Death In Bagheria (A Serafina Florio Mystery) (4 page)

Discarded

“F
ound it
on via Serpentina,” the
carabiniere
said, handing Serafina the journal.

“You’re one of Badali’s men?” she asked.

He nodded. “Flattened by the wheels of a cart or two, as you can see—binding’s a little loose.”

She fingered the leather, put it to her nose, and made a face. Flipping through it, she said, “Missing pages. Why am I not surprised? Tell me what you know about it.”

“We followed the youths as best we could until they disappeared. Confounded us, I don’t mind saying.” He stomped his feet. “Knocked on all the doors. Roused the whole neighborhood. You could see the word flying above the rooftops. Oh, we’d be knocking at the front, and they’d be going out the back, sure as day, boots stomping the cobbles. Well, so much for that. But inside the blacksmith’s, we found a scrawny little rat hiding behind some barrels and such in the corner. Had the sweat still on him and wearing the same red cap I remember chasing. Swore he didn’t have it, didn’t know anything about it. Nothing we could do—too young a lad to take in for questioning—but a few hours later, we found the journal lying in the gutter some meters away.”

“The boy’s name?” Serafina asked.

“Dunno. About seven or eight years he must have, just a mite. Maybe you’ll have better luck with him—they say you can charm the secrets from a
strega
. Oh, and the captain said to give you this and tell you he’ll see you this evening.” He patted the pockets of his pantaloons and pulled out a crumpled envelope, handing it to Serafina.

She opened it, a note from Badali, apologizing for the delay in retrieving the journal and providing her with the name and address of a house in the artisan quarter of town where the boy lived with his parents. “He claims not t
o have knowledge of anything, except to say that he crossed paths with the thieves who tossed him the book. We found the thugs in question, and they said they’d met a man dressed all in black in back of the straw market; he’s the one who gave them the journal.”

After she
’d thanked the
carabiniere
, Serafina climbed to her mother’s room on the third floor, sat in the deep chair, and began reading the baroness’s journal. Some of her entries were dated, but others were not. Her style was informal—whole pages of run-on thoughts, paragraphs bombarding one another, but her writing showed a fertile mind, the thinking tight and reasoned and complex. Considered as a whole, the journal was a view into the woman’s soul—a true noblewoman, in love with life if cramped by a severe notion of propriety. But in a few of the entries, the deterioration of body and spirit was frightful.

The first was dated August 1867, a
year before her death.

This evening I began
Madame Bovary.
I’ve tried to keep up my French talking to Doucette, but I am so rusty these days. My friends think I’ve disappeared, this illness has sapped my strength and my mind, had to tell Genoveffa to slow down as she read, and I fear she wound up translating for me. I could not keep the food down this evening. The larks make such a blessed sound outside my window in the morning, the voices of new life, but I have not seen the gardens or walked down to the sea at all this month. Geraldo says I must not baby myself, I must walk, the sea air will do wonders for me. My poor cork tree must feel abandoned. A tingling in my fingers, no strength.

After reading the first entry, Serafina chose pages at random.

Tomorrow, if my health
permits, Doucette and I will walk down to the shore. Each day she lifts the sashes in my room, and I hear the sea and smell its breath. Such a comfort to shut out the rest of the world and the despicable commerce in this house.

September 1867, Ospedale di San Domenico. Wheeled into rooms by a nun, I have not the strength for a proper visit. Today I met an old bedridden soul, bowed my head as the priest gave her the Host. I brought flavored ice for her inflamed throat and offered to help her eat. No, she said, she did not want the food. But, I said, It will soothe your throat. She smiled. No, she said, she wanted all of her suffering. She welcomed death, thanked me for the visit, and said she’d pray for my soul. I won’t forget the look of peace in her eyes. Is she the picture of my fate?

Marring the day are rough sounds in the hall, boorish laughter: the beast is back.

The Baron and Baroness Rossi visit this evening. Mima and I planned the menu for their visit. Such tediousness, the thought of entertaining makes me ill. Later Doucette had a broth brought to me with simple wafers. Cleansing. What would I do witho
ut her?

Serafina read a few more passages about Adriana and her dolls and costumes—she must be the little daughter—and Doucette, a trusted servant or relative. Picking a spot on the wall underneath the painting of the Virgin, she let the spirit of the journal and the woman who wrote it enter her mind. Who had ripped out its pages and why?

Thursday Octob
er 3, 1867. Today the red fox arrives. Hateful, his demeanor. Dresses to hide the manners of a thug. Were it not for his sweet wife and his veneer of culture, he would not have charmed Geraldo so, I know it. Mother of God have mercy,
if Papa ever knew!

