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

  The madam waddled over to the French doors leading to the balcony. Visoring her eyes she said, “Look at all the gas lamps and the traffic, my girl.”

  Teo, Arcangelo, and Tessa continued to gaze at the square below, bustling with more carriages and horse-drawn vehicles than they’d seen in one place, ever, even in Palermo. But the flow of traffic was different here, Teo pointed out, more orderly.

  “Tonight we tour and eat,” Serafina said, closing her notebook. “Tomorrow we work.” She thought they’d have plenty of time to visit museums and exhibits after she dispensed with Elena’s killer.

  “Not all of us. Remember Tessa is on holiday.”

  Tessa shook her head. “I’m here to work with Teo and Arcangelo. I’m one of them, remember?”

  “We need her,” Teo said.

  In a few minutes, waiters arrived with trays carrying food steaming under glass and silver domes. They arranged it on a long dining table in the middle of the room.

  “This is a light supper, Madame, as you so wished. You do not wish to dine in one of the restaurants?” a waiter asked in Italian, his dialect barely intelligible.

  “Not tonight. I hope this a good sampling of the menu,” Rosa said.

  “Yes, Madame.”

  “Enough for all of us? We’re ten with our visitors and we’re famished. And there’d better be dessert.”

  “But of course, Madame, let me show you.” He picked up each lid as he explained the dish in detail. “A selection from the chef’s kitchen—escargots marinated in wine.” He plunked down the lid and it made a soft metallic bong as he picked up another. “A dish of shallots in a light cream sauce, some fresh legumes, and a surprise for you, caviar mixed with pine nuts and basil oil—very, how shall I say, Méditerranée to suit your palette—sweetbread and tongue of veal, cream of chestnut with a duck foie gras, and a specialty, stewed figs and sardines.” He paused, frowning at Rosa’s wrinkled nose. “The soup is a beef and onion consommé topped with toasted bread and Gruyere. And we have six bottles of red wine from the Médoc and four bottles of chilled white from Chablis.” The waiter folded his hands over his ample stomach, his bulging eyes on Rosa. “And if that will be all, Madame ...”

  “No dolci?”

  “When you ring for them, Madame, we will bring the desserts and café—crème brûlée flambée, profiteroles smothered in chocolate, crêpes flambéed with a liqueur, chocolate cake with crème caramel glacée.” The waiter’s face was red, the tips of his mustache turned down. He ran a hand over his forehead and blew out air from rounded cheeks. “Whatever else you need, Madame, to make your mouth water, you have only to ask.” The waiter winked at Rosa who beamed and spoke to him in broken French, asking for café and dessert to be brought up in thirty-five minutes. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out some bills and pressed them into his hand.

  Watching this transaction, Serafina said, “Surprising, your French is so good, I didn’t know.”

  Rosa shrugged. “All the trips to Paris when I was young. The language returns.”

  Chapter 8: Sophie de Masson

  Carmela looked at herself in the glass. She was clothed in a simple day dress of silk brocade in a deep French blue with overskirts in a lighter fabric gathered in the back to form a bustle, one of the garments her sister had given her last night. She adjusted the small hat she wore to a slight angle. The hat was a simple one, her favorite; she’d made it herself, a black pillbox with a stiff veil and tall, wafting feathers which she hoped added to her height. She worked it up and down, tilting it slightly on her head and angling the feathers just so. Resourceful with the few tools he’d brought with him, Teo had polished her boots to a high shine earlier that morning. Carmela put on her gloves and turned from the mirror. “How do I look?”

  “Stunning.” Serafina kissed her daughter. “And what you’ve done with the hat, exquisite. Any questions?”

  Carmela shook her head. “Teo and Arcangelo will follow at a distance and wait outside while we tour the exhibit. Tessa’s quite excited.”

  “Gesuzza must go with you,” Rosa said. “I don’t trust the men who follow us. I think I may have seen them cross the square as we alighted from the omnibus last night.”

  “Your imagination, perhaps?” Serafina asked.

  “Can’t be too safe,” Rosa said.

