Murder On The Rue Cassette (A Serafina Florio Mystery) (25 page)

“The man who opened the
restaurant was from Palermo,” Teo said.

“So he’s the one who taught the
French how to cook,” Rosa said. “I knew it.”

They hailed a cab. “Rue
l’Ancienne Comédie,” Arcangelo said.

Chapter
32: Café Procope

“We want the best table in the house,”
Rosa said. “Someplace where we can talk without being disturbed.” She slipped
the waiter some francs, and he smiled.

“This way, please. He led them
up a narrow flight of stairs.

As they passed a tricorne
displayed on a shelf, Loffredo pointed to it and said, “Napoleon dined here.
That’s his hat.”

Arcangelo reached out to it.

“Not for touching,” the waiter
said.

When they were seated, Serafina
told them she had a bit of news and summarized a note Busacca sent to her
stating that he’d been in contact with his lawyer. There was to be a reading of
Elena’s will on May 16, one month after her death, but the lawyer told Busacca
the terms.

“Elena changed her will, making
his sister sole beneficiary.”

Rosa arched one brow and looked
at Serafina. Serafina stared at Loffredo.

“I’m not surprised. I knew she
was going to change it,” he said. “She cut off my allowance some time ago.” He
didn’t show distress, seemed like he’d been expecting it. Serafina wondered how
he’d manage to live in his villa close to Oltramari’s piazza without Elena’s
money, on the meager stipend the state paid its medical examiners, but he
didn’t seem worried.

In his note, Busacca also
mentioned that Sophie had already applied to
l’Assicurazioni Generali
of Trieste requesting payment according to the terms of a
life insurance policy that Elena had taken out some time ago.

Serafina told them she’d taken
Busacca’s note to Valois.

Rosa straightened. “Arrest an
old woman for fraud? I’d like to see Valois do that. In Sicily it wouldn’t
happen.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Loffredo
said. “If what Busacca says is true,
l’Assicurazioni’s
lawyers will swoop down and
carry her to the gallows in their talons. And don’t think they won’t find her
in Paris.”

“Valois asked if we’d found
Elena.”

“And you told him?”

“Not yet.”

“So if we’re finished with
lawyers and free spirits, let’s eat,” the madam said, wrapping a knife on her
glass.

“This restaurant is almost two
hundred years old,” Loffredo said. “Poets and kings have dined here.”

They studied the menu.

“I’m not that hungry,” Serafina
said.

“You always say that. Where’s
Carmela by the way?”

Serafina told her about
Carmela’s plans to work for Busacca.

“Good for her,” Rosa said. “She
has a love of color, a flair, a way of summing up. It all comes together, and
Busacca needs help or the business his ancestors founded six hundred years ago
will disappear. He could use a good accountant, too. Did you tell him about
Vicenzu?”

“We need him to run the
apothecary.” Leave it to the madam to understand Busacca. “You seem to know him
well. Was he a customer?” Serafina asked.

“Don’t be ridiculous. He loves
his wife. They don’t deserve what their daughter has become.”

“He blames himself.”

“He would. But his daughter is
her own person,” Rosa said. “I’m lucky. I have the perfect daughter.”

Tessa blushed.

Loffredo looked happier now that
the truth was out about Elena. He sat next to Serafina and studied her face,
her hair.

“We’re here to dine, Loffredo,
not to make love,” Rosa said.

Tessa’s blush deepened.
Arcangelo looked at Teo, his eyes wide.

“We’re also here to plan,”
Serafina said. “Last week Victorine gave Carmela the address of her studio. I
have it here. We might pay a visit. It’s not far from here, one of the narrow
streets near the Seine in the sixth arrondissement, I believe. She’s one of
Elena’s friends, but alas, unreliable. Carmela’s gone to her studio several
times and she hasn’t been in when she said she would be. But I think we should
keep trying.”

“I’ve met her, I believe,”
Loffredo said. “An artist, but like Elena, difficult to find. I hope we have
better luck this afternoon.”

A waiter in vest and apron came
to take their order.

Rosa studied the menu. “Just a
snack you understand. We’ve missed the noon meal, but we want to have a full
meal tonight. Your menu is so tempting, I don’t know what to choose.”

“Then I suggest some of our
excellent pâté to start, and perhaps two bottles of wine, a Cabernet and a
Medoc. You’ll want to try our dessert. Everything we serve is delicious, but we
are renowned for our pastries.”

“You would be. Monsieur Procopio
was born in Palermo,” the madam said and adjusted her hat.

The waiter nodded.

“I know what I want,” Loffredo
said. “The
coq au vin
here is delicious.”

Arcangelo and Teo ordered the same.
Tessa wanted to try the trout served with almonds and boiled potatoes, Serafina
ordered salmon and a small salad, and Rosa ordered the gnocchi and sea bass.

“Any response to the
advertisement?” Rosa asked as she watched the waiter bone her bass.

“What are you talking about?”
Tessa asked.

Serafina told her about placing
a notice in the papers, asking for information about Elena. Their food arrived,
succulent and steaming. Serafina was amazed at the cuisine. She thought soon
they’d have a meal not up to their high standards, but as yet that had not
happened. She had to admire French cuisine. She straightened, wishing Gesuzza
had not tightened her corset so much. Besides, small waists were no longer the
style. She’d have a word with Rosa after the meal.

All talk stopped while they were
served, but when the waiters left, Tessa told them she’d found the studios of
Renoir and Degas. Neither artist knew Elena, although Degas said there are a
few wealthy women, hangers on, who come to his studio from time to time,
usually at inappropriate times.

