“I’m not a baby, please!”
Serafina, Renata, and Rosa followed the butler across the marble floor of Lord Notobene’s study, which, together with a separate library and smaller office, occupied one wing off the main entryway. On two sides of the room were fireplaces with smoldering beech logs, lit, no doubt, to burn off the morning chill, their embers stoked by servants in identical livery. The stone hearth nearest the desk was surrounded by a small sofa, side tables, and three overstuffed chairs upholstered in heavy damask and patterned with a hunting scene. A man’s room, Serafina decided, but decorated with care, no doubt by a woman. She smelled orange peel, snuff, and whiskey, the scents of male camaraderie. Her eyes slid around the room, decorated in shades of viridian and caput mortuum, the fringed lampshades glowing with muted flames. Gas jets punctuated two of the rosewood walls.
But her eyes were drawn to the outer wall of floor-to-ceiling glass in the middle of which were French doors that opened onto a terrace paved in flagstone and framed with blooms, affording a view of the lawns sloping down to the sea. In the middle distance was an aviary where colorful birds flew from branch to perch, and farther down the park was a glass conservatory. Beds of tall grass and flowers lined the far edge of the lawn and both sides of a stone walk. Benches and palm trees surrounded ornamental pools, all arranged so that the eye continuously feasted on an ever-changing scene.
Real wealth, Serafina concluded, after ticking off the signs in her head: an army of servants, well-kept grounds, lush plantings, leaded-glass windows, brocade drapes, tiled floors, handmade carpets, winding marble staircase, high ceilings, frescoed walls, crystal chandeliers, a fireplace in each room, silver and brass polished to a high gleam. No nicks, no mars, no patches, no balding seats, no signs of dust. Despite a large number of aristocrats, there was little old money left in Sicily unless it was, as in the baron’s case, sullied by trade, a fact that Lady Notobene apparently could not accept. Did her obstinate blindness kill her, or did she die fighting to preserve an impossible world?
As they approached his desk, Serafina was arrested by the full-length portrait of the baroness over the mantle. The woman wore a gown of silver satin in a style fashionable several years ago with no bustle, but with full skirts, ruckled sleeves, and winding train. Over her shoulders, she wore a cape of ermine. In her hair, styled in an elaborate Parisian coiffure and parted in the middle, was a feathered tiara that dripped pearls. A slight smile lit her face, the expression of her mouth and the wisdom in her eyes unmistakably those of the baroness. The figure was so lifelike, in fact, that Serafina expected the woman to step down and cross the short distance to greet her. She stood gazing at the painting, convinced of Lady Caterina’s presence in the villa.
Lord Notobene removed his pince-nez and stood to greet them. He reminded Serafina of an eagle in morning coat and striped pants.
“Geraldo, as handsome as ever, how good to see you,” Rosa said, stepping forward and kissing him on both cheeks. “May I introduce Serafina Florio, my lifelong friend, an extraordinary woman, a wizard. She investigates the death of your wife, as your daughter requested. And this is Serafina’s daughter, Renata,” she said, her arm around Renata’s shoulders. “She visits your cook, taking the opportunity to do so while we are here. You may have heard of her—she is Monzù Alonzo’s famous pastry chef.”
“Of course—the creator of those magnificent desserts served at Villa Zazzu. You are most welcome at Villa Caterina. You have a lot to show Mima, and perhaps we’ll have the opportunity this evening to sample your delicious pastry.”
Blushing, Renata assured him that they would.
Serafina held her daughter’s arm. “And perhaps, my lovely, you’d like to start your visit with the cook right now. I’m afraid what we have to say will be of little interest to you.”
A footman appeared within seconds after Lord Notobene rang for him and escorted Renata out of the room.
