Death of a Serpent (10 page)

“What can you tell me about the women who died?”

“Meaning what? I’m a busy man. My son, he helps when he’s not in school but look here, look there.” He made large circular gestures. “A lot for me, this house. Manage the gardeners, take close looks at the guards, and they’re a sorry lot, the guards. Work all the time. Let me think.” He picked at a spot on one suspender, bowed his head, and squirmed to the edge of the chair.

Silence.

“The first one to die, Gemma. In August. I remember her funeral,” Serafina said. “Can you tell me about her?”

Again he did not reply.

A mysterious man, this Scarpo. He played the strong man, yet, like a child hiding in the corner, he longed for discovery. She spoke again, and this time her voice softened the room. “I think I met your son last week. Handsome boy. He looks just like you, but with hair. He helped Beppe with our trap and must have a way with mules because Largo seemed unusually calm on the way home.”

He gave her a down-from-under look. His smile was slow to spread. “Arcangelo, sixteen next month.” He dug in his pocket, fished out a dirty yellow bandanna. “The sudden heat you know,” he said, wiping his forehead. He took small swipes at his eyes. “The wife, she’s been gone three years.” He stared at the floor. “Good in the morning, baking bread for Rosa. Come home for dinner, the table is bare. She, the wife, curled up on the floor, dead. From the sudden sickness.” His body sagged. “Only me and him now. Works like a man and La Signura knows it. Arcangelo, the same age I was when I started helping my father here.”

“So you know this house,” she said.

“All of it.” He looked at her, this time in control of his eyes.

“That’s why I need to talk to you. If something were strange, you’d know.”

“Yes, I know when one of my men, he doesn’t pull his load. I know when Don Tigro’s men trample one blade of grass.”

“That’s what they’re saying in town.”

“What?”

“That Don Tigro is behind the killing because he wants Rosa’s business.” Her eyes watched his face for change of expression.

He shook his head. “Never. We pay him every month, and I take extra care of his men.” He tapped the side of his nose with a callused finger, squared his shoulders, and said, “Don’t tell La Signura about the extra. Besides, against their honor, the don’s men, to kill a woman for nothing. Kill Gemma, Nelli, Bella? Why would they? Not like the
strega
who owned a store some years ago and refused to pay. You know the one I mean.”

“The one who sold fruit and vegetables in town? Her daughter was shot, wasn’t she?”

“Yes, the daughter shot, they say, by his men, yes, after she was used, you know how. But the old woman, nasty of mouth, she didn’t pay. We knew it, too. La Signura, she pays Don Tigro’s men. I see to it.”

“Thank you for your help.” She meant it as a dismissal.

He stared at the patterns on the rug. “One thing I notice, but probably nothing.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“I need to find the words,” he said.

“Take your time. They’ll come.”

“Well, something in the air. More sound. Yes, and more movement during the day.” He twisted his mustache. “And the women dress earlier, more going out in the afternoon. Always more movement in summer, but this summer?—oh, the comings, the goings! Bella, she took trips to Palermo, stayed for a few days. Gemma, I think, in and out. Starting in June, maybe. The weather, hot, I know, because I remember seeing her leave while we were scything the field in back—Rosa likes it trimmed and a path cleared to the sea—and I can see them now, as I speak, going in and out, in and out.” He waved his arms back and forth. “Yes, and in August, just before La Signura finds Gemma’s body, Arcangelo stops in the middle of cutting. He tells me, ‘Got to drive Gemma to town. Then I come back.’ Yes, and he did, too, and we finished before evening.”

“Did he tell you where he went?”

He shook his head. “Gemma, all dressed up, he told me.”

“I’d like to talk to the rest of your men, then to Arcangelo. He saw something that may be important. Get them for me, please, Scarpo.”

• • •

Eight men stood before her, boots, aprons, bowed heads. One driver, two gardeners, five guards. Their squat fingers were hooked into their belts or held straw hats. No, they saw nothing, they told her. They spoke in a dialect she barely understood. Let’s face it: they barely spoke. She was sure that if they knew something, they were not about to tell her. She’d have to rely on Scarpo and Arcangelo.

Arcangelo

“D
on’t look at me like I’m from the heavens. I’ve got a son a little older than you, although I think you’re taller, probably stronger. His nose always in a book, my Vicenzu, especially after the accident, and he loves his numbers.”

