“Getting back to my most pressing question, the one I need you to answer, even if you’re unsure—who would want to murder your mother?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Take a guess, a wild one,” Serafina urged.
“Mother objected to the company my father kept of late. Come to that, she always disliked his business associates. Perhaps one of them killed her? Other than that, I’ve no idea.”
“One of your father’s business associates would have enough access to your mother to poison her? Your mother, who doubtless kept her distance and was always in the company of at least one servant? That seems preposterous.”
Genoveffa teared up again, and Serafina knew that she’d been too harsh. Come to think of it, how would she know who murdered her mother? If she had, she wouldn’t have hired Serafina. And yet, she had to press. “We know more than we think we do.” She paused for a moment. “If you come up with something, anything, however inconsequential it seems, please let me know.”
The nun made no reply.
“What kind of business does your father own?”
“My father inherited his family’s estates, olive groves in Prizzi, oranges and lemons in Bagheria. He exports most of his crops—to where, I don’t know—sells the rest locally. Has done, ever since I can remember. A few years ago, I think it was, he and my brother traveled to Genoa, bought two large steamers from some company or other and hired a crew. And I think they’re building one or two ships of their own. My brother spends his time in Scotland seeing to it. He handles most of the shipping, most all of affairs, come to that. And my father uses all his waking hours worrying over his business or hobnobbing with his new ‘friends,’ as he likes to call them. Father wanted me involved, but that was long ago, before the accident.”
“Accident?”
Genoveffa closed her eyes, and her face blanched. “A time in my life that has nothing to do with Mother’s murder.” She stopped short and studied the floor, as if truth lurked in some obscure corner of dust. “So long ago, before my world changed forever.”
Except for the scratch of Serafina’s pencil, there was silence.
“My mother was born into a family that believes aristocrats do not sully their hands with trade. Proud and threadbare, my grandfather, unlike my father, who mingles with merchants. One of Father’s associates Mother found particularly distasteful.”
“His name?”
“It’s all in there,” Genoveffa said, tapping the book in Serafina’s hands. “I tell you again, start your investigation by reading her journal. It will point you in the right direction. Now I must ask you to leave. Return after Friday, any time you wish. I’ll be here.”
“Saturday afternoon suits me. My son says his first mass on Sunday so I must be home before that.”
“A priest?”
“An altar boy.”
“Which one? I know them all.”
“Totò.”
Genoveffa arched one eyebrow.
Serafina felt the nun’s dislike for her son like a fury invading her blood, but she steeled herself, breathed in. Little wonder Genoveffa was so all alone. “Saturday afternoon gives you a day to … catch your breath after the feast. I’ll need to do more than read this journal, however. I want to talk to your father and to his servants and, most important, I want to spend time in your mother’s favorite rooms.”
“Father expects your visit,” Genoveffa said. “And my brother and little sister, too.”
“She was what, two when her mother became ill? She’ll not remember what happened, but she’ll feel it and probably knows much more than we think she does.”
“Oh, quite, but like children everywhere, there is limited understanding; however, there is no doubt she’s been hurt by Mother’s death.”
Shifting in her seat, Serafina wrote a few more notes. “Getting back to your father, does he now share your belief that your mother was poisoned?”
The look on the nun’s face told Serafina her question would go unanswered.
“Very well. Until Saturday.”
Serafina stood on the landing digesting what precious little she’d learned. Why had it taken the nun so long to decide that her mother had been murdered? Why was Genoveffa reluctant to speculate about the murderer’s identity? After all, she must have some idea. She stood by while her mother suffered, watching the comings and goings in the house, knew who entered the room, the names of her father’s business associates. Was her reticence the result of her upbringing or her lack of trust? Was she grieving or hiding something? Probably both. Still, Serafina saw her in a new way, as a woman of mystery and sorrow whom she longed to help.
She crammed her notebook into her reticule, patted her pocket containing the retainer. With one hand, she grasped the journal and, with the other, lifted her skirts. Winding her way down the stairs and into the clean light of the piazza, she gulped great breaths of air.
Loffredo
No patients in the waiting room, and despite the talk she’d given herself on the way to his office, her heart leapt when she opened the door and saw him. Loffredo stood smiling at her, tall and straight, his face like the chiseled stroke of a master sculptor, dark hair tightly curled in the back and barely touching his collar. His clothes fit his frame to perfection, and the scent from his neroli oil was overpowering. He reminded her of a painting she’d seen in Rome of the archangel Gabriel, or one of those other manly angels. Their eyes locked for a long moment, and she tried to resist, the Madonna knew, but once again the sheer power of him, along with some perversity of her will, made her weaken. Was it pity for his suffering? If her children should discover their—what to call it—their friendship … but no, she would not, could not imagine their dismay. He took her in his arms, and when their lips touched, it was an explosion.
