Gioconda
“I have a few more questions if you don’t mind. In particular there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. At Bella’s wake I saw you with a gentleman.”
Gioconda laughed. She was dressed in indigo damask, full skirts, gold stars embroidered on the bodice. A matching scarf draped her shoulders. “Which one?”
“Tall, light brown hair. Curly. Wore black of course, frock coat, cravat, armband.”
The redhead drew a blank.
“Struts a bit,” Serafina said.
“Falco?”
Serafina nodded. “How do you know him?”
“Same way everyone does.” Gioconda winked. “Bella’s uncle, at least that’s what Bella called him. Met him through her.”
“How?”
“In the parlor of course. I think he was with her father.”
“And you’ve known him for how long?”
“Oh, la, couple of years, I’d guess.”
“Your customer?”
“I’m not the only one. Helps himself.”
“Does he know all the women?”
“Just a few of us. The select, you might say. On his last visit, he was with a couple of the girls in the parlor, chatting and such, having a gay old time. Likes to be surrounded by what he calls ‘the choicest meats.’”
Serafina’s brows furrowed. Rosa didn’t bother to tell her about Eugenia. Now Falco. Rosa keeps secrets from herself.
Not Much Time
After Gioconda left, Serafina sat alone in Rosa’s office. Laughter drifted in from the parlor, faint squeals from the floors above. No doubt Rosa would shoo her away, but until she did, Serafina had time to ponder what she’d learned. She pictured Carmela, wondered what she looked like. She must have changed in four years. But she forced Carmela out of her mind.
She’d gotten more information about the most important suspect-the monk, she called him-first, from Scarpo, strengthened by Arcangelo who saw someone with Gemma on the day she disappeared, similar to Scarpo’s description of the monk-like creature. Could he be the same monk she’d seen begging in the piazza? She reminded herself that Sicily was full of monks.
Another suspect had emerged: Eugenia, who, Gusti told her, took personal belongings from the other women. Nelli’s fear of being robbed made sense in light of the buxom prostitute’s revelation. Just like the madam not to tell her about trouble in her house.
Three strands wove in and out of her mind. The first was a sense of foreboding. Everyone in the house carried the burden of fear, Rosa, Scarpo and his men, the prostitutes, Formusa, even that actress, Lola, poor woman. The whole lot of them squirmed in their seats, cast a backward glance, as if death lurked around the next corner, ready to surprise. The second thread: a sense of upheaval and change. What was once a house of laughter and friendship had become a hospice of silence and mistrust. And third, Serafina’s certainty that some or all of the prostitutes, and of course Rosa, that grande dame of secrecy, hid information from her, whether wittingly or not.
She needed to find this killer before he struck again. There were moments this evening when she felt sure she glimpsed his presence-in the glint of Scarpo’s eyes, in the wisps of Rosalia’s hair, in the shadows on Lola’s face. But now she saw these as illusory. She felt the distance she must travel.
Too many parts of the tapestry needed mending before the real picture could emerge. For he was a wily killer, this one, eluding detection by donning masks, taking on shapes that flipped faster than a tuna’s tail. And yet there must be something, some truth that held the key, a clue that, for now, lay beyond her ken. Who or what caused the change in Rosa’s house? How could she peel away the layers of secrets? She forgot her surroundings, cocked her head to one side and swirled the liquid in her glass.
• • •
The wick in her oil lamp began to sputter. Serafina went in search of the madam.
“What’s this I hear about Falco and the women? And this time, don’t deny it.”
Rosa bit her lip. “Harmless he is.”
“Harmless? He’s a viper and he’s been here in your house. A customer who helps himself according to Gioconda.” As she talked, Serafina wrote so quickly in her book that she nearly tore the page. “We will never find this killer if you keep the truth inside your head.”
Rosa hung her head. “Circle him on the list if you must. Inside the house, Falco, but a charmer. You will see how innocent he is.”
Serafina rubbed her forehead. “Judging from what Scarpo and the women told me, things changed here a few months before the murders began.”
“What things?” Rosa twisted her handkerchief.
“The comings, the goings. The friendships stopped. Confidences dried up. Gemma and Nelli became secretive. There is a pattern that emerges before each death, a pattern so subtle, so, so-”
Rosa slammed the desk. “There you go again with all that talk, like a government official you sound!”
“Faint, that’s the word, so faint that only a person with the gift of divination may discern it. Oh Madonna, help me to see. Now, right now. We must peer into the darkness, unravel the threads. Let’s put our heads together. But before we do-”
“Out with it!”
“Tell me about Eugenia.”
Eyes wide, a backward glance, a bitten lip, and the madam managed one word. “Who?”
“You heard me.”
Rosa swiped her cheeks. “Eugenia. Not important.”
“A woman, a large one, comes to this house and, like a fox in a chicken coop, steals from the others, causes pain and a mistrust that, like the sound of the sea, never goes away. She could be your killer, or a link to him, and all you can say is, ‘Not important?’ If you want to get yourself another wizard, just keep up with your secrecy, your grand fantasy that everything is sweet and loving around here. Because it’s not. There’s an evil stench within these walls, La Signura Rosa, and I need your help.”
For once, Rosa had no words. She patted the blotter on her desk and looked at Serafina as if she, Rosa, were a virginal saint, innocence lit by a thousand votive candles.
After a thick silence, Rosa began. “She knocked on the door, all sparkles, and with muscles like a sinewy mule. Looking at her, at her high cheekbones, her long limbs, those powerful eyes, that head of hair with locks longer than the mane on Garibaldi’s horse, and shimmering, too, in the sun, I could see her at work: one effortless, glorious toss after another, barely coming up for air, five, six, seven times an hour. I could hear the ca-chink of my coffers. So I, unknowing and innocent, beguiled but with the best of intentions, opened the door to her. Came from Palermo she said, and named a fancy house. Time passed. We prospered. One day Gusti came to me, complained of pearls missing, the ones the cardinal gave her. Your Carmela, too, missing a bag, she said, and some slippers. I didn’t want to hear their words. I admit it-I made a mistake.” Rosa wiped her eyes. “But when Lola told me about some missing clothes, a flashy petticoat she used to wear on special occasions, I became suspicious. I sent for Eugenia, and told her to get out. Out! I said. And my word shook the house. The thieving stopped.”
“And you didn’t tell Colonna?”
Rosa rubbed her palms back and forth. “We take care of these things ourselves. I went to see La Signura Livia Secunda. You don’t know her. Runs a house in Palermo. Respectable, a little too frilly. And what a snake’s mouth she has, and with a vicious bite too. But she has friends all over.” Rosa winked and made twirls in the air to indicate ‘all over.’ “Secunda made sure La Colossa Eugenia never worked again.” As if to wipe yesterday’s stain off her hands, Rosa ran them up and down her boned bodice, picked up her glass and downed her Marsala.
• • •
The beech log crackled. High notes, low notes, all were eaten alive by a clean flame. Serafina felt its heat on her face. Her bones relaxed. She felt how good it was to sit across from Rosa, her oldest, dearest friend on a cold evening by a warm fire. She asked, “Where is she now?”