Murder On The Rue Cassette (A Serafina Florio Mystery) (10 page)

His luck had been extreme,
meeting, wooing, winning this woman, his wife for close to thirteen years. They
met when he was at the Sorbonne, enrolled in the Advanced Latin course and she
was sent to tutor him, having been privately schooled by one of the greatest
class of French scholars, a
femme
savante
. He’d
admired Françoise’s grace, her generosity, her mind, her fire. He’d never
considered another woman, and after a suitable courtship, they were married.

She looked up at him and smiled.
“You’re troubled, Alphonse. Don’t tell me why, I’d be bored to tears,” she
said. Her face was lightly tanned, her blue-violet eyes penetrating, her
forehead high and filled with wisdom, lines forged and refined by generations
of Northern European waters. “I’m going to sit in the garden and admire my
handiwork while you wait on me. I’ll have a tisane, please, a little sugar but
no lemon, perhaps a spot of cream and a few of the madeleines my mother brought
us yesterday. Let the domestic help, but do most of the work yourself to show
her your true nature.”

“Where is Charlus?”

“Inside doing his homework and
waiting to kiss his father. Don’t distract him for too long. And don’t touch
the
paté
—the Clermonts are coming for dinner.”

An innovator, his Françoise, who
had a fresh way of viewing life. Not that she wasn’t like him, the result of
upper class coupling. Like him, born and raised in Paris, educated by the best.

As he waited for the tea
steeping in a porcelain pot, the difficulties of the case seemed barely visible,
like the smoke from a locomotive disappearing into the Pyrenees. But he tried
to hold onto his problem so that after their refreshment, he could explain it
and with his wife’s unsurpassed ability to discern, discover the proper course
of action to follow.

During the Siege and the
Commune, they could have fled with their son, then a toddler, to their estate
in the south of France, but chose instead to remain. “Good for your career,”
she’d assured him. And they had prevailed, thanks to her brains and tenacity.
One picture of that hungry time remained in his mind, that of Françoise
twisting the mane of a rotund neighbor, the two of them fighting for the last
scrap of horse flesh while the butcher and half the neighborhood looked on.
She’d returned, unaware that he’d seen the altercation. Graceful, unperturbed,
not a blonde hair was out of place but coiled into a perfect bun on top of her
head, she had hummed while the meat sizzled in the pan.

When he returned with the tea
tray, she said, “I’m listening.”

So he told her about the body in
the street, the foulness of it, the pistol placed in the dead hand, the
reticule stuffed with francs and identity papers of an aristocrat, the husband
imprisoned but not talking, the Sicilian sleuth sent by the countess’s grieving
father, a tradesman of some note in Paris.

“And now I find that the photos
of the dead woman have gone missing from my desk, and the Sicilian detective
wants to see them and asks to see other evidence as well.”

Unruffled, she considered for
some moments. “What seemed at first a sordid affair of street people is now
something more, perhaps a cover-up. You must walk a taut rope. Be careful, I’ve
heard of this countess. A debauched woman, she comes from a wealthy family,
influential milliners since the thirteenth century. Their presence in Paris is
considerable. But you must not make one small incident into an international
affair.”

“What could the Italian
government do?”

“The Italian ambassador to
France, Count Constantine Nigra helped the empress of Austria escape Paris
during the Siege. The present government thinks highly of him. He could cause
you real harm. I suggest you work with this Florio woman. The theft of the
photos is the pretext for your change of heart. Help her. Show her the evidence
she wishes to see, but keep a close watch. Let her make the mistakes.”

Françoise scared him sometimes,
but he was a sparkling host that evening and slept through the night.

Chapter
12: What Carmela Discovers

Carmela, Tessa, and the maid waited outside the exhibit for
Teo and Arcangelo. They were about to leave when they saw the two running
toward them.

“If we had gone, could you have
found your way to the hotel?” Carmela asked.

They nodded.

“That may be, but we must all
stay together.” It was the first time Gesuzza had spoken, and Carmela was
surprised at the chilling effect of her words. She was right, of course. The
city and the language were new to all of them. They must stay together.

“Across the street,” Arcangelo
began, breathing hard. “Two men.”

“I suggest that we walk to the
Tuileries across from the hotel and sit,” Carmela said. “The day is lovely, and
we could all use a rest. When we’ve recovered, you can tell me what you’ve
discovered.”

“Not much,” Arcangelo began
again, after he had regained his breath. They continued walking in the
direction of the Tuileries.

“The two men we saw in Marseille
stopped across the street from us.”

“On the Boulevard des
Capucines?” she asked.

Arcangelo nodded. “They pretended
to look in the shop windows. They sauntered up and down the sidewalk, went
inside a café, but left soon enough. When we started toward them, they ran, so
we followed.”

“And?”

“Not bright, those two.”

Carmela shook her head. “They
may be very bright. Undoubtedly this is their first time in Paris and they seem
to get around without much trouble.”

“Maybe they wanted to be
followed,” Tessa suggested.

