked up at the vaulted dome, admiring the mosaics forming what she supposed was the Notobene family crest.

  Before she went into her bedroom, Renata reminded Serafina that she’d be spending most of her time with the cook, “so you’ll know where to reach me.”

  “Of course, dear.” Serafina kissed Renata, feeling a sudden stab of something for this daughter so devoted to her family, watching her disappear into her room and shut the door. Was she using Renata’s gifts for her own gain as Carmela once had admonished? She thought better of leaving her daughter so abruptly and knocked on her door.

  “Just wanted to see your room,” she said, poking her head inside when Renata opened the door.

  Her daughter went to the window, threw open the shutters. “Much better than my room at Villa Zazzu.” In that gesture, Renata seemed so much like Giorgio—a much smaller and feminine version of him, of course—and Serafina couldn’t help comparing her trusting innocence to Carmela’s worldliness—Carmela, a smaller, feistier version of Serafina. And in this moment, Serafina felt a fear for Renata that was so overpowering, she could not bear to be parted from her. Was it the fear of losing her, or remorse for having involved her in this case and with a family who had such dark secrets, a family hiding, at least from themselves, the slow and deliberate murder of its matriarch? Serafina thought of all the possibilities—that the killer still worked near the kitchen and would have access to Renata—that Renata, an innocent, would not know enough to sense danger. Would she be safe without Serafina by her side?

  “And look at the view,” Renata said, showing Serafina the world from her windows, a deep, manicured front lawn and beyond it, the sea. She showed her the walk-in closet, a dresser and, best of all, a large private bath with hot running water.

  “I approve, my darling. Remember to make time for yourself and to have fun. And please, oh please, ring for the housekeeper or butler if you need me. Don’t be shy. If I don’t see you for a while, please know that I haven’t forgotten you, no, not for a minute. Promise?”