  Serafina wouldn’t argue with her friend. So far there didn’t appear to be any danger. She knew the location of the hotel was in one of the finest districts of Paris, but all the same, she trusted Rosa’s instincts. She remembered her fears last night when they’d emerged from the Gare de Lyon. Oh, well, it must have been her weariness, the station and the smoke, and the proximity to the prison.

  * * *

  Serafina yawned. She and Rosa had been waiting for several minutes in Madame Sophie de Masson’s parlor. Serafina sat near the center of the room in an overstuffed chair next to a porcelain lamp with a large shade. She touched the fringe and it danced, casting light and shadow about her rose silk day dress. The hem and underside of the collar were frayed in spots, but it was one of only three decent dresses she owned. After she caught the killer, she’d have Giulia make her a new wardrobe. She bent and rubbed the street off the toes of her boots.

  The room had a slight musty smell but not a hint of dust anywhere, Serafina made sure to check. She and Rosa had been waiting quite some time when the butler entered. Walking behind him, a maid carried a tea service with an assortment of tarts and madeleines.

  “Madame de Masson sends her regrets,” the butler said. “She begs your forbearance but has had some unexpected business to attend to this morning and is sorry to detain you. She will be with you shortly. In the meantime, please enjoy some tea.”

  Serafina and Rosa looked at each other and smiled. “Please tell her not to rush. We have the morning.”

  After the maid served them, she curtsied and left.

  Serafina set her cup down and walked to the window, parting the drapes and gazing out at the scene below. Sophie de Masson’s apartment occupied the two top floors of a building with an unprepossessing address on the Rue des Juifs in the fourth arrondissement. There was no traffic to speak of, just a flower seller at the end of the block and an attractively dressed couple entering a store on the other side of the street. Serafina turned from the window, took a bite of madeleine, and sat.

  In a few minutes, the door opened and a young man approached in striped pants and frock coat. He had a distinctive gait, used an ebony cane with a silver handle. In his other hand he carried a top hat and gloves. His hair was a reddish brown, curly, not unlike Serafina’s. Although shorter than hers, it was long for a man’s hair style, below his collar in the back. About Carlo’s height and age, Serafina thought, perhaps a year or two younger. His face was earnest and filled with freckles, and he wore a kippah.

  “I’m Ricci de Masson, Sophie’s youngest son,” he said in an Italian Serafina had trouble understanding. “Mother told me you were here. I was five on our last visit to Palermo, but I wanted to welcome you to Paris in your native tongue and to extend my wishes for your stay in our city.”

  He was earnest enough. It wasn’t often Serafina saw a redhead with gray eyes. “How lovely of you to stop in. Your Italian is interesting, but I think if you spoke French we’d be able to understand you just as well—not Parisian French, mind, but a pure French.”

  “Better,” Rosa said and winked at him, introducing herself.

  He was nimble, as yet had not stopped smiling, and bowed to the madam. “How long will you be in Paris?”

  “We’re here on a sad business, I’m afraid.”

  “I think I know—Elena’s death, isn’t it?”

  Serafina nodded.

  “Most people who talk about her don’t say nice things about her, but I liked her. We went to Longchamp together a few weeks ago. It was a memorable afternoon. Elena seemed happier than I’ve seen her in recent months. Have you been?”

  “Sadly, no, and I don’t think we’ll h
ave the chance.”

  “But you must. Is this your first visit?”

  “I studied here many years ago at La Maternité at Port Royal. I’m a midwife.”

  “But you have to go to Longchamp. I own part of a horse and he’s racing there next week.”

  “Part of a horse?”

  He grinned. “I’m one of the owners. They run on grass, you know. If you stand close to the rail, you can hear the thunder of their hooves. Such a sound—like the beating of God’s heart. Listen to it once, and you’ll yearn for it over and over again, I promise. And if you need a guide, I know a Paris you won’t see by studying Galignani’s travel books. I’d love to take you around. Do you travel here alone?”

  “Our daughters and some other family members are with us.”

  He handed Serafina his card and she stuck it in her notebook to look at later.

