But the arrival of the Sicilian detective, or sleuth, or whatever she called herself, only spelled trouble for his career, and he was not about to help her. Not now, at any rate. He knew his concern with the case was not acceptable behavior. Worse, his preoccupation with the Sicilian matter might be blinding him to the truth, although he doubted it, and yet he could not help himself. He was in its thrall, and he feared it might ruin him, especially if there was no quick confession by the husband. He would have issue orders for a more intense form of interrogation.
Valois opened his gate, loosened his cravat, and stepped inside. The Valois family lived in one of the few private homes in the area untouched by Haussmann’s design, a stone house with an attached lot that his wife had made into one of the most beautiful gardens in the arrondissement. He made his way to the back where he knew he’d find Françoise. Sure enough, she was weeding a bed of spring flowers next to the old apple tree his father had planted.
His luck had been extreme, meeting, wooing, winning this woman, his wife for close to thirteen years. They met when he was at the Sorbonne, enrolled in the Advanced Latin course and she was sent to tutor him, having been privately schooled by one of the greatest class of French scholars, a femme savante. He’d admired Françoise’s grace, her generosity, her mind, her fire. He’d never considered another woman, and after a suitable courtship, they were married.
She looked up at him and smiled. “You’re troubled, Alphonse. Don’t tell me why, I’d be bored to tears,” she said. Her face was lightly tanned, her blue-violet eyes penetrating, her forehead high and filled with wisdom, lines forged and refined by generations of Northern European waters. “I’m going to sit in the garden and admire my handiwork while you wait on me. I’ll have a tisane, please, a little sugar but no lemon, perhaps a spot of cream and a few of the madeleines my mother brought us yesterday. Let the domestic help, but do most of the work yourself to show her your true nature.”
“Where is Charlus?”
“Inside doing his homework and waiting to kiss his father. Don’t distract him for too long. And don’t touch the paté—the Clermonts are coming for dinner.”
An innovator, his Françoise, who had a fresh way of viewing life. Not that she wasn’t like him, the result of upper class coupling. Like him, born and raised in Paris, educated by the best.
As he waited for the tea steeping in a porcelain pot, the difficulties of the case seemed barely visible, like the smoke from a locomotive disappearing into the Pyrenees. But he tried to hold onto his problem so that after their refreshment, he could explain it and with his wife’s unsurpassed ability to discern, discover the proper course of action to follow.
During the Siege and the Commune, they could have fled with their son, then a toddler, to their estate in the south of France, but chose instead to remain. “Good for your career,” she’d assured him. And they had prevailed, thanks to her brains and tenacity. One picture of that hungry time remained in his mind, that of Françoise twisting the mane of a rotund neighbor, the two of them fighting for the last scrap of horse flesh while the butcher and half the neighborhood looked on. She’d returned, unaware that he’d seen the altercation. Graceful, unperturbed, not a blonde hair was out of place but coiled into a perfect bun on top of her head, she had hummed while the meat sizzled in the pan.
When he returned with the tea tray, she said, “I’m listening.”
So he told her about the body in the street, the foulness of it, the pistol placed in the dead hand, the reticule stuffed with francs and identity papers of an aristocrat, the husband imprisoned but not talking, the Sicilian sleuth sent by the countess’s grieving father, a tradesman of some note in Paris.
“And now I find that the photos of the dead woman have gone missing from my desk, and the Sicilian detective wants to see them and asks to see other evidence as well.”
Unruffled, she considered for some moments. “What seemed at first a sordid affair of street people is now something more, perhaps a cover-up. You must walk a taut rope. Be careful, I’ve heard of this countess. A debauched woman, she comes from a wealthy family, influential milliners since the thirteenth century. Their presence in Paris is considerable. But you must not make one small incident into an international affair.”
“What could the Italian government do?”
