Murder On The Rue Cassette (A Serafina Florio Mystery) Read online

  He wiped his brow and seemed to consider some inner truth. “I don’t give a fig for Loffredo. Not much of a man, he’ll be of no help. No one seems to be able to locate him, so good riddance. No, I rely on you. That’s why I’m here, to ask you to find my daughter’s killer and bring him to justice. Accept my commission. Go to Paris. Stay for as long as it takes.”

  Chapter 3: Loffredo in Chains

  Paris, April 17, 1874

  Loffredo was handcuffed and taken to the prefecture of police where he presented his papers to the inspector. The man asked him the same questions again and again, each time with a straight back and a polite smile. Where were you between one and three o’clock this morning, my lord? Between midnight and six this morning? And your wife, where is she? When was the last time you saw her? When did you arrive in Paris, was your wife with you? Who was with you? Where did you stay, how long has she been in Paris without you, why did she send for you? Does anyone else know of her request? Where is her letter asking for your presence? Were you on the Rue Cassette this morning, do you know the Rue Cassette, is this your gun?

  He sat still and answered each of the inspector’s queries as quickly and as simply as possible. To be sure, the man was a gentleman. He’d introduced himself and apologized for the intrusion. Loffredo asked to see Elena’s body and was told that it was an impossibility. He asked to contact his lawyer and was told, “In due course, my lord.” A photographer took a few photographs of him before they locked him in a room with a bed and water closet. He was served café and a roll.

  He drank the coffee and squeezed the roll through his fingers. To pass the time, he examined the clump of bread surrounded by small flakes of crust. Wiping the grease from his hand with a napkin, he told himself there’d been a mistake. His feet were numb with cold from the stone floor and he smiled, remembering the last time he and Serafina made love. Afterward he’d tried to warm her toes. The memory, so different from his present predicament, brought a sour taste to his mouth and he began to hear a high-pitched whine in his ears. The sound turned the cement walls of his cell a rancid yellow. He breathed in and out, each time taking deeper breaths holding the air in his lungs for as long as he could. He must remain strong. The ordeal had just begun. In the end he would be proven innocent. He longed to see Serafina, so he talked to her. “No, they’re not, they’re beautiful, I love the tight curls of your hair, you are perfect, you are a goddess.”

  In a while he dozed.

  He was awakened from sleep and taken to a room and told to stand still. Fifteen minutes later an officer came into the room and charged him with the murder of Elena. He asked again to see her body, asked to contact a lawyer, asked to speak with someone at the Italian embassy. He was told, “In due course, my lord.”

  Cuffed and led to a horse-drawn wagon, he sat on a wooden bench next to six other men, swaying to the clop of horse’s hooves. He smelled cheap wine and old sweat. As he listened to the normal sounds of the street, he heard workers calling to one another. The traffic increased.

  He breathed fresh air and smelled spring blossoms. They were crossing a bridge and had stopped. He could hear distant shouting, the lapping of the Seine against the sides of a passing barge. For no apparent reason, he pictured the square in front of his window at home. “In my head I am free,” he told himself. “I am here or there, anywhere I want to be,” and he heard the blood pumping in his ears and felt a bubble caught in his throat.

  When they arrived, he was led to a small room where he was stripped of his belongings and given prison garb. For the third time he asked to contact his lawyer, but the guard seemed not to understand his French. Again he was photographed, this time by a man with rheumy eyes. Then he was locked in a cell in the middle of one wing off a large circular room. From a small opening in the door he could see across the aisle to a row of cells similar to his. His cell contained a bed, a small writing desk, one gas jet, and a water closet. There was no window, but on one wall close to the ceiling there was a vent forcing in warm air.

  He asked for his lawyer. In a few days he asked for books. For two days he drank the tepid coffee they offered but refused the bread. On the third day he ate. The French were excellent detectives. Soon the officer who charged him would find he was innocent. Until then he must remain calm for the sake of Serafina and her family—his new family.

