Carlo shrugged. “Is there a ‘second’?” he asked.
She nodded. “Don Tigro’s thugs would have picked Ugo’s house clean of the gold and silver.”
Carlo thought a moment and nodded, more to himself than to her. “And how do you know the killer will return to the scene of the crime, assuming we find it?”
“A hunch. He’ll want to make sure there’s nothing left behind that could implicate him. If my guess is right, he’s disturbed about something.”
“Of course! Disturbed enough to kill.”
“No, I mean, distraught, wild, disturbed enough to stab Ugo, what, seventy-five, a hundred times.”
“We’ve been through this.”
“And how do the wild behave? Theirs is a small world. They go back to what they know and love, regardless of the danger.”
Carlo was about to say more, but Serafina continued. “Or he might just want to go back for whatever it is that madmen dream of.”
“And what you don’t know, you make up as you go along.”
How could she explain to her son about the knowledge of the heart, the flash of a wizard’s understanding? He was oblivious to such things, unlike his twin, Carmela. Not at all like her side of the family, many of whom had been gifted with apparitions. Not at all like Giorgio either, who, while he lived, combined a love of dogged learning with the immediate grasp of genius. She shook her head.
“You’re in another world again.” Carlo held the door open while Serafina smiled up at the stone angel above the lintel.
CHAPTER EIGHT
As the front door opened, Serafina heard Maria’s scales coming from the parlor.
“What’s for dinner?” She followed the sounds of banging pots. “Where’s Renata?”
“The monzù’s carriage came for her while you were out.” Carmela, her infant son slung on one hip, stirred the sauce while the domestic shuffled back and forth setting places at the table.
Ignoring the queer way her stomach felt, Serafina gathered up her grandson and kissed his hair. “Oh, my precious, you and I don’t like the monzù, do we? Unspeakable rudeness! Just because he trained in Paris, he thinks he can order your Aunt Renata about like some kind of kitchen wench.” As usual, the baby settled in Serafina’s arms. He cooed. She nuzzled her nose against the silkiness of his ear.
“We talked about this,” Carmela said. “You knew Renata was leaving.” She dampened the flames, emptied the drained pasta into a bowl, smothered some sauce and cheese on top. “She’ll be back in two months, as soon as prince what’s his name tires of her pastries or runs out of coins. In the meantime, the domestic and I will take care of the kitchen. All yours, Assunta. Careful, it’s hot.” Carmela blew a lock of hair out of her eyes while the domestic carried the main dish to the table.
Giulia came into the room carrying her school books and sewing basket. She kissed Serafina’s cheek.
“Are the beads finished for the baroness?”
“Yes, I ran them over this morning before school.”
She felt a tug on her skirt, looked down. Totò held his sore finger in the air. She kissed it. “Much better today, my sweetness. Carlo, look at his finger, won’t you?” Serafina clasped her youngest son closer before releasing him.
“Over here. Let me look.” Carlo bent to Totò. “That little cut? It’s nothing!”
“Is too. Sore!” Totò stuck out his lower lip.
“It didn’t bother you until Mama came into the room. Grow up!”
“Not so rude to your brother! Wash his wound and dress it with fresh cloth.”
“Wound? It’s a scratch! And you dress it-you’re the mother!”
Carmela stomped over to face her twin. “Your mother works two jobs and we eat scraps so you can go to medical school and you talk like a, like a bandit-”
“A lot you care, storming off and disappearing for four years and bulging with your bastard when you re-”
“Enough! We’re a family and still in mourning.” Serafina blinked hard. While she knelt to kiss Totò’s finger, her mind played tricks. They were gathered around the table, Giorgio pouring the wine, his laughter tumbling over them, the house rich with the smell of roasted pork. Carmela and Carlo must have been what, five or six? Vicenzu and Renata were toddlers; Giulia, Maria and Totò, not yet born. Those were the days of plenty when Serafina’s mother lived on the third floor and, with the help of two servants, kept the kitchen whenever they were between cooks. Whatever they wanted, they bought at market, traveling by coach to La Vucciria each week. They bought only the finest cuts of meat, fish so fresh their tails stood on end. Main courses were accompanied by two or three succulent side dishes, each course served with the proper wine. Today they had a watery sauce, overcooked pasta, a heel of stale bread.
Maria’s music was lumbering, punctuated by the ticking of the grandfather clock.
Carlo tasted the sauce and made a face. “No bread?”
A knot formed in Serafina’s stomach. “Carmela’s too busy with Rosa’s gardens for perfection in the kitchen. We’ll hire a cook.”
“No funds for cooks!” Vicenzu, the middle son, yelled from his desk in the corner of the kitchen. His abacus whirred. A carriage accident three years ago left him with a limp and a love of numbers. It was a calamity at the time, especially for the life and career of a young man, but in the end it had become a boon for Serafina’s family. Ever since Giorgio’s death, Vicenzu ran the apothecary shop and kept a tight rein on their coins.
Seated at the table, Carlo fiddled with his watch chain. Serafina rose and hugged Carmela. She told her daughter how proud she was of her landscaping and her attempts at cooking. She showered her grandson with kisses. The baby gurgled.
“Maria, Giulia, Vicenzu, time for dinner!”
The piano stopped.
A loud knock interrupted them. The domestic shuffled down the hall to answer the door.
Vicenzu and Carlo stood when Serafina’s friend, Rosa, entered. She was followed by an entourage, her cook carrying a large platter of steaming bruscialoni smothered inpomodoro marinara, two maids laden with antipasti, warm bread, and three bottles of Nero Mascalese.
“My chief gardener is detained by you?”
Last month, Rosa relinquished the running of her high class house after a serial killer murdered three of her women. Taking her cook, maids, driver, stableboy, and several bodyguards with her, she moved into the abandoned villa next door to Serafina after its owners had fled to the Americas or some such place in the middle of the night. Serafina was thrilled: it gave Rosa and her daughter a home next to hers.
She and Rosa had met when they were children, and despite vast differences of class and temperament, they’d remained best friends. What would she do without her, Serafina wondered. Although the former madam’s nature was prickly, Rosa’s eye for the main chance had helped her business prosper when everyone else failed. Frequented by generals, politicians, and-it was rumored-bishops, her house was famous throughout the province. She knew everyone and everything. She’d helped Serafina and her family survive the war. Last year when the police did nothing to solve the murders of Rosa’s women, she called upon Serafina who risked her life to unmask the killer.
Rosa kissed Carmela on both cheeks. “You’ve made a lovely design for my gardens in the back, but you should be planning the conservatory, not cooking for this one.” She jerked a thumb in Serafina’s direction.
“But we’ve got to eat and-”
Rosa scowled at Serafina. “Where’s your mind? We agreed last night: in exchange for Carmela designing my gardens, Formusa will prepare your meals while Renata is away. Here’s your dinner, delicious and steaming. And she’s planning pasta con le sarde for your supper.”