Murder On The Rue Cassette (A Serafina Florio Mystery) (19 page)

Rosa shook her head.

“Did they confess to stealing
the photos from your desk?”

“They’ve confessed to nothing.”

Serafina didn’t think they were
the thieves. Why would foreigners have access to a locked office in the
prefecture?

“What will you do with them? Can
you deport them?” Carmela asked.

Françoise sipped her wine. “I
won’t speak for my husband, but as a student of French history, I know the
relationship between our two countries is close at present.” She held up two
tight fingers. “I’m sure our government wants to keep it that way, not that
deporting two unknown Italian citizens would put the trust of our two countries
in jeopardy. But I don’t think Magenta would risk even a small rift, not
without a stronger reason.”

“Who?” Rosa asked.

“She means Patrice de Mac-Mahon,
our head of state,” Valois said. “His help was significant in defeating the
Austrians at Magenta. Hence the nickname.”

Serafina nodded her
understanding.

“Nonetheless, we’ll keep a watch
on the men who follow you while you are in Paris,” Valois promised.

Rosa expressed her gratitude.

Serafina, who had been toying
with her food, a succulent shoulder of lamb, arched her brows and said nothing.
But she didn’t like this news from Valois. He was nothing if not political, she
realized, thanks to his wife who made it her business to smell the wind. Which
is why the French wouldn’t use a more persuasive form of interrogation.

She listened to the clink of
glasses from the next table as Teo proposed a toast to Paris. “And to Louis Le
Grand,” Charlus added. Tessa looked at Teo, and Arcangelo looked down at his
plate, but the two young men lifted their glasses and drank. Rosa went over to
talk to them. She smiled and removed the wine bottles from easy reach.

There was a lull in the
conversation as they concentrated on the food, and Serafina watched Rosa place
the wine bottles in the center of their table. Gazing at the other table, she
overheard Teo talking about
The
Hunchback of Notre Dame
and wondered if the dust from Quasimodo’s and Esmerelda’s bones still swirled
about the stones of the massive church.

Swallowing the last bite of her
entrée, a stuffed duckling, Rosa wiped the corners of her mouth and reached for
the Medoc. She turned to Serafina. “Mark me, these men are on Don Tigro’s
payroll,” Rosa said, pouring herself another glass. “He’s still interested in
you, and I can’t understand why. He pays you too much attention. Has done for
too long and where’s his gain?”

The thought made Serafina’s
heart pound. Why did she always walk such a thin line? No one must ever know of
the family ties between her and Don Tigro, the secret more difficult to keep
now that their finances were so grim.

Loffredo sat next to her, so
near and yet untouchable. His wife was either buried in a fresh grave in
Versailles or alive and hiding who knew where and with child. Either way,
Valois must never suspect their affair. She glanced at Françoise Valois,
gracious, effervescent, interested in what everyone had to say. And—more
to the point—with a feline cunning, attuned to everyone’s traits, their
strengths, their weaknesses, their desires. The woman was a troublemaker,
Serafina thought, as she watched the waiters clear the table with deft
movements. And she must take care with Carmela whom she caught glaring at her
tonight.

Waiters poured coffee. The
sommelier brought a tray with several flavored brandies and snifters as the
maître d’hôtel followed by the chef in checked trousers and white hat carried
the
pièce de resistance
, a flaming
glace au four
. They placed it before Rosa who
cut the dessert into ten large helpings.

When she finished her cake,
Carmela sipped her brandy and stared into the flames for a moment. She
apologized, but said that for all their traipsing around Paris looking for artists,
they were unable to find more information about Elena. “Victorine was not in
her studio, and Berthe Morisot was not at the exhibit.”

* * *

After
saying goodnight to the Valois, they walked through the Tuileries and down to
the banks of the Seine, strolling along the quays, happy, quiet, Serafina’s
shoulder beginning to ache. Tessa, Teo, and Arcangelo ran ahead, taking the
steps down to the river. Rosa, Serafina, Carmela, and Loffredo followed at a
slower pace. Serafina longed for some time with Loffredo, to speak or to sit
quietly, just the two of them, and ask him about these last few weeks in
prison. She sensed his fatigue, or perhaps it was her own, and yet she was
reluctant to end the evening.

