Murder On The Rue Cassette (A Serafina Florio Mystery)

by Susan Russo Anderson

  All talk stopped while they were served, but when the waiters left, Tessa told them she’d found the studios of Renoir and Degas. Neither artist knew Elena, although Degas said there are a few wealthy women, hangers on, who come to his studio from time to time, usually at inappropriate times.

  “His studio was a mess, Mama, it looked like he’d never cleaned it,” Tessa said, taking a bite of her trout. “But my favorite is Renoir. So handsome, charming, too, but he’s interested only in painting.”

  “Had he heard any news of Elena?” Serafina asked. She speared some lettuce and smiled at its flavor as she took a bite.

  Tessa shook her head. “And I also knocked on Victorine’s door, but there was no answer.”

  Teo wiped sauce from his lips. “Why don’t you send me and Arcangelo to the south of France looking for Elena?”

  Serafina shook her head. If she sent them now, they’d flounder, she explained. She had no leads, nowhere to point them to begin the search, and the south of France was vast.

  Loffredo agreed. “We have an old address for her in Arles, another in Aix. She stayed there during the Siege, but they’re both apartments she let some five years ago. She gave them up when her friends moved back to Paris after the Commune.”

  Conversation stopped while busboys cleared the table and waiters brought café and desserts, a collection of sweets.

  “Something the cook made for you, Madame,” the waiter said, and presented Rosa with a silver tray filled with cannoli, enough for everyone, in addition to their orders of profiteroles and bowls of crème brûlée and piping hot café. The madam bit into one, and the shell crackled, pronouncing the cannoli shells passable.

  * * *

  Serafina showed Loffredo the envelope the concierge had given her. It contained the notice La Presse had run along with a letter written on what Tessa said was charcoal paper, a grayish blue tone, smudged in spots and written in crude block letters. “I know where she is.” It was the only line, and it was signed by Zacharie Honoré with an address on the Rue Maître Albert, close to Victorine’s studio.

  The street was narrow, the neighborhood quiet on a hazy afternoon when Serafina and Loffredo knocked on the door and waited. And waited some more.

  “Another chasing of the wayward goose. I’m beginning to think we’ll never find her,” Serafina said. “Let’s go, I’m so sorry.”

  They’d gotten halfway down the street when someone called out, “Yes?”

  Turning back, they saw the head of a young man with ragged hair.

  “We search for Zacharie Honoré.”

  “You see him before you,” the man said, wiping his palms on the sides of his pants.

  He smelled of oil and turpentine and his breath was foul. Serafina moved back a few paces. She noticed that his shoelaces were missing. His neck, face, and hands were dirty, a failed painter with blotchy skin and a purple nose. She looked at Loffredo who shrugged.

  Honoré led the way down several steps to his studio, a small airless room, part of the building’s cellar, he explained. An oil lamp was the only light. An empty easel stood in the corner. Pots of linseed oil, vials of pigment, a sack of plaster and rabbit skin glue stood on a worktable next to a few worn brushes. A roll of linen and wooden stretchers were stacked in the corner. In the far corner finished canvases were strewn about, their lines and colors unappealing.

  “You answered a notice in La Presse.”

  He nodded.

  “How do you know Elena?” Loffredo asked.

  “A few years ago, we were ... friends. I met her through a mutual friend, a poet, Paul Verlaine. Not here now, he’s in prison. And of course through Victorine, we both know her.”

  “You were lovers?”

  He shrugged. “She helps me and I help her.”

  “This is your studio?” Serafina asked. “Your work?” She pointed to the paintings.

  He had a prolonged coughing fit. “Last year’s work. Haven’t painted in a while. I’ve been ill.” His hands began to tremble and he hid them beneath the seat of his chair.

  Loffredo rubbed his chin. She could feel the heft of his sorrow. They watched as Honoré coughed again.

  Serafina wished she could help him. “You need fresh air. I suggest we go to a café. Do you know a place close by?”

  “Down the street, closer to the quay. Too expensive for me, but there’s a bistro you would like.”

  They walked down the street with Honoré. She watched Loffredo drinking in the fresh air. When they were seated, the painter ordered steak and pommes frites. Loffredo asked him where they could find Elena.