  When books were delivered to his cell, he read Victor Hugo and imagined that he was sitting in his library at home. He was free in his mind, he could soar above walls, be anywhere. No one could take that freedom from him. At night he dreamed of Serafina.

  Chapter 4: The Commission

  Sicily, April 17, 1874

  Aware of the commissioner seated calmly at his desk, Serafina faced Busacca, trying to douse the coals that burned inside her. This buffoon with his cretin daughter dared to tarnish Loffredo’s name in front of Oltramari’s police chief. She felt the heat searing her face.

  “I plead with you to accept. Investigate my daughter’s murder,” Busacca said. “For the sake of your friendship with her.”

  The commissioner cleared his throat. “And I might add, for the sake of our reputation as a nation. We cannot let our dead rot on foreign soil, and French soil at that.”

  Busacca continued. “I have my sources of information, three stores in Paris, one on the Rue de la Paix another on the Rue de Verneuil and a third in Mont-Parnasse. An army of men who work for me, all good, sound thinkers. Make use of them. They’ll help you or they’ll have me to deal with. I’m a telegram away, don’t forget. And of course, there’s my sister. Elena died a lonely, brutal death. Shot in the head, her body discarded on a deserted street in Paris. Loffredo’s nowhere to be seen. The French, such a cold people. You must find out what happened.”

  “But if you have friends in Paris ...”

  He held up a hand to stop her. Something about him reminded Serafina of Elena. His manner grated, and yet there was something magical about him, too. He would get his way, of that she had no doubt.

  Her temples pounded. “I have a family who needs me here.”

  “My dear, you are the best we have,” the commissioner said. He turned away and stared out the window, frowning. “If you are unable to accept, then I ... suppose we could send Inspector Colonna, but I doubt we’d discover much of the truth.” He adjusted his sash.

  That idiot, Colonna! A horrid thought, simple-minded and venal in one fat package. She clamped her jaw and thought a moment.

  “But surely Paris is filled with investigators. The French have the cleverest detectives on the continent. Someone within La Sûrété Nationale will be assigned the case and find Elena’s killer.”

  Busacca shrugged. “Perhaps, but I don’t trust the French. Bad enough doing business with them. And we speak of my only child. True, she was a free spirit. Never knew what Elena was going to do next. Never did. I thought she’d grow out of her wayward habits. But of late …” He blew his nose. “Nonetheless, she’s a dead Sicilian, and you know the French regard for us. I want her killer hung, no mercy. I want swift justice. I want an eye for an eye. In addition, you must help my sister arrange for burial, she knows nothing of the Christian rubrics. Before Elena could marry Loffredo, the old count made her convert. Elena, good at going through the motions, consented.”

  Serafina shuddered at the power of his words. “So she was murdered?”

  “Of course she was murdered. Who could suggest otherwise? A single shot to the head. What else could it have been?”

  Serafina said nothing.

  “What else could it have been, I dare you to say it!” Busacca’s face grew purple. “What they tell me of your audacity is true. But know this.” He moved closer to her and shook a fist in her face, as if God Himself condemned her thoughts. “My daughter would never, ever take her own life! Never, ever—do you hear me?”

  Serafina felt the blood rush to her face. She squared her shoulders. “I keep an open mind. Take it or leave it.”

  There was silen
ce. It seemed to swell, filling the room and seeping out through invisible cracks in the walls and into the piazza below.

  The old man continued. “If we do not send our own, I fear they’ll assign some poor untried bugger to the case. When the telegram from my sister arrived, I asked my friend, Notabartolo, the mayor of Palermo for help. Without hesitation, he suggested you. He said you were the best, our only hope.”

  She stared at him but couldn’t argue with his words.

  Busacca shifted in his chair and mopped his brow. “Because of the delicate nature of your relationship with my daughter’s husband ...” He paused and his eyes met hers.

  Serafina’s face burned, but she held his gaze. “Please be frank. I’m not sure I know what you mean, and this is no time for pretense.”

  The commissioner looked down at his hands.

