“Studying?” he asked.
“Scarlatti.”
“How’s your French repertoire?”
She shrugged.
“Because you know about the Paris Conservatory, of course, and you have a chance for admission, but I think you’d have a better one if you learned some pieces by Saint-Saëns or Franck.”
“He’s Belgian.”
“But he teaches at the Conservatory. And you’ll have to learn French.”
She looked at him and narrowed her eyes, but she was listening. “Music is the universal language.”
“Do we have to stay in Paris?” Maria asked. “Yes,” Loffredo said.
“My career may take a dive.”
That night Maria woke up screaming. She knocked on Serafina’s door.
Serafina held her daughter. “Tell me the dream, my sweet.”
Maria shook her head. “Too horrible.” She held her up hands, examining them.
Serafina rocked Maria until her tears died.
“I should have stayed in Palermo with Aunt Giuseppina.”
Chapter 39: Le Livre de Pâtisserie
The afternoon of their arrival Serafina was haunted by what seemed a rash decision to leave home. She longed for Oltramari and its dusty streets. But even before she’d unpacked and sorted out the bedrooms, Carmela and Giulia paid a visit, laughing, bringing food and wine and speaking a guttural form of French. Serafina brightened. Most of her family was together again.
In a week they were settled. They’d applied to the Minister of Justice, Keeper of the Seal, for complete domicile and naturalization. It would take three years. Loffredo and Serafina announced their intention to marry properly in the civil courts according to French law, and Serafina’s yearning for Oltramari was swallowed up by the excitement of Paris in full bloom.
Teo, Tessa and Arcangelo bought maps for the newcomers and showed them everything they knew of the city. They were out most days, returning for supper, tired and happy, adapting quickly as children do, and beginning to pick up the language. Even Maria forgot about her piano. In six months they’d be shouting to one another in French.
At first the bedrooms were a bit of a squeeze, but they’d have to make do with them. They found three small chambers on one side of the conservatory, perfect for the nurse and toddlers. The rest of the rooms were on the first floor, two in the east wing and two in the west. For now Teo, Arcangelo, and Totò would have to share a room.
They had an easy time of moving, Loffredo assured her. At the table one evening, he passed around an article in Le Figaro about the squalid conditions immigrants faced in New York. They stared at the photographs of the newly arrived, crowding into Castle Garden, of families huddled together in one room, immigrants relegated to the poor neighborhoods of lower Manhattan. “But we’ve landed in Paris like a cat in a bowl of liver.”
The space eased considerably soon after Rosa became friends with the concierge. More than friends, Loffredo thought.
“She’s part snake charmer,” Serafina told him.
When an apartment opened on the first floor, Rosa was the first to learn of it and snapped it up. There was a studio for Tessa, she told Serafina, and best of all, they had exclusive use of the garden. “Tessa can paint en pleine air. Now I must find a cook.” And Françoise introduced her to a second cousin who had a friend who had a sister who knew a cook who was looking for work. Her references were strong and Rosa hired her for a week with the possibility of full-time employment. After two dinners, Rosa was delighted and the woman was hired.
Renata, it appeared, tucked Badali into a far corner of her mind when she saw the kitchen. Larger than Serafina remembered, it containing every utensil, every size of pot and pan and platter a cook would want. Still, there was something not quite right with Renata, Loffredo felt.
“I know,” Serafina said. “She’s like that. If I could take her pain away, I would.”
Loffredo went to Librairie Hachette on the Boulevard Saint-Germain and bought Renata a copy of Le Livre de Pâtisserie by Jules Gouffé.
“But it’s in French.”
“Certainement,” an unfamiliar voice said.
Serafina looked up at the figure in black bombazine. “You must be the tutor.”
“The femme savante, Madame.”
Rosa bustled in. “We found her talking to the concierge,” she explained, “and I brought her up here. She’ll teach us everything we need to know, I expect.”
The tall woman introduced herself. Busacca had arranged it, she said, “For six months or as you wish, Madame.” There was a stiffness about her that reminded Serafina of a French housekeeper she’d met a few years ago when she and Rosa worked a case in Bagheria.
Chapter 40: Hiding from the Truth
Serafina sat in a far corner of the ladies’ parlor and her mind drifted again to the case. Loffredo’s injury meant they’d departed before she’d finished tying up loose ends, and there were two areas of the investigation that bothered her—Elena’s admission that she’d killed the woman in the Rue Cassette and the unrecovered photos taken at the scene of the crime.
A few things disturbed her about Elena’s confession. First, she wondered how and when Elena stole Gaston’s pistols—how and when she learned to shoot, albeit not very well; how she would have known of their existence; and how close was she standing to the woman when she shot her? Elena was short and the victim seemed, even in death, to be much taller. Reading the autopsy and talking to the inspector, she hoped, would help.
She stared at the wall and decided she must talk with Valois about her concerns as soon as possible, so she hired a cab and paid a visit to his office. He wasn’t in at the moment but was expected “later.” The receptionist apologized, but she couldn’t be more precise, so Serafina left her card saying she’d return. She told the driver to take her to Busacca’s store on the Rue du Mont-Parnasse where she asked to speak with Ricci de Masson.