“We are too serious, all of us,”
Rosa said. “Maybe it was the food. Let’s forget this murder and what the French
might think of us.

“What does your heart tell you,
Loffredo?” Serafina asked.

“My heart tells me what it
always has, I love only you.”

With his words, all of
Serafina’s earlier concerns, her convoluted thoughts melted away.

Carmela said, “Careful, Mama.
Everything is at risk.”

Her daughter’s voice was
grating, but she managed a weak smile in Carmela’s direction. “You’re right.”

“I’m the last one who should be telling
you to be careful,” Rosa said. “I’ve never been prudent, not once in my life. I
built my business, but not by being circumspect. But think well: where will you
go to be alone? To Loffredo’s rooms on the Rue Jacob? Will you be free from
surveillance? I think not. The sixth arrondissement teems with spies. Or to
Serafina’s room, guarded by two French
agents de police
? You don’t think word will get back to Valois? He’s waiting
for the chance to call you a foolish strumpet. Or to Busacca sitting on his vast
pile of gold in Palermo? To whoever it is who spies on us? Or to Elena if she
is still among the living? To Sophie who prays for you to make such a mistake?
To her sons? Go to your separate rooms and douse yourselves with ice water for
the rest of this assignment, and I predict you’ll be together for the rest of
your lives. If it makes you feel better, walk ahead a little way and make your
vows in view of Notre Dame and the god of the Seine while we stand and wait,
but don’t breathe too deeply, I smell fish.”

As usual, the madam was right.
Serafina stood still and smiled at Loffredo. Her stomach was doing somersaults.
She breathed in, and yet felt the need for more air. How strange, it took
hearing the right words at the right moment before she knew her heart. She
loved Loffredo.

“I dare not kiss you. If I did,
we’d soon couple, right here on these rough cobbles. I’m so happy to see you,
Loffredo. As God is my witness, we’ll be happy together.”

“I love you, Serafina. Again
I’ll say it. I always have.”

Barges on the Seine flowed past.
Lovers skirted around them, talking low. Sailors stared at them, and Rosa and
her family waited. In time the five bells of Notre Dame began to ring, their
deep discordant harmony like the feelings crowding her soul.

Chapter
22: Françoise and Alphonse

He straightened his lapels and
faced his wife. “The Sicilian woman was right.”

As if she had not heard him,
Françoise smiled. “What a surprise to see you so early. And perfect timing. Two
minutes later and I’d have been gone. Come to Louis Le Grand with me. It’s
Charlus’ Latin again, I’m afraid. He takes after you. I have an appointment
with his professor in thirty minutes. We can walk through the Luxembourg
Gardens. The weather is lovely. On the way we can talk.”

They strolled through the
gardens, past the Palais du Luxembourg and the Medici reflecting pool with its
placid water. Françoise bent, dipping her hand in and quickly withdrawing it.
“Too cold still, but the earth warms.”

Valois stopped to gaze at the
imposing apartments on the Rue de Medicis. “Someday we’ll have our residence
there.” He pointed to the roof garden on the top floor of the nearest building,
its awning drawn against the sun.

Françoise faced him, one hand
holding the skirts of her French blue day dress. As always, she was
magnificently attired. She nodded once, her eyes boring into him, flashing her
intellect, giving him the strength of her certainty.

“Let her win and so will you.”

“But Renault—”

“Renault wants the incident
settled to the satisfaction of the Italians and the French. As far as he’s
concerned, more evidence turned up causing you to reopen the case, and in your
brilliant handling you have involved the visiting sleuth. Hold off on
questioning the scholar.”

“But perhaps he can identify the
gun.”

“Perhaps. But he’s a scholar,
interested in books and history, ideas. And you told me he prepares a paper for
the
Académie des Sciences
. Wait until we know for sure
that Elena lives, and even then demur. Find an excuse until you’re absolutely
sure.”