  He didn’t answer at first, he was too busy shoveling in his food. Serafina noticed his hands were filthy. He was eating with them, not bothering with utensils, stuffing chunks of meat into his mouth. She turned away.

  “She’s in Aix, close to Cézanne’s studio.” He looked at them, wary. His lips were coated with animal fat. It dribbled down his chin.

  “Do you have the address?”

  “I ...”

  “Do you have her address or not?” Serafina asked.

  “I do. You must understand,” he said, interrupted by coughing, “she asked me not to tell anyone. I’m to meet her there next month, and she will have paintings for me to show to our friends.”

  Slowly he brought out a piece of paper, worn in spots where it had been folded many times. He handed it to Loffredo who opened it and read. “The note is written in her hand.”

  Honoré’s gaze was furtive. “My reward?”

  Serafina opened her reticule and drew out an envelope.

  His fingers shook as he opened it and counted the bills.

  * * *

  After they left Honoré, she and Loffredo walked along the Seine until they found a place to sit.

  “Remember Les Halles?” he asked. When she nodded he said, “I saw Honoré with a companion at the small bar. They were quite drunk, do you remember them?”

  Serafina shook her head. “I saw only you.” She stopped then and reached up and kissed him. It was a real kiss, a kiss worthy of Paris.

  “How far has Elena sunk?” He buried his head in her shoulder and wept.

  There was a telegraph office in the hotel and they cabled Valois with Elena’s location in Aix and their intention to take the first train from the Gare de Lyon and confront her.

  Serafina felt a sense of urgency now that she knew where Elena was. She felt sure this Honoré fellow was telling the truth. He’d shown her the address written in Elena’s hand, for one thing. And yet they must hurry. Elena was like a wave on the shore—her own father had said as much. She and Loffredo quickened their pace.

  Chapter 33: A Studio in Aix

  They’d ridden all over Aix-en-Provence and the outskirts, too, looking for Elena. The Midi seemed more like Sicily, but there was a transparency, a clarity and a buoyancy to the light in the south of France that was mesmerizing, unlike anything she’d known in Oltramari. Serafina breathed in and touched Loffredo’s hand. Although their driver claimed to know the city, they found a newsstand and bought a plan, but neither the man nor the map were much help. Roads were a tangled web, abruptly stopping or making an about face, and street numbers were in no apparent order. On their first attempt to locate Elena, they wound up where they’d started. It took them the morning, but they persisted, and it was close to noon when they arrived at the address. When Serafina alighted from the carriage, the sun beat down and her curls stuck to her scalp as if they’d been burned into her flesh. Loffredo asked the driver to wait for them.

  They rang the bell and stood by the side of the road in front of a high stone wall with a grill for a gate, the interior half hidden by a large bougainvillea which draped itself over the wall. Their shoes crunched gravel as they waited, too excited to stand still. For once, Serafina’s toes were warm. She shielded her eyes from the blinding rays of the sun. After the cool damp of Paris, she welcomed the warmth on her back, marveling at the vibrancy of the colors, golds and violets
, umbers and oxides. The smell of lavender was almost overpowering. Even the shadows suggested heat and light. For a moment she thought they’d been magically transported into one of Cézanne’s paintings.

  Two days ago, when they’d gotten Elena’s address, they rushed home. Serafina wrote a note for Carmela, and Rosa left orders for Gesuzza to enjoy herself. They packed small bags and caught a cab for the Gare de Lyon where Rosa bought tickets to Coudoux, wiring ahead for a carriage to Aix, one large enough to accommodate a party of six with luggage.

  Serafina felt beads of water creeping into her undergarments. Her corset bit into her flesh. She wished she’d packed some lighter clothes.

  Loffredo had removed his coat and slung it over his shoulder. He stood unsmiling and rubbing his chin and rattling the gate. Teo rang the bell again. Rosa swayed from side to side. Only Tessa seemed excited, no doubt anticipating a tour of a real artist’s studio in the Midi. Serafina hoped she wouldn’t be disappointed.

