“How do you know Domenico’s headed for Villa Caterina?” Rosa asked.
In Front of the Villa
“To tell you the truth, I don’t know it, not the way a mathematician knows numbers, but all the same, I’m sure of it.”
“Wizard talk,” Rosa said, turning away, and was quiet for a while, swaying with the coach.
Badali’s carabinieri rode on horseback in front of the lead horse. As they turned into a curve on the via Serpentina, Serafina saw them, outlined against the night sky with their tricorns low on their foreheads and their capes flying, their swords flashing whenever they passed by a gas lamp. Serafina craned her neck, glancing through the back window from time to time at Loffredo’s carriage.
As they rode along the sea, the moon was veiled with mist, but a thousand stars shone. Holding it up to the window, Serafina studied her watch pin. “Almost eight o’clock. We should arrive in the middle of their dinner.”
“I thought your watch was broken,” Rosa said, sitting opposite Serafina, one hand on the basket of food.
“It is. I borrowed Carmela’s.”
“I thought she wasn’t speaking to you.”
“Oh, we speak. She loves me, despite her tongue.”
Rosa was silent, looking out the window for a moment. “Don’t you think it’s jealousy? I mean, here you are, a woman in your prime—well, I exaggerate, not too far past it—sought after by the nobility and the commissioner to solve all manner of mysteries, blossoming in an affair with the sweetheart of your salad days—and a count, no less—and what is Carmela doing but digging in the earth when she’s not caring for young children and running the house because you’re sleeping around. She has no husband and no prospects. Why didn’t you take her tonight instead of Vicenzu? And don’t tell me because she’s a woman and he’s a man.”
“But that’s precisely why.”
“So the commissioner should pick Colonna over you because he’s a man?”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Carmela has the brains and the determination we need tonight, but you, a woman, disregarded her merely because she’s a woman.”
“Vicenzu has brains, too, and more strength.”
“Carmela’s been working in the soil, and Vicenzu sits behind a counter. Feel his hands, they’re as soft as the bishop’s, and Carmela’s are hardened. And don’t forget how she helped you catch the Ambrosi murderer.”
“But Vicenzu’s a man.” What was wrong with that woman? Sometimes Rosa was more stubborn than a mule and blind to the truth. “And I know for a fact that Carmela is not jealous.”
Rosa chuckled. “I didn’t mean to imply that she is.” She picked at a thread on her sleeve. “But you are. Stamina, for instance.”
“I don’t want to hear this.”
“You’re still tired from Wednesday night’s lark about with Loffredo while you know that Carmela, at her age, could have gone without sleep for two nights in a row yet skip about the next day.”
That did it. If she wanted silence, she just got it.
They rolled over the rough road without speaking. Serafina peered out at the stars winking on the surface of the sea. “Besides, Carmela could have Badali if she wanted him—their affair could be raging by now—but she’s not interested.”
“She needs someone with more dash than Badali. He’s too careful.”
The image of her mother invaded Serafina’s thoughts, and she wondered why the specter of Maddalena chose such an inappropriate moment to appear. She was contrary, Serafina’s mother, and not at all helpful—not in life, not in death—not giving Serafina so much as a hint during this case. That old ghost could have told her the name of the mastermind, could have stopped the conspirators in their tracks. But no, she was having none of it, probably lolling about on some fat cloud, wrinkling her nose and agreeing with the madam. After all, it was Carmela they were talking about, Carmela the first-born granddaughter, perfect in the eyes of Maddalena. Lost in the past, Serafina pictured her mother doting on Carmela, singing her perfection, Carmela with skin as soft as spring blossoms and as clear as goat’s milk. Serafina blinked hard. She never could do anything right as far as her mother was concerned. True, tonight she’d failed to see Carmela’s disappointment—her brains and charm and youth—but she didn’t have time for all this right now, she must concentrate on capturing the killers.
They made the trip without incident, thundering through Solunto. When they rounded the bend, Villa Caterina came into view, the outlines of the baron’s palatial estate harsh against the night sky, and yet another of his ships in the harbor, the pier lit by hundreds of torches as stevedores loaded cargo into the hold.
Drawing closer to the gate, she saw Umbrello standing by the front door. A man and woman, heads held high, paused on the stairs, presumably waiting for their coach to pull up on the circular drive.
Serafina’s heart flew to her mouth, and she rapped on the ceiling, yelling for Rosa’s carriage to halt. Opening the door, she climbed over her friend, ran around to the driver, who stared at her in disbelief as she told him to proceed midway up the drive and stop. Then she motioned for the carabinieri to accompany Loffredo.
Peering through the gate to the far side of the estate, she saw a cart plowing through the high grass, Domenico standing up in it, cracking his whip and pounding his way toward the back of the house.
She ran to Loffredo, who had emerged from his carriage. “They’re leaving,” she said, gesturing to the villa’s entrance where the couple waited. “Pull into the drive behind us. You and Vicenzu take the carabinieri and get Domenico.” She pointed to Genoveffa’s killer lashing his whip and searing through the grass, by now, close to his destination. “He’s headed for the stables,” she said. And bring Arcangelo, too; he’ll calm the beasts while you subdue Domenico, but take care—he’s quite frenzied.”