“Numbers?”

“You know, you add them, subtract them, make them tell whatever story you want. Vicenzu keeps the ledgers for the apothecary shop.”

“Ledgers?”

“Yes. He tells me I spend too much money. Do you believe it?”

Arcangelo pulled at his sleeves.

Serafina waited.

“One day, I’ll be the doctor of animals. And your mule, dear lady, needs new shoes.”

“I’ll tell Carlo, my oldest son. He’s supposed to tend to things like that.” She circled her hand in the air. “A mother doesn’t know about these things.”

“My mother did, but she died.”

Silence.

Softly she said, “So did mine. Last year.” Serafina paused. “Terrible, the cholera. One day she was fine, the next day, dead. I miss her, and I’m a grown woman with children of my own, but I still need her. I talk to her and she answers.” She saw Maddalena’s smile, her wrinkled nose. “Sometimes she still scolds me.”

Arcangelo looked up and furrowed his brows. His ears were red. His eyes might have been wet.

She continued. “My mama told me once she’d never leave me, and I believed her, but she did leave. She lied. And there are no answers and no smiles for that. Anyway,” she blew her nose, “I have a few questions to ask, and your father said you might be able to answer them. He told me you drove Gemma to town the day before she died. Can you tell me about it?”

“Of course, dear lady.”

“Call me Donna Fina, everyone does.”

“Of course, Donna Fina. I drove Gemma because she asked me to.”

“Where?”

“To the blacksmith’s, close to the stables. She told me, ‘My uncle meets me.’”

“Did you see him, the uncle?”

He nodded. “He wore a hat. I remember thinking at the time, it’s cool for August, but still hot, and I wondered why the uncle wore a fedora in summer. Dark, the color, and he dressed in a heavy jacket of some sort, as if it were winter.”

“Can you describe it?”

“Dark brown or grey, like a monk’s cape, but without the hood. His back was to me and hunched over, his cape, all bunched in the back. Tall, I think. But I didn’t say hello. I helped Gemma out of the carriage and said goodbye to her. He took her hand or beckoned to her or something.” Arcangelo’s face worked to remember. “He had a small mule and cart with him. The mule was old and worn. I could tell just by looking at him, he was not cared for by one who loves animals. His hooves, not shod. But I had to get back to help Papa—scything time. I left.”

“Of course. Give me a minute to write down what you’ve just said.”

When she had finished, she read it back to him. “A man, tall, in wintry clothes, wearing a fedora and a short jacket or cape. Mule and cart. Clothes bunched in the back. You mean like a hunchback?”

“Yes, that’s it. Like Quasimodo.”

She smiled. “My son liked the book, too. Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

He frowned. “Perhaps the clothes and his shape, but I didn’t see his face. His dress, not from around here. And he took Gemma’s case and put it in his cart. Now I remember; when he reached for the case, he wore gloves. In the heat of August.”

“Some men wear them when they work or drive.”

Arcangelo laughed. “Not around here. Kept his head down. Didn’t greet me or look at me. As if he were afraid. Or slippery. If I saw the hat again and the cape—”

“Cape or jacket?”

“Cape. Like Fra Berto wears in the winter, only without a hood.”

“The color?”

“Me? Colors? I’m no good with colors, but darker than the color of your dress, lighter than my pantaloons. Grey, green, brown, blue—they all look the same to me.”

“What did he wear on his feet?”

Arcangelo shrugged. “Shoes?”

“Shoes or sandals or you didn’t notice?”

“Didn’t notice.”

“And the day, do you remember? Do you know your days of the week?”

He laughed. “Of course I know the days of the week.” He looked up at the ceiling, one eye closed, and rubbed the fuzzy stubble on his chin. “It was the day after Sunday.” He winked.

She laughed. “Last time I considered, Monday followed Sunday.”

“I remember it was Monday because we don’t work on Sundays, so we sleep late, and I remember thinking as I drove, five more days until I can sleep late again.”

Serafina counted on her fingers. “Six more days.”

He rocked his hand back and forth, two fingers pinched. “Depends on how you look at life, my mother would say.”

Wise for someone his age. She liked this young man. “If you see him again, please tell me right away. You know where I live?”

He nodded.

“Ring the bell by the gate, day or night, doesn’t matter. We’re used to being awakened. I’m a midwife, you see, and babies love to arrive at night, just when they think everyone’s asleep. Tell me right away. It’s important.”

