Murder On The Rue Cassette
A Serafina Florio Mystery
by
Susan Russo Anderson
Short Blurb:
Paris, 1874. When the body of a countess is found in the Rue Cassette, her husband, Loffredo, also Serafina’s lover, is charged with her murder and imprisoned. Serafina investigates the brutal death and attempts to convince her counterpart at La Sûreté Nationale of Loffredo’s innocence. As the plot twists, Serafina and her friends find themselves in the dangerous grip of a mind gone feral.
Synopsis
Paris, April 15, 1874. A group of painters hang their works in a studio on the Boulevard des Capucines. Elena, a Sicilian countess estranged from her husband and living in Paris for the past seven years, attends the opening with her latest flame. She counts many of these artists as her friends, some as her former lovers. As she views their works, she is in awe of their explosive color, their exciting lines, the quality of the light. “They will change how the world sees,” a friend tells her, and she longs to paint with their talent.
Three hours later, Elena’s body is found in the Rue Cassette, fatally shot in the left temple. Her husband, Loffredo, also Serafina’s lover, is charged with her murder and awaits trial in a Paris prison.
Serafina is commissioned to investigate the countess’s death. The sleuth and her entourage travel to Paris where they stay at the luxurious Hôtel du Louvre then located on the Place du Palais Royal. They dine at the finest restaurants and bistros including Maison Dorée, La Tour d’Argent, Le Procope, and Bofinger. Berthe Morisot, Victorine Meurent, Paul Cézanne, Auguste Renoir, Camille Pissarro, Édouard Manet, Stéphane Mallarmé, Camille Saint-Saëns, and other notables make cameo appearances as Serafina interviews friends of the countess. At the same time she discovers bits and pieces of the truth concerning the dead woman and attempts to convince Inspector Alphonse Valois, her counterpart at La Sûreté Nationale, of Loffredo’s innocence. As the plot twists and turns, Serafina and her friends find themselves in the dangerous grip of a mind gone feral.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1: Elena
Chapter 2: Levi Busacca
Chapter 3: Loffredo in Chains
Chapter 4: The Commission
Chapter 5: Preparations
Chapter 6: The Journey to Paris
Chapter 7: Arrival
Chapter 8: Sophie de Masson
Chapter 9: The Prefect of Paris
Chapter 10: The Exhibit
Chapter 11: Alphonse Valois
Chapter 12: What Carmela Discovers
Chapter 13: A Visit to the Sixth Arrondissement
Chapter 14: La Maison Dorée
Chapter 15: A Visit to Elena’s Apartment
Chapter 16: The Lawyer Visits Loffredo
Chapter 17: L’Hôpital del la Charité
Chapter 18: A Visit from Valois
Chapter 19: A View of Paris
Chapter 20: La Maternité
Chapter 21: Véfour
Chapter 22: Françoise and Alphonse
Chapter 23: Busacca et Fils
Chapter 24: Waiting for News
Chapter 25: A Visit with Sophie de Masson
Chapter 26: Brasserie Bofinger
Chapter 27: Le Coup de Grâce
Chapter 28: A Small Shop Near the Seine
Chapter 29: An Evening with Les Mardistes
Chapter 30: Les Halles
Chapter 31: Versailles
Chapter 32: Café Procope
Chapter 33: A Studio in Aix
Chapter 34: Praying to the Virgin
Chapter 35: Wind, Light, Water
Chapter 36: Oltramari
Chapter 37: Pasta con le Sarde
Chapter 38: Mal de Mer
Chapter 39: Le Livre de Pâtisserie
Chapter 40: Hiding from the Truth
Chapter 41: Valois and Serafina
Chapter 42: Rue d’Assas
Chapter 43: Glace au Four
Chapter 44: Prison Saint-Lazare
Chapter 45: From the Conservatory
Characters
Copyright
About the Author
Dedication
For Sumie & Denise,
Brittany, Tyler & Zach
Chapter 1: Elena
Paris, April 15, 1874
Elena breathed in, dazzled by the paintings. As she gazed at them, the Siege and the Commune seemed distant memories. France had arisen from its ashes, shimmering in a glorious rebirth, the brightness of the works blinding her.
