Death In Bagheria (A Serafina Florio Mystery) (18 page)

P
art Two

March 25 – March 26, 1870

S
erafina Reflects

“
Y
o
u weren’t very nice to della Trabia.” Rosa’s eyes were bright. “And I’ve never seen you in such a shambles. What were you doing while you wandered about the roof, letting me fend for myself? You look like a—”

“Don’t
say it.”

She withdrew the baroness’s drenched journal from her pocket and placed it on the desk to dry, and while she set out a change of clothes, Serafina told Rosa about the assault.

Open-mouthed, Rosa listened to her account. “Someone wants you out of the way, and we must tell the baron.”

Serafina shrugged.

“You don’t trust him?”

“No matter what I tell him, it won’t help. Fortunately we have only this evening to worry about. She pulled at her watch and saw that the hands had stopped and the crystal fogged. “What’s the time?”

“We’ve an hour and a half to tea. But I don’t want to leave you alone, and truth be told, I’m not in the mood to venture into my room by myself.”

Serafina saw fear in Rosa’s face. “You’re right. Stay here while I bathe and change and try to do something with this hair.”

She drew her bath, vowing to ask Vicenzu to install hot water in the house, and eased herself into the tub. Soon she felt like she could sleep for a month. She was not used to the ordeal she’d just put herself through and wished she had brought Badali along. Soaping up, she decided that she and Rosa would need to be more circumspect, but while she bathed, Serafina must concentrate on the disposition of Lady Caterina’s journals, organizing the events in her mind so that she could rattle them off to the baron during tea.

She lifted a leg out of the water and scrubbed it. The first journal was given to her on Wednesday by Genoveffa, stolen shortly after Serafina left the nun’s office, retrieved by the
carabinieri
that evening, returned to her with pages ripped and torn, cover scuffed. This altered version contained nothing of interest except the name of the baroness’s lady’s maid and a reference to one of the baron’s associates, the red fox, who she was sure was Don Tigro. She gulped at the thought of his involvement in Lady Caterina’s death, but would not let her mind be deflected from its current consideration, the journals.

Dunking her head under the running water, she shampooed, recalling that after their arrival in Villa Caterina yesterday, she and Rosa found forty-two additional journals. Later, they were all taken from Serafina’s room by someone, perhaps the footman who’d helped Rosa find some of them in the gazebo. The thief had escaped down the back stairs. Serafina knew this for certain, because she recovered one on the landing, which later was taken again from her room while she dined last night, lifted from her desk by someone who had a key to her room. Today she’d found another, the forty-forth, underneath the love seat cushions in the powder room of the ladies’ parlor. After she bathed, she must examine it.

As she rinsed her hair and drained the water, she asked herself what she could conclude from this whole charade. First, it was obvious that someone had something to hide and assumed that the baroness may have discovered it and written it down. Therefore, he did not want Serafina to read the journals—otherwise, why steal them? What Serafina could not understand is why he had waited so long after Lady Caterina’s death to destroy them, unless he had not known of their existence prior to Serafina’s arrival. And therefore, Serafina’s second conclusion was that by reading the journals, she would discover not only the woman behind the words, but possibly the killer’s identity, means, and motive for murder.

She felt her muscles stiffen and listened to the gurgle of the bath water. Rising, she reached for a towel. Her third conclusion? Whoever did not want the diaries read had multiple people working for him: the perpetrator was persuasive and powerful, well-trusted by the baron. The killer’s minions at Villa Caterina were most likely servants, perhaps bribed or at least well-paid to do his bidding, but who did his work in Oltramari?

And her fourth conclusion, one that she’d discussed earlier with the butler and with Rosa, was that the baron’s home was woefully insecure. Keys to upstairs rooms were everywhere and in the wrong hands. Perhaps even the baron’s study was not safe, and if he had a strong box, whether or not it was locked seemed of little consequence: sooner or later he would be robbed if he had not been already.

She dried herself with towels that were plentiful and luxurious, promising to have new ones made for her bath at home, despite her son’s objections at, “The looseness with which you approach finances,” she said aloud, mimicking his voice.

“Who are you talking to?” Rosa asked.

“Myself. Anyway, the monster will think twice about touching me again: I tore off his earring and hit him in the groin.”