He said he would and rose from his chair. He held his cap. She heard excitement in his voice, saw it in that bent-toward-her way he held his torso.

“You think I may have seen the killer?” His eyes looked straight into hers.

“Yes. I think you did, but tell no one. I can count on you? It’s important.”

“Don’t worry.” He screwed his thumb and forefinger on tightly-closed lips, bowed, walked to the door, said, “And don’t feel bad, I talk to my mother, too.”

After Arcangelo left, Serafina sat for a moment, lost in thought.

Rosalia

“R
osalia, named after the saint,” the prostitute said, “the one in a cave high in the mountains. When I was old enough, my mother shoved me out the door. Not enough coins for my keep. Told me I needed to make my way in the world. All done with me,” she said.

Not yet sixteen, Serafina guessed, younger than Giulia. She cursed Rosa for taking in children.

“Are you going to catch the killer? Please, before he kills all of us. The others tell me he’s a ghost. Comes in the middle of the night.”

“Nonsense. He’s flesh and blood, this killer. We’ll catch him. But we must put our heads together. That’s why I called for you. What do you know about the women who were murdered?”

Rosalia drew in her lower lip, but said nothing.

Serafina heard the wheeze of gas jets.

“Tell me the first thing that comes into your head. I’ll decide if it’s important.”

Minutes passed. Serafina waited for the shell to crack.

“One thing about Gemma, she changed before she died.”

“How?”

The young prostitute picked at a blemish on her cheek. Serafina wanted to push the girl’s fingers away from her face. Instead she sat on her hands and waited. Why couldn’t she behave this way with her own children?

“Stopped talking to me, all at once, Gemma.” Rosalia snapped her fingers. She narrowed her eyes. “Maybe I said something she didn’t like? Maybe I asked too many questions? Yes, that’s it, too many questions. Maybe.”

“Did you ask her why she stopped talking to you?”

“Yes.” A wash of color began on the girl’s shoulders. It crawled up her neck and filled her the way dawn sometimes floods the world.

“And?” Serafina asked.

“She said she could no longer be my friend.”

“Did she, now.”

“Said I needed to be saved, she’d show me the way.”

“And you said?” Serafina wrote in her book.

“Nothing. Slammed the door in her face!” Rosalia was solemn.

Serafina raised her brows.

“Wouldn’t you? Brushed me away like a customer shaking off the last of me. All done, they say, before they leave.”

“But you can’t think you caused Gemma’s distance. She removed you because of some disturbance inside her head.”

“They all leave. Carmela, the same. She was a girl, here for a while, older than me. Knew the names of flowers. A miracle with the gardens. We’d talk after the men left, sometimes until morning. But one day she was gone, too. No goodbye, no nothing.” Rosalia’s eyes began to crowd. “One day, one day, I’ll show them all. They’ll be sorry.”

Serafina took deep breaths. Walking over to the girl, she had the sensation of falling. She stroked Rosalia’s cheek, took her in her arms. While she sobbed, the candlelight played tricks. For an instant, Serafina held her child, Carmela, but she shoved back the memory, punched it down deep until it disappeared.

Old Tarts and Absent Kings

A
fter Rosalia left, Serafina heard footsteps.

The door flew open and Rosa stood before her, fists on hips. “Fina. You know nothing about this business. Guests arrive and you dawdle.”

“Get in here, you old tart.” As she yanked Rosa inside, Serafina glanced down the hall at a long line of tittering women.
How many beds does Rosa keep? She must count coins all day long and Don Tigro doesn’t want a larger cut of the take?

She slammed the door shut and stuck her face close to Rosa’s. “Do you want me to solve these murders or not? Should I go home now and leave you to your work, a knife waiting for you around the corner? Think of how it feels to have your forehead gouged with that sign of whatever it is.”

Serafina wagged her finger back and forth, close to Rosa’s nose. “We hunt for a killer who has the cunning of a madman. And he has a method and a pattern and is intent on one thing only—eliminating you and all your prostitutes and the business you think I know so little about.” She pointed to the door. “Now. You go into that parlor and you tease and prime your customers, but I will interview all of your prostitutes and the cook and laundress and anyone else I need to interview, including the archbishop and the prefect and the king if I have to. And I’ll take as much time as I want. And I might decide to come back tomorrow morning at first light and interview them all over again.”