“The Italian ambassador to France, Count Constantine Nigra helped the empress of Austria escape Paris during the Siege. The present government thinks highly of him. He could cause you real harm. I suggest you work with this Florio woman. The theft of the photos is the pretext for your change of heart. Help her. Show her the evidence she wishes to see, but keep a close watch. Let her make the mistakes.”
Françoise scared him sometimes, but he was a sparkling host that evening and slept through the night.
Chapter 12: What Carmela Discovers
Carmela, Tessa, and the maid waited outside the exhibit for Teo and Arcangelo. They were about to leave when they saw the two running toward them.
“If we had gone, could you have found your way to the hotel?” Carmela asked.
They nodded.
“That may be, but we must all stay together.” It was the first time Gesuzza had spoken, and Carmela was surprised at the chilling effect of her words. She was right, of course. The city and the language were new to all of them. They must stay together.
“Across the street,” Arcangelo began, breathing hard. “Two men.”
“I suggest that we walk to the Tuileries across from the hotel and sit,” Carmela said. “The day is lovely, and we could all use a rest. When we’ve recovered, you can tell me what you’ve discovered.”
“Not much,” Arcangelo began again, after he had regained his breath. They continued walking in the direction of the Tuileries.
“The two men we saw in Marseille stopped across the street from us.”
“On the Boulevard des Capucines?” she asked.
Arcangelo nodded. “They pretended to look in the shop windows. They sauntered up and down the sidewalk, went inside a café, but left soon enough. When we started toward them, they ran, so we followed.”
“And?”
“Not bright, those two.”
Carmela shook her head. “They may be very bright. Undoubtedly this is their first time in Paris and they seem to get around without much trouble.”
“Maybe they wanted to be followed,” Tessa suggested.
They stopped discussing the men while they strode down the Rue de la Paix, the four of them waiting while Carmela stared at the hats displayed in the windows of Busacca et Fils. She loved hats, loved to design them for herself, loved to look at them in shop windows, on women who paraded them in the streets. She closed her eyes and imagined she saw a sea of hats, each one unique, each one designed by her.
With crowds of other tourists, they admired the Place Vendôme and crossed into the Jardin des Tuileries where they sat around an ornamental pool. They were silent for a time as they watched young children launch toy sailing boats into the shallow water.
She focused on the people enjoying their park, pedestrians walking fast, friends gathered together and laughing their words into the air, fashionable men escorting women with parasols, young girls spinning tops, boys tossing jacks and chasing hoops, the old strolling softly. She admired their grace and style, the smartness of their clothes. To her, all Parisians seemed in high spirits and free from care, unlike the people in her city. If Giulia could find a job here, why couldn’t she? She’d bring her child here, raise him in a proper country. She let the sun play on her face, dreaming of a better day.
Gesuzza sat, her arms crossed, her eyes narrowed, her thoughts unknowable.
“Finish telling us about the men,” Carmela said.
Teo wet his lips. “We followed them into an alley that kept getting narrower. Finally we cornered them between two buildings.”
“Brave but foolhardy, you could have been killed,” Carmela said.
“We asked again why t
hey were watching us and they said it was to ensure our safety.”
“The same thing they said in Marseille,” Carmela said.
“But this time, I think I recognized one of the men, the one Arcangelo hit with his slingshot. I saw him in the piazza at home or in Boffo’s restaurant, one of those,” Teo said. “I think the guy might have been collecting from Boffo, because now that I remember it, Boffo was pouring coins into his palm and puffing his cheeks in and out, the way he does when he’s unhappy.”
“So they’re working for the don?” Carmela asked.
“Here comes la signura,” Gesuzza said. She waved Rosa over to where they were sitting and gave her the double kiss.
* * *
After the others had gone to the Jardin des Plantes, Carmela, Rosa, and Serafina sat in Serafina’s room. Carmela told them about the exhibit and about meeting Berthe Morisot and Victorine Meurent, what they’d said about Elena, her tantrum in the Place St. Sulpice, and about the man who accompanied her to the opening.
“Their impressions of Elena are the same as ours. She fools only herself. But I find it hard to believe that neither woman had heard of Elena’s death.”
