Arcangelo laughed. “Not around here. Kept his head down. Didn’t greet me or look at me. As if he were afraid. Or slippery. If I saw the hat again and the cape-”
“Cape or jacket?”
“Cape. Like Fra Berto wears in the winter, only without a hood.”
“The color?”
“Me? Colors? I’m no good with colors, but darker than the color of your dress, lighter than my pantaloons. Grey, green, brown, blue-they all look the same to me.”
“What did he wear on his feet?”
Arcangelo shrugged. “Shoes?”
“Shoes or sandals or you didn’t notice?”
“Didn’t notice.”
“And the day, do you remember? Do you know your days of the week?”
He laughed. “Of course I know the days of the week.” He looked up at the ceiling, one eye closed, and rubbed the fuzzy stubble on his chin. “It was the day after Sunday.” He winked.
She laughed. “Last time I considered, Monday followed Sunday.”
“I remember it was Monday because we don’t work on Sundays, so we sleep late, and I remember thinking as I drove, five more days until I can sleep late again.”
Serafina counted on her fingers. “Six more days.”
He rocked his hand back and forth, two fingers pinched. “Depends on how you look at life, my mother would say.”
Wise for someone his age. She liked this young man. “If you see him again, please tell me right away. You know where I live?”
He nodded.
“Ring the bell by the gate, day or night, doesn’t matter. We’re used to being awakened. I’m a midwife, you see, and babies love to arrive at night, just when they think everyone’s asleep. Tell me right away. It’s important.”
He said he would and rose from his chair. He held his cap. She heard excitement in his voice, saw it in that bent-toward-her way he held his torso.
“You think I may have seen the killer?” His eyes looked straight into hers.
“Yes. I think you did, but tell no one. I can count on you? It’s important.”
“Don’t worry.” He screwed his thumb and forefinger on tightly-closed lips, bowed, walked to the door, said, “And don’t feel bad, I talk to my mother, too.”
After Arcangelo left, Serafina sat for a moment, lost in thought.
Rosalia
“Rosalia, named after the saint,” the prostitute said, “the one in a cave high in the mountains. When I was old enough, my mother shoved me out the door. Not enough coins for my keep. Told me I needed to make my way in the world. All done with me,” she said.
Not yet sixteen, Serafina guessed, younger than Giulia. She cursed Rosa for taking in children.
“Are you going to catch the killer? Please, before he kills all of us. The others tell me he’s a ghost. Comes in the middle of the night.”
“Nonsense. He’s flesh and blood, this killer. We’ll catch him. But we must put our heads together. That’s why I called for you. What do you know about the women who were murdered?”
Rosalia drew in her lower lip, but said nothing.
Serafina heard the wheeze of gas jets.
“Tell me the first thing that comes into your head. I’ll decide if it’s important.”
Minutes passed. Serafina waited for the shell to crack.
“One thing about Gemma, she changed before she died.”
“How?”
The young prostitute picked at a blemish on her cheek. Serafina wanted to push the girl’s fingers away from her face. Instead she sat on her hands and waited. Why couldn’t she behave this way with her own children?
“Stopped talking to me, all at once, Gemma.” Rosalia snapped her fingers. She narrowed her eyes. “Maybe I said something she didn’t like? Maybe I asked too many questions? Yes, that’s it, too many questions. Maybe.”
“Did you ask her why she stopped talking to you?”
“Yes.” A wash of color began on the girl’s shoulders. It crawled up her neck and filled her the way dawn sometimes floods the world.
“And?” Serafina asked.
“She said she could no longer be my friend.”
“Did she, now.”
“Said I needed to be saved, she’d show me the way.”
“And you said?” Serafina wrote in her book.
“Nothing. Slammed the door in her face!” Rosalia was solemn.
Serafina raised her brows.
“Wouldn’t you? Brushed me away like a customer shaking off the last of me. All done, they say, before they leave.”
“But you can’t think you caused Gemma’s distance. She removed you because of some disturbance inside her head.”
“They all leave. Carmela, the same. She was a girl, here for a while, older than me. Knew the names of flowers. A miracle with the gardens. We’d talk after the men left, sometimes until morning. But one day she was gone, too. No goodbye, no nothing.” Rosalia’s eyes began to crowd. “One day, one day, I’ll show them all. They’ll be sorry.”
Serafina took deep breaths. Walking over to the girl, she had the sensation of falling. She stroked Rosalia’s cheek, took her in her arms. While she sobbed, the candlelight played tricks. For an instant, Serafina held her child, Carmela, but she shoved back the memory, punched it down deep until it disappeared.
Old Tarts and Absent Kings
After Rosalia left, Serafina heard footsteps.
The door flew open and Rosa stood before her, fists on hips. “Fina. You know nothing about this business. Guests arrive and you dawdle.”
“Get in here, you old tart.” As she yanked Rosa inside, Serafina glanced down the hall at a long line of tittering women. How many beds does Rosa keep? She must count coins all day long and Don Tigro doesn’t want a larger cut of the take?
She slammed the door shut and stuck her face close to Rosa’s. “Do you want me to solve these murders or not? Should I go home now and leave you to your work, a knife waiting for you around the corner? Think of how it feels to have your forehead gouged with that sign of whatever it is.”
Serafina wagged her finger back and forth, close to Rosa’s nose. “We hunt for a killer who has the cunning of a madman. And he has a method and a pattern and is intent on one thing only-eliminating you and all your prostitutes and the business you think I know so little about.” She pointed to the door. “Now. You go into that parlor and you tease and prime your customers, but I will interview all of your prostitutes and the cook and laundress and anyone else I need to interview, including the archbishop and the prefect and the king if I have to. And I’ll take as much time as I want. And I might decide to come back tomorrow morning at first light and interview them all over again.”
“Are you finished?”
Serafina stood with her arms folded, one leg extended, foot tapping, cheeks burning.
Rosa wagged her finger back and forth. “Tart I may be. Proud of it. But old? Never! What’s more, the king doesn’t come here.”
When the madam opened the door to leave, Serafina saw a straight line of silent women waiting to be interviewed.
Lola
Lola glided into the room. Sapphires sparkled on her fingers. And pearls, she dripped pearls. They wound around her neck in long ropes, dangled from her ears, reflected opalescent light from tiered bracelets. Her gown of watered silk was cut low in the front with a lace surround, pleated in the French manner. Over her bodice she wore a fitted mauve jacket of boiled wool, a feathered boa draped around her shoulders. Her golden hair was trussed with tortoise combs, around which curls were carefully coiled. Wedged into her cleavage was an ivory cigarette holder.
Was this the same woman she met last week?
She sat. “Rosa told me you wanted to see me.” Her voice was expensive. She reached for her cigarettes, stuck one into the holder, and swung a leg over the arm of the chair, revealing a taffeta underskirt, lace petticoats, and black crocheted stockings. On her feet were satin shoes.
“My first customer is in the parlor now. Impatient.” Lola blew smoke from rouged lips. “A dignitary.” Inhaled. Exhaled. “Can’t spare much time, but I want to help.” The propped-up leg arced back and forth.