He gave her a pursed smile.
“Dr. Loffredo told me Rosa’s women died from a single stab to the heart, the wounds, identical.”
“Almost finished, the body, but the face, not yet painted. Would you like to see?”
Did she want to see Bella’s body again? She followed him.
The embalmer slammed the butt of his wet weed between his lips and opened a door.
Serafina lifted her skirts, held her torch high, and walked down a stairwell wide enough to hoist a casket. The smell was like the distillation of death. She heard the scurrying of claws, the swish of tails. Her imagination? A lizard slithered away.
He held the door and beckoned her inside. Before her was a room with a long table. On it was a body covered with a sheet, and by its side, an oil lamp, vials, powders, a glass magnifier.
He turned back the covering, handed her the glass.
It was Bella, all right, the face like wax. Through the magnifier she studied the mark on the prostitute’s forehead.
“All three marks the same, but this one, artistic.”
“How so?”
He pointed a nicotine-stained finger at the cut. “The top of the coil has a faint mark, like the tongue of a serpent.”
Serafina peered down at the evil brand and saw the split of a serpent’s tongue. She turned away.
“Yes. And the look on the first one’s face? Who or what did she see the instant before death? Perhaps the scales of Satan himself.”
His shoe ground the butt of his cigar and he motioned her upstairs and into his office, a room cluttered with papers, caskets, and the dusty contraptions of his trade. A diploma from the Capuchin catacombs in Palermo hung above his desk. The room smelled of tobacco, vinegar, and dust.
Something deep and complex ran through Serafina. The thought, or whatever it was, disturbed her stomach.
The embalmer blinked several times and held out a plate of sweets. “Caffè, dolci?”
She shook her head, swallowed.
He bit into a cookie and said through the crumbs, “Ah, the inspector, he asked me to say nothing about the marks, but for you?” He smiled.
“One more question if I may.”
“For you, dearest lady, what you wish.”
“At the other two wakes, was there anyone you didn’t recognize?”
“Not many attended. Rosa asked me to do my best work, and I did. But no, no one that…but now that I mention it, yes, there was a man. To Gemma’s mourning he came, with leather face and seeping eyes.”
“Seeping eyes?” she asked.
“They watered, but not from grief. The eyes, disconnected from the mouth, you see.”
She nodded.
“Carried a cane, unusual for one his age. Not old, not young. Kept to himself.”
“How so?”
“He came alone, stood in a back corner until it was time to close. Then he walked to Gemma’s casket, scowling and shaking his head. I watched as he raised his fists and cursed the corpse.”
The Wake
A tribute to the artistic powers of the embalmer, the corpse lay as if sleeping while the males in her family took turns standing alongside the bier. Candles flanked the open casket and flickered in wall sconces.
Accompanied by her son, Vicenzu, Serafina made her way to the front of the waking parlor to pay her respects, then stepped to the back of the room and watched as a stream of mourners filed to the front. Most of the men wore frock coats, carried silk hats. The women, corseted, clutched their children, whispered in their ears, and led them to the front to say their farewells.
Parting this sea of black, Nittù Baldassare wheeled his wife into the room. A gaggle of women flocked to her. In the lead was a dramatic, willowy figure in a flowing black gown. She was thick with rouge and French perfume. Sobbing and flouncing, the woman bent to hug Bella’s mother. Such a display. Not one of Rosa’s girls.
Younger mourners gathered in a far corner of the room. Rosa acted as hostess. She moved in measured grace and made introductions. Family members and Baldassare business associates greeted one another. Serafina heard the talk of wakes and funerals, knew this jargon by heart, she’d been to so many of these gatherings. Smiling, nodding, Serafina listened to snatches of the conversations: “I’m the cousin twice removed…how can the father…he’s alone now, except for the wife and she, poor soul…the harvest, another desolation…on her father’s side…the hair…? No, the heir…who will run the business…such a swagger.”
Someone tapped her on the shoulder.
“You don’t recognize me?” the man, a younger version of Bella’s father, said. Her eyes rested on his armband. “It’s me. Falco.”
Serafina shook her head, confused, until the years tumbled away. How could she forget him? He pointed to the casket. “Her father is my brother. He cleared his throat. “Such a pity. Lost his sons. I run the business now. My sons and I.”
She drummed a fist back and forth on her thigh, remembering their affair. Brief, torrid. Betrothed to Giorgio at the time, she had betrayed his love.
“Ravishing, still, Serafina. You are Rosa’s friend, no?
She smiled.
“Give her this message,” Falco said. “Tell her Nittù and I, we want to help her catch the killer. Tell her to call on us.” He kissed her hand, gazed into her eyes, a look that once had the power to melt.
“Rosa told me about your husband. My deep-” But he was interrupted by something that caught his eye. She followed his gaze, saw a lithe creature, one of Rosa’s prostitutes, wave to him. He took his leave with a nod and, she was sure, not another thought for her.
“See that tall man with the curls? I saw him kiss your hand. Who is he?” Vicenzu asked, pulling Serafina aside while Bella’s father talked to Rosa and Falco cavorted with the young woman.
“Later,” she said.
“Quite a way with Rosa’s women he has. Must know all of them,” Vicenzu added.
Before she left, Serafina gave Rosa a double kiss. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Falco and a young redhead in the back of the room. They acted like love birds in a nest of rooks.
Hadn’t changed, Falco.
Serafina took her leave. She walked out of the parlor the same way she’d entered, on the arm of her son. As they passed Falco’s group, the redhead waved.
Bella’s Letters
Wednesday, October 10, 1866
Serafina chose to read Bella’s letters in her father’s study, hoping they’d contain information of value-not just addresses and facts, but something of the character of the writers and, more importantly, a glimpse of Bella’s life.
In addition to those from Baldassare, there was correspondence from a woman, a noblewoman, judging from the seal and fine grade of parchment. And considering the loopy script and garish color of ink, the letters were written by the black swan Serafina had seen at the wake last night, Bella’s contessa friend. The return address was a number on the Piazzetta del Garraffo, which, if Serafina remembered correctly, was close to Baldassare’s shop.
She arranged the letters by sender, sorted them by date with the oldest on top, and settled in for a good read.
The father’s spanned a decade, a long time in a prostitute’s career. The oldest contained short bursts of news along with commands for his daughter’s return. Nothing of the man in them, only announcements of life and death. In an early letter her father wrote,
Your brothers are dead, all of them. Lost in a despicable battle on the outskirts of Milazzo. One day, one bridge, four brothers, eight-hundred lives. Your mother’s mind, too heavy with grief, is a sinking ship. You must come home.
N. Baldassare
In his middle correspondence, Serafina noticed a shift in the old man’s regard for his daughter. Gradually, he changed from anger and disbelief to resignation. Those were the longest letters, containing news of this cousin, that marriage, a feast, a play they’d attended. He told Bella about their customers, their orders, the relative ease of obtaining cotton ‘now that the war in America is over.’ Serafina began to get a sense of the man, laughed at his humor, smiled at his words of endearment.