“Now we are whole. When I return, we plan.”
“Return from where? No, don’t tell me, it’s too early.”
“Where’s my biancumanciari?” Carmela asked.
The Contessa
On the way, Serafina told Rosa that Carmela was home. “The news of Gusti, I think, brought her to her senses. Insists on helping us.”
After the tears, the hugs, the madam said, “Glad for you I am.”
Serafina summarized her meeting with Don Tigro yesterday afternoon. “Can you imagine? He didn’t know about Gusti’s death, or even about Eugenia’s body swinging from the rafters.”
Rosa laughed. “Don Tigro’s got his spies everywhere. Like urchins on the bottom of the sea, they scuttle back and forth to him with their stories. Worthless crabs-should have told him all about Eugenia. A prostitute who steals? Dangerous business. He should have known about the likes of her. But far worse, he hadn’t heard about Gusti’s death? How stale the air he breathes.”
Serafina said, “Proves he’s not the one killing your women-got his ear to another ground.”
“Good. Then I’ll forget to pay his-”
“No!” Serafina said.
“And we can forget about the limping cobra, too.” Serafina told her about the shooting incident on the road late Saturday. “If it weren’t for Carmine’s help, I shudder to think-”
“Too many chances you take.” Rosa crossed herself.
“Can’t sit at home, afraid of my own shadow.” The carriage swayed. The wheels hummed. “I’ve a family to feed. But I should have asked for two guards. Vicenzu was shot. A graze, thank the Madonna.”
“Fina,” said the madam, clutching her chest, no more rides on the road without the guards.”
• • •
Rosa sat next to a plate of sweets while Serafina feasted on the bold design of the room. Each corner was decorated with contrasting furniture: a red lacquered Chinese cabinet next to a zebra-striped chaise lounge, carved walnut tables paired with plush chairs. Near the hearth a sofa upholstered in green velvet faced a pair of wing chairs, one in red and green plaid, the other in deep rose damask, the footstool in chrome yellow sailcloth. A chestnut desk stood in front of shelves holding books in no apparent order. Paintings hung on ochred walls. Oriental carpets lay on black and white-tiled floors. Drawing the eye upward, angels twisted into a vaulted ceiling. None of the usual shabbiness of the nobility here.
Serafina roamed around, stopped at a gilded table. She lifted up a terra cotta cherub sitting on its top and discovered the inlaid profile of Dante, his gaze ‘unblinking into the future,’ Giorgio would have said.
Wishing she had Dante’s vision, she stepped over to the desk. Her eyes caught the miniature of a man in formal attire, a medal pinned to his sash. According to the gold inscription in the lower left-hand corner, it was taken several years ago by a well-known Palermitan photographer. Next to the picture she noticed a piece of paper lying on the desk, folded and held in place by a brass weight. She opened it, a draft for five hundred lire dated Friday, August 3, 1866. Drawn on account from the Banco di Sicilia, it was made out to Francesca Grinaldi and signed by Bella Maria Baldassare. It confirmed Nittù Baldassare’s story and the truth of what Bella told her father, that the prostitute’s departure from Rosa’s had begun two months before she was killed. Bella was shedding her old life for a new one, like a snake does its skin. Serafina returned the note.
She walked to the outside wall and gazed at the palms and domes and parapets of Palermo. In the distance, Monte Pellegrino brooded over the city.
While Rosa sat on the sofa coveting dolci, Serafina turned this way and that, picking up a book, fluffing a pillow, until she heard footsteps in the hall. When she heard footsteps approaching, she busied herself by studying a group of drawings on a nearby wall.
“Rosa, darling, you look wonderful!”
“Francesca-beautiful, even in grief,” Rosa said.
The two women kissed.
Handkerchiefs sallied forth.
“Since the last time I saw you, how the world has changed, like this: presto!” The contessa snapped her fingers.
Rosa cried.
The two women hugged each other again.
“How will I go on, Rosa, dearest? But I forget myself. Here is your old friend, Serafina. Saw her at the wake, didn’t I, but we haven’t met.” Francesca stirred the air with an encompassing gesture. “Doubtless she’s not comfortable in this unfamiliar setting.” Arm in arm they walked over to the wall of prints.
“How to introduce my Fina? She’s my oldest, my dearest friend. And, ‘Cesca, you know the police do nothing, so I’ve asked her to investigate the deaths in my house. She thought that you, being Bella’s closest friend, could answer one or two questions.”
Francesca pecked the air above powdered cheeks. As Rosa talked, they looked each other up and down, Francesca and Serafina.
Francesca nodded. At the mention of Bella’s name, both she and Rosa teared up again. Beneath the contessa’s heavy makeup, Serafina saw the pale transparency of skin below her eyes, the drawn look on her face, and, yes, the wrinkles.
Indicating the drawings, Francesca said, “By Serpotta, studies for La Carita. Fun, aren’t they?” She pointed a finger at the bare backside of the Christ child, the drawing in foreshortened perspective. “No doubt you’ve seen his work in the Oratory of San Lorenzo?”
“But of course,” Serafina lied.
Standing before her was a woman in her late forties or early fifties, considerably older than Serafina, a fading blonde, her hair held in place with a snood. Arresting eyes, dark green with flecks of orange. Tall, even taller than Giuseppina, and with those same long bony fingers. Unfortunate breasts, though, a pity.
Like the décor, her dress was a surprise. Her dress showed no signs of mourning. She wore a full skirt of honeyed maroon in watered silk that, when she crossed her legs, revealed the antique lace of her petticoat. A short wool jacket with ruckled sleeves in brown and yellow plaid with alizarin crimson stripes covered a low-cut linen blouse. Her black slippers had gold clasps, her stockings of heavy rose silk. A strand of pearls and a long chiffon scarf gave her a flowing look. Except for the tape measure draped around her neck, she could have emerged from a plate in Godey’s. On the spot Serafina decided she liked this woman, despite her melodrama.
“Chilly in here, even with the sun. Warmer near the fire.” Francesca motioned for them to be seated.
The contessa settled herself in the rose wing chair facing her guests. “Please call me Francesca,” she said to Serafina. “My late husband, Count Federico d’Alco, gave me a title but no children. He followed Garibaldi and what was his reward? An early grave. Now that Bella’s dead, I am so alone.” Chiffon floated in the air. “Oh, I feel too much for my own good,” she said, flapping her arms like damaged wings, “when all around me is chaos, the peasants starve, the bandits kill, madmen rule the world, and I, not content with my crust of bread, pursue impossible dreams, impossible now that Bella Maria…why did she have to die?”
“I need to know more about her life, especially in her last few days. That’s why we’ve come to you. We’re hoping you can shed some light,” Serafina said.
The domestic entered carrying a silver coffee service. Surrounded by silver and china pieces, a cassata caught Rosa’s eye.
“It’s early and you have a long journey back to your little village, Oltramari, but do have some refreshment while we talk.”
“You are too kind,” Serafina said.
“I’ve heard so much about you. Bella told me that you saved Tessa’s life.”
Accepting a large slice of cake from the domestic, Rosa thanked her and said, “Enjoys full life my girl, Tessa.” She took a large bite, swallowed her caffè, and, chewing, said, “A wizard, Fina is. If anyone finds the killer of my girls, she will.”