Murder On The Rue Cassette (A Serafina Florio Mystery) (6 page)

“No
dolci
?”

“When you ring for them, Madame,
we will bring the desserts and café—crème brûlée flambée, profiteroles
smothered in chocolate, crêpes flambéed with a liqueur, chocolate cake with
crème caramel glacée.” The waiter’s face was red, the tips of his mustache
turned down. He ran a hand over his forehead and blew out air from rounded
cheeks. “Whatever else you need, Madame, to make your mouth water, you have
only to ask.” The waiter winked at Rosa who beamed and spoke to him in broken
French, asking for café and dessert to be brought up in thirty-five minutes.
Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out some bills and pressed them into his
hand.

Watching this transaction,
Serafina said, “Surprising, your French is so good, I didn’t know.”

Rosa shrugged. “All the trips to
Paris when I was young. The language returns.”

Chapter
8: Sophie de Masson

Carmela looked at herself in the
glass. She was clothed in a simple day dress of silk brocade in a deep French
blue with overskirts in a lighter fabric gathered in the back to form a bustle,
one of the garments her sister had given her last night. She adjusted the small
hat she wore to a slight angle. The hat was a simple one, her favorite; she’d
made it herself, a black pillbox with a stiff veil and tall, wafting feathers
which she hoped added to her height. She worked it up and down, tilting it
slightly on her head and angling the feathers just so. Resourceful with the few
tools he’d brought with him, Teo had polished her boots to a high shine earlier
that morning. Carmela put on her gloves and turned from the mirror. “How do I
look?”

“Stunning.” Serafina kissed her
daughter. “And what you’ve done with the hat, exquisite. Any questions?”

Carmela shook her head. “Teo and
Arcangelo will follow at a distance and wait outside while we tour the exhibit.
Tessa’s quite excited.”

“Gesuzza must go with you,” Rosa
said. “I don’t trust the men who follow us. I think I may have seen them cross
the square as we alighted from the omnibus last night.”

“Your imagination, perhaps?”
Serafina asked.

“Can’t be too safe,” Rosa said.

Serafina wouldn’t argue with her
friend. So far there didn’t appear to be any danger. She knew the location of
the hotel was in one of the finest districts of Paris, but all the same, she
trusted Rosa’s instincts. She remembered her fears last night when they’d
emerged from the Gare de Lyon. Oh, well, it must have been her weariness, the
station and the smoke, and the proximity to the prison.

* * *

Serafina
yawned. She and Rosa had been waiting for several minutes in Madame Sophie de
Masson’s parlor. Serafina sat near the center of the room in an overstuffed chair
next to a porcelain lamp with a large shade. She touched the fringe and it
danced, casting light and shadow about her rose silk day dress. The hem and
underside of the collar were frayed in spots, but it was one of only three
decent dresses she owned. After she caught the killer, she’d have Giulia make
her a new wardrobe. She bent and rubbed the street off the toes of her boots.

The room had a slight musty
smell but not a hint of dust anywhere, Serafina made sure to check. She and
Rosa had been waiting quite some time when the butler entered. Walking behind
him, a maid carried a tea service with an assortment of tarts and madeleines.

“Madame de Masson sends her
regrets,” the butler said. “She begs your forbearance but has had some
unexpected business to attend to this morning and is sorry to detain you. She
will be with you shortly. In the meantime, please enjoy some tea.”

Serafina and Rosa looked at each
other and smiled. “Please tell her not to rush. We have the morning.”

After the maid served them, she
curtsied and left.

Serafina set her cup down and
walked to the window, parting the drapes and gazing out at the scene below.
Sophie de Masson’s apartment occupied the two top floors of a building with an
unprepossessing address on the Rue des Juifs in the fourth arrondissement.
There was no traffic to speak of, just a flower seller at the end of the block
and an attractively dressed couple entering a store on the other side of the
street. Serafina turned from the window, took a bite of madeleine, and sat.

In a few minutes, the door
opened and a young man approached in striped pants and frock coat. He had a
distinctive gait, used an ebony cane with a silver handle. In his other hand he
carried a top hat and gloves. His hair was a reddish brown, curly, not unlike
Serafina’s. Although shorter than hers, it was long for a man’s hair style,
below his collar in the back. About Carlo’s height and age, Serafina thought,
perhaps a year or two younger. His face was earnest and filled with freckles,
and he wore a kippah.