They stopped discussing the men
while they strode down the Rue de la Paix, the four of them waiting while
Carmela stared at the hats displayed in the windows of Busacca et Fils. She
loved hats, loved to design them for herself, loved to look at them in shop
windows, on women who paraded them in the streets. She closed her eyes and
imagined she saw a sea of hats, each one unique, each one designed by her.

With crowds of other tourists,
they admired the Place Vendôme and crossed into the Jardin des Tuileries where
they sat around an ornamental pool. They were silent for a time as they watched
young children launch toy sailing boats into the shallow water.

She focused on the people
enjoying their park, pedestrians walking fast, friends gathered together and
laughing their words into the air, fashionable men escorting women with
parasols, young girls spinning tops, boys tossing jacks and chasing hoops, the
old strolling softly. She admired their grace and style, the smartness of their
clothes. To her, all Parisians seemed in high spirits and free from care,
unlike the people in her city. If Giulia could find a job here, why couldn’t
she? She’d bring her child here, raise him in a proper country. She let the sun
play on her face, dreaming of a better day.

Gesuzza sat, her arms crossed,
her eyes narrowed, her thoughts unknowable.

“Finish telling us about the
men,” Carmela said.

Teo wet his lips. “We followed
them into an alley that kept getting narrower. Finally we cornered them between
two buildings.”

“Brave but foolhardy, you could
have been killed,” Carmela said.

“We asked again why they were
watching us and they said it was to ensure our safety.”

“The same thing they said in
Marseille,” Carmela said.

“But this time, I think I
recognized one of the men, the one Arcangelo hit with his slingshot. I saw him
in the piazza at home or in Boffo’s restaurant, one of those,” Teo said. “I
think the guy might have been collecting from Boffo, because now that I
remember it, Boffo was pouring coins into his palm and puffing his cheeks in
and out, the way he does when he’s unhappy.”

“So they’re working for the
don?” Carmela asked.

“Here comes
la signura
,”
Gesuzza said. She waved Rosa
over to where they were sitting and gave her the double kiss.

* * *

After the others had gone to the
Jardin des Plantes, Carmela, Rosa, and Serafina sat in Serafina’s room. Carmela
told them about the exhibit and about meeting Berthe Morisot and Victorine
Meurent, what they’d said about Elena, her tantrum in the Place St. Sulpice,
and about the man who accompanied her to the opening.

“Their impressions of Elena are
the same as ours. She fools only herself. But I find it hard to believe that
neither woman had heard of Elena’s death.”

Serafina looked at Rosa. “Go
on.”

“They saw her Wednesday at the
vernissage
and also Thursday evening at the
opening with her new lover, and they believe she’ll visit the exhibit again
before it closes. She’s been a staunch supporter of these artists.”

“Did you tell them she was
murdered?”

Carmela shook her head. “I
wasn’t there to give out information. I was there to get information.”

Serafina smiled. “Right.
Besides, we don’t know for sure that Elena’s dead. We only know what others
tell us.”

The madam rolled her eyes.

“Tell me about going to Busacca’s
store,” Carmela said. “I’m familiar with the one in Palermo, and we passed his
shop on the Rue de la Paix. I love his hats—they’re such intriguing
statements.”

Serafina studied her daughter.
“As a child you created your own. Had to wear one all the time. You must visit
all his stores in Paris.” She gave Busacca’s card to her. “Present this.
They’ll design one for you.”

Carmela examined it. “Here all
the women wear them. Not so at home.”

“We wear them when it’s cool
enough,” Rosa said. “Imagine wearing a hat in June in Oltramari.”

Just then there was a knock on
the door.

“A package for you, Madame.” The
bellboy handed Serafina a hatbox.

“Where’s mine?” Rosa asked.

“So sorry, Madame, I did not
know you were here.” He smiled and handed her a hatbox.

“Try them on!”

Elena was forgotten while they
dealt with hats, Carmela supervising and showing Rosa and Serafina how they
should wear them.

“Wonderful! The color suits you,
Mama.”

“Do you think so?” Serafina
turned from the glass and faced her daughter.

“No angle it more, like this.”
Carmela reached up and adjusted the hat, playing with the angle. “Something’s
wrong. The feathers are wrong, I think.” She fussed with them a bit. “Try it
now.”

“Perfect,” Serafina said.

“Made of felt for cool weather,”
Carmela said. “Soon you’ll need a lighter fabric.”

“If this investigation goes on
any longer, we’ll need to send for our summer wardrobe,” the madam said.

Serafina winked at her daughter.
“If it does, you can design me a hat for spring.”

Carmela’s face colored and she
teared up. “I hope the investigation goes on and on. I don’t want to go home.
Here, I’m happy. Here, I can be somebody.”

They were silent a moment,
Serafina trying not to let her daughter’s words sting. Then she told Carmela of
their meeting with Madame de Masson and with the honorable Léon Renault,
prefect of police.

“A charming man,” Rosa said,
taking off her hat and carefully laying it back in its box. She closed the lid
and tied it. “But uncooperative.”

