Serafina had forgotten about the caul. She took two pieces of the hotel’s stationery, one for Carmela, the other for herself. Turning to her daughter, she said, “We’ll make two lists. You and Tessa will interview painters and the like. Go to their studios if possible. Rosa and I will concentrate on the others.”
Carmela grabbed the book from Serafina. “You and your lists. But how will we know which ones are artists, which are not, and where to find them? The book has some addresses, but there’s no order to it. Most of these scribbles are notes to herself. Some of the comments I understand, but much of the information is abbreviated, intelligible only to Elena herself. This page, for instance: ‘Renoir, studio No. 2, B. Mich, near St. G…’ and nothing more. Then ‘Mallarme, Rue de R,’ on the same line with ‘Tarnier, April 18, La M.’ Or this one, ‘M. Misere, blanch.’ And here, ‘Degas, Rue Canard.’
Tessa told her that she’d recognized the names, Degas and Renoir as two of the artists whose paintings were hanging in the show they’d seen two days ago. Carmela picked up her map and tried to find Rue Canard, but could not. “The word Canard must stand for something else, Elena’s pet name for a street or a district in Paris. The book is useless!” She tossed it on the bed.
“I have an idea,” Tessa said. “We have an invitation to visit Victorine Meurent’s studio. We’ll start there. Victorine knows Elena. Perhaps she knows the names and addresses of other artists who also know Elena. Or we can go back to the exhibit on the Boulevard des Capucines. Perhaps Berthe Morisot will be there, and we can get a list of Elena’s friends from her.”
Carmela agreed. “Perfect. Something I should have done on our first visit. She’ll help us, I’m sure.”
Having decided the book was of no further use, the three retired to their separate rooms.
Serafina, however, was not yet ready to toss the book aside, telling herself she’d get up early the next morning and study it some more. After the chambermaid helped her into bed, she slept for a few hours, but was awakened by singing and laughter, a rowdy party down the hall or on the floor above or below, most likely. She had to lie flat on her back, unmoving, and that made sleep impossible. She rose and spent the next few hours combing through Elena’s book, scrabbling through the pages, trying to understand the woman’s notes. Her forehead was tight, her vision strained, and something she’d eaten was playing havoc with her stomach, but still she looked at the book, then at the wall as if mesmerized. There was something she was missing, something in the book that disturbed a memory long forgotten, some words that held the key, she was sure. She dozed.
In an hour or so she awoke and started reading the address book again from the beginning, opening the pages slowly, scanning with a finger down the page, stopping at cryptic comments. Nothing jumped into her mind except bright spots swimming before her eyes. Maddening, like a door opening a crack but not enough to pass through. Perhaps it was the chimera created by wishing it were so. Nothing looked familiar. Were these the hallucinogenic scribbles of a drugged mind? Some of them, perhaps. Other comments were just humorous asides. But there was something she’d read, something disturbing, something buried, clawing to break free. She wanted this case to be over. She wanted Elena to be alive, Loffredo to be released.
She remembered the envelopes she’d found in Elena’s ladies’ parlor. Two were addressed to her in the Rue des Juifs, another to her at an address in Arles. Would she have gone there to hide? For how long? How could Elena believe she wouldn’t be discovered? Then she remembered that if her father hadn’t asked that her death be investigated, the ruse would never have been discovered. Despite what Gaston claimed, could Elena in fact be the dead woman on the Rue Cassette? She pushed the thought away. And the most puzzling question of all, why would Elena want to disappear.
“You’re doing your wizard thing again,” Rosa said. A few minutes earlier she’d returned with her maid to check up on Serafina. She sat on the bed while Gesuzza washed and dressed Serafina’s shoulder. “You’re far away and in some bygone century. Thinking of Loffredo?”
“There’s something we forgot to consider,” Serafina said.
“Let me guess, you’re building a case again.”
“Who inherits Elena’s estate?”
The madam narrowed her eyes. “I take back everything I’ve said about you and business.”
“I remember some time ago during the case in Bagheria, remember?”
“Of course I remember. It’s where Umbrello and I met. Quite a delicious affair, that.”
“You’re off the subject. No, I meant that it was during our time in Bagheria that Elena found out about Loffredo. She threatened to change her will and cut off his allowance, remember? Loffredo laughed, but she may have done just that. How can we find out? We’d need to know who profits by her death.”
They were silent a while. Serafina may have dozed, but was awakened by a sharp noise in the street below. Paris became even more alive at night.
“Leave it to me,” Rosa said.
“And while you’re at it, check her account activity. Can you manage it?”
“What account activity?” Rosa asked.
“Her bank account, of course.” The perfect job for the madam.
Chapter 19: A View of Paris
Dr. Melange was a slight man with long fingers and a thin mustache. He took their note of introduction with a slight incline of the head, reading it over several times. His office was in the morgue facing the back of Notre Dame. Serafina and Rosa arrived early, before the crowds that formed later in the day. They were seated in front of him waiting for him to finish reading over his notes.
Serafina wondered why she found the room so close. Perhaps because she was defying the orders of her doctor to stay flat on her back for a week. She could wait no longer and asked her question. “Was the woman murdered in the Rue Cassette with child?”
He shrugged. “Yes.”
“I told you,” Rosa said. “Thank you doctor, we won’t waste any more of your time.”
Serafina felt her pulse quicken. She looked at Rosa expecting the madam to gloat. Instead, her face was inscrutable.
The doctor finished his thought. “No longer with child. But at one time she had given birth or at least had expected a child, perhaps many times, but she was not with child at the time of her death. She was wracked with lesions caused by venereal disease, a condition common among prostitutes. I’m afraid she would have died in a few months if she hadn’t been murdered. She was a prostitute who should have been imprisoned for defying the health laws. You were her friends?”
“No. And you told this to the inspector?”
He shook his head. “I wasn’t asked. I was asked to determine the cause of death and if the deceased had committed suicide, but why would I include the fact that she was not pregnant?”
“Because her condition may have had something to do with her death. For example, her husband finds she is not with child, the reason he married her, so he shoots her.”
“Far fetched. I respect the privacy of the dead and don’t mention their condition unless I am asked specifically by an investigator, such as yourself, if the woman was with child. As a matter of course, we examine the whole body including all the organs.”
On the way back to the hotel, Serafina said, “I knew it. The dead woman was not with child. Then she could not have been who she claimed to be.”
“She didn’t claim to be anyone. She was dead,” Rosa reminded her.
“You know what I mean. The reticule she carried was stolen. It belonged to Elena. The papers inside identified her as Elena. Sophie de Masson identified the dead woman as her niece, that’s what I meant. Must I spell it out?”
“What have you found out about her will?” Serafina asked.
“Give me time. It’s not easy, although it should be public knowledge. Elena is dead, after all.” The madam shot Serafina a triumphant glance. “Oh, really?”