Looking into Serafina’s eyes, the baron bent and kissed her hand. “Charmed, dear lady.” His coat fit him to perfection, Serafina noticed, if she discounted a slight stretch about the stomach—grief hadn’t diminished his appetite. Underneath the jacket, he wore some kind of sash and large medal with rays of the sun over a boiled shirt. His gaze was penetrating, yet his face held some of the lines of suffering, a pronounced hollow beneath the cheeks and the hint of shadows underneath sunken eyes. She wanted to warm to the man, but something about his demeanor made her wary. Early fifties, she’d say, the baron had a robust head of hair that had once been russet, worn oiled and combed back, but his most unusual feature was a mahogany mustache flecked in grey, sitting like a badger brush, thick and blunt, above somewhat full lips and lending his face an unusual distinction.
“Rosa, my friend, your beauty does not diminish.” They kissed on both cheeks.
Turning to Serafina and still holding Rosa’s hand, he said, “Welcome to Villa Caterina. What can I tell you about my wife?” He motioned them to the sofa and chairs.
When they were seated, Serafina began. “I attended Lady Caterina’s requiem in Oltramari and saw a body too young to be lying in state.”
He looked out the window, where life proceeded as normal, and nodded his head thoughtfully.
She continued. “Genoveffa believes that her mother was poisoned.”
His emotions altered course, like celestial winds changing direction. “And she told you I do not share that belief?”
“Not in so many words.”
He threw up his hands. “Genoveffa, always headstrong. The mother superior, I’m afraid, has her hands full. Such a waste of a life.” He stared at the sea—or perhaps, into the ocean of his private misery—and spoke as if to himself. “Such willful folly and such consternation she causes. Who would want to kill Caterina?” Looking into Serafina’s eyes, he said, “But because my daughter believes it and speaks it aloud, I, too, want my wife’s death investigated to the fullest.”
“Of course, Geraldo. And we shall do so quietly,” Rosa said.
Despite Rosa’s frown, Serafina continued. “I’ll need to ask you some questions, many of them blunt. You will think me ill-mannered.”
“Not at all. You do what you must, and I will understand.” He ran thumb and forefinger around the edges of his badge. Such delicate hands for a man, Serafina thought.
“And I’ll need to speak with your son and young daughter, the servants, search your home, all the grounds, including the outbuildings, even your bedroom and your office.”
Rosa gasped.
He shrugged. “Of course. But my son, Naldo, was away at the time of my wife’s illness and death—in Genoa and Glasgow—and Adriana was so very young when her mother died.”
“Still, if they are here now, I should like to meet them.”
The baron’s gaze was piercing. “If you investigate, then you must be thorough, a monumental task; the estate is large. But a cautionary word: just because you find a toxic substance somewhere on the grounds, of which, no doubt there are many, does not mean it was used to poison my wife. I am out of my depth here, but I suggest you consult with della Trabia should you have questions as to the intended use of a particular chemical.”
Serafina nodded. “It won’t take us more than two days.”
“We were vague about the time of our arrival, and we understand you have business obligations,” Rosa said. “Please attend to your normal routine.”
“Thank you, my dear. Your words are a great relief.” He smiled at Rosa, then turned to face Serafina. “Unfortunately, my business cannot wait. A particularly delicate matter needs my attention later today, and I must keep my appointments. And while we speak of calendars, tomorrow morning is the annual Mass in honor of my wife, the feast day she cherished, and this evening, I expect dinner guests and would be honored to have you both in attendance.”
“Then if I mig
ht have some time with you, sometime in the afternoon, perhaps?” Serafina asked.
He went to his desk and ran a finger down his calendar. “Half past three, will that do?”
She wrote the time in her notebook. “And your son?”
He glanced again at his journal. “I expect him here this afternoon.” Serafina noticed a pronounced stoop as he walked to the window and gazed out at the sea. It seemed to Serafina that he was again lost to his grief while outside, the world continued, but she couldn’t be sure whether the baron was in mourning for his wife or acting an elaborate charade for her benefit. She thought it could be both. Something about him made her uncomfortable.
As if talking to himself, he said softly, “We take our main meal in the evening, like our British friends. Lunch is at one, tea at five, dinner at nine, a practice my dear wife never cared for, but one I find helpful since we often entertain in the evening.”