Serafina looked at Rosa. “Go on.”
“They saw her Wednesday at the vernissage and also Thursday evening at the opening with her new lover, and they believe she’ll visit the exhibit again before it closes. She’s been a staunch supporter of these artists.”
“Did you tell them she was murdered?”
Carmela shook her head. “I wasn’t there to give out information. I was there to get information.”
Serafina smiled. “Right. Besides, we don’t know for sure that Elena’s dead. We only know what others tell us.”
The madam rolled her eyes.
“Tell me about going to Busacca’s store,” Carmela said. “I’m familiar with the one in Palermo, and we passed his shop on the Rue de la Paix. I love his hats—they’re such intriguing statements.”
Serafina studied her daughter. “As a child you created your own. Had to wear one all the time. You must visit all his stores in Paris.” She gave Busacca’s card to her. “Present this. They’ll design one for you.”
Carmela examined it. “Here all the women wear them. Not so at home.”
“We wear them when it’s cool enough,” Rosa said. “Imagine wearing a hat in June in Oltramari.”
Just then there was a knock on the door.
“A package for you, Madame.” The bellboy handed Serafina a hatbox.
“Where’s mine?” Rosa asked.
“So sorry, Madame, I did not know you were here.” He smiled and handed her a hatbox.
“Try them on!”
Elena was forgotten while they dealt with hats, Carmela supervising and showing Rosa and Serafina how they should wear them.
“Wonderful! The color suits you, Mama.”
“Do you think so?” Serafina turned from the glass and faced her daughter.
“No angle it more, like this.” Carmela reached up and adjusted the hat, playing with the angle. “Something’s wrong. The feathers are wrong, I think.” She fussed with them a bit. “Try it now.”
“Perfect,” Serafina said.
“Made of felt for cool weather,” Carmela said. “Soon you’ll need a lighter fabric.”
“If this investigation goes on any longer, we’ll need to send for our summer wardrobe,” the madam said.
Serafina winked at her daughter. “If it does, you can design me a hat for spring.”
Carmela’s face colored and she teared up. “I hope the investigation goes on and on. I don’t want to go home. Here, I’m happy. Here, I can be somebody.”
They were silent a moment, Serafina trying not to let her daughter’s words sting. Then she told Carmela of their meeting with Madame de Masson and with the honorable Léon Renault, prefect of police.
“A charming man,” Rosa said, taking off her hat and carefully laying it back in its box. She closed the lid and tied it. “But uncooperative.”
“So I’m afraid our day was less fruitful than yours, except for our visit to Busacca et Fils,” Serafina said, “where we learned that Sophie de Masson is losing her eyesight.”
“How could she have identified the dead woman as her niece?” Carmela asked.
Serafina shrugged. “The more I hear, the more mysterious Elena’s death seems to me. I’m beginning to believe she’s not dead at all.”
Carmela shook her head. “Hard to believe.”
“Perhaps it’s wishful thinking on my part,” Serafina said.
“Nonsense. Why would you wish Elena alive?” Rosa asked. She picked at a thread on her sleeve.
“Unfortunately, Loffredo is in prison, charged with murdering his wife. He may hang for her death and she may not even be dead.” Without realizing it, Serafina had begun to pace the room.
“Why is he charged with murdering Elena?” Carmela asked, a hand to her throat.
Serafina stopped. “Valois said a café owner or some such person identified him as the man he saw with Elena that night.”
“Where?”
“In his café, of course, right before she was murdered.”
Carmela shook her head. “But a few hours earlier, she was with another man at the opening.”
“What difference does that make?” Rosa asked. “Elena plays by her own rules. She’s not above being with one man one minute and another man the next. She’s nothing more than a cocotte, and not a very nice one, either.”
Carmela fished in her reticule and brought out a slip of paper. “Étienne Gaston. That’s the man’s name. He signed the exhibit’s guest book underneath Elena’s name.”
