Serafina ignored the barb. For the moment, she said nothing.
“But now that you mention it, the woman did seem to be elsewhere. Dignified, not a talky soul, but yesterday she was more cloaked than usual, I’d say. And she did tear up when she said goodbye.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Monday, February 18, 1867
Early Monday morning after his breakfast, Vicenzu limped toward the door, donned his hat and coat and was about to leave when, tapping his head, he returned to the kitchen where Serafina sat finishing her breakfast.
“Staring into space again, I see.”
“Oh, yes, dear, that’s fine.”
Vicenzu seemed confused. “I found more records you’d be interested in. Papa had them squirreled in the desk apart from the others. Would you like to see them?”
She shot up like a flash and followed him out the door.
Midway through the last ledger, Serafina blinked, looked again at what she’d just read-an entry made over three years ago. Her finger traced Giorgio’s scrawclass="underline" “Thursday, December 17, 1863. 2 g, Arsenic Trioxide, sold to Pandolfina family. Rat poison, workroom.” Heart thumping, she copied the information into her notebook, then stared at the words before heading for home.
Opening the door to the shoe store, Serafina listened for the sound of the silver bell. Missing.
Teo ran his tongue around his lips and smiled. They were waiting for her on the counter, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.
“Thank you, Donna Fina, for everything.” He smiled.
“Why aren’t you in school?”
“Papa told me to mind the store today while he runs a special errand.”
“It seems so empty in here.”
“Usually not open this early. Too quiet on Monday mornings, but I promised your shoes would be ready.” He handed her the package.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Late Monday afternoon, Arcangelo and Beppe waited in the sitting room for Serafina.
“Nothing yesterday,” Beppe said. “Waited all morning, afternoon, evening. Shop closed. No sight of the shoemaker or his family.”
Serafina crossed her arms. “Of course. The shop’s closed on Sunday.”
“But this morning the cobbler and his son draped something over the windows and spread straw on the steps. About an hour later-”
“Less than that!” Beppe interrupted. “The shoemaker and his son left together-suited, both of them.”
“Perhaps a visit to the embalmer?”
They shook their heads. “Train station again. Returned a few minutes ago, walking swiftly, heads down, both of them.”
Serafina consulted her watch pin. “Afraid they’d be late for the wake. It begins in an hour.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The evening of Ugo’s wake, the embalmer’s parlor was filled with dignitaries. It seemed as if the whole town had gathered, either to view the body or because Boffo had announced drinks on the house afterward.
Two carabinieri flanked the bier.
When Serafina saw Graziella seated in the corner with Teo and the baby, she walked over to pay her respects. She smiled at Teo, kissed Graziella on both cheeks. The poor woman gave her a lost smile, her eyes darting about the room while Serafina spoke words of comfort.
Excusing herself, Serafina and her sons stood in the line to greet Rodolfo.
“We can’t keep a cat in the house,” Vicenzu said. “And I caught Totò feeding it bits of tuna. Too much. I put it in the stable. Let it eat mice.”
“Whatever you say, dear.”
Carlo winked at his brother. “Dreaming.”
“Sicily bleeds,” Vicenzu muttered, “and we feed a cat.”
Serafina patted Vicenzu’s arm. “You’re right as usual. Just remember what we rehearsed.”
“Foolish, but if you insist.”
“What are you talking about?” Carlo asked.
“You’ll see. Shhh, not a word.”
Poor Vicenzu. She noticed a new stretch to the seams of his frock coat as he bent to hug the shoemaker, the way men do.
Carlo hugged Rodolfo, pecking both his cheeks and, as the eldest son should do, shook the shoemaker’s hand. “No more brothers, eh, Rodolfo? A pity.”
The shoemaker nodded.
Now it was Vicenzu’s turn to speak. Blast him, he just stood there, unmoving, the words they’d rehearsed sticking in his craw. He reached for breath, then all at once, said, “Rats all gone?”
“What?” Rodolfo’s face was the color of bleached wool. He took a step backward, bumped into his brother’s casket.
Vicenzu looked at Serafina, who shot him a soft elbow.
Her son pitched his bulk back and forth. “The arsenic you bought from us some years ago to kill the rats in your shop, did it work?”
Serafina watched the shoemaker’s face. As far as she was concerned, Vicenzu made a lurching start, but in the end, succeeded. His question had the effect on Rodolfo that she hoped it would. In her eyes, the shoemaker was guilty of his brother’s death.
“Are we going to Boffo’s?” Carlo asked on the way out.
“Not interested,” Serafina said.
As they walked home, she raised her chin to Vicenzu. “Thank you. A part well played.”
Carlo shook his head. “The shoemaker almost fainted. He knows you suspect him of having a part to play in Ugo’s death. Now I see his guilt. But a purchase of rat poison three years before the event proves nothing.”
“Of course not,” Vicenzu said. “And the ledger indicated the poison was sold to ‘The Pandolfina Family.’ Which Pandolfina family? There are dozens in Oltramari. Not like Papa to write so vague a notation.”
She turned to Vicenzu. “If I could find one more missing piece, I’d be satisfied. It won’t-”
Carlo interrupted. “You? Satisfied? Don’t believe her.”
She yanked Vicenzu’s sleeve. “I need your help. It won’t take long.”
Carlo held up his hands as if to ward off the devil. “Where have I heard that before?” Turning to his brother, he said, “Be careful. Her minutes creep like hours.”
After his involvement in the initial investigation and the capture of Abatti, she couldn’t blame Carlo. She looked at Vicenzu. “Ready for a little adventure?”
The three stopped, waiting for Vicenzu’s reply. Was that a nod and a wink from her son, the one who seldom smiled, Vicenzu, the one with the numbers and the abacus and the closed purse strings?
Vicenzu opened the gate. He bowed, gestured for Carlo to enter.
“The two of you are mad.” Carlo gave them a cursory wave.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
They crossed the piazza. There was a sliver of moon and no stars. Thankful for the evening’s dimness, she felt in her pockets for the candles she kept with her for late night deliveries.
Vicenzu limped beside her, his lumbering gait a familiar comfort. “When are you going to tell me what we’re doing?”
“Sorry, dear. We’re going to search the shoemaker’s shop for arsenic trioxide.”
Entering the public gardens, she felt the wings of a large bird graze her shoulder. It cackled and flapped its wings. She grabbed Vicenzu’s sleeve.
“Do we really need to do this?”
“Must satisfy myself that Rodolfo had the arsenic in his possession.”
“You’ll never have enough evidence unless he confesses.” Vicenzu pulled at his vest.
She was quiet.
“Are you sure you’re not making your task impossible because you don’t want to succeed?” he asked.
Serafina huddled inside her cape. She could see her breath. “A wild accusation!” But she knew he was right. How clever, this son of hers. Of course: she didn’t want the shoemaker to be guilty, so she had fooled herself, delayed, and made her task impossible.