Her friends had labored so hard and for so many years, shunned by the Salon and their stuffy convention. God knew many of the critics had derided them. Yet the artists persisted.
Turning slowly, she regarded one work, then another and another. Paintings by Degas, Pissarro, Cézanne, Monet, Boudin, Renoir, Morisot, and a host of others she did not know and who did not know her, not yet.
The studio was stuffy tonight with all of Paris here.
“Pardon, Madame. Sorry, I did not see your train.”
“Quite all right,” Elena muttered, fanning herself.
“You too? I can’t breathe,” Étienne said. He ran a finger inside his collar and patted his cravat. “Such hideous dabbling.” He pointed to a painting of a ballerina in blue tulle.
Elena lifted her train, draping the fabric over her arm. “And do keep your voice down or I’ll leave.”
She gestured toward the four walls. “The paintings express a feeling, the grasp of a moment,” she said. “Not that you’d ever understand.”
She watched him squint at a canvas and shake his head. Again she tried to explain the artist’s vision, but he’d made up his mind not to like them. He was so tedious. His taste was so difficult, so bourgeois, his eyes blind to anything new.
“See how she holds her linen? She’s just finished her dance. Her hair is unkempt, still wet in spots from exertion, her skirt filled with light and movement and air. She turns her head toward us, and in that sweet gesture, Renoir has captured the secret of being a child.”
“Too old to be a child, and her hair’s not coiffed. Is it hair?”
“And the legs, are they legs?” a man asked bustling toward them. He had a pinched face and was short. “Cottony-looking if you ask me.” He stood close to the canvas and lifted his nose.
Étienne inclined his head and smiled at the man. “My point exactly.”
“You don’t understand,” Elena said, turning to the newcomer.
Another man approached. “Allow me to explain,” he said. He pulled at his red goatee.
“Oh, Pierre, your paintings are exquisite, such distinctive brush work. Congratulations. But do I know the child?”
“The portrait of a girl, thirteen or perhaps fourteen, and from a prominent family. The painting is an impression of a fleeting moment, like all the works here.” His hand encompassed the room.
He was interrupted by a woman with a large bosom wearing a mauve dress. She peered into her lorgnette. “Such a darling child.”
“Darling?” Renoir asked and turned away.
Elena took Renoir’s arm and whispered, “Take the praise, forget the rest.”
Étienne strode away, wiping the shoulders of his frock coat. “I haven’t time for these sketches.”
From the moment they entered the room, she’d seen Étienne’s discomfort as he scanned the oils and pastels. It was obvious he didn’t understand them. The chatter stopped and she felt a hundred eyes on them as they made their way through the crowd. His clothes ill-suited the event and he ha
dn’t known what to say. He’d avoided her glances. It was a mistake, their coming. Especially since several of her ex-lovers were there, some of them boorish in their celebration. Artists and poets, after all, and in Paris—what did he expect?
Elena shook her head. Impossible. She’d show him, she’d show them all. Perhaps next year she’d have a canvas ready to hang if she put her mind to it, and finally she’d have the recognition she deserved. But she must steal away from the crowd. She must prepare—that’s what one of her friends told her—and then she’d be a part of the grand sweep of history, and in Paris where she belonged. Her heart swelled. She shut her eyes, drunk with the heady mix of linseed oil, varnish, and dreams.
“And what’s this?” Étienne threw his hand toward an autumn scene. “Not at all like Bougival. Nothing is drawn properly. Trees don’t look like that—sticks with fur on them? And I’ve never seen that color in the leaves before.”
“But the light, it’s the blast of light at sunset. Don’t you see? Sisley has painted a moment.”
“No, I don’t see,” Étienne said. “No wonder these painters were rejected. Their works are not worthy of the Salon.”