“So I’m afraid our day was less
fruitful than yours, except for our visit to Busacca et Fils,” Serafina said,
“where we learned that Sophie de Masson is losing her eyesight.”

“How could she have identified
the dead woman as her niece?” Carmela asked.

Serafina shrugged. “The more I
hear, the more mysterious Elena’s death seems to me. I’m beginning to believe
she’s not dead at all.”

Carmela shook her head. “Hard to
believe.”

“Perhaps it’s wishful thinking
on my part,” Serafina said.

“Nonsense. Why would you wish
Elena alive?” Rosa asked. She picked at a thread on her sleeve.

“Unfortunately, Loffredo is in
prison, charged with murdering his wife. He may hang for her death and she may
not even be dead.” Without realizing it, Serafina had begun to pace the room.

“Why is he charged with murdering
Elena?” Carmela asked, a hand to her throat.

Serafina stopped. “Valois said a
café owner or some such person identified him as the man he saw with Elena that
night.”

“Where?”

“In his café, of course, right
before she was murdered.”

Carmela shook her head. “But a
few hours earlier, she was with another man at the opening.”

“What difference does that
make?” Rosa asked. “Elena plays by her own rules. She’s not above being with
one man one minute and another man the next. She’s nothing more than a cocotte,
and not a very nice one, either.”

Carmela fished in her reticule
and brought out a slip of paper. “Étienne Gaston. That’s the man’s name. He
signed the exhibit’s guest book underneath Elena’s name.”

“Her lover?”

“According to the women at the
exhibit. Here’s his address.”

“What did they say he looked
like?”

“He’s tall, thin, scholarly, not
their type.”

Serafina began to range about
the room again.

“Walking around like a madwoman
will do nothing,” Rosa said. “Best to put your mind to a plan.”

“You’re right.” She got out her
notebook and began scribbling, scratching out, writing something else and
scratching that out as well. She couldn’t stop. It was as if a demon controlled
her actions.

Rosa threw up her hands and
Carmela looked at her watch, stifling a yawn. In a moment, Serafina saw Rosa
looking out the window and Carmela regarding herself in the glass, picking up a
soft pillow and arranging it on her head and laughing.

Serafina smiled at her daughter.
Her mood had passed, and she began to write in earnest.

“What about images of the dead
woman?” Carmela asked. “The French are such great photographers, even in such
little light as there must have been at the murder scene, surely they took
photos of the dead woman’s face. They love to show them in their magazines.
They don’t cringe from such horrors. Take the Paris morgue, for instance.”

“Ghoulish, if you ask me,” Rosa
said. “Of course, all we need to do in Oltramari if we crave a horror show is
to look out the window.”

Serafina nodded. “The inspector
offered to show the photographs to us, surprised that we wanted to see them. He
reminded us two or three times of their gruesomeness, and when we insisted on
looking at them, he couldn’t find them.”

“Strange,” Carmela said.

“Claims he’d misplaced them and
promised to have them in hand soon. We insisted on meeting him tomorrow morning
at nine in his office.” She stared out the window, lost. “So the most important
thing we learned today was not what was seen, but what was not seen; not what
was shown, but what was not shown, not what was said, but what was not said.”

“She’s gone round the twist,”
the madam said.

Serafina got up, looked at Rosa
and Carmela, and sat down again. “Let’s take a break while I summarize
everything we’ve learned about Elena.”

“You mean we should get lost.”

“I didn’t say that. I’ll feel
better after I’ve written out a complete list—what we know, what we don’t
know, and how to free Loffredo.”

“Careful, Fina. Freeing Loffredo
is not what Busacca is paying you to do. He wants Elena’s killer brought to
justice, that’s his commission. He doesn’t give a fig for her husband,” Rosa
said. “And you don’t want the inspector to find out that you and Elena’s
husband are lovers. It would color everything you do and say from now on. In
short, you’d be disregarded. Worse, you’d be shut out of Valois’ investigation.
If you want me to request visiting the accused, I will, but you should stay far
away from the subject. Have nothing to do with Loffredo as far as Valois is
concerned.”

She had to hand it to Rosa.
She’d remained calm the whole day, knew enough not to try and handle Valois,
and now said just the right words. “You’re right of course. But we need to find
a way to get word to him that I’m here and not to worry, that I’ll discover the
truth.”

Rosa patted Serafina’s arm.
“Leave Loffredo to me. I’ll call on my friends at the Italian embassy.”

“What would I do without you?”

“We’re all tired, and I have an
idea,” Rosa said. “The last time I was here, I had a delightful tea at a café
on the Boulevard des Italiens. The street is filled with them. Café Tortoni, I
believe was the name, but it doesn’t matter. We’ll go to whichever one looks
good to us. And I for one could do with a large latté.”

“But I don’t want the children
to miss out. Besides, high tea would spoil their meal. Let’s wait until they
return and rest until dinner. Pick a restaurant, any restaurant. In the
meantime, I’ll gather my thoughts. Why don’t you order yourself a treat from
one of those cute little bellboys you flirt with all the time, or better yet,
take a turn at one of the cafés in the hotel.”