Loffredo shook his head, doubting, he told her, that she’d be safe.
“Nonsense, we have Umbrello and the rest of the servants,” Serafina called over her shoulder. Looking back at Loffredo, she blew him a kiss and slipped on the footplate before scrambling into the carriage and signaling for the driver to proceed.
“Have you gone mad?” Rosa asked, her eyes wide.
Speaking more to herself than to Rosa, Serafina said, “Blind not to see it long before this. I should have realized it—how he twisted the truth.”
“What are you talking about?”
Serafina stopped to breathe, beads of water collecting above her upper lip. “The baron leaves with Doucette! You and I and Umbrello must stop them while Loffredo and the others capture Domenico.”
On the Stoop
Wearing a gown of dove grey underneath an ermine cape, her chatelaine purse in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other, Doucette held onto the arm of the baron as they stood on the stairs. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, her face rouged, her nails, lacquered. Diamonds dangled on her earrings, and her chin was held high.
“Not so fast,” Serafina said, walking toward them as the baron’s barouche drew up.
“Your coach blocks my way, dear ladies.” The baron looked at Serafina and smiled when he saw Rosa. “Why have you returned—forgotten something?”
“Your daughter’s dead.”
“But she’s inside with Ornetta. Now, please move, I have business I must—”
“With help from this woman and others, you poisoned your wife, and tonight, you’ve murdered Genoveffa, your daughter.”
Doucette, who up until now had been silent, said, “That is preposterous! My poor sister has been taken ill, and in haste I travel to Paris. The baron has been kind enough to arrange for my passage to Marseille this evening. Now if you will please tell the driver to move your vehicle to the side, we shall forget your outrageous accusations.”
“Didn’t I se
e the same cape you’re wearing on the shoulders of the baroness?” Rosa asked.
The baron’s face was raw. “There’s been some misunderstanding; I can assure you. I dearly loved my wife.”
“Until she came home ten years ago with a juicy French maid,” Rosa said.
He looked from Serafina to Rosa, nodding to Doucette.
Serafina watched as Doucette, eyes staring straight ahead, snapped open the clasp of her chatelaine bag and reached inside, drawing out a metal object.
Umbrello, who had been looking on from above, sprung from the stoop, his body arcing slightly as if he were diving into the sea, and butted the Frenchwoman in the small of her back. She fell forward, her pistol flying, scuttling across the stones of the drive. In one sweeping motion, the madam retrieved the gun and aimed it at the baron. “It would be better if we went into your study and waited for the police.”
In the atrium, Serafina saw Lina and asked her to run for the police. “Tell them to bring as many men as they can spare and to alert the harbor police—they’ll have at least three prisoners to cuff as well as cargo to inspect.”
“The footman’s already on his way to fetch them, ma’am. When Doucette returned this morning, we knew something was terribly wrong, and when she asked me to bring her the baroness’s ermine, Umbrello sent for the police. They should be here any minute.”
In the Baron’s Study
“One move and I shoot,” Umbrello said.
They stood in the middle of the baron’s study, Serafina, Rosa, and Umbrello surrounding the couple, Umbrello stretching his arm and aiming the barrel at the baron’s chest.
“There’s been a terrible mistake, and I can prove it if you’ll just put that gun away and let me—”
“Enough, Geraldo,” Doucette said. Her voice was low and cold. “We should have departed this afternoon, but you insisted on loading all that stupid cargo,” she spat.
“Quiet!” he hissed.
“Honeymoon wearing thin?” Rosa asked, gazing from Doucette to the portrait of the baroness in her gown and ermine cape.
“Leaving us so soon after your daughter’s brutal murder?” Serafina asked. “Not very aristocratic of you, Geraldo, but understandable, since you are guilty of her death in addition to the slow, painful murder of your wife, and wanted for smuggling goods to North America.”
“How dare you accuse me! Get out or I will summon the sub-prefect.”
“His representatives will be here any minute,” Serafina said.
“Then you’ll make a fool of yourself. You’ve no proof of your preposterous accusations, and I’ll see to it that you pay and pay dearly.”
She reached into her reticule and produced four of the baroness’s journals, holding them up. “Your wife’s words damn you, and we found your henchman near Genoveffa’s body.”
Serafina could see two spots of hectic color appear on the Frenchwoman’s cheeks. Doucette stared at the journals.
There was silence for a moment. Two. Three.
Geraldo’s eyes narrowed. While Serafina held her breath, the baron cleared his throat. He straightened his sash. “How much do you want?”
Serafina said nothing.
Umbrello’s hand remained steady.
“I’ll write you a draft now for twenty thousand lire.” Turning to Rosa, he said, “You’re a woman of the world, my dear. Persuade her. It’s my best offer. The police will never believe your story, and even if they do, I’ll be free tomorrow.”
“Keep your coins,” Rosa said, her eyes hard.
The door burst open, and Adriana ran into the room in scuffed boots and gaucho pants, a felt cape flying behind her. “Papa! Where are you going?” she cried, running into her father’s outstretched arms.