With that, Elena spun around. Her head down, she marched out of the room, Étienne smoothing his stuffed shirt and tripping to keep up with her. At the door she told Berthe Morisot she’d return soon.
In the carriage ride to his home, she listened to the wheels on the cobbles and her mind darted here and there, capturing nothing, coming to rest on their affair. In time perhaps she’d cure Étienne of himself. If they remained lovers, that is. But she’d wanted to be seen with him tonight of all nights, a special night. She had not wanted their affair to be kept a secret any longer. His eyes tonight were ragged—how they revealed the confusion in his soul. She knew she’d remember them long after she’d cooled toward him. Well, she would just have to make it up to him. She knew how to do that.
She was awakened from her reverie by a black-suited servant who opened the door.
Étienne led her into the parlor. “Wait for me here,” he said. “I must change before we go.”
“You’re too cautious.” She kissed him hard, grinding into him. “Where’s your butler? Let’s couple in front of him. Give him something delicious to think about.”
That would melt his reserve. She knew how to handle famous men, and he was one of them, admired, lionized for his learning. He had his own following, the hangers on, the simple creatures. But this was Paris, where such things mattered, and he excited her, so different from the others. She must be brazen.
When he returned she said, “In my belly, a seed of our love. I am two.” She kissed him again. His misgivings seemed to melt. She knew they would. Each time she thought of ending their liaison, the strength of his passion quelled her doubts. Besides, she needed him tonight. No, they must remain together, at least until the child is born. By then, she had no doubt her ardor would cool. It had drifted already. There was too much life to taste, and she could not stop for longer than the spirit lingered. What remained would be a husk, the dregs of life. Few people understood that, but Elena was one of the lucky ones.
Chapter 2: Levi Busacca
Sicily, April 17, 1874
A hard time Serafina had of it, crossing the piazza to answer the commissioner’s call. Too early in the day, not even the statues were awake. God, her toes were frozen. They made walking on the cobbles doubly difficult in boots worn too thin for comfort. She must have them re-soled. Next week when her stipend arrived, if it was on time. And there was that feeling again in her stomach, the growling of some prehistoric animal. Her own fault, she’d dredged up ancient memories best forgotten, and on an empty stomach, too.
The commissioner stood at a row of windows gazing out at something, perhaps the piazza’s early morning stragglers, his hands clasped behind his morning coat. He smiled when she entered. His eyes were a bit rheumy, she felt, perhaps an ague coming on. She pressed a linen to her nose.
His office was a corner monstrosity on the second floor of the municipal building. As she walked toward him, portraits of Oltramari’s previous chiefs of police stared down at her like portly specters. A greasy cobweb dangled from the ceiling, almost touching the clutter on his desk, a rococo affair in flaking gilt.
The seat she usually occupied when she met with him was taken by another man whose bulk spilled over the sides. Clothed in a frock coat, striped pants, and wearing an arm band and silk skullcap, he looked out at her from a face framed in mutton chops and layered in loose flesh. A top hat sat on one knee and the corners of his mouth were downcast. His eyes, grey and bloodshot, pleaded with her from across the room. She knew she’d seen him before, but at the moment, her mind played tricks.
Grunting, he stood as she neared, leaning on his cane, barely managing to hold a chair for her, doubtless hampered by a swollen foot wrapped in heavy linen strips. It smelled of some medicinal or other, camphor perhaps—her son Vicenzu would know. She thanked him and removed her gloves, nodded to the commissioner, and sat.
Plunking himself into the chair, the commissioner folded his hands. “Mr. Levi Busacca tells me you two are acquainted.”
Elena’s father, of course, how could she forget such a face. The man owned half the town and yet his look was always crestfallen. Serafina swallowed as the years melted away and she was young again and pregnant. Oh, yes, and hanging onto the arm of her husband, guests at Elena’s marriage to Otto Loffredo, count of Oltramari.
“It’s been over twenty years, hasn’t it?”
He nodded, bent forward slightly, both hands folded on the top of his cane.