“I’m Ricci de Masson, Sophie’s
youngest son,” he said in an Italian Serafina had trouble understanding.
“Mother told me you were here. I was five on our last visit to Palermo, but I
wanted to welcome you to Paris in your native tongue and to extend my wishes
for your stay in our city.”

He was earnest enough. It wasn’t
often Serafina saw a redhead with gray eyes. “How lovely of you to stop in.
Your Italian is interesting, but I think if you spoke French we’d be able to
understand you just as well—not Parisian French, mind, but a pure
French.”

“Better,” Rosa said and winked
at him, introducing herself.

He was nimble, as yet had not
stopped smiling, and bowed to the madam. “How long will you be in Paris?”

“We’re here on a sad business,
I’m afraid.”

“I think I know—Elena’s
death, isn’t it?”

Serafina nodded.

“Most people who talk about her
don’t say nice things about her, but I liked her. We went to Longchamp together
a few weeks ago. It was a memorable afternoon. Elena seemed happier than I’ve
seen her in recent months. Have you been?”

“Sadly, no, and I don’t think
we’ll have the chance.”

“But you must. Is this your
first visit?”

“I studied here many years ago
at
La Maternité
at Port Royal. I’m a midwife.”

“But you have to go to
Longchamp. I own part of a horse and he’s racing there next week.”

“Part of a horse?”

He grinned. “I’m one of the
owners. They run on grass, you know. If you stand close to the rail, you can
hear the thunder of their hooves. Such a sound—like the beating of God’s
heart. Listen to it once, and you’ll yearn for it over and over again, I
promise. And if you need a guide, I know a Paris you won’t see by studying
Galignani’s travel books. I’d love to take you around. Do you travel here
alone?”

“Our daughters and some other
family members are with us.”

He handed Serafina his card and
she stuck it in her notebook to look at later.

“I must be going.” He stared at
Serafina’s bare head. “I sell hats if you need one.” With that he bowed and
took his leave.

“Just like Sophie to keep us
waiting,” Rosa said through the madeleine in her mouth. “At least the son is
polite.” She unbuttoned her jacket and adjusted her hat, a tiny dark green
velvet affair with curved quail feathers and elaborate netting, tilting it more
to the side of her head and smoothing her dress, a verdigris brocade with a
gossamer overskirt in a lighter shade, pulled to the back, the whole forming
quite the bustle.

They smelled the odor of
something cloying, and heard footsteps in the hall.

“Here she comes. Smothered in that
same perfume she wore at home,” Rosa said.

A tall, rather stout woman
entered, her arms outstretched, the gold chain of a monocle dangling from her
neck. She greeted her guests with a peck close to each cheek, meager for
visitors from her hometown. Sophie de Masson was followed by two maids who
helped her into her chair, arranged her skirt, poured her tea, and departed.

Her mouth moved from side to
side. “Oh, my dear friends. Do forgive me, but business detained and I’m the
only one to do it in this blessed town. Ricci and David try, but they’re
young.” Sophie sipped her tea. “Three—would you believe—three
stores to manage. My brother gives me no rest, and my oldest, Beniamino, is
nowhere to be found. Lolling about in the south, no doubt. The middle son, on
the other hand, cannot get enough of the business. More interested in counting
the money than in how we make it, and unfortunately, Ricci is Ricci. Fancies
women and horses, but he knows little of buying and selling. You know my
husband is dead. Died when they were too young, I’m afraid.” Exuding a scent of
spoiled flowers, and talking more to herself than to others, Sophie de Masson
squinted into their faces while telling them how much they hadn’t changed and
how much she loved Rosa’s hat. “Our design in Palermo, no doubt.” She peered at
Serafina’s bare head but said nothing.

