Murder On The Rue Cassette (A Serafina Florio Mystery) (30 page)

Chapter 38:
Mal de Mer

The sea was placid, the night
sky beautiful, the boat not too full and they dined with the captain. She and
Loffredo spent their days on deck, sleeping or talking with the other
passengers. The closer they got to Paris, however, the more she thought about
Elena and the loose ends of the case.

Serafina’s French improved, but
the Parisians still regarded her with a tight smile. They met a widow and her
dog who lived in their arrondissement and now that they could smile at someone
whom they might pass on the sidewalk, they thought of themselves as practically
natives.

They walked around the deck or
asked Teo what mountains they were looking at. Where he’d found the
information, she didn’t know, probably somewhere on Giorgio’s shelves, but he
held a map showing latitude, longitude, currents, depths of the sea. “We’re in
the deepest part of the Tyrrhenian Sea,” he announced on the first afternoon of
their voyage, “almost 3800 meters deep.” His words attracted other passengers
who thought he was the ship’s guide. Maria looked at Teo as though he belonged
in a cage. And yet Serafina felt her daughter drawn to him.

Serafina kissed Loffredo on the
arm. “I’m watching my family through your eyes and seeing them for the first
time.”

“Perhaps we should tell them the
story of Elena at dinner tonight.”

“I’ve got a better idea. After
we arrive, we’ll invite Busacca and have him tell the story of his daughter. A
lesson for them, I should think.”

It was Renata’s first trip by
sea and she spent most of the time in her state room, ill.

“Another night and we’ll be in
Marseille. You’ll like the cuisine, I think. Distinctive.”

“If I never eat again, I’ll be
happy,” Renata said.

“There’s a big kitchen in our
apartment in Paris, most of the appliances seldom used. You’ll like it, my
sweet.”

She smiled, pale. “I think I’d
like to learn French cuisine.”

“And you’ll make it your own,
Sicilian French, how daring. We’ll hire a chef for you and you can teach him
pastry and he’ll teach you whatever it is you want to know and show you
Les
Halles
. You’ll
spend hours there. Sauces, the French cover everything with a sauce. I want to
invite Levi Busacca to dinner, introduce him to Vicenzu and entertain him with
your cuisine, my love. Don’t worry. This voyage will be over soon and with it
your
mal de mer
.”

They were silent for a time
until Serafina changed the subject. “What did you think of Carlo? His drinking
disturbs me.”

“I saw him once when I took the
train back from La Vucciria,” Renata said, in between bathroom bouts. “He
didn’t see me but he was with two of his friends.”

“Women?”

She shook her head. “I know I’ve
seen them before. I don’t like them. One has slicked black hair, the other has
hair like you and Carmela. They’re brothers.”

Serafina’s heart dropped. “Are
you certain?”

Renata nodded and was silent for
a moment, fingering the chain of her reticule. “I miss Badali.”

“Did you give him our address in
Paris?”

“Of course.” She knotted her
fingers and twisted.

“We’ll be back soon. Who knows,
your aristocratic clients in Bagheria will clamor for your pastry and you’ll
need to make a special trip home this summer.” She hadn’t thought enough of her
daughter’s feelings. She was too concerned for herself and for leaving without
the don’s noticing. Would Rosa’s guards be adequate to watch over their home
while they were away?

* * *

On the deck their last day, they
huddled together enjoying the sun and salt air. Teo sat near Maria, who hitched
herself as far away from him as she could and still remain next to him. She
buried her face in the score she carried at all times, running a finger below
the notes and humming, from time to time turning her face toward him but only
by a fraction.

“Studying?” he asked.

“Scarlatti.”

“How’s your French repertoire?”

She shrugged.

“Because you know about the
Paris Conservatory, of course, and you have a chance for admission, but I think
you’d have a better one if you learned some pieces by Saint-Saëns or Franck.”

“He’s Belgian.”

“But he teaches at the
Conservatory. And you’ll have to learn French.”

She looked at him and narrowed
her eyes, but she was listening. “Music is the universal language.”

“Do we have to stay in Paris?”
Maria asked. “Yes,” Loffredo said.

“My career may take a dive.”

That night Maria woke up
screaming. She knocked on Serafina’s door.

Serafina held her daughter.
“Tell me the dream, my sweet.”

Maria shook her head. “Too
horrible.” She held her up hands, examining them.

Serafina rocked Maria until her
tears died.

“I should have stayed in Palermo
with Aunt Giuseppina.”