  “Because of your ... affair with Loffredo, I hesitated to ask, but my wife and I talked it over, and in the end, we chose you because of your reputation. You will help me, I’m sure, for the money, if not for the sake of my daughter.” His gaze was unblinking as he handed her an envelope.

  She slit it open, read the letter, and stared at the amount of the retainer, steeling herself to show nothing while she waited for the blood pummeling her ears to stop. She tried to catch her breath and said a silent prayer of thanks to the Madonna who knew that her family needed these coins, might even have arranged it. For the past four years, Serafina had been their sole means of support. Ever since Giorgio’s death, their wealth seemed to shrink and now their apothecary shop was indebted to the bank in ways she did not fathom. Nearly spent, her son labored long hours at the shop and for no reward. Vicenzu was in despair most of the time. One morning his ebullience cheered her breakfast, but when he’d returned for the noon meal, he paced the room, fists stuffed into frayed pockets. They’d had to cut her youngest daughter’s piano lessons to three days a week, ate meat only on feast days, burned fires only on the coldest days in winter. She shivered. And they weren’t the only ones. All of Oltramari grew rustier, dustier as customers disappeared and the town clutched at the tail end of prosperity.

  But the thought of travel to Paris and at this time of the year, of leaving her youngest children in the hands of the domestic until she solved the mystery of Elena’s death caused knots to form in her stomach. She felt acid dripping in her throat.

  Of course she could find the answers. She was the best, the only one for the job. She breathed in, out. Perhaps she’d take Carmela with her—and Rosa, for sure, she’d need her. Thank goodness Giulia was already in Paris designing dresses at the house of that haughty contessa; she’d be such a help with her wardrobe. For the last few years Serafina looked worn and out of date. Best of all, she would rendezvous with Loffredo. Busacca must be mistaken. She had no doubt Loffredo was still in Paris, a visit undertaken at the bidding of his now dead wife. Poor, lost Loffredo. He must be devastated, certainly bewildered, his feelings a jumble, as were hers for him at this moment.

  She hadn’t been to Paris in over twenty years, and then, only for school, a forced trip, her mother’s idea, a banishing after an unfortunate slip, a foolish affair which put her certificate in jeopardy. Worried, her parents had delivered her to La Maternité where she’d spent six months observing Parisian midwifery, developed a passable grasp of the French language, doing little else for six months other than studying and freezing in a garret overlooking the school’s courtyard. And that first visit had ended so tragically. Her anger at Busacca was replaced by a sudden memory, long forgotten, of a horrid night in Paris. They wouldn’t have listened to her anyway, she was a child, what could she have done? Serafina’s stomach churned. She must stop her mind from ranging over the years like this and focus on Elena’s tragedy.

  “Mr. Busacca is waiting for your reply,” the commissioner said.

  “Of course, I accept. For the sake of your daughter’s memory and our family’s friendship which courses the generations.”

  “You’ll leave tonight.”

  Serafina’s jaw dropped. “But I couldn’t possibly leave tonight, not on such short notice. I must see to my children’s needs before I go. And I must secure tickets and pack. Surely you understand! I’ll need to bring six others with me—to assist in my investigation.” She waited for him to flinch. When he did not, she continued. “After all, you expect my investigation to be thorough and swift. Paris is vast and Elena had many contacts.”

  He shook his head. “You must depart this evening, I insist. I’ve had a devil of a time securing your passage. As we speak a steamer returns to Marseille from South America. As a special favor granted to me by one of the owners, the ship will make a special stop in Palermo to pick you up. It leaves at eight tonight.” He consulted his watch. “That gives you twelve hours to make arrangements. I understand your reluctance to leave on such short notice, but you understand, it’s the best I can do, the only boat to Marseille for a week.”

  The commissioner shrugged.

  Serafina said nothing.

  Busacca handed her a large envelope. “Your tickets. First class accommodation on the Niger bound for Marseille. With the best of weather, the trip will take two days. In Marseille, my agent will meet you. He’ll ensure your safety for the remainder of your trip on the train and see to your needs while you’re in Paris. Once you arrive, you’ll be staying at the Hôtel du Louvre. I’ve booked a wing on the eighth floor for your party. Will you need a translator?”

