“Doctor Loffredo confirmed what I thought caused Gusti’s death. Asphyxiation. Strangled by the scarf she wore. He’s sure she was killed elsewhere, found some bruising on her back indicating her body was dragged to the spot where Rosa found it. Wants to perform an autopsy, but he’s busy at the moment. Other autopsies come before Gusti’s, and he has his practice. He wants to do it Monday morning and he asked me to assist.”
Serafina filled Scarpo in on what they’d discovered this morning in Gusti’s room, the scuffle and marks on the back stairs, the earrings, the box of jewels, the documents. “We believe Gusti was killed inside, probably in her room. Saw evidence of a struggle, bedclothes all knotted, coming off the mattress. Then her body was dragged down the back stairs where we found an earring. It matched what we found outside near her body. And we also know that Gusti struggled with her killer. We found a strand of hair in one of her fingernails.”
Rosa said, “The girls are frightened. No help to us when we interviewed them. Huddled about the kitchen table now, Formusa feeds them biancumanciari and toasted bread. And where’s our caffè?” She pulled the cord several times.
“Gusti’s and Eugenia’s deaths are related to the other three, but different,” Serafina said. “The killer is cleaning up after himself, removing obstacles.”
“Cleaning up? Obstacles? There you go again, not making sense,” Rosa said.
“The killer gets rid of threats to himself. Gusti knew too much, perhaps Eugenia, too.”
Scarpo shrugged. Carlo squirmed in his seat, looked at the door.
Serafina said, “The more we know, the more I realize we are in danger.”
There was a moment of hushed silence.
Rosa told Scarpo about her last conversation with Gusti who thought she knew something about the killer and wanted to speak with Serafina.
“We don’t know much about Gusti, nothing about her family or where she was born.”
“The smart customers all went for her,” Rosa said.
“So she may have discovered the killer’s accomplice,” Serafina said. “We know that she kept to herself, except of course for her customers and her friends. We know one of her friends was Carmela.”
Carlo’s eyes widened at the sound of his twin’s name in his mother’s mouth. He reached inside his coat pocket, and told Scarpo, “We found two letters from Carmela hidden in Gusti’s mattress.” He handed both to Rosa.
After putting on her spectacles, Rosa began to read, using a finger to follow the words, mouthing them in a whisper, then summarized the contents aloud. “Dated a year ago October, before any of this sorry business. She told Gusti about Achille, her lover. Life was good, she said. She missed their talks, told her to guard her valuables.”
She passed the letter to Serafina who looked at the writing. “Yes, that’s Carmela’s hand, the letters so rounded, just like a child’s.” Her eyes filled, and she handed the letter to Carlo.
“And the second one?”
“Dated March 15, this year.”
Dearest Gusti,
My apologies for not writing sooner, but for the last few months, my life has been in sorry disarray.
Achille left to join Garibaldi and his men, promising him extra coins, but since he never was paid for his service in 1862, I am doubtful that this will be the case. In any event, I doubt I’ll ever see him again. No matter. Good riddance. Yes, we were happy, but he’s chosen his life. I care no more for him.
And now for the special news: I carry his child.
No coins jingle my pockets so after Achille departed, I walked until I came to the orphanage. As you know Mother Concetta is a good friend of
Nanna
.
Concetta has made a place for me. I care for the young children. My days are full, and I am happy. One of the little ones reminds me so much of Maria. How I do miss my family:
Nanna
, my father, my brothers and sisters, even, if you can believe it, my mother, although I never could live in my home again, not with her in residence. And of course I long for our talks and laughs.
In answer to your question, take great care. Do not become friends with her. We know her to be like the weather, fair one moment, foul the next.
Ever your friend,
Carmela
Serafina grabbed the letter. When she finished reading, she stared into the distance, lost in thought.
“We know who to be like the weather?” Rosa asked.
Serafina shrugged. “Her letter raises questions, answers nothing.”
“Oh, Gusti, you and your closed mouth,” Rosa said.
A knock on the door. Gesuzza returned, bringing a cart of food. Serafina smelled dark mocha, coffee, ricotta, orange sauce and heavy cream. She tasted bile.
“From cook,” the domestic said. The bottom shelf held trays of pastry-sfinci, cannulicchi, cassateddi, minni della Vergine, pagnuttella; and on the top shelf, large cups with caffè latté, the milk frothy, the drink steaming and topped with bits of chocolate and powdered sugar.
“Couldn’t eat,” Serafina said. “My stomach and head are like rocks.
“Nor I,” Carlo said.
“Scarpo?” Rosa asked.
He held up his hand.
Rosa said, “Tell cook, she’s such a comfort in our hour of need. Perhaps later. We’ll take the latté. Close the door on your way out.”
Serafina accepted a cup. “I want to bring up what’s on everyone’s minds. You may have heard it in the street, too, Scarpo. We need to face it.”
“Stop talking like an avvucatu.” Rosa sipped her caffè.
“The rumor in town is that Don Tigro is behind these murders.” Serafina took a few sips of her caffè. “They say he wants Rosa’s business. The deaths of Gemma, Nelli, Bella do not bear the mark of the don. But we know from Scarpo that you pay faithfully.”
“Each month,” Rosa said, wiping foam from the top of her lips.
“But these last killings smack of his style-the slipper stuffed into Gusti’s mouth, a body hanging from the rafters of a cheap bordello.” As she spoke, she saw Gusti’s face, distorted, Eugenia’s bare feet hanging overhead, dirty and with toenails chipped.
Scarpo and Rosa shook their heads. “We’d know,” Scarpo insisted. “La Signura pays. Every month I give him the money. His thugs, they come around for it. And, before the don strikes, there’s a warning. He likes the world to know. That’s his way.” He took off his bandanna, swiped his forehead, and finished his caffè. “The rumor? — created to comfort the crowd because no one explains these deaths. They are the work of someone sick in the head because of a woman or the work of the devil, such like that, but not the work of the don.”
Carlo downed his coffee, looked at Serafina. “Ask him yourself. You’re going there this afternoon to see Elisabetta. Put it to him then.”
She nodded. “Before we continue, there’s the matter of the lock. It’s missing from the back door. Where are the keys?”
Rosa said, “I have a set. Scarpo has a set. Only two made by the smith.”
“Show me your keys.”
Scarpo pulled his from a chain attached to his breeches, found the key to the lock.
“Rosa?”
Rosa had been searching in her desk. Her arm was into the drawer up to the elbow. Her face was red. “Missing,” she said. “My keys, they’re gone! An accomplice within these walls.” Her face drained of color.
Serafina turned to Scarpo. “This afternoon, go to the smith. Change all locks, all doors. One set of keys.”
He nodded.
She turned her notebook to the first page. “Our best lead is the monk.” She read from the list they had made what, a week, ten days ago, quoting Scarpo, “There is one who keeps coming back, Signura, a stranger, he has a funny smell, not from around here. Pigheaded, too. Returns many times. Wears a brown cloak and hat.”