Carlo opened the door, but Rosa shooed him away.
Suspects and Jugglers
The two women learned nothing more from interviewing the prostitutes.
“A special customer last night. Occupied all my time, he did. Voracious, the appetites of some men,” Gioconda said.
“And you didn’t see Falco in the parlor?”
She shook her head.
Lola’s story was different. Shivering, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief and clutching her robe around her, she claimed at first not to have seen Falco, then changed her mind. “Now that you mention his name, well, earlier in the evening I might have done. Yes, as a matter of fact, I did, but you understand, mine was a fleeting glance. Busy last night so I whisked through the parlors. We’re supposed to show up, you know, if just to parade through. But Falco, he was not here to see me. These days I’m booked in advance. Last night among others I entertained-”
She stopped when she saw the madam’s glower.
No one else heard anything unusual, no shouting, no strange noises.
Neither Serafina nor Rosa noticed any sores or bruising on the women’s faces, no neck scratches, nothing behind the ears or at the base of the scalp, except for Lola, nursing her hand because of a spider bite, Rosa having tended the wound herself the other day. And Rosalia, too, had a scratch on her neck, from an unruly customer, she claimed. But she shook during the interview like a frightened goat. Serafina ruled her out. She offered nothing, except an observation that, if anything, Gusti had been more secretive of late.
• • •
The three of them-Carlo, Serafina and Scarpo-were seated in front of Rosa in her office. Carlo, his long legs crossed, glanced at his watch. Serafina ran a hand through her hair, searching for something in her notebook.
“Another log for the fire before we begin,” Rosa said, pulling the cord.
When the domestic entered, she said, “Caffè and some hot milk, Gesuzza. We are four. And tell the laundress to fetch the sheets in Gusti’s room.”
Scarpo returned with the log. When he bent to throw it on the fire, shards of light from the flames bounced from his knife handle straight into Serafina’s eyes. He sat back down on the edge of his chair.
“So,” Serafina began, squinting, “Not much time, and we must go over what we know about Gusti’s death, discuss any evidence that may shed light on the other murders. And we must review our list of suspects, and-”
Rosa said, “Not so fast. Forgetting your request for information from Scarpo about Eugenia and the smith, remember?”
“Just getting to that. Scarpo?”
“What’s this about?” Carlo asked.
“I asked Scarpo to find out two things: the whereabouts of Eugenia and, from the blacksmith, whether anyone had rented mules or carts from him beginning in early August through early October.”
“Eugenia?” Carlo asked.
“A woman who worked here for a time. Others in the house accused her of stealing. She left.”
“Kicked her out, I did,” Rosa said.
Scarpo snapped his braces. “Hard to find, Eugenia, but yesterday, success. La Secunda told me, or at least-”
“She knows everything, La Secunda. Good man, Scarpo,” Rosa said.
“La Secunda?” Carlo asked.
“My name for her. Runs a house in Palermo. Second in glory to mine.”
Serafina said, “Let him finish without interruption, please.”
“Sorry, Empress, for speaking out of turn.”
Serafina nodded. “Continue, Scarpo.” Remembering the introspective turn Rosa’s grieving took after Bella’s body was found, she was glad for the madam’s spikes today. Best to ignore them or it would take all day.
“La Secunda told me the story of Eugenia, and there was another in the room, a woman, beautiful, tall, with large-”
“The daughter,” Rosa said.
“Let him finish!”
Rosa pursed her lips.
“The daughter and La Secunda both said Eugenia was working in an unsavory house.”
“Unsavory?”
“Secunda’s word-a house in a rough area, outskirts of Palermo. You know the kind?” Scarpo asked.
Carlo nodded.
Rosa said, “Continue, Scarpo.”
“Eugenia shared a bed with a puttana who worked days, and she, Eugenia, worked nights until some weeks ago, they said, when…” He paused.
“When what?”
Scarpo looked at the floor. “When they found Eugenia’s body.”
“Where?” Serafina asked.
“Hanging from the rafters.”
Rosa reached for her handkerchief.
Serafina asked, “Was there a letter or note? A piece of paper written in Eugenia’s hand?”
Scarpo shook his head. “No note, and all her belongings, it was as if they were stirred with a stick-blouses, undergarments, skirts, mixed into the bed clothes and thrown into a heap on top of the mattress. A mess. Closed that house of filth, Secunda told me.”
“Good. Houses like that give us a bad name.”
“And something else-a carving on Eugenia’s face, Secunda said. Officials told her it looked like the sign of Charybdis.”
Serafina and Rosa exchanged glances. Carlo regarded the cupids dancing in the ceiling’s dome. No one spoke.
Serafina broke the silence. “So, possibly Eugenia’s killer was the same one who kills our women.”
“My women, you mean.”
“Sorry, of course. I should have said: Rosa’s women.” Serafina rubbed her forehead. “So we know that Eugenia, who may or may not have been involved in the murders of Rosa’s women, is dead. We also know she could not have killed Gusti or had a part in her death, because she herself was dead. But we don’t know, really, if she was the one who stole items from your women,” Serafina said, looking at Rosa. “So our killer is alive and may very well kill again soon.”
Rosa looked like she’d seen a ghost.
Serafina finished writing. “And what did the smith say about space or carts for hire?”
Scarpo summarized his conversation with the blacksmith: he had no free stall for hire, because they were all taken by regular customers. Hadn’t had an empty pen for years.
Carlo wound his watch.
“But one thing,” Scarpo said, “I saw an old cart sitting in the corner. I asked the blacksmith whether it might be for rent. He said, no, belongs to a man, a poor one. The man collects from the rich, sells in the rough areas. That’s his cart, he told me. And that’s his stall.”
“A ragpicker,” Serafina said.
“That’s what the smith, he called him,” Scarpo said. “And I said, that’s not a stall. And the smith said, big enough for the ragpicker. Couldn’t rent it otherwise.”
“What does he collect?” Serafina asked.
“Old clothes, broken furniture, rope, nets, such like that. His cart, always full, the blacksmith said. He sells goods in the rough neighborhoods. And he sharpens knives there.”
“I’ve seen him. I know I have,” Serafina said. She told them about the commotion she’d seen when driving with Minerva. “Her hearing makes up for lack of sight. She heard the altercation long before I did.”
“Well, she would,” Carlo said. “Minerva’s a sightless musician. Of course. I’d love to have her gift of hearing. But I thought the smith did that, sharpen knives, I mean.”
While they were talking about the blacksmith’s knives, Serafina was half-listening. Her mind was wrapped around the swaybacked mule and the weather-beaten cart, remembering the number of times she’d seen the forlorn pair.
Scarpo was saying, “Yes, I asked, too. The smith told me the ragpicker, he only sharpens knives in the rough neighborhoods, where the smith doesn’t care to go.”