“You don’t like della Trabia? I thought I caught you making eyes at him earlier?”
“Don’t be daft. For all you know, he staged that little shootout in the ruins.”
“You must be joking. He killed a man for show?”
“Men have been killed for less by the likes of that tin soldier.” Rosa made a face. “He’s besotted with himself, and the poor butler has his hands full. Now the butler, there’s a real man.”
Outside, Serafina and Rosa followed della Trabia’s lead around one side of the house, obviously uncomfortable with silence, since he insisted on smothering them with talk. Strange, for a gabelloto; she didn’t think they had so many words, but she listened to see if she could get a sense of the man.
He pointed to two buildings washed in the same hue as the main house. “The carriage house is one of the oldest outbuildings on the estate, it and the stable.”
“Beautiful, all the palms and blooms, the ornamental grasses around it. The landscaping is unique.” Serafina stumbled on uneven ground “My daughter would approve.” She thought of how Carmela would arrive, flap her eyes once around the park, and most definitely rearrange everything. Serafina rubbed her forehead, regretting the quarrel they’d had last night, saw Carmela’s face now, and knew her daughter was right to criticize her, even if Serafina was the mother. She wasn’t keeping enough hours at home, what with midwifery and sleuthing, that was true, and she had no right to spend her free time with Loffredo. Even saying his name was difficult without wanting him. She shook her head. She had no right. After all, she had small children, and they needed her, and she needed the coins. Snaking around her mind, she saw her mother’s nose wrinkle, saw the admonition in her eyes, heard her say, “Just get on with it and enjoy,” and felt a pain in her right temple. Fat burden you’ve given me, Mama. Serafina felt a sudden thrust from behind, spun around, saw no one, and bumped into Rosa before righting herself. The madam gave her an appraising look.
“Who is the landscaper?” Serafina asked della Trabia.
“Baroness did most of it. The baron doesn’t want us to touch her design, and the gardener and his men do the upkeep.”
“And the gardener follows the baron’s direction?”
“He’d better.”
His gestures were expansive. “But no complaints. He knows what he’s doing, and the coachman does a decent job. Runs his world with an iron fist, the coachman. Groom shakes when he sees him coming. I knew the driver during the war, told the baron about him, and that’s why he’s here—given overmuch to the races, but a hard worker, all the same.”
They waited while della Trabia hitched up a dilapidated creature to an odd-looking trap sitting high off the ground with no top. Rosa insisted on boosting herself up without della Trabia’s aid, and she shot up, like a ball from a cannon, twirling and sitting like a ballerina half her bulk while Serafina tried to follow suit, missing the footplate on her first attempt and squeezing the trap’s iron rail so hard that she bruised her palm, finally making it to her seat with Rosa’s help. Not fair, really, the litheness commanded by the madam was surprising for one so squat while Serafina, willowy by comparison with Rosa, had no agility at all, none.
With a jolt, the mule sallied forth, picking up speed around the house. Serafina half-listened to della Trabia’s banter and watched his wide gestures while he smiled expansively and pointed to various buildings on the grounds as if he were showing them his own estate until she realized, in a sense, he was. He was the gabelloto, after all, leasing the baron’s lands, promising him management and protection in exchange for a percentage of the profits.
Serafina noticed a few clouds in the sky, not threatening, but nonetheless, she became curious. “What do you do when it rains?” she asked della Trabia, after her breathing returned to normal, raising her voice over the clatter. She slid to one side on the hard seat and clung to the rail.
“Me? I have my own horse. As for the rain, we’ve been lucky the past four, five years. Seldom rains in the spring, I know, but we’ve been having a wet one this year, good soaking rains, then it goes dry for weeks at a time. Don’t know about the grain, but the citrus trees like it. Lately when the rain comes, it’s sudden and fierce, so I’ve learned it’s best to keep a slicker in the pack.”
They were silent for a time as the trap pitched and rolled.
Breaking the mood, he spoke, shouting over the braying mule and the creaking wood. “Don’t use this trap much, but it’s all I’ve got at the moment—we’re using all the carts in the field—can’t use the carriage on these paths. Our busy time now, picking, bagging the citrus, pruning some of the trees, cleaning up after ourselves.” He turned around and saw them clinging to the side handles. “You don’t like the ride?”
“It’s fine,” Rosa said, gritting her teeth. “Almost as good as a peasant cart.” She whispered to Serafina, “He’s driving us in this contraption on purpose, the rotter.”
At one point, Serafina knocked into Rosa, both almost tumbling onto the floor, but soon she adjusted to the motion and found her mind wandering. If Serafina were honest with herself, della Trabia would have charmed her a few years ago with his gorgeous eyes and his confident stride. True, they owed their lives to his fearless dispatch of the bandits this morning, but today he amused her, nothing more. She was amazed at how much her life had changed in such a short time and couldn’t help comparing him with Loffredo, who was taller than their guide and certainly more polished than della Trabia, possessing a cleansing, almost magnetic, certainly a noble demeanor and a sense of culture, too. Discarding her ruminations of a few minutes ago, she longed for him, right now, right this minute, but she had a job to do and steeled her resolve, turning her mind to the reason she and Rosa were here—finding the baroness’s killer.