They turned onto the Rue
Soufflot and he was strengthened by her words and the view of the Pantheon,
commanding and sure, like Françoise. She whispered the words found on its
pediment, “
Aux grands
hommes, la patrie reconnaissante
.”

He turned to her and lifting her
veil, kissed her lightly on the cheek.

“Thank you. I must tell her
today.”

She nodded.

Together they walked on the Rue
St. Jacques. He left her at the school, calm now, continuing up the street
toward his office.

Chapter
23: Busacca et Fils

Carmela sat across from her
mother in one of the hotel’s many small cafés.

“We don’t know enough about
Busacca et Fils,” Serafina said. She slapped the newspaper on the table and
took a sip of coffee. The waiter brought out a basket of warm croissants and
brioches wafting steam and the smell of bread their way. A ray of sun lit the
silver carafe.

“Ricci’s debts bother me. I need
to find out more about them,” Serafina said.

“We could ask him?”

“We will. But first I need to
understand him and what he does for the firm. And I need you to find out the
condition of the Busacca business in Paris.”

“That’s not your commission.”

Serafina bristled, but she
ignored Carmela’s remark. “Still, I think it has something to do with the
murder. I know what Sophie told me about the three stores here, and I believe
her as much as I believe Elena lies in her grave. Do you think you can manage
it by tomorrow? By then Valois will want to speak with Sophie, and I want us
both to be there, armed with all the information we can learn about her family
and her shops.”

A few hours later, Carmela and
Tessa entered the smallest of the three Busacca shops. It was tucked away in
the middle of a narrow street in the student quarter on the Rue de Verneuil.
Like most of the stores in Paris, the façade was lacquered wood, this one
painted a light French blue with “
Busacca
et Fils, depuis 1282
”
written in script across the top panels. In the lower right-hand corner of the
window were the words, Paris & Palermo. A few hats were displayed, none of
them exciting, all covered with a thin film of dust. The plume on one wafted in
the air, and sunlight from the street oozed into the interior.

Carmela turned the ornate knob.
A bell announced their arrival. Tessa ran her finger through the film on the
tops of tables while Carmela stood at the counter. The wooden floor was in need
of sweeping. Tables and chairs were scratched and several of the mirrors
bloomed. Carmela turned her attention to the ceiling where an attractive
crystal chandelier hung, decorated with filaments from a spider. She looked at
Tessa who shrugged and peered into the corners where motes swirled, at the
walls where paint peeled.

Carmela presented Busacca’s card
to the woman who appeared some minutes after the bell sounded.

“My family is in town on
business for Levi Busacca. He invited us to visit his shops and report back to
him. The woman took her card and in a moment, a tall, rotund young man emerged
from the back, brushing crumbs from his vest. He wore a kippah and morning
suit, displeasure written across his puffy face.

“We don’t need your help,” he
said.

“I’m not here to help. Your
uncle is interested in how his Paris business fares. And as far as help goes, I
think you need it from someone. Where are your customers? Where are the hats?”
Carmela waved her hand around the room. “There’s dirt everywhere and very few
hats in the window, nothing that intrigues me or beckons me inside.”

She could see red rising from
his neck, flooding his face. Drops of water appeared on his forehead.

“In this neighborhood, we
maintain a presence only. This is the student quarter. Students don’t wear
hats.”

“Because you create nothing
exciting for them to wear.” Carmela lowered her eyes. “Please excuse my tongue,
I haven’t learned the art of conversation. My name is Carmela and this is
Tessa. We’re from Oltramari, the birthplace of your ancestors. Mind showing us
around?”

He smiled—it was a flicker
on the lips, nothing more—and Carmela, no stranger to relationships
between men and women, felt the air shift when he looked at Tessa. He ignored
her and introduced himself to Tessa. “Monsieur David de Masson, the middle son.
My father used to run this shop and sometimes I hear him scolding me, but the
voice is soft now.”

“What does the voice say?” Tessa
asked.

“It’s easier to cut than to
innovate.”