Just then, the door opened. Distracted by the sound, the baron looked up and his mood changed. He stood, spreading his arms wide. Turning, Serafina saw the cause of his alteration, a child dressed in the costume of she knew not what, perhaps a woodland fairy or maybe even a swashbuckling adventurer, who charged full tilt into the room yelling “Papa!” and jumping into his arms. In one instant, the room changed from a tomb of correctness to a home.
“Did you miss me? I haven’t seen you in ages and ages, and Ornetta’s been so mean, telling me I must not see you.” She wore a felt cape and scuffed boots, stained blouse and gaucho pants, patched and taken in to fit her small frame, fastened with a large belt. In her hand was a wooden sword, which she waved back and forth. A battered fedora, possibly discarded by one of the outdoor servants, hid most of her curls. It must be the baron’s youngest who was in the midst of play, but nonetheless, Serafina was surprised to see an aristocratic child dressed in this fashion, surmising that perhaps the normal rules of strict upbringing had been relaxed due to her mother’s death. In any case, she warmed to her and felt pity for her loneliness.
Rosa smiled, and Serafina opened her reticule.
“These two lovely women are our guests, what do you say to that?” He set her down. “Adriana, my youngest,” he said, introducing her to Serafina and Rosa. “She has the run of the house, as you see. With us until Easter, I hope. She stays with her grandfather most of the time, but she’s my joy, aren’t you, pet? Now, run along, your nurse waits for you.”
“But first I’ve brought you something.” Serafina reached into her purse and brought out a small bag, placing it in Adriana’s outstretched hand. The child opened it and smiled, picking out one of the marzipan candies and popping it into her mouth.
“What do you say, Adriana?” The woman, who was later introduced as her nurse, walked over to her charge.
Removing her hat to show a riot of blond curls, the child curtsied. “Thank you ever so, and I’m sure,” she said in the deepest voice she could muster.
“An actress,” Rosa said.
“Dressed as one of the three musketeers. Which one is it today?” Ornetta asked.
“Not a musketeer. D’Artagnan.”
“She has quite an imagination,” Serafina said.
“Some days she dresses like this. Other times, she’s a princess.”
The baron, meanwhile, had forgotten all about his daughter, lost in his ledger and paying no attention to anyone in the room.
Serafina smiled at the nurse. “I would like to spend more time with Adriana later today. “Where might I find you?”
“The nursery is on the fourth floor, but we are usually not there during the day. Adriana keeps me quite busy,” she said, running out the door in pursuit of her young charge.
“Like a wave on the sea, your daughter, and so beautiful.”
The baron looked up for a second, his finger paused over a number in the ledger, and gave her the ghost of a smile.
Serafina pulled on the chain of her watch pin. “I’ll need two servants who were close to Lady Caterina, one to work with me—and I’d prefer Doucette, if she is still available; she worked closely with your wife, no?—another to accompany Rosa, for expediency as well as for your protection and mine. And we’ll need a tour of the grounds. My daughter will supervise the search of the kitchen along with your cook. No doubt she will assist?”
The baron perched on the edge of his desk, facing them. “A trusted servant, Mima, with us since forever, and before that, cooked for Caterina’s father; she came to my household when my wife and I were married.”
There was a knock on the door, and the butler entered.
“Ah, Umbrello, I should have rung for you sooner.” The baron beckoned him to the hearth, where he leaned against the mantle and spoke in low tones, using circumspect gestures, counting on his fingers, pointing to Serafina and Rosa. He finished with the directive, “Arrange it all, won’t you?”
The butler nodded. “Yes, my lord. And now, luncheon is served.”
“Late today. It’s nearly two,” the baron said, consulting his timepiece.
“The ladies were detained.” The butler opened the door and disappeared, presumably to do the baron’s bidding.
“Ah, yes, I was worried, sent della Trabia for you,” he said, walking toward them.
“And he found us,” Serafina said.
“Shall we?” The baron held out his arms, and the three walked arm in arm out of his study.