Chapter
39:
Le Livre de Pâtisserie

The afternoon of their arrival
Serafina was haunted by what seemed a rash decision to leave home. She longed
for Oltramari and its dusty streets. But even before she’d unpacked and sorted
out the bedrooms, Carmela and Giulia paid a visit, laughing, bringing food and
wine and speaking a guttural form of French. Serafina brightened. Most of her
family was together again.

In a week they were settled.
They’d applied to the Minister of Justice, Keeper of the Seal, for complete
domicile and naturalization. It would take three years. Loffredo and Serafina
announced their intention to marry properly in the civil courts according to
French law, and Serafina’s yearning for Oltramari was swallowed up by the
excitement of Paris in full bloom.

Teo, Tessa and Arcangelo bought
maps for the newcomers and showed them everything they knew of the city. They
were out most days, returning for supper, tired and happy, adapting quickly as
children do, and beginning to pick up the language. Even Maria forgot about her
piano. In six months they’d be shouting to one another in French.

At first the bedrooms were a bit
of a squeeze, but they’d have to make do with them. They found three small
chambers on one side of the conservatory, perfect for the nurse and toddlers.
The rest of the rooms were on the first floor, two in the east wing and two in
the west. For now Teo, Arcangelo, and Totò would have to share a room.

They had an easy time of moving,
Loffredo assured her. At the table one evening, he passed around an article
in
Le Figaro
about the squalid conditions
immigrants faced in New York. They stared at the photographs of the newly
arrived, crowding into Castle Garden, of families huddled together in one room,
immigrants relegated to the poor neighborhoods of lower Manhattan. “But we’ve
landed in Paris like a cat in a bowl of liver.”

The space eased considerably
soon after Rosa became friends with the concierge. More than friends, Loffredo
thought.

“She’s part snake charmer,”
Serafina told him.

When an apartment opened on the
first floor, Rosa was the first to learn of it and snapped it up. There was a
studio for Tessa, she told Serafina, and best of all, they had exclusive use of
the garden. “Tessa can paint
en
pleine air
. Now
I must find a cook.” And Françoise introduced her to a second cousin who had a
friend who had a sister who knew a cook who was looking for work. Her
references were strong and Rosa hired her for a week with the possibility of
full-time employment. After two dinners, Rosa was delighted and the woman was
hired.

Renata, it appeared, tucked
Badali into a far corner of her mind when she saw the kitchen. Larger than
Serafina remembered, it containing every utensil, every size of pot and pan and
platter a cook would want. Still, there was something not quite right with Renata,
Loffredo felt.

“I know,” Serafina said. “She’s
like that. If I could take her pain away, I would.”

Loffredo went to Librairie
Hachette on the Boulevard Saint-Germain and bought Renata a copy of
Le Livre de Pâtisserie
by Jules Gouffé.

“But it’s in French.”

“
Certainement
,” an unfamiliar voice said.

Serafina looked up at the figure
in black bombazine. “You must be the tutor.”

“The
femme savante
, Madame.”

Rosa bustled in. “We found her
talking to the concierge,” she explained, “and I brought her up here. She’ll
teach us everything we need to know, I expect.”

The tall woman introduced
herself. Busacca had arranged it, she said, “For six months or as you wish,
Madame.” There was a stiffness about her that reminded Serafina of a French
housekeeper she’d met a few years ago when she and Rosa worked a case in
Bagheria.

Chapter
40: Hiding from the Truth

Serafina sat in a far corner of
the ladies’ parlor and her mind drifted again to the case. Loffredo’s injury
meant they’d departed before she’d finished tying up loose ends, and there were
two areas of the investigation that bothered her—Elena’s admission that
she’d killed the woman in the Rue Cassette and the unrecovered photos taken at
the scene of the crime.

A few things disturbed her about
Elena’s confession. First, she wondered how and when Elena stole Gaston’s
pistols—how and when she learned to shoot, albeit not very well; how she
would have known of their existence; and how close was she standing to the
woman when she shot her? Elena was short and the victim seemed, even in death,
to be much taller. Reading the autopsy and talking to the inspector, she hoped,
would help.

She stared at the wall and
decided she must talk with Valois about her concerns as soon as possible, so
she hired a cab and paid a visit to his office. He wasn’t in at the moment but
was expected “later.” The receptionist apologized, but she couldn’t be more
precise, so Serafina left her card saying she’d return. She told the driver to
take her to Busacca’s store on the Rue du Mont-Parnasse where she asked to
speak with Ricci de Masson.