Serafina’s stomach lurched. Could the reference be to Don Tigro? No, the baron would have no truck with the likes of him. She went to the window and watched the waves tearing against one another while she tried to concentrate on the writer. She was beginning to get a feel for the baroness, whom she had seen often enough in town, riding in her phaeton or kneeling on her own special prie-dieu close to the Duomo’s main altar in the aisle reserved for aristocrats, the woman’s back ramrod straight while she fingered her beads. And once, Serafina had seen her near the straw market walking down a crowded thoroughfare, the throng making way for her as if she were a magnificent ship plowing deep waters. As Serafina thumbed through what little remained of the diary, she wished she had known the woman in life.

The monsignor came with the host again. Anointed me. Too weak to read to Adriana or write much of anything.
Madame Bovary
lies unfinished.

I
nterru
p
ted

S
erafina opened her eyes and kissed Loffredo’s cheek. She listened for a moment to his breathing, regular and peaceful, and snuggled into the crook of his neck.

Nearly asleep, she was startled by a knock. At first she forgot where she was, but after gazing at the silk sheets, the down pillows, and a decidedly male decor, she shot out of bed, spied Loffredo’s robe on the floor and slipped it on. Still he hadn’t stirred, so she leaned over him. “Loffredo,” she whispered and rimmed his ear with her finger.

Nothing.

“Someone knocks.”

He reached over for her, but embracing a pillow instead, he twisted awake, staring up at her. “You can’t have it, even though it looks stunning on you.”

“Someone knocks.”

Running a hand through his hair, he propped himself up on one elbow. Slowly he shrugged on his nightshirt, lit a candle, and plodded to the door, opening it a crack. Serafina stood expectant, then sat on the edge of the bed staring at the carpet’s complex pattern and pressing her toes into its warmth.

Presently he returned, kissed the top of her head and sat beside her, folding her in his embrace. “Carmela roused my butler. She says to come home at once—something about a problem with Betta.”

“But how did she …”

“Your children know, my lovely, at least the older ones do, and they saw through our little ruse tonight. Time we stopped pretending.”

Serafina began dressing.

“Fina?”

She gathered her reticule and satchel. “Got to go. Shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t leave like this.”

She looked at his sad eyes, heard the low rumble of her stomach. “You’re right, of course. Time we stopped pretending. I don’t want to go, but I must.” She breathed in the scent of him and kissed his ear.

The butler led her to the front parlor where Carmela waited, eyes planted on the ground.

As they walked across the piazza toward home, Carmela said, “Don Tigro’s footman waits for us at home. It’s Betta.”

“But she’s not due for two more months.”

Carmela hunched her shoulders.

“Does he know where you found me?” Serafina answered her own question. “No, how could he.”

“I told him you were attending a birth but should be home at any minute, then slipped out the back and ran to fetch you.”

“How did you know where I was?”

Carmela rolled her eyes. “Really, Mama! Your act was the easiest charade of the evening.” Carmela did a poor imitation. “‘Betta’s having a hard time of it, and I need your advice. Come with me to pay her a visit.’ As if we were all children!”

“Not Loffredo’s idea.”

“I knew that much.”

Silence. “It turned out to be true.”

“What you deserve.”

“At least I had my satchel with me.”

Carmela stopped walking and faced Serafina. “When are you going to grow up? You have seven children of your own and a grandchild, my child, whom you barely hold. Into this household, you introduce two orphans. Your younger children haven’t adjusted to the newcomers yet—what am I saying, there’s open hostility—and what do you do in addition to working as a midwife and a detective about to depart for Bagheria, what do you do, but have an affair! You’re barely home.”

Serafina stood. She heard a sudden spurt of distant laughter, the sound of clattering dishes. This was her daughter, the one who bared her breasts in the public gardens when she was fourteen like an animal in heat, the daughter who ran away at fifteen, who didn’t bother to come home until her belly was distended with her lover’s child, and she was telling Serafina, the mother who clothed them all and loved them all and cared for them all, she was talking to her mother like this? “You mean to tell me that I, a widow, deprived at an early age of my husband, whom God in all His ruthlessness thought fit to snatch away from me, my love and my joy, and I shouldn’t let another man into my bed? Are you telling me that I don’t deserve a few hours of love?”

“Don’t point your finger at me. I’m the daughter who backed you up when you had to leave for Messina and Totò was ill; I’m the daughter who supports you when you’re not home for your children. Day after day when they return from school, who is there for them? Me, the daughter who believes in your right to happiness, your duty to work.”

“But you won’t support a few hours of love.”