“His studio was a mess, Mama, it
looked like he’d never cleaned it,” Tessa said, taking a bite of her trout.
“But my favorite is Renoir. So handsome, charming, too, but he’s interested
only in painting.”

“Had he heard any news of
Elena?” Serafina asked. She speared some lettuce and smiled at its flavor as
she took a bite.

Tessa shook her head. “And I
also knocked on Victorine’s door, but there was no answer.”

Teo wiped sauce from his lips.
“Why don’t you send me and Arcangelo to the south of France looking for Elena?”

Serafina shook her head. If she
sent them now, they’d flounder, she explained. She had no leads, nowhere to
point them to begin the search, and the south of France was vast.

Loffredo agreed. “We have an old
address for her in Arles, another in Aix. She stayed there during the Siege,
but they’re both apartments she let some five years ago. She gave them up when
her friends moved back to Paris after the Commune.”

Conversation stopped while
busboys cleared the table and waiters brought café and desserts, a collection
of sweets.

“Something the cook made for
you, Madame,” the waiter said, and presented Rosa with a silver tray filled
with cannoli, enough for everyone, in addition to their orders of profiteroles
and bowls of crème brûlée and piping hot café. The madam bit into one, and the
shell crackled, pronouncing the cannoli shells passable.

* * *

Serafina showed Loffredo the
envelope the concierge had given her. It contained the notice
La
Presse
had run
along with a letter written on what Tessa said was charcoal paper, a grayish
blue tone, smudged in spots and written in crude block letters. “I know where
she is.” It was the only line, and it was signed by Zacharie Honoré with an
address on the Rue Maître Albert, close to Victorine’s studio.

The street was narrow, the
neighborhood quiet on a hazy afternoon when Serafina and Loffredo knocked on
the door and waited. And waited some more.

“Another chasing of the wayward
goose. I’m beginning to think we’ll never find her,” Serafina said. “Let’s go,
I’m so sorry.”

They’d gotten halfway down the
street when someone called out, “Yes?”

Turning back, they saw the head
of a young man with ragged hair.

“We search for Zacharie Honoré.”

“You see him before you,” the
man said, wiping his palms on the sides of his pants.

He smelled of oil and turpentine
and his breath was foul. Serafina moved back a few paces. She noticed that his
shoelaces were missing. His neck, face, and hands were dirty, a failed painter
with blotchy skin and a purple nose. She looked at Loffredo who shrugged.

Honoré led the way down several
steps to his studio, a small airless room, part of the building’s cellar, he
explained. An oil lamp was the only light. An empty easel stood in the corner.
Pots of linseed oil, vials of pigment, a sack of plaster and rabbit skin glue
stood on a worktable next to a few worn brushes. A roll of linen and wooden
stretchers were stacked in the corner. In the far corner finished canvases were
strewn about, their lines and colors unappealing.

“You answered a notice in
La Presse
.”

He nodded.

“How do you know Elena?”
Loffredo asked.

“A few years ago, we were ...
friends. I met her through a mutual friend, a poet, Paul Verlaine. Not here
now, he’s in prison. And of course through Victorine, we both know her.”

“You were lovers?”

He shrugged. “She helps me and I
help her.”

“This is your studio?” Serafina
asked. “Your work?” She pointed to the paintings.

He had a prolonged coughing fit.
“Last year’s work. Haven’t painted in a while. I’ve been ill.” His hands began
to tremble and he hid them beneath the seat of his chair.

Loffredo rubbed his chin. She
could feel the heft of his sorrow. They watched as Honoré coughed again.

Serafina wished she could help
him. “You need fresh air. I suggest we go to a café. Do you know a place close
by?”

“Down the street, closer to the
quay. Too expensive for me, but there’s a bistro you would like.”

They walked down the street with
Honoré. She watched Loffredo drinking in the fresh air. When they were seated,
the painter ordered steak and
pommes
frites
.
Loffredo asked him where they could find Elena.

He didn’t answer at first, he
was too busy shoveling in his food. Serafina noticed his hands were filthy. He
was eating with them, not bothering with utensils, stuffing chunks of meat into
his mouth. She turned away.

“She’s in Aix, close to
Cézanne’s studio.” He looked at them, wary. His lips were coated with animal
fat. It dribbled down his chin.

“Do you have the address?”

“I ...”

“Do you have her address or
not?” Serafina asked.

“I do. You must understand,” he
said, interrupted by coughing, “she asked me not to tell anyone. I’m to meet
her there next month, and she will have paintings for me to show to our
friends.”

Slowly he brought out a piece of
paper, worn in spots where it had been folded many times. He handed it to
Loffredo who opened it and read. “The note is written in her hand.”

Honoré’s gaze was furtive. “My
reward?”

Serafina opened her reticule and
drew out an envelope.

His fingers shook as he opened
it and counted the bills.

* * *

After they left Honoré, she and
Loffredo walked along the Seine until they found a place to sit.

“Remember
Les Halles
?” he asked. When she nodded he said,
“I saw Honoré with a companion at the small bar. They were quite drunk, do you
remember them?”

Serafina shook her head. “I saw
only you.” She stopped then and reached up and kissed him. It was a real kiss,
a kiss worthy of Paris.

“How far has Elena sunk?” He
buried his head in her shoulder and wept.

There was a telegraph office in
the hotel and they cabled Valois with Elena’s location in Aix and their
intention to take the first train from the Gare de Lyon and confront her.

Serafina felt a sense of urgency
now that she knew where Elena was. She felt sure this Honoré fellow was telling
the truth. He’d shown her the address written in Elena’s hand, for one thing.
And yet they must hurry. Elena was like a wave on the shore—her own
father had said as much. She and Loffredo quickened their pace.