The smiling redhead came out to greet her. A gracious host, Ricci bowed. “I remember you. You’re from Oltramari.”
“I came here to see the photos.”
Judging from his reaction, she’d caught him off guard. She could see him weighing how to reply. She liked this man with his freckles and unruly hair, a boy, really, his emotions transparent.
“Carmela likes the innovation of your displays, you know.” She glanced around at all the hats, some antique, others military. Looked like they’d seen battle, some of them. There was a sense of humor about the store and she had no doubt where it originated.
“I know.” He grinned. “She just left. Too bad you weren’t here earlier.”
“But I’ve come to see you.”
“Here’s her latest design.” He showed her a velvet pillbox that sat on the counter, its feathers tall and silky and shiny in the late morning sun, but she wasn’t tempted to linger.
“The photos, please? I suppose the police questioned you about them.”
He smiled. “In police custody.”
“I don’t believe you.” She smiled and crossed her arms.
He shut his eyes and wagged his head, his lips making a moue.
He reminded her of Carlo when he still had his charm, and her stomach lurched.
Ricci sighed, said she’d won, and asked her to follow him to the back room. She took a seat in front of his desk, watched as he walked to the other side of the room, opened a drawer, and retrieved a packet bound in felt.
After he untied the string, he lifted the contents and the cloth fell away, revealing a series of prints and plates. He pushed them across the desk so they faced her, and she picked up a photograph, squinting at it before holding it closer to the light. She winced and tried to catch her breath.
The first was a frontal view of a woman’s face distorted, recently robbed of life, the skin and muscle blown away from the woman’s left side so that the some of the skull was exposed. Could she have misconstrued it as a likeness of Elena’s face? Never. She leafed through the others, each
filled with horror, each one of the same woman, definitely not Elena. Beneath them were the plates.
“The police haven’t been here?”
He shook his head. “As far as I know, they questioned my mother, but on another matter.”
“And?”
He lifted his hands and smiled.
“Have you been to Longchamp?”
He shook his head.
“You offered to show me around, remember?”
“I thought you meant recently.”
“Elena paid your debts?”
He nodded.
“You’re lying.” Despite his charm, he was difficult. He looked at her, all innocent, revealing nothing, hiding everything. Maddening.
While she reached into her reticule, she watched him tip his kippah forward and scratch the back of his head.
“Do those things itch?”
He laughed. “Sometimes. This is a difficult situation for me.”
“Why?”
“Because I like you. I like Carmela, but I have a duty to protect my own.”
“You have a duty to the truth, just like I do.”
“But why pursue it? Elena’s dead. Our relative, at times fun, at times a horror, a blight upon the family name. But now she is no more. She’s buried.”
“In Oltramari, this might be true. But this is Paris.”
“We hide from the truth, too.”
Serafina got up to leave. As she opened the door, she heard the brass bell, but told herself she’d been too hasty and walked unannounced into the back.
“One more question,” she said and brought out the wad of papers that Rosa found in Elena’s apartment. She spread them out so they were facing him, each one a statement of debt owed to Elena.
“Do you recognize these?”
He smiled at her but didn’t look at the papers. “Not mine.”
“Then whose are they?”
He didn’t answer.
“So do you deny signing these?”
He nodded.
“Whoever signed them must be a close relative. Not your mother, she wouldn’t ... she works hard and doesn’t have time for Longchamp. Then whose? You know but you’re not telling me.”
He tipped his kippah and scratched his head.
She rolled her eyes, trying not to smile. “Who took the photographs, one of your brothers?”
“I didn’t take the photographs.”
She stopped and thought.
“Who photographed the woman?”
He didn’t reply.
“You have a brother.”
“Two. I have two. One you won’t find. The other one manages the store on Rue de Verneuil, or did the last time I talked to him.”
“May I see your signature?”
He reached in the drawer and pulled out paper and ink and signed his name. Nothing like the signature on the IOUs.
“May I keep it?”
He smiled. “Of course.”
“Why won’t I find Beniamino?”
“He disappears.”
“How long ago did you see him?”
“Some weeks ago, but my mother sent him a note last week. She wanted to speak with him. He hasn’t replied, and we’re not sure where he is.”
“If he signed this paper, would it look more like the signature on the IOUs?”
Ricci smiled at Serafina, but made no reply.
She admired him. “Some day I’ll take you up on your offer to show me Longchamp.”
“You’ll love it.”
Chapter 41: Valois and Serafina
Valois rose when she entered, kissed her on both cheeks. It was a warm, genuine expression of friendship.
“As soon as we’re settled, we’ll ask you for a dinner,” she said. “We’re staying in the Busacca apartment on Place de Passy. You know it well.”
“New carpet, I hope.”
They laughed.
When they were through catching up, she told him that she’d been to visit Ricci. “I saw the photographs and the plates. I would have known the woman was not Elena.”
Poor Valois. He tried to hide his surprise. He buttoned and unbuttoned his frock coat. “Ricci seemed cooperative, but only to a point. Perhaps we didn’t ask the right questions.”