  “I must be going.” He stared at Serafina’s bare head. “I sell hats if you need one.” With that he bowed and took his leave.

  “Just like Sophie to keep us waiting,” Rosa said through the madeleine in her mouth. “At least the son is polite.” She unbuttoned her jacket and adjusted her hat, a tiny dark green velvet affair with curved quail feathers and elaborate netting, tilting it more to the side of her head and smoothing her dress, a verdigris brocade with a gossamer overskirt in a lighter shade, pulled to the back, the whole forming quite the bustle.

  They smelled the odor of something cloying, and heard footsteps in the hall.

  “Here she comes. Smothered in that same perfume she wore at home,” Rosa said.

  A tall, rather stout woman entered, her arms outstretched, the gold chain of a monocle dangling from her neck. She greeted her guests with a peck close to each cheek, meager for visitors from her hometown. Sophie de Masson was followed by two maids who helped her into her chair, arranged her skirt, poured her tea, and departed.

  Her mouth moved from side to side. “Oh, my dear friends. Do forgive me, but business detained and I’m the only one to do it in this blessed town. Ricci and David try, but they’re young.” Sophie sipped her tea. “Three—would you believe—three stores to manage. My brother gives me no rest, and my oldest, Beniamino, is nowhere to be found. Lolling about in the south, no doubt. The middle son, on the other hand, cannot get enough of the business. More interested in counting the money than in how we make it, and unfortunately, Ricci is Ricci. Fancies women and horses, but he knows little of buying and selling. You know my husband is dead. Died when they were too young, I’m afraid.” Exuding a scent of spoiled flowers, and talking more to herself than to others, Sophie de Masson squinted into their faces while telling them how much they hadn’t changed and how much she loved Rosa’s hat. “Our design in Palermo, no doubt.” She peered at Serafina’s bare head but said nothing.

  Serafina noticed Sophie was not in mourning. Instead, she wore a day dress of gold and silver, exquisitely crafted and in the latest fashion with burnished gold lace trim at the wrists and neck. As she leaned forward, her eyes narrowed, and Serafina noticed something strange about the woman’s face. Before she could decide what it was, Sophie crossed her legs and Serafina’s attention was diverted by the woman’s petticoat in antique lace and her diamond-studded slippers with velvet ribbons. On her right hand, Sophie wore three rings, an emerald surrounded by pearls, a small sapphire on her little finger, and a thick silver and gold band with a square ruby in the center on her middle finger. Her neck was surrounded in lace and pearls. She wore a fitted jacket of a darker shade than the dress but in the same weave, flaring over the bustle and continuing down the back to form a train. Ten-thirty in the morning and the woman was painted and coiffed to perfection with a subtlety of style uniquely French. Her maid must have spent hours.

  “We’re here to talk about Elena and to extend our condolences,” Serafina began.

  “No need. Good riddance, I say.” Sophie raised her head.

  And that was that. This family had a penchant for graceless surprise—the son, charming yet overly familiar; his mother, blunt and unkind. Serafina reached for her tea clutching her chest, taking deliberate breaths. She took a gulp of the steaming liquid and glanced at Rosa whose face was red.

  “If I may, I’d like to see the body.”

  “Buried, I’m afraid, in a family plot on my estate in Versailles. In ground blessed by the rabbi.”

  “But Elena was Christian.”

  “In name only.” She sipped her tisane through rouged lips. “Everything she did was for herself, despite the family’s wishes. Her ancestors suffered for centuries. They were compliant when Frederick II of Aragon made them wear the red wheel. They were banished from their homes, made to live in ghettoes, finally expelled from the island, refusing to convert. Slowly we crept back, but still we have to hide. My brother’s a fool for remaining in Palermo, and you ask me why I buried his daughter according to the law? Her forebears never renounced their faith, and just because Elena wanted a title, she converted—that wretched father-in-law of hers insisted on it. No dignity, I’m afraid. Her husband’s religion meant nothing to her. She trifled with God, and now see what her cleverness has done for her. No, the least I could do for the sake of our ancestors was to bury her according to our tradition.”