“I’ve seen you through the glass of your store from time to time when we’ve been in Palermo, but haven’t stopped to say hello. Like most women of my class, I don’t have the funds for hats these days. But that doesn’t prevent my browsing the windows to admire them, perched on the head of this countess or that baroness, the colors so rich, the feathers so fine, the designs so remarkable, setting off the most, what should I say, the most unremarkable of aristocratic heads.”
He smiled but it was brief. His mood was guarded, his gaze, predatory even as it searched for something in her face.
Stomach churning again. She forced her mouth to lift, but her heart sank and hid her trembling with a linen. How could Elena be so cruel? Gone off to live in Paris with her wealthy friends these past seven years, caring too much for the frolic and not enough for her husband. She’d abandoned Loffredo, that’s what she’d done, discarded him, bequeathed him—that’s better—she’d bequeathed him to whomever, and now that woman, that hussy, that quean had sent her father to shame her in front of the commissioner. If exposed in this fashion, her own affair with Elena’s husband, a count, the revered medical examiner of Oltramari, the gorgeous Loffredo whom she missed with all her soul, oh, Madonna, she’d be shamed beyond recovery. This was a ruse on the part of Elena, the harlot. The gossip would result in the loss of her stipend. Her children would scatter and starve. She must stop herself. But the damage was done and she wasn’t about to admit to anything, not at all. As far as the world was concerned, she and Loffredo were colleagues thrown together because of business—the huge increase in murder making her sleuthing for the state a necessity—that was it, nothing more, despite rumors raging to the contrary. Well, she couldn’t, wouldn’t give him up. No, not for anything. Never.
Serafina squared her shoulders. For his part, Busacca must have seen a shadow cross her face, for he mopped his brow with a swollen hand.
“Elena is dead.” The poor man began to weep.
After Serafina closed her mouth and waited for her heart to stop its pounding, she blurted her condolences. “A shock. Elena was so full of life ... I am truly sorry.” How could this be? She took his hand in hers and tried to comfort him.
In a moment, he dried his eyes. “Late yesterday, I received this telegram from my sister. She runs our business in Paris. The prefecture of police and his representative asked her to ident
ify the body of a woman found yesterday morning in the Rue Cassette. She claims there is no question that Elena is dead. Such an end for one so full of life. So cruel. Never liked the city myself and now ...” Fresh tears streamed down the man’s cheeks, his brows furrowed in anguish.
Serafina unfolded the telegram and read it, blinked several times, and read it again. She wondered what Rosa would say, picturing the disbelief on her friend’s face. No, this couldn’t be. A mistake. She shook her head. Elena was so thrilled with herself and her disregard of society’s mores, as free as a soaring bird, scoffing at convention. How could she be dead?
Despite her situation and Elena’s cruelty to Loffredo, Serafina had admired her. The woman enjoyed the fullness of life without a care for what others thought. Doubtless she had the wherewithal. Her family had been prominent Palermitan milliners for centuries. Those plumy hats worn by lords who decided Sicily’s fate after the Vespers were made by Busacca and Sons.
She pursed her lips, still reeling from the news, and asked herself why she had been summoned. “I believe Elena’s husband is in Paris with her. At least that’s what his servant told me when I went to his office last week to consult with him on another matter. Surely he wouldn’t let anything happen to her.”
It was a deliberate softening of the truth. Two weeks ago, she and Loffredo parted after a night of wild love making, he to travel to Paris to do his wife’s bidding, attend some ball or other, while she, Serafina, waited, abandoned and cold, counting the days until his return. She stopped. He couldn’t be in danger? She mustn’t show concern for Loffredo’s welfare, not at a time like this. Her toes were ice.
Elena’s father shrugged. “I’ve had no word from Loffredo.”
“He wouldn’t leave Paris without knowing as much as possible about his wife’s death. Surely he’ll ensure her killer is brought to justice.”
Busacca shook his head. “He was never able to control her, never.”
Serafina breathed in slowly but made no reply. She was such a coward. She loved Loffredo, but said nothing to defend him. She stared, mesmerized by Busacca’s face.
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