  Finally a disheveled man with a porcupine beard led them into a lush courtyard filled with flowers and ornamental trees. It fronted a small stone villa with climbing vines. To one side stood a large ochre outbuilding, presumably Elena’s studio.

  They asked for the countess.

  The man’s eyes moved to the right. “Not here.” He was short and squat, his collar undone, his trousers fading from black to purple, his face wary.

  “She lives here?” Serafina asked.

  Before he could reply, Rosa reached for his hand through the grill and shoved a wad of bills into it. “We’re from her hometown. We’ve traveled thousands of kilometers, and we’d like to say hello to her.”

  The man removed his straw hat, wiped a sleeve across his forehead and mumbled something. The gate creaked open and he led them into a courtyard filled with sun and ornamental trees in great enameled pots. The caked earth hummed with creatures. Somewhere a bird sang. In the middle of the space grew a gnarled olive tree surrounded by tall grasses and large golden flowers.

  They watched as the man opened the iron door of the studio, a rectangular structure, and followed him inside.

  Serafina saw a ceiling of skylights in the narrow space, breathed in air filled with a mix of wet gesso, sawdust, and linseed oil. The entryway was crowded with easels and palettes, stretchers, rolls of canvas and linen, brushes standing in pots. They walked toward the front. When her eyes adjusted to the interior light, Serafina could see a figure, a woman. She stood at an easel holding a blank canvas, her back to them, an apron wrapped around her thick frame, her hair matted and cut unevenly.

  “Hello, Elena,” Loffredo said.

  The woman swiveled around and stood there, mute, her eyes round and unblinking. Slowly her cheeks filled with color. She pointed to Loffredo.

  Serafina’s heart beat wildly and in spite of herself, she swayed as her vision swam, but Rosa held onto her arm, steadying her.

  The moment stretched. The light seemed unreal, the whole scene, a fantasy. Elena lowered her arm. Her face showed nothing, no regret, no surprise, no happiness, no sorrow. She was quite mad, Serafina realized.

  Tessa clapped a hand over her mouth. Serafina saw Teo staring at the Elena, watched Arcangelo who was peering up into the bright glassed ceiling, almost unaware of Elena, his face bathed in blue from the heavens. She looked to Rosa who stood serene, and to Loffredo who stood tall.

  “Who told you where find me? It must have been that drunken lout. Some lover he turned out to be, I’ll kill him,” Elena snarled and turned to the servant. “And you? Why did you let them in? Get out of here, all of you—go!”

  Loffredo straightened. “Your ruse is over.”

  “How dare you disturb me? Can’t you see I’m working? Have you no shame?”

  “How did you pull it off?” Rosa asked.

  “All I want is to be left alone. Leave me. Now.”

  “Sophie didn’t help you?” Rosa persisted. “And her sons? Ricci, for instance—he’s indebted to you. You’ve broken your father’s heart. He’s spent a fortune looking for you.”

  Elena’s smile was crooked. “He doesn’t come himself to comfort me? How does he expect me to succeed?”

  “In Paris, a woman of the streets was murdered, mistakenly identified as Elena Loffredo,” Rosa said.

  Elena’s smile faded. She said nothing, continued to stare.

  “Until last week, a stranger was buried in your grave,” Loffredo said.

  Elena reared her head to the ceiling and bellowed.

  Serafina’s heart seemed to stop. She rubbed her forehead. “The police investigate your death at a great cost. At a minimum, you owe their expenses, thousands of francs.”

  Elena pointed to Serafina. “You’ve wanted my husband for yourself. Well, now you have him.” She sneered at Loffredo. “You disgust me. All of you disgust me. You won’t get away with this.”

  Serafina felt empty, but she said, “With Loffredo, you’ll give your child a good home, respectability.”

  “Why couldn’t you have simply gone on vacation if you wanted to paint?” Rosa asked.

  Elena’s eyes were huge. “And have thousands of hungry Parisians on my doorstep wanting a week in the Midi? You know nothing of a painter’s life, how hard we must toil without interruption. We need months alone, no visitors. Now get out!”