Rosa chuckled. “How did he get onto the roof?”

“Who knows?” She thought for a moment, reaching for her undergarments. “Same way we did, I imagine: he walked up the main staircase. But if the doors were unlocked, then either someone locked us in, or the doors are set to open from the inside and are locked from the outside.”

“Someone locked us in and had the keys, a better explanation. Don’t forget, everyone has a set but us,” Rosa said.

Serafina was silent as she began to dress. “Make yourself useful and lace this corset, will you? I’ve seen him before, I just can’t remember where. It’ll come to me in a moment.”

“Who are you talking about?”

“My attacker, I’ve seen him before.”

Rosa was silent.

“I just cannot remember where or when.”

“Don’t squirm so, and hold onto the dresser, won’t you, please? You’re like a wayward child,” Rosa said, struggling with the laces at the waist. “Where is he now?”

“Who knows?” Serafina groaned. “Not too tight, I’d like to breathe, please. I didn’t get a good look at him, but he must be short and must not be very bright or strong, otherwise, I couldn’t have beaten him.”

“Next time you won’t be so lucky. Someone’s trying to rid the world of you and sooner or later …” The madam gave a mighty yank.

“Enough! I don’t want hourglass!”

“No question of that. I’m trying for a slight intake,” the madam muttered.

“We’re having tea with a man incapable of discernment, after all. Why did she ever agree to marry him?”

Rosa shook her head.

Serafina donned the last clean dress she’d packed, made of fine wool in cobalt green, the overskirts carefully draped and fringed in a slightly deeper hue. Her daughter made it to show off her eyes, and since Serafina meant to break the baron’s shell at tea and had some unpleasant things to say to him, she dressed with care, liberally sprinkling rose water into her curls and on her dress. When she was finished, she looked at her reflection in the glass, admiring what she saw.

“You smell like the sultan’s favorite princess, but I must admit, you do look beautiful, even with that wild bird’s nest on your head,” Rosa said and smiled. “And I’m glad you weren’t tossed over the side. I wouldn’t have forgiven myself if I’d lost you.” The madam’s tears, which flowed infrequently, coursed down her cheeks.

Af
ter seeing her friend’s eyelids droop, and suggesting that Rosa go to her room and rest for a quarter of an hour while she fixed her hair, Serafina sat alone at the small dressing table, trying to untangle her wet snarls, pulling out clumps of scalp and wincing with pain and getting nowhere, so she thought better of the task, and while the madam napped, she picked up the damp journal. It bore an 1857 date. Some of the pages were wet and stuck together but the ink resisted water and toward the middle of the book, she was able to read whole passages.

Serafina skimmed through much of it, finding nothing of interest until she came to comments on the poor woman’s son. In one notation, the baroness wrote about her vow to the Virgin to build a chapel dedicated to the Annunciation, “the hope of all unborn children and lost souls, the refuge of mothers everywhere.” Lady Caterina wrote that she prayed daily to the Madonna that “Naldo’s agony be lifted from his soul.” These entries and others related to her son were the entreaties of a mother who, while not understanding or accepting her son’s predilection, took it upon herself to petition the queen of all mothers for “a liberation from his burden,” and prayed that “my love of him may flourish again and be not dampened.”

Serafina tried to imagine how she would respond to Naldo were he her son. She wondered if she loved her children for themselves or, like the cook, did she love a false notion of them? Did she love what she hoped they would become, or, as Carmela once affirmed, did she abandon her children if they deviated from her plan for them? She rubbed her temples, cursing her blindness, seeing, if only for an instant, what her mother once called “the pincers of a mother’s love.” Nonetheless, the entries in this journal restored some of Serafina’s admiration for the baroness. More important, they strengthened her resolve to find her killer.

She was interrupted in her reading by a soft knock and had just enough time to shove the baroness’s diary into her pocket before the housekeeper appeared.

Doucette seemed not only serene, but almost radiant as she sailed into the room. “A beautiful mass this morning, no?” She tried to hide her amusement as she regarded Serafina’s mop. “Madame would like her hair dressed?”

She nodded.

As the Frenchwoman’s fingers began their task, as if by magic disentangling knots of hair, the image of Serafina’s would-be killer swam into her mind, and she shook her head, trying to remember where she’d seen him before today. Was it here, someplace on the grounds, or in Oltramari? She wrestled with the problem, then gave it a rest.