  Serafina was silent.

  Rosa stirred in her seat, a rustle of taffeta, a whiff of rose water. “I would think that religion, whether Catholic or Jewish, meant nothing to her. But she wasn’t a bad person, not really. She wished no one harm.”

  Serafina slid her friend a grateful look.

  As if she didn’t hear Rosa’s remark, Sophie said, “Here I can follow our rules for burial, so I did. I don’t expect you to understand or condone. I could care less what you think. I was following the wishes of the family, not of the living, but of the generations.”

  The silence carried on.

  Serafina set down her tea cup and spoke. “But I’m here to investigate her death. You must know your brother who grieves for the loss of his daughter, his only child, commissioned me to bring her killer to justice.”

  “She was murdered? News to me. Suicide or murder, hard to tell which, but I will say this, that whichever, it was a just end.”

  Rosa looked at Serafina.

  “Then I have misunderstood,” Serafina said. “Your brother talked of murder only. My impression is that the police think it was murder. We meet with the prefect this afternoon. And what about you? You identified the body, no?”

  Sophie looked at her hands, not at her guests. “Yes, hard to tell at first that it was my niece. One side of her face no longer existed.”

  “Do you think her death was murder or suicide?”

  Sophie closed her eyes and shook her head. “I haven’t a clue, nor do I care.”

  “Which side of her face was destroyed?” Rosa asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “When you viewed the body, which side of the face did you see?” Rosa asked again, her voice louder, her speech slower.

  “What difference does it make?”

  “My friend asks an important question,” Serafina said. She felt no need to explain.

  Sophie stopped and considered. Her eyes flicked to the side. “I saw ... the right side of the face. The head was placed so that the left side of her face was hidden. Dreadful experience, I’d love to forget it, but I cannot do so now, since you remind me.” She removed a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. “The inspector wouldn’t let me send a servant. No, I had to go myself.”

  “No one went with you?”

  She didn’t answer the question but was silent for a time, keeping company with her thoughts. “The stench. Paris morgue, you know. Public gawping at dead bodies. Disgusting. I’d heard about it, but believe me, the place is worse than I’d imagined. I had to get Elena’s body out of there.”

  “How did the police know to call you?”

  Sophie de Masson eyed Serafina as if she were a dullard. “She had identification in her reticule.”
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  “And you’re positive it was the body of your niece?”

  Again she shot her a look. “Of course. Even in death she managed to look like a trollop. Such a horror that a member of our family could do so much to tarnish our name. It was one thing not to want to assume her role in our business. She had brains, but no time for them. Like my oldest, I’m afraid. We could have made inroads into ready wear. For all his laziness, Beniamino has some interesting ideas on that score. He tells me we need to play a greater role in the middle classes, must have a presence in the grand department stores. Ever since that man and his peasant wife opened Le Bon Marché, it is the thing to do, and I fear for the name of Busacca in fifty years. Yet I am hesitant, but he begs me to be a part of it. He says we should sell in Le Bon Marché, La Samaritaine, show in les grands magazins du Louvre. But you see I’m old; I have neither the time nor the energy to become involved. And I worry. Such a decision to make by myself.”

  “But there’s your brother.”

  “What does he know of French taste? If we were to sell in these large stores, perhaps it would cheapen the name. I have such fears for the way Beniamino wants to give up our stores, but at least he is interested enough to pose the question. Now, as to Elena. I was delighted to receive her when she arrived. I had expectations, you know, and such plans. You must admit she attracts a crowd. But right away she made friends with the artists, the poets. Beyond the falling out over business, her life, such as it was, left me no choice but to have nothing to do with her. She was a horror. Spoiled, as a child. Had everything given to her. So you see, we never had much in common. When she arrived, I didn’t quite know what to say to her, and she’d disappear for months at a time. Her life was an abomination. She disgraced the family. And her death is not much better, such a brutal affair. But she deserved it.”

  Serafina felt the blood in her veins turn to ice, and she stole a glance at Rosa. The madam was pale.

  “But I need to find out exactly what happened to her,” Serafina said.