Their romance began years ago at university when he attended the school of medicine and she studied for a certificate in midwifery. Like a thunderclap, their mutual attraction made the heavens spin, but they both knew the affair couldn’t last. Serafina came from a family of scholars, Loffredo, from the impoverished nobility, which meant he would have to marry within his class or find a woman of wealth. Some months after Serafina wed the son of the local apothecary, Loffredo’s family announced his betrothal to the daughter of a prominent Palermitan milliner.
She managed to free herself somewhat from his embrace. “We mustn’t,” she murmured. “The maid …”
“I sent her to Paris to be with Elena.”
Throughout her marriage, Serafina had remained true to her husband, and Loffredo, faithful to his wife until a few years ago when Elena departed with friends for an extended visit to France. As if the saints had conspired, he and Serafina found themselves working on the same case. In the face of their daily meetings and his relentless pleas, their friendship deepened, and she risked abandoning her moral compass on more than one occasion. Lately, she realized he was becoming a vital part of her life, but Serafina knew that she must learn to control herself. “The maid will arrive with tall tales for Elena.”
An eyebrow shot up, and he smiled. “So? I doubt that she cares.” He pressed himself against her.
What could she do? “Elena will be returning soon, and our … dalliance is wrong. She’s a friend—well, an acquaintance. We cannot continue.”
“I received a letter from her yesterday. ‘Don’t worry about me, my little pet!’”
Serafina laughed at his imitation.
He continued. “A free spirit, Elena. She keeps up with society, and many of her friends have also gone to Paris. Now they’ve all taken country homes in Aix and will go there later this spring.” He stared into space. “I no longer amuse her, and I feel absolutely ebullient. Oh, I could drop everything, show up, and demand her return, but why? For the first time, I’m free. I have a chance to love the woman o
f my dreams, to make a better life.” He looked into her eyes.
Serafina was silent, losing herself.
Loffredo kissed her again.
This time, stars shone.
“Elena assures me in her letters that Paris is still safe despite all the demonstrations we hear about. She and her friends flock around a group of painters and poets. It’s a free kind of lifestyle, her choice, and I doubt she’ll be returning soon.” He cupped Serafina’s elbow, as if to lead her to his lair. “I have no appointments for another hour—”
“But we cannot, and I have …” What was it she had to do that couldn’t wait? She collected herself. “I investigate a death, and I need your advice.”
“Tonight, then?”
She shook her head, silent for a moment, clutching at the back of her resolve before whispering her response. “Perhaps.” His eyes told her what she’d known all her life: the man loved her; he loved her now, had done so ever since they’d met. “I don’t know. I have to—”
“No. Don’t say it. Don’t do what you do not feel; there’s no need,” he said, holding out a chair for her. He kissed the back of her neck as she tried to settle herself. “Just to be near you, that’s enough for me.”
After she steadied her breathing, she began. “It’s Sister Genoveffa.”
He sent her a quiet smile and sat at his desk. “What’s she up to now?”
“She’s convinced that her mother was poisoned, and she’s asked me to investigate. Your smile’s gone. Surprised that she’s hired me?”
“Of course not. Your reputation is bright. Everyone knows it was you who caught the Ambrosi murderer and got to the bottom of the shoemaker’s calamity. Naturally, Genoveffa would turn to you to investigate her mother’s death, but it took a lot for a woman of her class to request help from you. We don’t like to involve others in our concerns.”
“‘We’? ‘Others’?” She felt her cheeks burn.
“I didn’t mean … ” He reached out and took her hand. “Forgive me.”
Large hands. Familiar. She knew his remarks had merit. “Sister Genoveffa puzzles me, too.” She withdrew from his grasp.
Loffredo nodded. “And the biggest puzzle of all is why she waited so long to conclude that her mother was murdered. There was talk at the time.”
“Of what?”
“Rumors of an unnatural death, the baroness’s sudden demise in the prime of life, that sort of thing. You must have heard the gossip.”
She shook her head.
“The suggestion was … but I shouldn’t involve you in the pettiness of the aristocracy.”
“Go on, I want to hear.”
“The story was that the baron’s grief at the death of his wife was superficial.” Loffredo winced. “How can anyone know what goes on in a marriage?” His face was glum. “And Lady Caterina’s been dead close to two years, as I recall.”
“When I asked Genoveffa why she hadn’t sent for me sooner, she apologized for taking so long to convince herself that her mother was murdered. Imagine—the poor woman blames herself for her mother’s death because she didn’t act sooner.”
“Not like her to apologize. But she lives in a convent here in Oltramari, and the family would have kept the details from her. How could she have known the seriousness of her mother’s condition?”
“At the start of each wave of the baroness’s illness, the baron sent for his daughter.” Serafina gave him an account of her meeting with the nun, the symptoms and progression of the baroness’s malady. “According to Genoveffa, her mother’s sickness was similar to a violent dyspepsia, which mysteriously flared, subsided, then reappeared several times over the final months of her life.”
Loffredo frowned. “A sticky wicket, I’m afraid—medically speaking, that is.”
He stared at her, couldn’t tear his eyes from her face. She felt them boring into her soul. “How so?”
“The woman could have suffered from a cancerous growth, I suppose, or she may have been poisoned, but without having attended the patient or at least consulted with her physician, I’m afraid I couldn’t hazard a guess.”