“Keep the head still, Madame. Not much I can do today with your hair so wet and your curls so tight, but this is not the first time they misbehave, no?”

“They misbehave most of the time. Whatever you can do will be fine. Rosa and I ran into a lot of weather on the roof. But I need to ask you something,” Serafina said, suppressing an involuntary shiver, “and I know you are excited about leaving tomorrow and don’t want to be reminded of anything unpleasant, but would you mind answering one more question for my sake?”

The fingers stopped, and she felt Doucette stiffen. “Not at all, if Madame wishes.”

“I’m curious about an accident that occurred shortly after you arrived to work for the baroness. It happened at the party for Genoveffa’s betrothal. Do you remember it?”

The housekeeper stopped what she was doing and held a hand to her throat, blinking several times. “Of course I remember. I’ve been trying to forget for all these years, my dear lady. We all heard it in the ballroom. I think, truly, that it brought a curse upon the house. I will not be unhappy to leave.”

Serafina straightened, unsettled at the housekeeper’s words, and she felt a stiffening in her toes. It was the first time she’d heard a hint of displeasure with her work or perhaps with the stories and the atmosphere of the villa. “So you didn’t see him fall?”

She shook her head.

“He was pushed or he jumped?” Serafina asked.

“As I say, I did not see it, but everyone refers to it as ‘the accident,’ so he must have fallen.” The housekeeper caught her lip, and Serafina knew by that gesture and the flush in her face that Doucette was hiding something.

In the
B
al
l
room

T
here was a cleansing purity to the light, doubtless because of the storm earlier that afternoon, and Serafina announced her desire to take one last look at the grounds from the roof, just to make sure that she hadn’t forgotten any of the outbuildings in her search for the journals.

“Haven’t you l
earned your lesson?” Rosa asked. “No, I can see by that stubbornness in your jaw that you haven’t.”

They made their way upstairs, Rosa shaking her head, but when they opened the door and felt the chill, the madam decided she wanted her cape, so Serafina told her to stand in the doorway and wait for her, that it wouldn’t take but a minute for a quick walk around.

“Not a chance, I’ll tail you like one of Don Tigro’s nasty thugs, and if you get too close to the edge, we’ll both fall and because I’m frozen, I’ll shatter like an ice, and you’ll have my death upon your soul.”

But the air was too chill and the light too dim, so they walked quickly around the roof until they came to the eastern edge with Etna spitting more vigorously than before. Serafina pointed to the roof of a dwelling some distance from the carriage house, partially hidden from view by the high grass. “What’s that?”

Rosa’s gaze narrowed. “A small house, perhaps della Trabbia’s. Didn’t he talk about living alone?” There was a plume of smoke coming from its chimney.

Serafina stared at it for a long time, while Rosa busied herself by marveling at the volcanic flames and ash shooting from Etna’s maw. More interested in della Trabia’s house, Serafina watched four figures emerge, three men and a woman. When they did, she started, wishing she had the baron’s telescope for she could not be certain of their identities in the fading light. She saw a smallish man jump into a cart, steer it through the high grass toward the road, while she wrestled with the identity of the other three.

“Who are those people?” she asked.

The madam shook her head.

In a few moments, Rosa pulled at her sleeve, and Serafina remembered herself. They made their way back down the stairs, discussing passages in general, especially the housekeeper’s impending voyage, Serafina wondering out loud why Doucette would even consider moving back to such an unstable country.

“But it’s her home,” Rosa insisted. “Why wouldn’t she be leaving now? Her duties have ended.”

“That they have.”

On their way down the main staircase, Serafina stopped, turned, and asked Rosa to make her apologies to the baron. She’d forgotten her reticule and notebook.

“Not on your life. I’m not leaving you alone for one second. Who knows who’s in your room right now riffling through the drawers? Or in my room, for that matter.”

Serafina felt her heart squeeze. As a matter of fact, ever since her brush with that horrid bandana man, she’d felt a queasiness in the pit of her stomach, and no matter how she tried to dispel it, her fear transformed her into a fool, as her mother had warned her over and over again. She pictured her now, her forefinger swishing the air as she counseled Serafina. “It’s simple. Sit. Let fear pass. Move on.”