Carmela said she wanted to get
to know the three Busacca millinery shops, and she was surprised at the
sparseness of the store’s interior, but it was as if she didn’t exist.

“Making hats can be a form of
art,” Tessa said, “a unique statement. I like your shop on the Rue de la Paix,
but this store has the potential for so much more.”

David examined Tessa’s face,
lacing his fingers together and resting them on his stomach. “I had to let most
of the staff go. Not enough business. Our head designer does everything now.”

“And you do what?” Tessa asked.

He shrugged, wiping a palm
across his beard. Crumbs fell onto the front of his coat and scattered over the
floor.

“We’d like to see your workroom,
if we may,” Tessa said.

He pointed toward the door with
a deflated gesture and led them into the back room.

Musty and dank, the workroom
needed a good airing. As she looked around, Carmela was surprised at herself.
It was as if she were born with a handful of straw, ready to be woven and dyed,
shaped, fitted, and trimmed. She felt her soul leap. Even in this mess, she
understood what she saw and the process of designing hats. She didn’t discount
David, no. She thought he had a brain, but somehow it had grown dormant, and
the store, barren.

A woman sat in the corner, a bit
older than Carmela’s mother, sipping her morning coffee and reading the paper
by a single gas jet. Next to her was a long table and at the end, two sewing
machines. David introduced her as the designer, and she nodded to Carmela and
Tessa. Although there were enough gas jets and lamps to light the room, only a
few were in use. David’s desk was filled with papers, envelopes, patterns,
pieces of felt, some thread and feathers. A half-eaten baguette was perched on
top, the montage illuminated by a single lamp. Carmela went to the far wall and
opened the windows.

David started to speak, but
Tessa stopped him.

“You need air, light,” she said.

David furrowed his brow but said
nothing, continuing to stare at Tessa.

Dust lay thick around the room,
covering rows of wooden hat blocks in various shapes, stretchers, pressers,
turntables for gluing and trimming, powder for making glue, and Carmela wasn’t
sure what else she was seeing. One wall was covered with shelves containing
bobbins of glazed thread, rolls of buckram, some already formed into crowns and
brims of different shapes and sizes, lace, feathers, buttons, horse hair,
ribbons, pieces of wool, felt ,and netting, rolls of silk, wool, boxes of
straw. All the supplies and tools necessary to create glorious hats, but the
shop was empty and the hats were forgotten dreams.

“When was the last time your
uncle was here?”

David held up his hands. “I
can’t remember.”

“And your mother?”

“She comes, but ...”

“Let me guess, she doesn’t seem
to care,” Carmela said.

“It’s not that, exactly. She is
... confused,” David said.

“You have all the supplies you
need, and you’re not using them. Why?” Tessa asked.

David blew out some air. “As I
told you, students aren’t interested in hats.”

“How can they be? Carmela asked.
“They’re aren’t any hats for them to see in the store, not even a beret, just
some old general’s ostrich feather wafting in the window. Nothing glittering.
Nothing with fine lines, exciting angles, daring color and fabric to tempt
them. Nothing to make them memorable.”

“Where’s your fire, man?” Tessa
asked, her arms waving. “You’ve made this store into a home for spiders.”

David said nothing. His
complexion mottled. He straightened a pile of papers on his desk and rubbed the
wood free of dust.

“Can you tell us the quickest
way to get to Rue du Mont-Parnasse?” Tessa asked.

“You want to see our store, of
course. It’s in a quarter of Paris called Montparnasse filled with students and
cabarets. It’s our most interesting store, close to the Boulevard du
Mont-Parnasse. Caters to the cabaret crowd. But don’t look beneath the surface
because you’ll find debt.”

“Will we find the same disuse?”
Carmela asked.

“Perhaps. I never go there.”

“Too much to do here?” Carmela
arched an eyebrow.

He folded his arms. “Pay a visit
if you must. My brother manages it, but on such a day, he’s probably at
Longchamp.”

“Ricci,” Carmela said.

“You’ve met him?”

