Rosa pointed to the esplanade and chapel of Saint-Louis-des-Invalides and Mansard’s dome glistening in the sun. “And there’s the Champ de Mars and the military academy.”
Serafina said nothing.
“And winding through it all, the Seine, mistress of the city, the barges floating on it like black swans,” Rosa said.
Serafina looked at the scene, the light unique to Paris. The world seem silvery. “I must agree with you,” she said, “Paris is a beauty.”
“Too poetic by half,” the madam said. But her face betrayed her enchantment. “Could you live here?” she asked.
Serafina nodded. “The people still have what we’ve lost.”
To the west stood La Muette, its delightful park a pale green, and behind it, the deep green mantle of the Bois de Boulogne, dark and foreboding. “You can’t see it, but beyond the Bois is Longchamp. Remember Ricci telling us we should go?”
“If we have time, we must. His description of the sound of hooves on grass made me shiver,” Rosa said.
“We’ll have time.” Serafina looked at her friend.
“You know what happened already, don’t you,” Rosa said.
“Not completely.”
“What does that mean? Is that a yes or a no?”
“It’s a yes and a no, but I see now through a glass darkly.”
“You stole that line.”
Serafina smiled. She could tell by the roll of Rosa’s eyes and the upward thrust of her arms that the madam didn’t much care to understand. She looked at her watch, reluctant to leave.
“If we have enough time to go to Longchamp, then we’ll have enough time to visit Pere-Lachaise,” Rosa said.
“Say again? Wasn’t our visit to the morgue enough for you? Why traipse around in a cemetery?”
“Murat’s grave. He was so dashing, so handsome. I’ve loved him since grade school history.”
Rosa was her oldest friend. They’d known each other since forever, too many years to count, and yet she still surprised Serafina. Rosa harbors a longing for Joachim Murat? How could she?
Serafina closed her eyes, letting the breeze blow her curls, feeling the peace of it. She was close to the end, she knew it.
Rosa touched Serafina’s good shoulder. “I almost forgot.” She reached into her pocket and brought out a wad of paper. “While you were sleeping in the sun room-”
“I was most certainly not sleeping.”
“Whatever. I found these. Keep them in your pocket. Too much for Valois to handle just now. Besides, I know you’ll want to act on them. They’re notes of indebtedness to Elena from that handsome young pup, Ricci. Seems he ran up gambling debts.”
“Ricci?” Serafina couldn’t believe it of him. “He seemed so genuine, so polite, so…”
“So little you know of men. Did you total up the cost of his suit, his hat, cologne, cane, gloves? He’s expensive, I tell you. In total, he owes his cousin a small fortune,” Rosa said. “By my calculation, close to twenty-five thousand francs. For all we know, there are others. So clever of you to ask about Elena’s will.” Rosa tapped the side of her nose. “Who said, ‘In the end, it’s all about lucre’?”
“You repeat yourself. Have you heard from your source?”
“I have, but I was saving the news for later.”
“Go on, then. Who is he, by the way?”
“Fina. You should know better than to ask. I never reveal my sources. Except I will say, he struts about the piazza like a rooster wearing an avvocato’s robe. When you hear the terms, promise not to jump to conclusions.”
Serafina crossed her arms. “Go on.”
“There’s a substantial bequest to La Maternite and to some society of artists, I don’t remember the whole name, but you can imagine.”
She was silent, waiting for the rest.
“The major portion of her estate, some twenty-five million lire, goes to her aunt, Sophia Busacca.”
Serafina stopped. Her hands were cold. For Loffredo, not a mention.
“You’re jumping, I see it, and you promised not to. There’s more. Should the aunt pre-decease, it’s equally divided between her sons, Elena’s three nephews.”
“I thought so,” Serafina said. “And that’s why Levi Busacca commissioned me to find his daughter’s murderer. I cabled him, you know. I told him I thought his daughter might be alive.”
“What did he say?”
“He hasn’t replied.”
They were silent for some time, drinking in the beauty of Paris, until Serafina asked about Elena’s bank account.
“On April 15, one-thousand francs were withdrawn. No activity since that time.”
Serafina read one of the notes signed by Ricci, shuffled through the rest, and put her hand to her forehead.
“Do they darken the glass you look through?” Rosa asked.
Serafina shook her head.
“Just so you don’t go all wizard on me again. And by the way, I’m famished.”
“Keep the notes and remind me about them later.”
On the way out, they met Valois. “We’d like to take you and your wife and son to dinner,” Rosa said. “Vefour at nine tonight? We’ve asked for a private room.”
As they walked to the carriage, they saw Teo and Arcangelo lumbering behind two policemen. They’d cuffed the two shadows and were pushing them toward a wagon.
Chapter 20: La Maternite
“Port Royale, driver,” Serafina said.
“Not on your life. I don’t know what’s there, but it doesn’t sound like my kind of place. Anyway, I must have food first. It’s a long time until we eat tonight.”
Serafina told the driver to find them a brasserie in the sixth arrondissement. “Not too noisy.”
When the waiter brought their food, a sole meuniere with a glass of mineral water for Serafina and a peppered steak and pommes frites with a glass of Bordeaux for Rosa, the madam said, “Tell me what’s at the Port Royal, something to do with Elena, I fear.” She forked a morsel of steak and French fries into her mouth, savoring the richness and swallowing a large mouthful of wine.
“ La Maternite, one of the hidden treasures of Paris,” Serafina began. “What you thought of as sleeping on my part was thinking.”
“Your mother sent you there, didn’t she? After that disastrous affair of yours with what’s his name. That was one of your worst moves, by the way. You almost failed to get your certificate. I couldn’t believe it when I heard.” Rosa shoveled; she chewed; she drank.
“You’re off the subject entirely. Today I remembered a doctor who was making a name for himself at La Maternite, all over Paris in fact, at the time I attended the school of midwifery.”
“One of your teachers?”
“No, we were taught by the head midwife, a femme savante. Wonderful woman. Strict, which is what I needed at the time. Mama used to say that the French have a lot to teach the world about midwifery, and she was right. But we attended his lectures. He had most unusual thoughts about delivering breech births, I remember. I was slightly in awe of him.”
“So?”
“I saw his name, Tarnier, in Elena’s address book, and I’ve been puzzling over it ever since, trying to remember its significance until today in Elena’s apartment.” She reached into her pocket, brought out the little book, and showed Rosa the note written in Elena’s hand-“Tarnier, April 18, La M”.
“But La Maternite is for women who can’t afford a midwife. And if he’s the chief of surgery, why would he agree to treat Elena?” Rosa asked.
“You need to ask? The will?”