They climbed the stairs again and walked around the landing to her room. Outside, Serafina stopped, pressing her ear to the door. “Do you hear anything?” she whispered.

The madam shook her head. “Open it. Watch me rip him apart.”

“And what if he has a weapon?”

Rosa bit her lip.

“Wait outside. Shout if you see someone, unless it’s the butler or Lina.” She turned the key and crept inside. Shadows from the furniture fell over the bed, but the room, it seemed, was empty, and once again, she admonished herself. Fear had made its inroads, and she must not let it hamper her movements or, worse, her thoughts. She stilled, breathing deeply, letting it pass, she thought, until the drapes sighed, and her heart leapt. Waiting for the pounding to lessen, she heard the sound of retreating footsteps in the hallway, grabbed her reticule off the back of the chair, checked its contents, and was about to bolt out of the room when this time, there was distinct movement behind one of the panels. A small bulge appeared and out popped Adriana, veiled and wearing a gown that was much too large for her small form, part of it tucked into a belt, but most of the hem trailing behind. Her lips were smeared with rouge, and she wobbled in women’s evening shoes, but as always, she wore an impish grin underneath golden curls.

Serafina stared in disbelief. “Out, you little vixen.” The child was beginning to be a nuisance. Was she losing patience or was it age?

“Where’s Ornetta?” Adriana asked and then pointed. Her face, which had been solemn, changed course. “There!”

And Ornetta emerged from out of nowhere, grabbed Adriana, and disappeared round the corner with her.

Serafina locked the door—for whatever it was worth—joined Rosa, and they descended.

On the second floor, Serafina paused in front of the ballroom doors. “How much time do I have?”

The madam sighed, consulted her watch. “Fifteen minutes.”

“Leave me. I’m safe here. No one will murder me in the ballroom. They’re conferring outside or about to take a dish of tea, and I think I’ve just seen my assailant ride off through the high grass.” She looked into Rosa’s eyes as she spoke, eyes she’d known all her life and could read so well, and saw that although the madam was not buying her story, her hooded, almost weary expression meant that her mind had already abandoned the skirmish and was no longer listening. “And I want to spend some time alone with my thoughts, or my mind will be in the ether during tea, and I know how you hate that. If I don’t appear within the quarter hour, send the servants for me. You won’t have trouble entertaining the baron, will you? Ask him to let you look through the glass, and see if you can decipher the writing on those crates.”

Finally Rosa agreed, and Serafina watched her friend’s reluctant back disappear down the stairs.

Amazed once again at the opulence of the ballroom, she listened to the creak of her steps across the parquet as she tried to step softly until she realized that it was once again fear that hampered her movements, so she strode across the floor, shoulders straight, head held high. Spreading the heavy drapes, she stepped onto the balcony.

The wind bit her cheeks, but the dying light was quite lovely, violets and deep crimsons staining the sky and coloring the baron’s ship in the harbor. She heard the cry of the gulls, the mysterious lap of the tides. Looking at the scene, she noticed crates piled high on the wharf waiting to be loaded, the activity undiminished from this afternoon when she and Rosa saw the ship slowly chugging into port. Her eyes were busy trying to decipher the mysterious writing on the sides when she heard a man’s voice.

“Fina?”

She turned at the sound of her name, squinted, but could see nothing, the interior made dark in contrast to the light outside.

“Is that you?” he asked.

Was it the wind?

Again she heard someone call her name. Could it be Loffredo’s voice? She dashed the possibility, thrusting it far from her spirit, having been duped once by a mirage, knowing it for what it was, the visitation of that same specter who haunted her yesterday afternoon. This time, though, she would not let her longing defraud her. Turning back to the harbor, she stared out and saw men binding the crates, horses tied to winches turning, lifting their load high off the ground and swinging it over the deck while workers lowered it into the hold. She felt a rush of air as someone moved toward her. Couldn’t be her roof assailant, could it? She felt a cold from within, her body tense, expecting another attack any minute. What perversity caused her to revisit the ballroom?

All at once, she breathed in, smelled Loffredo’s cologne. Wild, this chimera, grappling for her reason. Whirling around, she stopped, watching the shadow approach, unable to move when he grabbed her.