“Quite charming, I hear,” Tessa
said.

David frowned. “Visit, by all
means, but I’d like you to return in a few hours.” He slid his eyes to the side
where Tessa stood, arms crossed.

After they’d left the store,
Carmela shook her skirt free of dust. “He suffers without his father.”

Tessa gave her a strange look.
“Perhaps.”

* * *

In front of Busacca et Fils on
the Rue du Mont-Parnasse, a clown met them in white face wearing a
chapeau melon
, striped shirt and white gloves.
A street performer, he drew a crowd, bowing and producing flowers, scarves, an
agitated rabbit. The magician tossed his hat high in the air, catching it on
top of his head, stepping aside so that customers could enter.

The store’s windows and red
wooden façade gleamed, as did the inside where clerks and designers were busy
helping customers try on hats and admire themselves in long mirrors. The store
bustled with people and hats, women and men, pill boxes, small vertical
feathery things, straw boaters with floppy brims, berets, and small woolen
contrivances. There was a display of military uniforms, kepi, tricorns, some
weathered and drooping; others, great plumed affairs, smelled of distant
battles.

They were greeted by a woman
wearing the smart dress of a clerk who had a ready smile. After Carmela asked
to speak with the manager, she disappeared. Carmela and Tessa waited, remarking
on the difference between the two stores. In a minute the clerk returned
followed by Ricci Busacca wearing a morning suit, his long red curls wound in
the back and fastened at the nape in a style she’d only ever seen in paintings.
He smiled. She introduced herself and Tessa, stating the nature of their
business.

“My uncle hates Paris so he
sends his emissaries,” Ricci said and grinned, “but this is a charming
surprise. I met your mother last week, I believe.”

“And mine too,” Tessa said.

“You prosper here,” Carmela
said, feeling a bit foolish.

He led them to his office
through a long, neat workroom where several hatters were busy at long tables
and asked a young woman sitting at the end to bring them coffee.

“Did he ask you to examine the
books?” Ricci asked.

Carmela looked at Tessa. “In
this instance, there is no need. We’ve seen your other stores and by
comparison—”

“Looks can often fool. I know
how to entertain, not how to run a business, I’m afraid. And I’m the first to
admit it. But you may tell him we’ve recovered from the worst. The last four
years have been hard—the Siege, the Commune, but especially my father’s
passing. He was the businessman who knew how to hire good workers, inventive
designers. He knew where to shop and how to cut expenses. We lost a lot when we
lost him. I know about racing horses and how to charm.”

Carmela looked at Tessa. She was
surprised by his honesty and his ability to know himself. He’d show her the
books, of that she had no doubt, but she wouldn’t know what she was looking at.
Instead, she asked him to pick out a hat for Tessa.

He laughed. “I’m even less of a
designer, but let me introduce you to our chief of design.”

They followed him to a desk in
the corner of the workroom where a woman of a certain age sat looking through
half-glasses at a book brimming with swatches of fabric. Ricci introduced them
to Madame Josephine Joyeuse. Pieces of felt lay on her desk as did some peacock
feathers, strands of horse hair, netting and lace. At the sound of Ricci’s
voice she rose, a tall woman, slender. She had Gallic features and a presence.
Her smile warmed the air around them, and her graying hair was pulled up,
pinned, curled and arranged in an elaborate French coiffure.

“My friends have come from
Sicily on behalf of my uncle.”

Carmela cut in. “And I’d love it
if you could design a hat for my friend, Madame Joyeuse,” gesturing to Tessa
who wore her teal day dress but was hatless.

“Certainly,” she said, gazing at
the hat Carmela wore, a small black pillbox with a spray of dyed feathers and a
veil draping slightly over the top and circling down one side. Before they left
this morning, Carmela had fussed with it, angled it just so.

“Please call me Madame
Josephine. Everyone does. I’m afraid our showroom is a little crowded this
afternoon. We must have our clowns,” she said, cocking her head in Ricci’s
direction and pursing her lips, “but perhaps we can find a corner where we are
not disturbed. This way.”