Death In Bagheria (A Serafina Florio Mystery)

by Susan Russo Anderson

  In the glow from the flame, Rosa and Umbrello peered inside and watched Serafina’s hand remove an object.

  “A journal!” The blood pounded in her ears.

  “The date?” Rosa asked.

  Serafina turned the first page. “January 1866.” She turned the book and felt the half-broken spine. Her eyes straining, she looked first at Rosa, then at Umbrello, and said, “This is the same book we found on the landing, later taken from my pocket—I’m sure of it.”

  Rosa’s eyes widened. “So the housekeeper snatched it from your desk.”

  “Or someone working for her.” Serafina flipped through the pages, stopping to read an entry here and there but her heart sank. “Nothing yet.”

  Their disappointment was palpable.

  Serafina kept reading.

  “Getting late, if you’ve found nothing …”

  Serafina stopped. “Listen to this!”

  She read aloud in a thready voice.

  This morning I saw the maid bring in the tray, and a figure, dark, a shadowy form, stood at the foot of my bed, peering down at me. I turned away, the vision too disturbing. When I opened my eyes, he was gone. I whispered what I saw to Doucette, clutching her thin hand in mine. She said, ‘Nothing, it is nothing, you had the cauchemar, it is so natural, you dream that is all, don’t give it another thought.’ She must take me for a fool: she changed her story, I know she did. ‘Ah, of course, I understand what you talk about—it was the priest you must have seen. He brought you the wafer this morning after Maria brought your tray, but you were sleeping so I sent him away.’ The phantom haunts me still.

  “Dinner in two minutes,” Umbrello reminded them. “We’re missing a footman, remember, and I’ve got to be on time to see to the wine.”

  Rosa looked at Umbrello. “Was there a priest who visited the baroness?”

  “Not every day, but the curate came from time to time to bring her the Host,” he said. “Perhaps he was the ‘shadowy form’?’”

  “Can you describe him?”

  Umbrello shrugged. “A slight man. Saw him once or twice. I’m not at church that much. Used to go with my wife, but no more …”

  “Would he have used the main stairs?”

  “Of course,” Umbrello said. “And the footman would have accompanied him.”

  Serafina turned the page and began to read again while Rosa and Umbrello looked through the other two boxes, finishing what they could, combing through the nightstand, lifting the rug, the cushions of the stuffed chair in the corner, but finding nothing more.

  Serafina sat in the chair, Rosa and Umbrello by her side. “The time?” she asked, thumbing through the book.

  “We must go,” Rosa said, extending a helping hand and waving her fingers close to Serafina’s nose. “Everything the way we found it?” she asked, reaching for Serafina’s arm and attempting to pull her out of the chair.

  “Wait!” Serafina said.

  “No time!”

  “I’ve just thought of something.”

  Rosa smacked her forehead and looked at Umbrello. “She’s like this.”

  “Why would the housekeeper lock the trunk if she hadn’t packed it?”

  Umbrello nodded, smiling at Rosa. “She has a point.”

  “Turn it on its end,” Serafina said.

  “No time, Fina,” Rosa said.

  “Not if you keep interrupting.”

  Umbrello grabbed the handle at one end, standing the trunk upright. Serafina peered at the bottom, felt it with her hand, shrugged. “I can feel nothing. Put it down.” She flashed a look at Rosa. “I mean, please put it down.”

  Serafina knelt beside the trunk and felt the front of it, the sides. Nothing.

  Umbrello straightened. “Let’s go before we’re late. I have an idea, I’ll tell you on the way.”

  Dinner with the Baron

  As they descended, Umbrello told them that he’d have the footman fetch the trunk from Doucette early the next day before she left her room; they’d carry it down to the kitchen, and prior to loading it in the rumble, they’d pick the lock and have a good look around. “Whatever she’s hiding will be tucked inside the lining.”

  “Why not tell Geraldo tonight about what we’ve found in her room?” Rosa asked. “He’ll make sure we search her trunk tonight.”

  Serafina shook her head. “Because I’ve had enough of his tantrums. They make him too difficult to handle, and we’re running out of time. Remember how he reacted to a search of Doucette’s room?”

  Rosa nodded. “He’s unwilling to hear ill of the housekeeper. But, I suppose, he remembers her loyalty to the baroness.”

  They stopped in the atrium while Serafina considered a moment. “Before you leave us, a question,” Serafina said to Umbrello. “Who takes Doucette to Prizzi tomorrow?”

  “The baron’s driver. Knows the way by heart.”

  “I have enough to question her tonight,” Serafina said. “I can’t wait for whatever we find in her trunk tomorrow.”

  Serafina paused again before opening the door. “When does she leave for France?”

  “Next Saturday, she takes a boat from Palermo bound for Marseille. Her brother meets her there.”

  “But won’t the killer get rid of her before then, the same way he did the footman?” Rosa asked. “And if she tells him what you know, won’t he try to kill you, too?”

  “He already has,” Serafina said, rubbing her hands which had become quite cold. “He’ll try again, and since you are with me, he’ll try to kill you, too.”