Serafina noticed Sophie was not
in mourning. Instead, she wore a day dress of gold and silver, exquisitely
crafted and in the latest fashion with burnished gold lace trim at the wrists
and neck. As she leaned forward, her eyes narrowed, and Serafina noticed
something strange about the woman’s face. Before she could decide what it was,
Sophie crossed her legs and Serafina’s attention was diverted by the woman’s
petticoat in antique lace and her diamond-studded slippers with velvet ribbons.
On her right hand, Sophie wore three rings, an emerald surrounded by pearls, a
small sapphire on her little finger, and a thick silver and gold band with a
square ruby in the center on her middle finger. Her neck was surrounded in lace
and pearls. She wore a fitted jacket of a darker shade than the dress but in
the same weave, flaring over the bustle and continuing down the back to form a
train. Ten-thirty in the morning and the woman was painted and coiffed to
perfection with a subtlety of style uniquely French. Her maid must have spent
hours.

“We’re here to talk about Elena
and to extend our condolences,” Serafina began.

“No need. Good riddance, I say.”
Sophie raised her head.

And that was that. This family
had a penchant for graceless surprise—the son, charming yet overly
familiar; his mother, blunt and unkind. Serafina reached for her tea clutching
her chest, taking deliberate breaths. She took a gulp of the steaming liquid
and glanced at Rosa whose face was red.

“If I may, I’d like to see the
body.”

“Buried, I’m afraid, in a family
plot on my estate in Versailles. In ground blessed by the rabbi.”

“But Elena was Christian.”

“In name only.” She sipped her
tisane through rouged lips. “Everything she did was for herself, despite the
family’s wishes. Her ancestors suffered for centuries. They were compliant when
Frederick II of Aragon made them wear the red wheel. They were banished from
their homes, made to live in ghettoes, finally expelled from the island,
refusing to convert. Slowly we crept back, but still we have to hide. My
brother’s a fool for remaining in Palermo, and you ask me why I buried his
daughter according to the law? Her forebears never renounced their faith, and
just because Elena wanted a title, she converted—that wretched
father-in-law of hers insisted on it. No dignity, I’m afraid. Her husband’s
religion meant nothing to her. She trifled with God, and now see what her
cleverness has done for her. No, the least I could do for the sake of our
ancestors was to bury her according to our tradition.”

Serafina was silent.

Rosa stirred in her seat, a
rustle of taffeta, a whiff of rose water. “I would think that religion, whether
Catholic or Jewish, meant nothing to her. But she wasn’t a bad person, not
really. She wished no one harm.”

Serafina slid her friend a
grateful look.

As if she didn’t hear Rosa’s
remark, Sophie said, “Here I can follow our rules for burial, so I did. I don’t
expect you to understand or condone. I could care less what you think. I was
following the wishes of the family, not of the living, but of the generations.”

The silence carried on.

Serafina set down her tea cup
and spoke. “But I’m here to investigate her death. You must know your brother
who grieves for the loss of his daughter, his only child, commissioned me to
bring her killer to justice.”

“She was murdered? News to me.
Suicide or murder, hard to tell which, but I will say this, that whichever, it
was a just end.”

Rosa looked at Serafina.

“Then I have misunderstood,”
Serafina said. “Your brother talked of murder only. My impression is that the
police think it was murder. We meet with the prefect this afternoon. And what
about you? You identified the body, no?”

Sophie looked at her hands, not
at her guests. “Yes, hard to tell at first that it was my niece. One side of
her face no longer existed.”

“Do you think her death was
murder or suicide?”

Sophie closed her eyes and shook
her head. “I haven’t a clue, nor do I care.”

“Which side of her face was destroyed?”
Rosa asked.

“Pardon?”

“When you viewed the body, which
side of the face did you see?” Rosa asked again, her voice louder, her speech
slower.

“What difference does it make?”

“My friend asks an important
question,” Serafina said. She felt no need to explain.

Sophie stopped and considered.
Her eyes flicked to the side. “I saw ... the right side of the face. The head
was placed so that the left side of her face was hidden. Dreadful experience,
I’d love to forget it, but I cannot do so now, since you remind me.” She
removed a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. “The inspector
wouldn’t let me send a servant. No, I had to go myself.”

“No one went with you?”

She didn’t answer the question
but was silent for a time, keeping company with her thoughts. “The stench.
Paris morgue, you know. Public gawping at dead bodies. Disgusting. I’d heard
about it, but believe me, the place is worse than I’d imagined. I had to get
Elena’s body out of there.”