“Please, if there is anything at all I can tell you, anything.” The contessa’s eyes filled with water. She dabbed at her eyes, drank her caffè, and leaned over to take a cookie.
“What I’d like to know,” Serafina said, sipping her caffè and reaching for her notebook, “is there any reason why someone would want to kill Bella? My best guess is that she and two other prostitutes were murdered by the same person, a madman, a killer acting alone.”
The contessa nodded. “I read an article in Giornale di Sicilia about the first two killings. Bella Maria was alive then, and showed it to me, and I remember telling Bella it was time to leave.” The contessa blotted her lips with the napkin. “Afraid, Bella was, but for the others, not for herself, no, never for herself. ‘I am old. He’d never choose me,’ she told me. Oh bitter words.” Francesca sniffed. “We never had a disagreement and, let me see, we’ve been working together, had been working together-” Francesca looked out, lost now, like a bird felled in mid-air.
“My deepest sympathies, Francesca. How did you and Bella meet?”
“Childhood friends, like you and Rosa. Our families are both costumers, have been for centuries. We’d get together for feast days.” Francesca, with an empty look, gazed into the room. Minutes passed.
Serafina felt the rawness of Francesca’s grief.
Still peering into middle distance, the contessa said, “Brave, even as a girl, Bella Maria. I often wonder what her last thoughts were and if she…if she cried out in the end.”
Silence except for the ticking of a clock somewhere, and the muffled sounds of the city.
“Told me she was leaving in November, this month,” Rosa said.
Still writing, Serafina asked, “Did Bella have enemies?”
Francesca shook her head. “Sweet-tongued, Bella. Not like me. Mine is like a serpent’s sometimes.” She gave a lopsided smile.
“And you planned to go into business together?”
“We were in business together. She gave notice to Rosa, I think, after the Princess Rosso asked us to design her wardrobe for next season-day dresses, gowns for at least six balls, outerwear, even a coat for her dog. Oh, I rushed to Bella Maria to tell her, had my driver take me, didn’t bother with my hair, brought material for Bella Maria to see, samples the princess picked out from our scraps.”
“And this was?…”
“In July. I’ll remember it on my deathbed. Third Wednesday, July 19. My domestic rushed in. ‘Contessa,’ she called, ‘it’s the Princess Rosso and her French dog.’ Bella Maria and I were so happy.”
Serafina wrote down the date. Rosa helped herself to a few cookies.
“The first large order. Our dream appeared before our eyes.” The contessa blew her nose. “I don’t know how much you understand of high fashion.” Her smile was withering. “A man from London established one of the first houses. Worth is his name. Met through friends of my husband when he first came to Paris. He designed a wardrobe for the Queen. Sissi wore one of his gowns for her royal portrait. The court talked of nothing else. That gave him his start. But, you see, wars have changed us, especially women. Now not exclusively for the court, fashion design spreads to anyone with a title and money. Or if only money, no matter-the title will follow. Bella and I wanted to be a part of this. She was the creative force; I have the contacts.”
“Designed our gowns, didn’t she, gave our house a look.” Rosa patted her curls. Turning to Serafina, she said, “Must you make so much noise when you write?”
“Scratch away, I’m used to being around all sorts of people.” The contessa lifted her beak and smiled. “As a child, Bella designed our dresses. Always sewing, unhappy at school until the nuns gave her the job of making the vestments and whatnots. Loved to sew for the priests. Had that awe of the church and its clergy. I never had it, never, but Bella did. You might say, she had a craving for such things.” Francesca brushed crumbs off her skirt. “I’m the one who knows people and, being from a family of tailors, I know how to sew a little, but more important, I know the language of the trade.”
Patting her lips with the napkin, Francesca examined her watch pin, rang the bell, and stood. “Bella and I knew it would be hard to plant our feet in this business, so we had this room decorated. Bella’s design, no expenses spared.” Flinging her arm upward, she said, “Hired a painter for the ceiling. Needed to have a room suitable for greeting our clients.” Her voice faded. Serafina could see the woman clutching at the back of her dream.
The domestic entered. “Finished, La Grinaldi?”
“Kindly take away the tray.” She turned to Rosa. “Two o’clock. You have only thirty minutes before you must leave, and I want to show you Bella’s work.” She teared up again.
“Get up the stairs, La Grinaldi. Move now. Make Bella proud,” the domestic said, and left, casting a glance over her shoulder.
With a toss of her head and a remark about the insolence of servants, Francesca led them up a winding staircase, her scarf trailing behind.
The workroom was high-ceilinged, surrounded by windows, the view of Palermo and the sea, breathtaking. There were at least six sewing machines, five or six cutting tables, scissors, tape measures, mannequins. Shelves on one wall held bolts of material, large spools of thread. In the middle of the room, an iron figure stood, draped in a satin gown of emerald green with gossamer sleeves and high collar.
“Princess Rosso’s favorite color is green. How she loves all the shades-green of the sea, tender leafy greens, greens of the forest deep. Expects a fitting in a month. Now, I don’t know what to do.”
“When was the last time you saw Bella?”
“Saturday, October 6. She came on Thursday to spend the weekend. How busy we were, discussing our client, her wardrobe. The princess wanted two new gowns right away, wanted them ready for the Christmas season, wanted to see sketches for a complete wardrobe for the new season-dresses, skirts, coats, evening wear, leisure-everything. Bella designed two frocks, dashing the drawings off like a crazed woman. We pinned fabric together,” she said, indicating the mannequin robed in green, “both of us leaning over the drawing table, laughing, poring over the sketches, the domestic bringing us caffè and caponata. Ate standing up while we worked. On Friday, Bella told me that she must leave the next day for Oltramari, that she was to meet her confessor in the Duomo, in front of the Madonna’s Chapel at dusk. ‘Permanent absolution he’d grant her; she’d earned it, no matter what,’ she told me.”
• • •
“Still must do the ledgers,” Rosa said. “Stayed in the parlor too late last night.”
“Good. Drop me off. Tessa stays with us tonight. I’ll bring her home tomorrow after Carmela and I have done planning. Then we can discuss and finalize.”
The Plan
Monday morning, November 5, 1866
Vicenzu had already gone to the shop, Maria and Giulia to school, Carlo to the morgue.
Serafina kissed Renata good morning. “Carmela’s door is closed. I don’t want to disturb her. She and Carlo stayed up late last night talking. Probably take her a while to get her strength back, fall into our routine,” Serafina said. “Always a late sleeper, Carmela. Takes after me.”
“Carmela? She’s been up for hours. Helped me with the breakfast. Walked Maria and Giulia to school. Paid a visit to Mother Concetta. Helped Assunta and me feed Tessa and Totò. They’re outside now with her-she’s showing them how to milk the goat. And she’s been giving the gardener directions about creating something interesting around the chestnut tree.”
Serafina looked out the window and saw Carmela holding Octavia’s leash.
“Totò, don’t!” Tessa yelled.
“Big squirt, Tessa, big, big squirt,” Totò said.
“Carlo left the paper for you. It’s on the table,” Renata said. “Sit down. Eat.”
Serafina leafed through the pages. “A lot to do.” Assunta brought her biancumanciari and coffee. Serafina sensed a certain quiet about the house. Peace, she might call it. Yes, that was it. She took a bite of breakfast.