  Serafina rubbed her forehead. “I’ve been to Paris. The language ought to return, and I have a daughter there who designs for the House of Grinaldi.”

  “I know La Grinaldi and her house,” Busacca said, scowling. “A newcomer, but popular. Success has come too easily to her. We’ll see how long it lasts.”

  Serafina was silent.

  He continued. “The retainer should cover your expenses for at least a month. My card is enclosed with an invitation to be fitted at my store on the Rue de la Paix for suitable hats. We have the best designers in the city. You will pardon my effrontery, I notice you seldom wear one, but you’ll need a head covering in Paris, not only to ward off the chill of their spring, but for respectability. Contact my sister for whatever other attire or monies you need. Her address is in the letter.”

  Serafina’s cheeks burned at his condescension. She couldn’t bring herself to thank him. She never wore hats. Didn’t need them; didn’t suit her, a luxury she couldn’t afford. She doubted she’d do as he suggested. “Does your sister know of my arrival?”

  “Of course. She looks forward to it. She’s not fond of my daughter. She told me Elena was keeping wild company—in with a new breed of painters rejected by the Salon and creating their own exhibit. Sophie was not surprised at the news of her death. My sister’s a sour old thing now, but you might like her. Flits from one of our stores to the other doing little work but attracting customers. Considered to be quite a character and well-liked in her circle. She keeps up with society. Invited to most of the salons, Mallarmé’s, for one. You’ve heard of him, no doubt?”

  “Who hasn’t?” she asked, pretending to know what he was talking about.

  “Sophie lives in the fourth arrondissement. Owns a decrepit-looking building and fits in quite well in that quarter. But don’t judge her from the façade of her building or her demeanor, she can open doors for you. She’s lived in Paris most of her adult life. Had an arranged marriage with a French Jew, thanks to my father who was anxious to plant a branch of the family in Paris. She knows everyone. Keep on her good side, and she’ll assist you with whatever you may need. And I expect that aristocratic husband of Elena will resurface and be only too willing to lend you a hand.”

  Chapter 5: Preparations

  The maid led Serafina into Rosa’s office and took her cape. Not yet dressed for the day, the madam sat at her desk in a black lace affair counting coins. Serafina kissed her friend on both cheeks and went over to the hearth to warm her feet. She held her hands to the fire.

&
nbsp; “It’s April. Why are you so cold?”

  “Why do you have a fire in the grate?” She shivered. “Don’t bother answering. More important matters, two men followed me here from the commissioner’s office. They’re lurking outside as we speak, probably relieving themselves in your shrubbery.”

  “Your imagination runs on and on. But as to the fire, it’s for show and to brighten the room in the early morning.”

  Serafina said nothing.

  “It’s just after first light. Why are you up so early? More to the point, you look like you’ve been playing with the slop boy while Loffredo’s away.”

  Serafina closed her eyes and shook her head slowly.

  “What’s happened and please make it interesting. Tessa gives me no trouble, getting straight A’s and regaling the teachers with her paintings; she sticks her head in a book at night, paints on the weekends. I’m so bored. Look at me, up at dawn with nothing to do but count money. So wearying. Tell me there’s trouble, other than men following you in our own piazza. How dull. Tell me we’re going to the Far East, some place exotic, Moscow or Peking, one of those. Tell me twelve sultans armed to the teeth stalk us behind a market tent, have their minions boiling oil to roast us. Give me excitement. I need a change.”

  “How does Paris sound? Don’t answer, I don’t have time to listen. We leave tonight.” She filled Rosa in on her meeting with the commissioner and Busacca, and the reason for their trip. “I need your help. Will you come with me?”

  “Do you need to ask?” Rosa rang the bell and gazed into space for a moment before shaking herself. “Elena’s dead, I can’t believe it. What time do we leave? Tonight you say?”

  “At eight. We take the Niger bound for Marseille.”

  “Plenty of time and don’t bore me with particulars, but we’d better have first class rooms.”