“I’m sure you did, but he had a cagey way of answering, and since I’ve got secrets of my own, I understood him and called his bluff. Don’t forget, we’re both Sicilians.”
“Where are the photographs?”
She told him and after he’d made a note, she summarized her meeting with Sophie’s youngest son.
“Have you spoken with your photographer, the one who took the photos?”
Valois shrugged. “He quit last month.”
“There’s the connection—the photographer. He must have been well paid by one of the de Masson’s, and I have a feeling it was Sophie’s oldest son.”
She produced the IOUs and showed him the difference between the forgeries and Ricci’s signature. “When is Ricci not Ricci?” she said, half to herself. She paused to let him examine the documents. “Will Sophie be tried?”
He shrugged. “A matter for the insurance lawyers. If Elena were alive, they’d prosecute—fraud, pure and simple. But since she’s dead, I don’t know. I heard Busacca’s lawyer is working with the insurance company, an Italian company based in Trieste. He wants to protect his sister.”
“He wants to protect the name of Busacca, you mean.”
“So you might want to ask him,” Valois said. “More to the point is the question of whether or not Sophie would collect. I’d have to read the terms of the policy—payout might be nullified since Elena’s death was self-inflicted.”
She looked at her watch, realized she was taking more time that she thought she’d need, and apologized.
“Not at all, I’m always glad to see you, and when we’re through discussing your concerns, I have another case I think you may be interested in, also involving a forgery and the death of a pregnant woman brutally savaged. We’re strapped for men these days. Now that peace has arrived, crime rises again.”
Serafina told him about the fire destroying their means of livelihood, an apothecary shop that had been in Giorgio’s family for centuries, no doubt in retaliation for what she’d done to Don Tigro’s men. She told him about her confrontation with the local mafia capo, his demand for a percentage of her pay and her refusal to give it. “So we are here to stay, at least for a while. We thought of America, but I’m more familiar with Paris. We’re comfortable here, it brightens our spirits, and we have ties now to Busacca—our oldest daughter works for him.”
“Greater protection for you here, especially from thugs like the mafia. You’d have them on your back the minute you arrived in New York. The Italian immigrant community is brutalized by them. Become French citizens, my advice. I’ll put in a word and so will the prefect, I know. He’s been impressed with our handling of the Elena Loffredo case.”
She felt the tears spring up and bit her lip. She wouldn’t cry in front of the inspector. “That means more than I can say, but we’ve just arrived and I still feel the ties to my country. It’s so difficult to give up my home. Best now not to think too much of leaving, but to concentrate on solving crimes. Your streets are so clean, it’s hard to imagine crime has increased. How can it be worse now than during Commune?”
“Of course not. Peace is much better. But theft, rape, murder, they’re all on the rise.”
“Here’s my real reason for disturbing you.”
Valois shrugged and his smile was lopsided.
She told him of her concerns involving Elena’s confession. “I don’t see how she could have killed the woman on the Rue Cassette, and to tell you the truth, I almost goaded her into confession.”
“That’s so terrible? It was a proper confession. My men heard it. Everyone who witnessed it did, according to their statements.”
“Bad because I hadn’t thought it through. I hadn’t read the autopsy, studied its details, the ent
ry wound, the angle that the bullet must have traveled, the height of the shooter and victim. Elena was a terrible shot you know, lucky for Loffredo.”
“And for you.”
She nodded. “With a short barrel, she’d have to have been very close to the woman to hit her target. And the angle was wrong. I’m not an expert, not by any means, but the coroner told me they found the bullet in the victim’s mouth. Could Elena have shot her, given her height? But it wasn’t until coming back here that I thought hard about it. I don’t think she shot the woman.”
He sighed, walked to the window, and stared out. She followed his gaze to a broken sky, to rays of sun streaming through fast-moving clouds. She loved the play of light and dark on the French tricolor, the limestone buildings and slate roofs, the bridges of the Seine. She gave him time to consider.
He turned to her. “I agree, but ...” He shrugged. It was a Gallic gesture of futility, of humor, of hope.
“One of the reasons I love France is your pursuit of truth and liberty. It deserves a daily revolution in the mind.”
He shook his head and smiled. “So you think she didn’t kill the woman?”
“I didn’t say that. I think she had help.”
“One thing I’ll say about you, your French has improved, but you’re still as stubborn.”
She explained her plan.
Chapter 42: Rue d’Assas
The sky was ominous when Serafina knocked on the door to the small home at 23, Rue d’Assas. She waited. As she stood there, she felt sharp drops of water pelt her cape. The wind swirled leaves and small branches. They twirled in midair before descending once again and skidding down the street. She felt her matted hair, felt the water running down the side of her head and into her ear. She knocked again, louder this time.
Presently she heard footsteps. The door opened and Gaston’s butler appeared, just as fussy looking as the first time she’d seen him.
Serafina held out her card and he peered at it, pursed his lips, and pretended he did not recognize her.
Murder On The Rue Cassette (A Serafina Florio Mystery) Page 27