Presently they rode on smoother ground, the smell of citrus becoming stronger, almost overpowering. Della Trabia slowed the trap, drove it through the opening in a high fence, and they entered the orchards. As far as the eye could see were orange groves, rows and rows of trees heavy with ripe fruit and men so numerous, they seemed to cover the trees like winged creatures—men on ladders, men on the ground holding sacks and catching the fruit as it dropped, men raking oranges off the ground and dumping them into small boxes.
“The fruit that drops to the ground we sell in town, but most of these crates will be loaded into the lower holds of the baron’s new ship. Cold down there, I tell you. Got something new—it’s called refrigeration. An experiment, Naldo tells me. Don’t know much about it yet, but going to learn, all right. The future, Naldo says. And the ship’s fast, skims the waves like a beast, he tells me.”
“How many ships does the baron own?”
“Small fleet now. The newest is his fourth or fifth, but the older ones are much slower.” He was silent for a time, then straightened, his eyes fixed in the middle distance. Stopping the cart, he tied the reins to a tree and said, “Excuse me for a bit.”
She and Rosa watched him amble over to a knot of men some meters ahead who were agitated about something. The mob seemed to be swelling with men, who were climbing out of trees and stumbling over, each man swallowed up into a circular mass of seething dust. In a few strides, della Trabia arrived, shoved one of the men aside and wormed his way into the middle. The churning increased, and the dust roiled. Serafina heard shouting, and in a blink, the group spread apart, and they saw della Trabia haul a man to the side and, not too gently, shove him down next to a tree. The others dispersed. Wiping his hands, della Trabia returned to the trap.
“What happened?” Serafina asked.
“Some crazy bastard grousing about pay. Supervisor told him to shut up, and the man got angry, threw a few punches. He’ll be fine once he thinks about it. If not, he’ll be out on Saturday.”
“Why Saturday?” Rosa asked.
“Baron doles out their pay on
Saturday. I decide who stays, who goes.”
They rode at a slow pace, and their guide began explaining the various kinds of citrus grown on the estate. “Nine or ten different types of oranges, most of them ripening now, but others mellow earlier, some later, so we’ve got a crop to work most times.”
“Lemons?”
He nodded. “But they seem to grow on their own, as long as I have my right-hand man. Don’t need much attention from me, unless, of course, we get too much of the cold.”
“How long have you been working for the baron?” Serafina asked.
He turned to stare at her. “I work for myself, not the baron. Not right now, anyway. Things may change soon. I lease the land and manage his estate, hire the men, make sure there’s no trouble. Got a few good ones who help me keep them in line.”
Serafina didn’t like the sound of that, but Loffredo had warned her not to become involved in whatever happened outside the house. So far, she had heeded his words. So far. She rephrased her question. “How long have you been working here?”
“Little over ten years.”
He wasn’t inclined to answer questions, that was apparent, but Serafina thought she might wait a few more minutes before asking another one when Rosa, who must have sensed her mood, spoke up. “You’re not from Trabia, I can tell by your accent. Yours is a made-up name, no?”
He narrowed his eyes in her direction, and Serafina saw a side of him that most men would fear. She felt the sudden chill of his stare, sensed Rosa sitting by her side, a rock of determination, and she was glad for her friend’s presence.
“I came from the islands off the coast, carved by Aeolian winds. A harsh land, it toughened my hide.”
“Your family must miss you,” Serafina said.
He shook his head, picked up the reins as if closing the subject, but thought better of it and wrapped them around the rail. “No family.”
“Dead?”
“My mother died when I was two. Sometimes at night I can remember her holding me. They say I was the one who found her body, but I couldn’t swear to it, I have no recollection. Never saw my father. So I was on my own from the age of two or so. They put me in a foundling hospital, and there I stayed. Nice enough, but no shoes, no honor, so I left. Fishermen took pity on me. Took me to a port on the north coast. I was eight or ten at the time.” He was silent for a moment. “In the end, I made my life, you see. Made my life with these.” He fisted his hands, then pointed to his head.”
“Not married?” Serafina asked.
He shook his head. “Once. Lost her. No more.” He was silent for two or three minutes. “After that, I wandered a good part.”
“So you have a good head for survival, but what about the heart?” Serafina asked.
“That gets me into trouble.” He lifted his chin and, for a long while, gazed at something she could not see, something deep inside him, she figured, and the moment stretched to two, three, four. She heard a few men laughing in the distance, the rustle of leaves as the wind picked up.
“You talk like you’ve had schooling,” Rosa said.
“Taught myself. Learned early on that I needed to. At first, I took day jobs, whatever I could get. Found out the hard way that whoever reads gets his pick of work and rises to the top of the pile. I still read at night, lots. Taught myself trades more from hunger than from anything else. My lucky day, finding the baron, powerful man like him. And before you ask how, I found him through word of mouth you might say. Been here ever since. The land makes money, at least the baron thinks it does. He credits me. The one before me didn’t last long. He had no brains, no muscle, and you need both.”
“Who was he?”