The smiling redhead came out to
greet her. A gracious host, Ricci bowed. “I remember you. You’re from
Oltramari.”

“I came here to see the photos.”

Judging from his reaction, she’d
caught him off guard. She could see him weighing how to reply. She liked this
man with his freckles and unruly hair, a boy, really, his emotions transparent.

“Carmela likes the innovation of
your displays, you know.” She glanced around at all the hats, some antique,
others military. Looked like they’d seen battle, some of them. There was a
sense of humor about the store and she had no doubt where it originated.

“I know.” He grinned. “She just
left. Too bad you weren’t here earlier.”

“But I’ve come to see you.”

“Here’s her latest design.” He
showed her a velvet pillbox that sat on the counter, its feathers tall and
silky and shiny in the late morning sun, but she wasn’t tempted to linger.

“The photos, please? I suppose
the police questioned you about them.”

He smiled. “In police custody.”

“I don’t believe you.” She
smiled and crossed her arms.

He shut his eyes and wagged his
head, his lips making a moue.

He reminded her of Carlo when he
still had his charm, and her stomach lurched.

Ricci sighed, said she’d won,
and asked her to follow him to the back room. She took a seat in front of his
desk, watched as he walked to the other side of the room, opened a drawer, and
retrieved a packet bound in felt.

After he untied the string, he
lifted the contents and the cloth fell away, revealing a series of prints and
plates. He pushed them across the desk so they faced her, and she picked up a
photograph, squinting at it before holding it closer to the light. She winced
and tried to catch her breath.

The first was a frontal view of
a woman’s face distorted, recently robbed of life, the skin and muscle blown
away from the woman’s left side so that the some of the skull was exposed.
Could she have misconstrued it as a likeness of Elena’s face? Never. She leafed
through the others, each filled with horror, each one of the same woman,
definitely not Elena. Beneath them were the plates.

“The police haven’t been here?”

He shook his head. “As far as I
know, they questioned my mother, but on another matter.”

“And?”

He lifted his hands and smiled.

“Have you been to Longchamp?”

He shook his head.

“You offered to show me around,
remember?”

“I thought you meant recently.”

“Elena paid your debts?”

He nodded.

“You’re lying.” Despite his
charm, he was difficult. He looked at her, all innocent, revealing nothing,
hiding everything. Maddening.

While she reached into her reticule,
she watched him tip his kippah forward and scratch the back of his head.

“Do those things itch?”

He laughed. “Sometimes. This is
a difficult situation for me.”

“Why?”

“Because I like you. I like
Carmela, but I have a duty to protect my own.”

“You have a duty to the truth,
just like I do.”

“But why pursue it? Elena’s
dead. Our relative, at times fun, at times a horror, a blight upon the family
name. But now she is no more. She’s buried.”

“In Oltramari, this might be
true. But this is Paris.”

“We hide from the truth, too.”

Serafina got up to leave. As she
opened the door, she heard the brass bell, but told herself she’d been too
hasty and walked unannounced into the back.

“One more question,” she said
and brought out the wad of papers that Rosa found in Elena’s apartment. She
spread them out so they were facing him, each one a statement of debt owed to
Elena.

“Do you recognize these?”

He smiled at her but didn’t look
at the papers. “Not mine.”

“Then whose are they?”

He didn’t answer.

“So do you deny signing these?”

He nodded.

“Whoever signed them must be a
close relative. Not your mother, she wouldn’t ... she works hard and doesn’t
have time for Longchamp. Then whose? You know but you’re not telling me.”

He tipped his kippah and
scratched his head.

She rolled her eyes, trying not
to smile. “Who took the photographs, one of your brothers?”

“I didn’t take the photographs.”

She stopped and thought.

“Who photographed the woman?”

He didn’t reply.

“You have a brother.”

“Two. I have two. One you won’t
find. The other one manages the store on Rue de Verneuil, or did the last time
I talked to him.”

“May I see your signature?”

He reached in the drawer and
pulled out paper and ink and signed his name. Nothing like the signature on the
IOUs.

“May I keep it?”

He smiled. “Of course.”

“Why won’t I find Beniamino?”

“He disappears.”

“How long ago did you see him?”

“Some weeks ago, but my mother
sent him a note last week. She wanted to speak with him. He hasn’t replied, and
we’re not sure where he is.”

“If he signed this paper, would
it look more like the signature on the IOUs?”

Ricci smiled at Serafina, but
made no reply.

She admired him. “Some day I’ll
take you up on your offer to show me Longchamp.”

“You’ll love it.”