  Dinner was a desultory affair of steamed fish, spinach, and urchins of the sea, the abstinence from meat unbroken because the baroness, when she was alive, would not hear of it. “Too close to holy week for her,” the baron had said.

  Three maids served the meal. Umbrello helped the footman with the wine. The baron was most gracious to the housekeeper. In fact, Serafina thought he might have overplayed it a bit, kissing Doucette’s hand and searching her eyes before helping her to her seat.

  While she ate, Serafina reached into her pocket several times and traced the outlines of the journal with her fingertips—not the discovery she’d hoped it would be, not yet, at any rate, but enough to confront the housekeeper tonight. Although she tried to engage in the banter around the table, her mind fixed on the shadowy figure described by the baroness. Did this murky cleric exist or was he merely the fantasy of an ailing woman? Undoubtedly, Lady Caterina was persuaded, sick as she was and therefore easy to mold, into seeing life as Doucette would have it, since the housekeeper, then her lady’s maid, was the center of her universe. The entry was Serafina’s first glimmer that the baroness suspected someone was trying to harm her, and the twice-stolen journal, found in the housekeeper’s possession, was the proof Serafina needed that Doucette had a large role to play in the baroness’s death. Were there more journals hidden in her trunk and did they hold information that would shed real light on Lady Caterina’s killer? She stared at the woman sitting across from her, a French fortress, wishing she, Serafina, had the skills of a master burglar with the ability to pick the lock of the housekeeper’s mind just by looking at her, ferreting around inside her head, plucking out objects, and holding them up as evidence of her complicity in murder.

  While she and Rosa concentrated on getting through the meal, Loffredo and the baron did most of the talking, plying the housekeeper with questions about Paris, asking her what she thought of the Emperor’s feud with the Kaiser, issues in which neither she nor Rosa were interested but which intrigued and flattered the housekeeper. Indeed, Doucette’s cheeks were flushed, no doubt from all the attention, and she seemed more animated than Serafina remembered, but perhaps it was the wine.

  The conversation sidestepped Naldo, who ate without entering into the discussion or looking at t
he others seated at the table. Earlier, when introduced to Loffredo, he shook hands with him briefly, did not once engage him or his other guests in conversation, other than to gaze with his flat eyes at Serafina a few times, looking through rather than at her. As soon as she returned his attention, he looked away. For the duration of the meal, Naldo seemed preoccupied and kept his head down, cutting his food into small pieces like a child. When Loffredo asked him about his travels, Paris in particular, he said, “I’ve not been,” and continued placing tiny squares of food into his mouth. The moment was an awkward one, and Loffredo risked a look at Serafina. For his part, the baron, seated at the opposite end of the table, took no notice of his son’s behavior.

  “It is the painting and the culture, the learning, the vibrancy of the city that interest me,” Loffredo was saying. “Many of my surgeon friends studied there, and my wife is mesmerized by the city. She will never return, I fear.”

  There was a silence after his announcement. Even the baron knew enough not to ask a question.

  Doucette said, “Baron Haussmann’s renovation was good for France, of course, a Paris made more beautiful, but it was carried out on the backs of the people. Some of us, you see, paid a steep price. We lost our home.”

  Loffredo set down his fork and knife. “Yes, I read of such horrors. How terrible for you!”

  “Your house had been in your family for generations, I believe you told me,” Serafina said.

  “A terrible loss for you,” Rosa said. She pressed a linen to her mouth.

  “Oh, we were promised a pittance, but it has been more than ten years and still we have not seen compensation. It broke my mother’s heart, and she died shortly afterward. Her death was why I agreed to return here with Lady Caterina.”

  The baron shoved a large forkful of food into his mouth, his eyes twinkling in Doucette’s direction. “Well, I for one, hope there is a war,” he said, chewing. “That will force the French to withdraw their troops protecting the papal states, and we’ll just see what Garibaldi does with that.”

  Another revealing moment. The baron had no expression of sympathy for Doucette, her loss eluding him. But perhaps it was because she was, after all, only a housekeeper, given the special privilege of dining with them on this, her last evening in his employ, but not accorded the fullness of humanity by acknowledging her right to feel, to have opinions, to suffer. And forget expecting a response from the son who sat out the meal playing with his food. Whatever, the question still remained in Serafina’s mind: were father and son successful in business in spite of or because of their lack of sentiment? Or were they playing a complicated, deadly game of charades?

  Serafina sipped her wine, declining to join in the rest of the conversation. Instead, she held her emotions in check, concentrating on all that had to happen before they could depart tomorrow, from time to time watching Rosa, who kept her eyes fixed on her plate, taking disinterested stabs at the steamed fish.

  When the meal finished with coffee but without the customary dessert or port, Rosa frowned.

  On their way out of the dining room, Lina motioned to Serafina.

  “I just want to thank you, ma’am,” she whispered. “The butler sent for my brother, and they’re changing the locks this evening. He said they couldn’t do the whole job, but they’d finish the servants’ quarters and the guest rooms tonight, definitely they would. Makes us feel so much safer.”