Serafina grasped his hand in hers. The man was irresistible. “Loffredo, it’s me, Serafina. Tell me what you think.” She’d known him over twenty years, and some things about him never changed. She loved watching the slow spread of crimson over his cheeks, the way his eyelids fluttered when he became absorbed in thought.
“The symptoms you describe are more like the effects of having imbibed a pernicious substance rather than the manifestations of a sarcoma—its violent onslaught, its sudden disappearance, the repetition of the cycle. Could very well have been a toxic salt administered in minute doses, perhaps introduced into her medication or into her food or drink. I wonder why her physician didn’t suspect foul play?”
“Genoveffa had no truck with him. Called him a fool.”
He considered her remark. “Of course, we don’t know what his wife’s physician told the baron. The doctor would have confided in him, shielded the daughter from the worst.”
Serafina drew out her notebook and began writing. “And now that you mention the doctor, I’m wondering, could he have been the one administering the poison?”
He shook his head. “Unlikely. The only thing I can say for sure is that the woman suffered.”
“That’s all you can tell me?”
He looked at her for a long time. “All right—for you, anything. I believe I’ve met Notobene’s physician. His practice is in Prizzi. Since the baroness became ill in Bagheria, they must have sent for him—they’d never have used a local doctor.” He scratched with a pen on his calendar. “Let me see if I can visit him, make a discreet inquiry or two.”
“Thank you.” She gazed at him.
“We could go together; it would make a nice outing.”
She blushed at the thought. “To Prizzi? You’ll have to do better than that! Besides, I trust you to question him without me, and I must go to Bagheria and meet with the baron and his servants.”
“It won’t be for another week or so—I’ve got to perform several autopsies for the inspector; bodies fill the morgue like desiccated leaves.”
“And on another note, I suspect a stormy relationship between father and daughter. Anything you know about the family would help.” She stroked his hand.
His nostrils flared. “Don’t know much about them. They’ve kept their distance. According to peerage, my title ranks above his—a count trumps a baron—but I married for money and beneath my class, which makes me nothing in the eyes of the baron. Worse, I have a practice, and that made me a traitor in the eyes of the baroness. Oh, I admired her charitable causes; she was much loved by the poor, but she came from a family who disdains trade and all professions. Their marriage must have been strained, since as you know, the baron is deeply involved in commerce.”
She nodded. “Genoveffa told me. The baron’s made a fortune selling citrus.” She looked at her hands. “My visit with her was interesting, a curious woman.”
“Nose in the clouds?”
“That, yes, but in the end, her aloofness was overcome by her grief. What really intrigued me was her relationship with her father. She told me they had words over the nature of her mother’s illness, but when I said I’d go there to investigate, she brightened, said the baron expected my visit.”
“I suspect he tried to rule his daughter the same way he rules others, and she rebelled. He’s ruthless, powerful, and up to his eyeballs in a cutthroat business. These days, he fights with large, wealthy families over control of Palermo’s shipping. And his harbor associates are shady, to say the least. Be careful, Fina.”
“You know me,” she said. Fortunately, he didn’t know her, not really, didn’t know that her family’s blood ran in despicable veins—her secret pain—a
nd he must never know.
“Yes, I do.” He smiled. “And I couldn’t bear to lose you, so please take great care, and think what would happen to your children—you’re the one holding them together.”
“And I’ve accepted Genoveffa’s retainer.”
He widened his eyes. “Above all, be careful what you eat or drink while visiting the baron.”
His concern echoed her own fears: if the baroness had been poisoned and the poisoner was still a member of the household, she and Rosa must take care. Imagining her friend’s face when she told her that she must refrain from food and drink while at Villa Caterina, Serafina said, “She doesn’t know it yet, but Rosa will accompany me.”
Loffredo visibly relaxed. “Good, now I feel better. She understands the baron, much better than I do.”
“How so?”
“She knows him the same way she does most of the powerful men in the province. Besides, she’s comfortable in any setting.”
“And I’m not?” She regretted her words.
“I didn’t mean to imply—”
Serafina stood. “And now I must go.”
He took her in his arms again, and his kisses were like fire.
“Tonight?” he whispered.
The heat was unbearable. Once more she was able to break free, but not before he’d extracted the promise of a tryst. How weak her resolve in the face of his agony.
A Brush with Thieves
Still bathed in the glow of her visit with Loffredo, Serafina withdrew the journal from her reticule, thinking she’d take a peek inside while she headed for Rosa’s. A soft breeze cooled her skin. Crossing the piazza, she glanced at the fountain and stony St. Benedict, distracted a bit by what she saw—two men stuffing the statue’s hands with citrus blossoms. A smallish man dressed in black and wearing a bandana seemed to be directing them. His earring, a large gold loop dangling from one lobe, glinted in the sun. Shadows moved on the ground, and the talk of women drying tomatoes echoed from a distant portico.
Death In Bagheria (A Serafina Florio Mystery) Page 2