When he returned with the tea tray, she said, “I’m listening.”
So he told her about the body in the street, the foulness of it, the pistol placed in the dead hand, the reticule stuffed with francs and identity papers of an aristocrat, the husband imprisoned but not talking, the Sicilian sleuth sent by the countess’s grieving father, a tradesman of some note in Paris.
“And now I find that the photos of the dead woman have gone missing from my desk, and the Sicilian detective wants to see them and asks to see other evidence as well.”
Unruffled, she considered for some moments. “What seemed at first a sordid affair of street people is now something more, perhaps a cover-up. You must walk a taut rope. Be careful, I’ve heard of this countess. A debauched woman, she comes from a wealthy family, influential milliners since the thirteenth century. Their presence in Paris is considerable. But you must not make one small incident into an international affair.”
“What could the Italian government do?”
“The Italian ambassador to France, Count Constantine Nigra helped the empress of Austria escape Paris during the Siege. The present government thinks highly of him. He could cause you real harm. I suggest you work with this Florio woman. The theft of the photos is the pretext for your change of heart. Help her. Show her the evidence she wishes to see, but keep a close watch. Let her make the mistakes.”
Francoise scared him sometimes, but he was a sparkling host that evening and slept through the night.
Chapter 12: What Carmela Discovers
Carmela, Tessa, and the maid waited outside the exhibit for Teo and Arcangelo. They were about to leave when they saw the two running toward them.
“If we had gone, could you have found your way to the hotel?” Carmela asked.
They nodded.
“That may be, but we must all stay together.” It was the first time Gesuzza had spoken, and Carmela was surprised at the chilling effect of her words. She was right, of course. The city and the language were new to all of them. They must stay together.
“Across the street,” Arcangelo began, breathing hard. “Two men.”
“I suggest that we walk to the Tuileries across from the hotel and sit,” Carmela said. “The day is lovely, and we could all use a rest. When we’ve recovered, you can tell me what you’ve discovered.”
“Not much,” Arcangelo began again, after he had regained his breath. They continued walking in the direction of the Tuileries.
“The two men we saw in Marseille stopped across the street from us.”
“On the Boulevard des Capucines?” she asked.
Arcangelo nodded. “They pretended to look in the shop windows. They sauntered up and down the sidewalk, went inside a cafe, but left soon enough. When we started toward them, they ran, so we followed.”
“And?”
“Not bright, those two.”
Carmela shook her head. “They may be very bright. Undoubtedly this is their first time in Paris and they seem to get around without much trouble.”
“Maybe they wanted to be followed,” Tessa suggested.
They stopped discussing the men while they strode down the Rue de la Paix, the four of them waiting while Carmela stared at the hats displayed in the windows of Busacca et Fils. She loved hats, loved to design them for herself, loved to look at them in shop windows, on women who paraded them in the streets. She closed her eyes and imagined she saw a sea of hats, each one unique, each one designed by her.
With crowds of other tourists, they admired the Place Vendome and crossed into the Jardin des Tuileries where they sat around an ornamental pool. They were silent for a time as they watched young children launch toy sailing boats into the shallow water.
She focused on the people enjoying their park, pedestrians walking fast, friends gathered together and laughing their words into the air, fashionable men escorting women with parasols, young girls spinning tops, boys tossing jacks and chasing hoops, the old strolling softly. She admired their grace and style, the smartness of their clothes. To her, all Parisians seemed in high spirits and free from care, unlike the people in her city. If Giulia could find a job here, why couldn’t she? She’d bring her child here, raise him in a proper country. She let the sun play on her face, dreaming of a better day.
Gesuzza sat, her arms crossed, her eyes narrowed, her thoughts unknowable.
“Finish telling us about the men,” Carmela said.
Teo wet his lips. “We followed them into an alley that kept getting narrower. Finally we cornered them between two buildings.”
“Brave but foolhardy, you could have been killed,” Carmela said.
“We asked again why they were watching us and they said it was to ensure our safety.”
“The same thing they said in Marseille,” Carmela said.
“But this time, I think I recognized one of the men, the one Arcangelo hit with his slingshot. I saw him in the piazza at home or in Boffo’s restaurant, one of those,” Teo said. “I think the guy might have been collecting from Boffo, because now that I remember it, Boffo was pouring coins into his palm and puffing his cheeks in and out, the way he does when he’s unhappy.”
“So they’re working for the don?” Carmela asked.
“Here comes la signura,” Gesuzza said. She waved Rosa over to where they were sitting and gave her the double kiss.
After the others had gone to the Jardin des Plantes, Carmela, Rosa, and Serafina sat in Serafina’s room. Carmela told them about the exhibit and about meeting Berthe Morisot and Victorine Meurent, what they’d said about Elena, her tantrum in the Place St. Sulpice, and about the man who accompanied her to the opening.
“Their impressions of Elena are the same as ours. She fools only herself. But I find it hard to believe that neither woman had heard of Elena’s death.”
Serafina looked at Rosa. “Go on.”
“They saw her Wednesday at the vernissage and also Thursday evening at the opening with her new lover, and they believe she’ll visit the exhibit again before it closes. She’s been a staunch supporter of these artists.”
“Did you tell them she was murdered?”
Carmela shook her head. “I wasn’t there to give out information. I was there to get information.”
Serafina smiled. “Right. Besides, we don’t know for sure that Elena’s dead. We only know what others tell us.”
The madam rolled her eyes.
“Tell me about going to Busacca’s store,” Carmela said. “I’m familiar with the one in Palermo, and we passed his shop on the Rue de la Paix. I love his hats-they’re such intriguing statements.”
Serafina studied her daughter. “As a child you created your own. Had to wear one all the time. You must visit all his stores in Paris.” She gave Busacca’s card to her. “Present this. They’ll design one for you.”
Carmela examined it. “Here all the women wear them. Not so at home.”
“We wear them when it’s cool enough,” Rosa said. “Imagine wearing a hat in June in Oltramari.”
Just then there was a knock on the door.
“A package for you, Madame.” The bellboy handed Serafina a hatbox.
“Where’s mine?” Rosa asked.
“So sorry, Madame, I did not know you were here.” He smiled and handed her a hatbox.
“Try them on!”
Elena was forgotten while they dealt with hats, Carmela supervising and showing Rosa and Serafina how they should wear them.