There it was, that feeling at the nape of her neck. Glancing down the street, she saw one of the men who’d been following her, the one wearing the leather jerkin. He was peering into a shop window on the Rue Jacob.
She wondered why Valois had released them. “I’ll meet you in a moment,” she said over her shoulder, picking up her skirts in her good hand and flying across the street toward the man. Her heart pounded and her hair, straining against its pins even in the best of times, loosened, red curls flying everywhere, into her eyes, down her back. Panting, she vowed she’d get him, she’d tear the bugger apart, bad arm be damned. She’d had enough.
The neighborhood was crowded and a horse cart blocked her way-stupid, idiot man, she’d rip off his limbs-even one-handed, she would. Waiting for the chance to move, she jumped up and down so she wouldn’t lose sight of him. She worked her way behind and around the cart’s rear wheels only to be engulfed by a group of students also trying to cross. They jostled, laughed, and she began to see the humor of her situation, but her focus remained on the man in the jerkin He hadn’t stirred. Her blood was coming to the boil.
As she drew closer, the man saw her, jerked away from the window, and started to run. Anticipating his flight, she hiked her skirts higher and ran him down, catching him by the scruff of his neck and latching onto his ear, pinching it with all her might.
Then the world slowed as if she were in a ballroom dancing with Loffredo and she, moving with the stately grace of a ballerina, shook the shadow back and forth, back and forth. He hung in her vision like a caught bird as he pleaded, his words too slow and unintelligible. As he wrenched and struggled, she waited for her chance and when it came, she slammed a knee into his groin, brought it up faster than she thought she could move.
She’d hit home. The man folded into himself. Someone yelled, “ le coup de grace,” and the crowd roared. It was the culmination of the dance. She was still holding onto his ear, digging in with her fingernail, when he screamed and bent in half, pulling her down, both of them tumbling to the ground. He moaned and held onto himself and rolled while the crowd cheered. Breathing hard, her hair like a witch’s lair, she grabbed him by the leg and pulled him across the rough cobbles out of the street and away from traffic. Then she pulled him up and leaned him against a building. The crowd clapped.
“Police… were… too gentle. I’m… not,” she rasped. “Tell me
… who… pays you…”
“Let me go!”
“Tell me who pays you!” She grabbed him by the hair, pulling and twisting.
“Tell her!” a bystander cried in falsetto and the knot of students guffawed.
“The don,” a voice said, familiar. She spun around and saw Loffredo moving toward her, holding the other shadow. He gripped the man’s neck and pushed him forward, a sergent de ville by their side.
Loffredo brushed his coat and trousers, ran a hand through his hair and stomped the dust from his boots. “He’ll take them away,” he said, motioning to the policeman, and he knows to consult with Valois.”
After she’d calmed and he smoothed her hair, they walked the streets of the sixth arrondissement watching the people of Paris and enjoying each other and the weather. They walked on the quay and gazed at the Seine. They walked through the gardens-first, the Jardin des Plantes, his favorite, then the Jardin du Luxembourg, hers. There was no banter. They walked arm in arm, his spirit somewhat weighed down and tugging at hers, keeping them both close to the ground.
For the first time since their arrival, she felt herself free from the burden of the two who followed them, and not just in Paris, either. But it took Paris for her to realize what terror her family, like most Oltramarians, had endured because of the don.
Chapter 28: A Small Shop Near the Seine
Serafina dispensed with the arm brace. Had she done so earlier today, she would have had an easier time dealing with the men who followed her. The scent of lilacs filled the air as she and Loffredo entered the Luxembourg Gardens, arms around each other, the pretense of mere friendship set aside. If they had to wait for the order of exhumation, Paris was the place in which to dally.
They found Rosa sitting on a bench while she studied the racing section of Le Figaro. The madam was beginning her campaign to visit Longchamp, Serafina figured. The paper dropped to the ground as Rosa looked up at them.
“At least you could have cleaned up afterward.”
They told her about catching the shadows.
“But I don’t understand why he would he send them all the way here just to spy on me,” Serafina said. “Quite an expense, and to what end?”
Rosa picked up the paper. “He knows about your large retainer from Busacca.”
“How would he?”
“He knows everything.”
“As it is, we can’t afford to pay protection money for the apothecary shop.”
“Have you heard from your children at home?”
A vision of the fire in Boffo’s Cafe intruded itself, unbidden, unwanted, the acrid stench invading her mind as the image of a menu, its words engulfed in flames, crumpled into ash, another grim reminder of the don’s destruction. Boffo told her he hadn’t paid his fee to the capo’s men for the past three months after customers dwindled and he couldn’t come up with the coins. She stuffed the memory.
“Carmela keeps in touch. According to Vicenzu, everyone’s fine.”
Despite the weather, Serafina felt a chill, but she couldn’t worry about the don, not now, she told them. “We need to assess where we are.”
Rosa began. “We have three unknowns- who was the dead woman in the Rue Cassette, who killed her, and where is Elena.”
“In addition, we have two more unknowns-who shot me, and who stole the photos of the dead woman. I have a hunch they are the same person, certainly not the don’s men.”
Rosa picked up the racing form. “Add a sixth unknown-why did Sophie identify the dead woman as that of her niece?”
“Might have something to do with the blindness in the center of her vision or her son’s gambling debt,” Serafina said. “She’s hiding something. Otherwise why would she have lashed out?”
Rosa shook her head. “The Busacca family’s loaded. Discharging those debts would be like paying the butcher’s bill.”
Serafina wasn’t so sure, especially after hearing Carmela’s assessment of their stores.
The sun was in her eyes, but she stared at the fountain, listening to the sound of the water splashing against stone. She was in love with the Luxembourg garden. It was less formal than the Tuileries and more sheltered from the noise of traffic, and tended to so beautifully. The French had taste, she must admit. But more important, at least for her spirit-in Paris she found great swaths of peace, and the people seemed relaxed. So different than they were in Oltramari.
“What else do we know for sure?” She stared at the rows of trees in the middle distance, their leaves dappled with sun, and smiled at Loffredo who gave her a gentle hug and tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear and felt the rejuvenating spring and wondered how many of these moments they’d have at home.
“Be careful, both of you,” Rosa cautioned.
Not like the madam, Serafina thought. “We know the woman buried in Elena’s grave is not Elena. We know we were followed by two of Don Tigro’s men, and we know why.”
“Go on,” Rosa said.
Serafina rolled her eyes. “And we know that whoever stole the photos from Valois’ desk did not want us to see them because we’d know the dead woman wasn’t Elena.”
“That’s a leap,” the madam said. “But we know that Elena paid Ricci de Masson’s gambling debts, a considerable sum.”
“One of the nicest thing I’ve heard about Elena,” Serafina said. “And we also know that the bullet taken from my shoulder was almost identical to the bullet retrieved from the dead woman’s mouth.”