“The gardener’s son.” Abruptly, he turned away from them and flicked the reins. They rode back to the villa, Serafina vowing never to ride in that rickety trap again.
Della Trabia stopped behind a clump of tall grass and lifted Serafina. As he did so, he smiled, staring into her eyes. She stared back, aware of the man’s deadly power, feeling revulsion but also pity for him and for the love he’d lost. He had something, this gabelloto, an ability to control men, yes, but his gift was something more than that, an unshakable belief in his own power, the drive and ability to survive, a quickness of mind and spirit, an unwillingness to give up. She had no doubt that he was a mighty force.
He motioned to one of the gardener’s helpers to walk the trap and mule back to the stable. “The game larder,” he said, gesturing to the squat windowless building on their left, “and next to it, the icehouse.”
The door to the larder had a wooden crossbar fastened with lock and chains. Serafina lifted her skirts and walked closer, touched the stucco exterior. “Would you open it, please?”
From his belt, he unfastened a large brass chain, fiddled with the keys, all the while staring at Serafina. While he unfastened the lock, Rosa looked at Serafina as if she were a wild woman.
“What is it now?” Serafina asked.
“What would we find in a larder?” Rosa asked.
“If I knew that, we wouldn’t have to look, would we?”
One side of the door opened slowly, the old wood scraping the ground and tearing through a clump of weeds growing around a metal stanchion, opening a few meters until it caught on the high grass surrounding the building and had to be muscled the rest of the way. As della Trabia struggled with the door, out flapped two or three creatures of the night.
Covering her head, Rosa backed up and motioned to Serafina. “I’ll stay out here while you look inside.”
“Sloppy work,” della Trabia said. “Place is a mess. Door should have been shimmied; the lock and hinges need oiling. One hinge has broken off and needs to be replaced. Creatures shouldn’t be allowed to nest in here—must be a family of them in the eaves. Good job the baroness didn’t live to see this: she’d be having an honest fit right about now.”
“Why would she have cared about the grounds?”
Della Trabia shot Serafina a wry smile. “You didn’t know her ladyship!”
Serafina shook her head. “Well, not to speak with. I’d seen her in town, knew about her charitable work at the hospital and orphanage, but no, she wouldn’t have associated with my family.”
“A taskmaster, that one. Into everything, and everything mattered with her. Had an opinion, too.”
“What happened to her?”
“Died.”
“How?”
“Stopped breathing.”
“I know that, but what do you think happened?”
He hunched his shoulders. “I’ve no idea. She became ill. Doctor didn’t know what it was or how to heal her, so how should I know? She died. But I’ll say one thing for the baroness: everything’s changed around here since her passing.”
“In what ways?”
“In every way. Villa’s not run the same; I’d be blind not to see it. And it’s spilling over to the outside, too. The way this larder’s kept, that’s an example. But it’s not bad enough to be my business yet.” He looked at the keys in his hand. “Not quite yet,” he said softly. “I must have a talk with the gamekeeper.”
“What did you think of her?” Serafina asked.
He thrust both hands into his pockets. “Not my business to have an opinion about the baroness, now, is it?” He looked at her, one eyebrow raised, and said nothing more.
Turning back to his keys, he jiggled them a bit and was silent. Serafina watched his movements and focused on his face for telltale signs of his real feelings, but he gave away nothing. The man, used to the outdoors and one step up from a mercenary, probably didn’t know what his feelings were, but she felt that while della Trabia had admired the baroness, he had not liked her—just a feeling she had. More important, he was withholding information.
“I’d be glad for your insight and
would like to talk to you after you’ve finished our tour.”
He grunted. “No time.”
Serafina realized she would get nothing more from the man, no information. He was a puzzle. Was it because he could sense her dislike of him?
“Not complaining, understand, part of my job to protect, especially the baron’s guests, give them what they want, but I can’t promise.” Grabbing the lantern from its hook near the door, della Trabia lit it and adjusted the wick.
Serafina poked her head out the door. “Still want to stay outside?” she asked Rosa, who remained motionless.
Nodding, she said. “A bit stiff from the trip—the cold, you know.”
Serafina followed della Trabia inside. He closed the door behind them, then took Serafina’s elbow as if to lead her.
She moved away from his touch. “I’ll be fine, thank you, as soon as my eyes adjust to the light.”
The gabelloto bent to avoid hitting the carcasses hanging from the low ceiling. Smelling old meat, she was struck with the difficulty of her task. Already her toes felt like pieces of ice. She was tired from the trip; she missed Loffredo and her children, and she wanted to be home. But she strengthened her resolve: she owed it to Genoveffa to leave no stone unturned.
On a corner of the outer wall stood an old desk, the brass handles on the drawers in need of polish. It had become the home of spiders and other creatures, the whole thing wobbly and dusty with disuse. The top was filled with debris, and next to it stood floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with knives and blades and tools of all sorts, most of them covered in cobwebs—a place where men worked. Serafina made a quick study of the shelves, which held nothing of interest to her, but the desk had seven drawers, and they were locked.
Death In Bagheria (A Serafina Florio Mystery) Page 7