With curled fingers he combed his mustache, addressing the two women as if they were students in a large auditorium. “So,” he said.
A pause. Overlong.
Minerva said, “What? So what, Gasparo. Please to continue.”
“What I know of the numbers, six and seven, I tell you now. Or…”
Another pause.
“Or?” Minerva asked.
“If you prefer, you can read my book, Numbers and Ecstasy.
“Tell us please,” both women said in unison.
“So. Six is a perfect number,” he said, looking first at his sister, then at Serafina.
“Please to get on with it,” Minerva said.
“A perfect number is a whole number greater than zero. When you sum all of its factors, except for the number itself, you get that number.”
Serafina rubbed her forehead. “I take your word for it. Six is a perfect number.”
Minerva explained. “The factors of six are one, two, and three. When you add them, they make six. So six is a perfect number.”
“Six is followed by twenty-eight, then four-hundred ninety-six, followed by-”
“Somehow I don’t think the killer is a mathematician,” Serafina said.
“Not too many murderers are interested in the genius of Euclid,” Gasparo said, biting his mustache.
Minerva nodded.
He continued. “Now we come to the number, seven. According to the Greeks, it contains perfection, being the sum of the sides of an isosceles triangle and a square. The Romans, on the other hand, thought the number contained everything since it is the sum of four, the four corners of the earth, and three, a symbol of the divine.”
Serafina thanked the professor. She and Minerva were about to depart when he stopped them. “Caught in the web of numerology, perhaps, your killer. But sometimes the mad will act according to the heavens, a full moon, for instance.”
Serafina shook her head. “Not a full moon last Saturday. I would have remembered.”
• • •
Midway home Minerva said, “Trouble ahead. Can we take another way?”
Serafina heard only a faint blowing in the distance, like the whisper of air through fronds. “Children playing?” she asked.
“Not children. Something else.”
Her best choice was to trust Minerva’s hearing and Largo’s sense of direction, so she turned the trap and headed into a maze of narrow streets. The mule plowed through one twisted lane after another.
“I hope you know where you’re going.”
Largo brayed, increased his speed.
In a few moments, she could see the piazza.
As they drew closer, Serafina peered over her shoulder down a cross street and saw what must have caused the commotion, a crowd gathered around a cart. She slowed. An accident? A dodgy cart vendor? Voices grew louder. Pushing and shoving his way out from under the throng, a disheveled creature emerged, chased by a knot of yelling men. He pulled a swaybacked mule and weather-beaten cart.
“Poor man. Living rough, I suspect,” Serafina said.
Minerva said nothing.
Serafina flicked the reins, stopped in front of Lorenzo’s studio. She thanked her friend, kissed her on both cheeks, and led her inside.
The Autopsy
Who else but Dr. Loffredo would sit at his desk with his breakfast served on fine china by a maid dressed in black with a white apron, a table linen tucked into the collar to protect his boiled shirt.
Pulling at the napkin, he came around to kiss Serafina’s hand. So gentle his touch and understanding of women, and with eyes that would melt Scylla. Tall, not a hint of paunch, his clothes from the best tailors in Palermo. No children, a shame: they would have jammed that empty villa of his with offspring. She remembered their university days together, heady times, when class differences didn’t matter and bedroom walls echoed with daring talk of revolution. A pity she had loved her Giorgio so much.
He held the back of her chair. “Latté, my dear?”
“Don’t worry about me. Eat your breakfast while you tell me the results of the autopsy.”
He rang the bell. “Too early in the day to talk of murder.”
She ignored his remark. “Rosa asked me to investigate the deaths of her women.”
“But you’re a midwife.” His gaze was tender.
She raised her shoulders, palms out. “My best friend, Rosa. I can’t sit by while her business is destroyed. Colonna does nothing.”
“The police have their hands full.”
The maid entered, balancing a silver coffee service. She swept up his plate and left. Loffredo poured espresso and steaming milk, passed a cup to Serafina.
She said, “You’ve heard the rumors.”
“Don Tigro?” Loffredo sipped his caffè.
“Doesn’t make sense. Not to me. You?”
He shook his head. “Not the don’s kind of killing, unless, of course, Rosa’s not telling us everything.”
“She doesn’t hold things back from me.” She paused. “Well, almost nothing.”
He reached over and touched her hand.
“Spent time combing through Bella’s room. I uncovered some information, nothing that gave me answers, only more questions.” Serafina’s gaze swept his face. She savored her first sip of latté, breathing in the cocoa, the caffè, and the steam. “To tell you the truth, I’m intrigued. Horrified, yes, but also fascinated by the prospect of sleuthing.” She looked into his eyes. “Of late, my practice has been slow. Most families do their own birthing when coins are scarce, so no more coins from grateful fathers.”
“Is it hard for you with Giorgio gone?” he asked.
Her face colored. She couldn’t tell Loffredo coins were difficult. Wouldn’t do. “Oh, that. We’re fine. No worries there.”
Loffredo swiped his mouth with fresh linen. “Be careful, Fina.”
“You know me.”
“Too well. Yes, you’re a wizard, but sometimes it takes more than magic to right the world’s wrongs.”
“But I have to try.”
“Perhaps, but I couldn’t bear to think of your meeting the same fate as those women.” Loffredo crossed long legs. “This killer knows what he’s doing.”
“He?”
“Don’t know for sure.” He ran two fingers down a perfect pleat. “A knife has been the weapon of choice for female killers for centuries. Takes great skill to wield a deadly blade, but not great strength. Judging from the wounds on the three victims, the blade was razor-sharp. Double-edged, a stiletto. A vigorous woman could have killed Rosa’s women, but with these murders, I’m inclined to suspect a man, even though-”
“What?” she asked.
“There was no indication that this prostitute had been sexually violated either before or after death,” Loffredo said. “No bruising.”
And the other two?”
He shook his head. “None. But I still think the killer is male.”
“You said rigor mortis had been broken.”
“Yes. Bella’s right arm defied gravity. The body was moved sometime after death.”
“So that means the murderer could have left the scene, returned for the body.” But why, she wondered. Did he need to perform ritualistic acts after killing? Or did he wait for help to arrive? She asked, “Did the autopsy tell you anything more?”
“It corroborated what seemed apparent when examined initially: the wound to the heart was mortal. No food in the small intestines, so Bella died at least eight hours after taking food. Assuming she ate a light supper at the normal hour, say, anywhere between four and six o’clock, death occurred very late on the sixth or early on the seventh.”
The Embalmer
The embalmer wore a large apron over striped pants. A round man with fish lips and protruding eyes, he stood in the doorway of his shop sucking on a cigarillo.
Serafina told him that Rosa had asked her to find the killer. “I am interested in the mark on the dead women’s foreheads. I saw Bella’s body on Sunday morning when Rosa found her, but wanted to talk to you before the wake this evening. I’m sure you’ll make her look like a sleeping angel.”