The baron held his daughter to his chest, turned her around to face Umbrello, and smiled. “Shoot at me, and you shoot the child.”
Umbrello did nothing, but Serafina saw the gun waver slightly in his hand.
“You heard him, oaf,” Doucette said. “Let us pass.”
Rosa took a step toward Doucette, but Serafina restrained her.
Slowly, the butler lowered the gun.
“Give it to me.”
Umbrello made no move.
“You heard me.” With one hand holding his little girl by the waist, the baron thrust Adriana forward as a shield. “Give me the gun!” He said between his teeth, holding his palm in Umbrello’s face.
The butler handed him the gun.
“Doucette, shall we go?”
The three began moving slowly toward the door.
The baron squeezed his daughter to his chest, and turning quickly, he pointed the gun at Serafina and began backing up toward the door, Doucette by his side.
Adriana squirmed to break free. “Let me down!” Kicking his stomach, she cried, “Down, I want to get down!”
It was a disaster, and there was nothing Serafina could do to help. She had no doubt the baron would fire, hitting one of them, and she dared not make a move, not with the child flailing about in the baron’s arms and a gun in his hand.
Bumping into the door, the baron spun around, reaching for the handle when it opened wide, and Naldo appeared, throwing the baron off-balance. Brandishing the gun in one hand and still holding his child, he careened into Doucette.
Serafina’s heart throbbed. It was an almost comic ending, one that she should have foreseen. “Let go of Adriana!” Serafina cried.
“Ah, good.” The baron turned his head to gloat at Serafina. “Now we’re free, and at no great cost. Help me, won’t you, son? Hands are full right at the moment, and this … woman and her friends detain me. Here, take the child.”
But Naldo grabbed the gun, and with a graceful motion, he swung around to the baron’s back, held the pistol to his father’s head, and cocked the trigger. “Drop her. It’s over,” he said.
Adriana continued to wail, her feet kicking against the baron.
“Never!” Doucette cried, grabbing Naldo from behind. He sent a swift elbow into her chest, and she doubled over in pain.
“Drop her!” Naldo said between clenched teeth.
“Never!” Geraldo yelled.
“Drop her, or I shoot!”
The baron held his distraught child as he grappled with his son.
“Let her go!” Serafina yelled.
Suddenly there was blinding light and a loud bang. Serafina’s nose filled with an acrid stench, and the floor seemed to buck and kick underneath her feet. She and Rosa fell to the ground, Umbrello’s body protecting them.
Howling, Adriana sprang free, ran for the door, slamming into Loffredo, who at that second was entering the room with Vicenzu. He swooped the child into his arms, holding her tight until Ornetta rushed in, grabbed her, and ran away.
Naldo stood over the body of his father, his face expressionless. The baron’s eyes were glazed and sightless, a smoking gun by his side. Sobbing, Doucette crawled to his body and cradled him in her arms, the skirt of her dove grey dress turning red.
Home Again
Sunday, March 27, 1870
“I picked up Giulia from the contessa’s studio, and we rode the train together,” Carlo said, coming into the dining room and walking over to cuff Totò’s ear. “We’re here to surprise you. Wouldn’t miss your mass tomorrow.” Looking at his watch, he corrected himself. “Today.”
Serafina rose from the dessert table and kissed them both while Carlo took Giulia’s cape and Vicenzu brought two more chairs. As it was, they were still short a chair, so Tessa had to sit on Rosa’s lap. While they waited for Renata to cut two more slices of the cassata—Carlo’s favorite, as it turned out, dripping with sweetened ricotta and marmalade—Serafina looked at her middle daughter. Giulia was radiant in a rose watered silk, the finishing of her dress ex
quisite with organdy overskirts gathered to form a bustle in the back. Little wonder, she was the designer at a house of fashion in Palermo. By contrast, the clothes that Serafina and her other daughters wore were dated, especially Carmela’s, whose dress was frayed at the hem and spotted with who knew what, no doubt from caring for the garden and the children. She recalled with a start Rosa’s words earlier, scolding Serafina for disregarding her oldest daughter, and her attention was snagged up in the memory until someone handed her a plate of cake and Carlo, charming as usual, shook hands with Loffredo and sat on the other side of Serafina.
While they ate, Serafina told her son about her most recent case.
“What I don’t understand is how we were duped by the baron. I never once figured him and Doucette for lovers, and I still can’t see it,” Rosa said. “He has the sexual drive of an ancient eunuch. I wonder if the servants suspected?”
“Only the ones he got rid of,” Serafina said. “But I’m the wizard, and he had me utterly fooled. I was sure he loved his wife.”
“Let me understand something,” Carlo said, stealing a large piece of dessert from Serafina’s plate and swilling it down with marsala, “this baron fellow murdered his wife because he was afraid she’d expose his smuggling.” He looked around the table at his audience, making sure they were listening, spied Teo, Totò, and Maria in rapt attention. “He enlisted the help of a French what-to-call-her and together they had the baroness poisoned; then he killed his daughter, a nun, days before the terms of her dowry took effect, because she realized her mother had been poisoned. But as luck would have it, he was killed by his son, whether by accident or not, moments before he and his friend were to escape.”
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