“Her lover?”
“According to the women at the exhibit. Here’s his address.”
“What did they say he looked like?”
“He’s tall, thin, scholarly, not their type.”
Serafina began to range about the room again.
“Walking around like a madwoman will do nothing,” Rosa said. “Best to put your mind to a plan.”
“You’re right.” She got out her notebook and began scribbling, scratching out, writing something else and scratching that out as well. She couldn’t stop. It was as if a demon controlled her actions.
Rosa threw up her hands and Carmela looked at her watch, stifling a yawn. In a moment, Serafina saw Rosa looking out the window and Carmela regarding herself in the glass, picking up a soft pillow and arranging it on her head and laughing.
Serafina smiled at her daughter. Her mood had passed, and she began to write in earnest.
“What about images of the dead woman?” Carmela asked. “The French are such great photographers, even in such little light as there must have been at the murder scene, surely they took photos of the dead woman’s face. They love to show them in their magazines. They don’t cringe from such horrors. Take the Paris morgue, for instance.”
“Ghoulish, if you ask me,” Rosa said. “Of course, all we need to do in Oltramari if we crave a horror show is to look out the window.”
Serafina nodded. “The inspector offered to show the photographs to us, surprised that we wanted to see them. He reminded us two or three times of their gruesomeness, and when we insisted on looking at them, he couldn’t find them.”
“Strange,” Carmela said.
“Claims he’d misplaced them and promised to have them in hand soon. We insisted on meeting him tomorrow morning at nine in his office.” She stared out the window, lost. “So the most important thing we learned today was not what was seen, but what was not seen; not what was shown, but what was not shown, not what was said, but what was not said.”
“She’s gone round the twist,” the madam said.
Serafina got up, looked at Rosa and Carmela, and sat down again. “Let’s take a break while I summarize everything we’ve learned about Elena.”
“You mean we should get lost.”
“I didn’t say that. I’ll feel better after I’ve written out
a complete list—what we know, what we don’t know, and how to free Loffredo.”
“Careful, Fina. Freeing Loffredo is not what Busacca is paying you to do. He wants Elena’s killer brought to justice, that’s his commission. He doesn’t give a fig for her husband,” Rosa said. “And you don’t want the inspector to find out that you and Elena’s husband are lovers. It would color everything you do and say from now on. In short, you’d be disregarded. Worse, you’d be shut out of Valois’ investigation. If you want me to request visiting the accused, I will, but you should stay far away from the subject. Have nothing to do with Loffredo as far as Valois is concerned.”
She had to hand it to Rosa. She’d remained calm the whole day, knew enough not to try and handle Valois, and now said just the right words. “You’re right of course. But we need to find a way to get word to him that I’m here and not to worry, that I’ll discover the truth.”
Rosa patted Serafina’s arm. “Leave Loffredo to me. I’ll call on my friends at the Italian embassy.”
“What would I do without you?”
“We’re all tired, and I have an idea,” Rosa said. “The last time I was here, I had a delightful tea at a café on the Boulevard des Italiens. The street is filled with them. Café Tortoni, I believe was the name, but it doesn’t matter. We’ll go to whichever one looks good to us. And I for one could do with a large latté.”
“But I don’t want the children to miss out. Besides, high tea would spoil their meal. Let’s wait until they return and rest until dinner. Pick a restaurant, any restaurant. In the meantime, I’ll gather my thoughts. Why don’t you order yourself a treat from one of those cute little bellboys you flirt with all the time, or better yet, take a turn at one of the cafés in the hotel.”
Chapter 13: A Visit to the Sixth Arrondissement
Serafina was surprised Elena’s friends had not heard of her demise, but perhaps they knew something Serafina didn’t. Not yet, at any rate. Since her meeting with Sophie de Masson, she began to doubt the death of Elena. Did she have enough evidence to request exhumation of the body? It would depend on the photographs of the dead woman. If the images bore no resemblance to the contessa, Valois would have to reopen the case.
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