  Serafina smiled. “If you hear anything that you think we ought to know, no matter how trivial, please tell me.”

  Rosa interrupted, catching hold of Serafina’s sleeve. “We’ll wait for you in the kitchen.”

  Confrontation

  Serafina caught Doucette’s arm as she was speaking with the baron. “Before you leave, you must give me your address in Paris. I want to keep in touch. I’ll not detain you, I know you have last-minute packing. Let’s go into the ladies’ parlor, and you can write it down for me, if you’d be so kind.”

  Closing the door to the parlor, Serafina pulled out her notebook and asked her to write. As Doucette finished the address, Serafina showed her the baroness’s journal. “I found this volume in the baroness’s hand. It’s the same one I discovered on the landing after the journals were stolen from my room yesterday afternoon. I’d like you to explain it.” Not waiting for a reply, Serafina read to the housekeeper, who remained standing, making no sound except for a swift intake of air.

  This morning I saw the maid bring in the tray, and a figure, dark, a shadowy form, stood at the foot of my bed, peering at the dish of food. I turned away, the vision too disturbing, and when next I opened my eyes, he was gone. When I whispered it to Doucette, clutching her thin hand in mine, she said, ‘Nothing, it is nothing …’

  “Where did you find that?” the housekeeper interrupted, her face white, her eyes haunted, her hand grasping Serafina’s arm.

  “Who are you protecting?”

  “I swear. I do not know what you speak of.”

  “But you know she was poisoned?”

  “No. I did not mean, I … Lady Caterina was sick in the head. She awoke one morning … and she … had a troubled sleep, visions. Toward the end, you see, she was so sick.”

  Serafina stared at her. “If you are protecting someone, I fear for your life. You know about Reggio. They found his body in a ditch. He had been sliced open like a fish. I fear the same fate for you.”

  Doucette gasped, her hands clutching her neck, her face pale except for two spots of color on her cheeks.

  “Do you want to tell me?”

  She was shaking, and her arms wrapped around her waist, her body bent; her eyes, skating from side to side, were round and distended. “No … I know nothing. You are mistaken. You frighten me with your wild accusations! Never did the baroness ask me such a question.”

  “Then how do you explain that we found this book in your room?”

  The housekeeper stared at her, for a moment unable to speak. “You must be mistaken. Perhaps you were in someone else’s room and you thought it was mine. Yes, that must be the answer. I have never seen this book. Of course. Never. Someone, the killer, must have hidden it, buried it in my room to accuse me of what, I do not understand. Never, I’ve never seen it before!”

  Serafina stared at her.

  Having recovered somewhat, the housekeeper squared her shoulders. “And you have no business going through my belongings. The baron will not be happy when I tell him.”

  “I am here to investigate the murder of his wife. The baron has encouraged me to search everywhere, all the rooms, everyone’s belongings. But more to the point, consider the fate of the footman. If you change your mind and want to talk, remember, we can afford you safe passage.”

  Missing

  “Renata’s gone!” Mima said.

  “What time did she leave?” Rosa asked.

  “Shortly after the baron’s visit this evening.” Mima, flushed, her eyes wild, wiped her forehead with a dish towel. “He bounded in and said—”

  “Who bounded in?” Serafina asked. She swallowed. Her throat had begun to swell, and she heard her words come out as a whisper instead of in her normal voice. Mima, misconstruing her intent, continued in a softer, slightly garbled way, and Serafina found it almost impossible to understand her and to stay calm.

  “Della Trabia.”

  Blood pounded in Serafina’s ears. “Please speak up. I … I cannot hear.”

  The cook repeated della Trabia’s name.

  Serafina’s face flushed, and she stared at the cook. Why hadn’t she visited the kitchen before the meal? She had abandoned her daughter, and look what happened—Renata was missing, possibly maimed or even … she couldn’t, wouldn’t say the word.

  “What was it he said? Oh, let me think now … he said …” Mima waved the linen in the air like a flag of surrender. “He said
something about he had time now to show her. She asked if she could be excused. Of course, she is a guest, not a worker, so what was I going to say? She asked me to be excused, despite having additional guests for dinner, oh, you understand, and the housekeeper disengaged and all, and I … I … Renata is a dear, helping out, even though there is no need, she is a guest, a visitor and so helpful showing me tricks from the monzù and all, but I didn’t have time to—”

  “Show her what?” Serafina asked, trying to hide her distress.

  The cook was distraught, gesturing toward her desk and cup of tea. “Tea’s cold, don’t you see, no time to plan next week, what with Renata’s abrupt leaving and so close to the dinner hour, just didn’t have time for the dessert, oh, I’m not trying to point a finger, of course not, she’s a guest and all, and I know she’s leaving tomorrow. She asked to be excused, of course.”

  “Where did they go? What was he going to show her?”

  The cook thrashed about. “They … they …”

  “Where did they go?” Rosa asked again.

  At first the cook made no reply but looked from one to the other, perhaps not comprehending. “Not took her away, no, nothing like that, mind you. Offered to show her … oh, where did they go?” The woman’s eyes flitted from the cutting tables to her desk. “If only I hadn’t—”