Murder On The Rue Cassette (A Serafina Florio Mystery) (2 page)

Chapter 2: Levi Busacca

Sicily, April 17, 1874

A hard time Serafina had of it, crossing the piazza to
answer the commissioner’s call. Too early in the day, not even the statues were
awake. God, her toes were frozen. They made walking on the cobbles doubly
difficult in boots worn too thin for comfort. She must have them re-soled. Next
week when her stipend arrived, if it was on time. And there was that feeling
again in her stomach, the growling of some prehistoric animal. Her own fault,
she’d dredged up ancient memories best forgotten, and on an empty stomach, too.

The
commissioner stood at a row of windows gazing out at something, perhaps the piazza’s
early morning stragglers, his hands clasped behind his morning coat. He smiled
when she entered. His eyes were a bit rheumy, she felt, perhaps an ague coming
on. She pressed a linen to her nose.

His
office was a corner monstrosity on the second floor of the municipal building.
As she walked toward him, portraits of Oltramari’s previous chiefs of police
stared down at her like portly specters. A greasy cobweb dangled from the
ceiling, almost touching the clutter on his desk, a rococo affair in flaking
gilt.

The
seat she usually occupied when she met with him was taken by another man whose
bulk spilled over the sides. Clothed in a frock coat, striped pants, and
wearing an arm band and silk skullcap, he looked out at her from a face framed
in mutton chops and layered in loose flesh. A top hat sat on one knee and the
corners of his mouth were downcast. His eyes, grey and bloodshot, pleaded with
her from across the room. She knew she’d seen him before, but at the moment,
her mind played tricks.

Grunting,
he stood as she neared, leaning on his cane, barely managing to hold a chair
for her, doubtless hampered by a swollen foot wrapped in heavy linen strips. It
smelled of some medicinal or other, camphor perhaps—her son Vicenzu would
know. She thanked him and removed her gloves, nodded to the commissioner, and
sat.

Plunking
himself into the chair, the commissioner folded his hands. “Mr. Levi Busacca
tells me you two are acquainted.”

Elena’s
father, of course, how could she forget such a face. The man owned half the
town and yet his look was always crestfallen. Serafina swallowed as the years
melted away and she was young again and pregnant. Oh, yes, and hanging onto the
arm of her husband, guests at Elena’s marriage to Otto Loffredo, count of
Oltramari.

“It’s
been over twenty years, hasn’t it?”

He
nodded, bent forward slightly, both hands folded on the top of his cane.

“I’ve
seen you through the glass of your store from time to time when we’ve been in
Palermo, but haven’t stopped to say hello. Like most women of my class, I don’t
have the funds for hats these days. But that doesn’t prevent my browsing the
windows to admire them, perched on the head of this countess or that baroness,
the colors so rich, the feathers so fine, the designs so remarkable, setting off
the most, what should I say, the most unremarkable of aristocratic heads.”

He
smiled but it was brief. His mood was guarded, his gaze, predatory even as it
searched for something in her face.

Stomach
churning again. She forced her mouth to lift, but her heart sank and hid her
trembling with a linen. How could Elena be so cruel? Gone off to live in Paris
with her wealthy friends these past seven years, caring too much for the frolic
and not enough for her husband. She’d abandoned Loffredo, that’s what she’d
done, discarded him, bequeathed him—that’s better—she’d bequeathed
him to whomever, and now that woman, that hussy, that quean had sent her father
to shame her in front of the commissioner. If exposed in this fashion, her own
affair with Elena’s husband, a count, the revered medical examiner of
Oltramari, the gorgeous Loffredo whom she missed with all her soul, oh,
Madonna
, she’d be shamed beyond
recovery. This was a ruse on the part of Elena, the harlot. The gossip would
result in the loss of her stipend. Her children would scatter and starve. She
must stop herself. But the damage was done and she wasn’t about to admit to
anything, not at all. As far as the world was concerned, she and Loffredo were
colleagues thrown together because of business—the huge increase in
murder making her sleuthing for the state a necessity—that was it,
nothing more, despite rumors raging to the contrary. Well, she couldn’t,
wouldn’t give him up. No, not for anything. Never.

Serafina
squared her shoulders. For his part, Busacca must have seen a shadow cross her
face, for he mopped his brow with a swollen hand.

“Elena
is dead.” The poor man began to weep.

After
Serafina closed her mouth and waited for her heart to stop its pounding, she
blurted her condolences. “A shock. Elena was so full of life ... I am truly
sorry.” How could this be? She took his hand in hers and tried to comfort him.

In a
moment, he dried his eyes. “Late yesterday, I received this telegram from my
sister. She runs our business in Paris. The prefecture of police and his
representative asked her to identify the body of a woman found yesterday
morning in the Rue Cassette. She claims there is no question that Elena is
dead. Such an end for one so full of life. So cruel. Never liked the city
myself and now ...” Fresh tears streamed down the man’s cheeks, his brows
furrowed in anguish.

Serafina
unfolded the telegram and read it, blinked several times, and read it again.
She wondered what Rosa would say, picturing the disbelief on her friend’s face.
No, this couldn’t be. A mistake. She shook her head. Elena was so thrilled with
herself and her disregard of society’s mores, as free as a soaring bird,
scoffing at convention. How could she be dead?

Despite
her situation and Elena’s cruelty to Loffredo, Serafina had admired her. The
woman enjoyed the fullness of life without a care for what others thought.
Doubtless she had the wherewithal. Her family had been prominent Palermitan
milliners for centuries. Those plumy hats worn by lords who decided Sicily’s
fate after the Vespers were made by Busacca and Sons.

She
pursed her lips, still reeling from the news, and asked herself why she had
been summoned. “I believe Elena’s husband is in Paris with her. At least that’s
what his servant told me when I went to his office last week to consult with
him on another matter. Surely he wouldn’t let anything happen to her.”

It was
a deliberate softening of the truth. Two weeks ago, she and Loffredo parted
after a night of wild love making, he to travel to Paris to do his wife’s
bidding, attend some ball or other, while she, Serafina, waited, abandoned and
cold, counting the days until his return. She stopped. He couldn’t be in
danger? She mustn’t show concern for Loffredo’s welfare, not at a time like
this. Her toes were ice.

Elena’s
father shrugged. “I’ve had no word from Loffredo.”

“He
wouldn’t leave Paris without knowing as much as possible about his wife’s
death. Surely he’ll ensure her killer is brought to justice.”

Busacca
shook his head. “He was never able to control her, never.”

Serafina
breathed in slowly but made no reply. She was such a coward. She loved
Loffredo, but said nothing to defend him. She stared, mesmerized by Busacca’s
face.

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 silence. 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.”