On their way to the dining room, Rosa told him about their brush with the bandits at Solunto. Serafina excused herself and walked to a window to take one last look at the view of the grounds and consider for a moment. Before she knew it, she heard the madam’s ferocious whisper.
“Control your leaps into the abyss! He’s waiting for us at the dining room door. Not done, detaining a baron.”
Serafina shot her a glance. She recalled the baron’s smile whenever he regarded the madam and was grateful for her presence. She’d speak to Rosa later about him, her best chance for determining the man’s true feelings.
“After the meal, I’d like to meet the cook and afterward, spend some time in Lady Caterina’s bedroom, and if she had other favorite rooms—a boudoir, for instance, or the conservatory—I’d like to visit those as well.”
“Then by all means, you must. I’ll have Umbrello see to it.”
“And I may have more questions for you. Do we have your permission to interview all the servants who were in your employ during her illness?”
All at once his exasperation peaked. “Of course, I’ve told you—free reign. Search wherever you wish, the servants’ quarters, my bedroom—a small chamber next to Caterina’s on the third floor; I’ve given instructions that it is to be unlocked during the day. Interview everyone if you must. Talk to them all, once, twice, as many times as you’d like and Umbrello will arrange it, but why these interviews? Do you understand, we have over fifty servants, most of them in our employ during my poor wife’s illness. They adored her, wouldn’t dream of doing her ill, were devastated at her loss. What do you hope to find?”
She hated herself for upsetting the man obviously still in mourning, but she gazed into his mottled face and said, “The truth.”
A Tour
After they’d finished eating, the baron excused himself, saying he had a meeting with an associate, and the butler appeared, opening the dining room doors leading to the main staircase and domed atrium. He introduced Rosa and Serafina to Doucette, the housekeeper, who had been waiting for them next to a potted palm.
Just then, della Trabia arrived, a little the worse for wear and smelling like horses. He pulled the butler aside, and the two spoke. It was not an argument, not by any stretch, more like a pointed conversation, their animosity held in check by their proximity to the dining room, the baron’s study, and his guests, but she felt their mutual dislike. The housekeeper, who step
ped back to the plant, kept her eyes fixed ahead, her stance a study in tranquility.
“A slight change. I’ve arranged with della Trabia to take you on a tour of the grounds,” the butler said. Turning to Doucette, he dismissed her—and rather stiffly, too, Serafina thought. “Perhaps you’d be so … good as to wait below stairs for our guests?”
The housekeeper raised her nose and regarded the butler. “Send a footman when you are ready for me. I shall be in my sitting room.” She lifted her skirts and was about to leave when Serafina tapped her on the shoulder and smiled. “Won’t you excuse us, please?”
For his part, della Trabia stood, at ease with himself and with the world, smiling first at the butler, then at Doucette, who regarded the gabelloto with as much disdain as she had reserved for the butler.
Doucette turned to Serafina, her back straight. “But of course, Madame.”
At the edge of her vision, Serafina saw movement behind a potted palm. She focused, saw the tip of a wooden sword disappear behind a frond. Two eyes below golden curls stared out at Serafina, the small figure solemn until an arm in black wool shot out and gripped Adriana by the collar. “Got you!” the governess said. “To your room, my lovely,” and vanished up the staircase with her charge, who turned around to stare at Serafina.
Before leaving, the housekeeper cast her eyes once more in the butler’s direction, and sweeping up her skirts, she departed.
Rosa poked Serafina in the elbow as they followed della Trabia outside. “Interesting,” the madam said.
“One of them missed an order, and they’re covering up, or some such nonsense.” Serafina said.
“Oh, it’s more than that. Della Trabia disturbs the schedule, for what reason, I’ve no idea, but it was deliberate. The three don’t like one another, that’s plain. The butler has no love for the housekeeper or della Trabia, and there’s something between that outdoor rotter and Doucette. I’m no wizard like you, but I can see anger when it snarls about the stage.”
Death In Bagheria (A Serafina Florio Mystery) Page 6