  “What perversity of spirit makes you think you’ll get away with this?” Rosa asked. “The joke has gone on too long. Give it up, Elena. Come back to Paris with us. You can cover the cost. Laugh it off as a lark. Imagine the surprise on your friends’ faces when you appear. They’ll talk of you forever. And when the sparkle of the joke has worn off and you’ve had your child, you can always come back here and paint if that’s what you want to do. You can do anything with your money. The world is yours.”

  “Think of the child you carry,” Serafina said.

  Elena’s lip curled. “Never. I’ll never return.” Her eyes darted back and forth. It was as if a demon controlled her mind.

  They were silent.

  “Sophie has claimed your insurance,” Loffredo said. “You don’t think l’Assicurazioni Generali won’t investigate? They’ll charge you with fraud. You’ll go to prison.”

  Elena was silent. She put down her brush. Her hand moved to her side and dropped from view.

  Arcangelo whispered in Serafina’s ear.

  She narrowed her gaze and watched Elena’s side. “Take care, Loffredo,” Serafina said, loud enough for him to hear.

  Loffredo took a step toward Elena. “You missed your latest appointment with Dr. Tarnier. He waits for you. He’s the best doctor there is. He will help you and the child.”

  “All I want to do is paint.” Elena fumbled in her pocket.

  There was no reasoning with her. It was time to leave.

  “I’d love to see your paintings,” Tessa said.

  Elena looked around. “Where are they, my canvases? They’re gone! Who took them?

  Serafina heard a door open and felt movement behind them.

  “Do not turn around. Keep talking to her. Begin to back away,” a low voice whispered in back of them.

  “You were the one who killed her, weren’t you, Elena,” Serafina said.

  She heard Rosa gasp, saw Elena’s smugness.

  Serafina spoke again. “You stole your lover’s gun and killed the street walker. You put the chain of your reticule around her neck. You placed the smoking pistol in her hand.”

  “Near enough to the truth. She was a nobody. She was sick.”

  “And when I got too close to discovering your secret, you shot me. You were in your apartment the night I visited, weren’t you? The concierge said you’d just left and would return. He tried to tell me, but I didn’t listen to him. Then you had a talk with Sophie. You told her you’d changed your will. She’d inherit your fortune, all she needed to do was assist and keep her mouth shut. Just a little help, that’s all you needed. You told her what to do.”

  Her laugh was like a thunder clap. �
��Liar, you whore, stealing my husband. I may have killed the streetwalker. I may have done. But she was a tramp. All I wanted to do was paint. I found the slut. Easy enough. Yes, it was my idea—the pistols, everything. Long after the deed was done, long after my burial, a mockery, I heard you were in town. I knew you’d come snooping sooner or later. I needed you dead. How dare you invade my apartment? Sophie knew good luck when it bit her in the face, why didn’t you? You’d have Loffredo, but now you’re going to lose him, you stupid whore. You think you have to save the world. Well this is what you get for it!”

  Serafina heard footsteps approach. From the corner of her eye she saw the police moving into view, Valois’ doing. Elena didn’t seem to notice them. It was time to leave and let the officials do their work.

  “Step back,” a low, steady voice said.

  “Get down. Loffredo, down!” Serafina yelled.

  Rosa held Tessa by the arm and led her back. She motioned to Teo and Arcangelo to follow.

  Loffredo moved in front of Serafina.

  Elena pointed her pistol at Loffredo, blinded by her fury. “Some husband you are! Because of you I came to Paris. You fatigue me, always did. I had one chance, one chance to paint like the others. I knew when I saw the exhibit, those glorious works changing forever the course of painting, the expression of feeling. You wouldn’t understand. I had to do something. And Gaston, such a shame, another weak excuse for a man. Yes, I stole his pistols. I killed the streetwalker, worthless creature. If you think I’m going back to Paris with you ...” Elena drew her pistol, aimed it at Loffredo.

  “Put down the gun,” a voice said.

  “Get down!” Serafina said. “Loffredo, down!”

  “If you think I’ll succumb to the wishes of my father, do what is expected ...You boor. Husband? Hah! And you, you slut! I could kill you both with my bare hands. At last I’ve created the life I’ve wanted. With child, yes, yes, and with no help from you!”