“Don’t twist my words. Not on top of everything else when there is turmoil in the house and you know there is.”

“The children had such fun this evening, playing, laughing together, all wounds healed!”

“Delude yourself if you must, but count the hours this week that you’ve been home. And what’s worse, you choose a married man! No telling what that will do to your reputation when word gets around. Imagine Colonna’s face. Think for a moment what it will do to our family when you are no longer respected. How will you find work? How will we eat? How will we stay together? How will you feel when Loffredo tires of you? Because, make no mistake, that’s what happens—men grow tired of us, they all do.”

Serafina stopped at the edge of the piazza. “Tell Don Tigro’s servant that I’ve gone to Betta on foot. And, Carmela?”

“Yes?”

“I’ll be home Saturday, long before Totò’s mass.” Serafina had no more words, so she threw up her hands and watched the blurred figure of her daughter, shoulders set, turn and walk away. A lump formed in her throat, but she stuffed it down, twisting her hands until it disappeared. Then she hurried to Betta’s apartment, hoping she was not too late.

Betta and her Husband

P
oor woman, Betta was in danger of losing her child. She’d had twins, older than Serafina’s children, and last year, after many failed attempts, gave birth to a girl. Despite difficulty in carrying to term, Betta was with child again, too soon after birthing the last one, the fate of many women.

Serafina had met them as children when
Betta and Tigro were orphans. Despite long absences during which they’d lost touch, Serafina remained close to Betta, felt sorry for her. Truth be told, Betta was an orphan who married the love of her life, a monster. Worse, the ties that bound Serafina to Tigro became tangled when Serafina’s dying mother confessed that he was her half-brother. Be it truth or her mother’s fantasy, the possibility of being the half-sister of the local mafia capo was a misery, one that Serafina would never reveal to anyone—never to her children, never to her best friend, Rosa, no, never ever to Loffredo or any other living soul, may the Madonna prevent it.

She rounded the corner, knocked on the door. Stomping the cold from her feet, she waited in a small parlor for the maid, who ushered her up to the bedroom.

Betta lay in her bed. The gas jets in the room were dimmed, and her lady’s maid bent to her, wiping her forehead with a cloth. When Serafina entered, Betta’s smile was warm. “Oh, they found you, thank God.”

How pale her friend was. She lay in the bed, looking like a lost waif surrounded by pillows and silk bedclothes. After stroking her hair and kissing her on both cheeks, Serafina whispered, “Bleeding?”

“A little, earlier this evening. That’s when I called for you. I think it’s stopped now.”

“Pain?”

“A little.”

After she examined her, Serafina said, “You must stay in bed, my sweet. Where’s your little girl?”

“With her nurse in our country home. We visit twice a week. Shouldn’t have had another so soon.”

“Nonsense. But this baby thinks it’s time to arrive and we must persuade it otherwise. The heartbeat’s strong, and there’s a good chance that you can save it, but you must do nothing. Think sweet thoughts. Above all, stay in bed.” She turned to the lady’s maid. “I know you’ll enforce the rule.”

She nodded, a sensible woman ready to obey Serafina’s commands.

“But how can I stay cooped up here?” Betta asked.

“For the sake of your health, for the sake of the child and your other children, you must. And we’re all here to make sure you have a healthy baby in two months.”

Serafina untied her satchel, pulled out a jar, and placed it on the nightstand. “One spoonful in the morning, two at night.” The lady’s maid helped Betta take the dosage and settled her back on down pillows.

“I feel better already. Sleepy.”

On her way out, Serafina was met by the butler.

“Don Tigro would like to see you.”

Not short, not tall, Don Tigro sat at his desk in smoking jacket, boiled shirt, and silk cravat. He breathed in and out, doubtless taking in just enough air, his chest almost immobile, the rest of his body still. With a slight movement of his eyes, he beckoned to the butler, who placed a wing chair in front of the desk and helped Serafina to sit, then quit the room with a soft click of the door.

The don raised his head and regarded her through half-closed lids, waved a hand back and forth, ever so slightly, to shadowy figures standing in dark corners. “Leave us now.”

The door closed after them.

“You sent for me?”

“Took you a long time.”

“I was … assisting another. Carmela found me.”

He was silent a moment before he s
poke. “I don’t care about the child.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Save Betta.”

“Saving the child right now is the best way to save Betta. She must stay in bed for the next two months.”

“Impossible. We have an important dinner scheduled at my country estate in two weeks. And she has other social obligations. Get rid of the child.”

“If she entertains, she might well die, and her death will be on your soul, assuming you have one. Do you want that?”

He raised his head, closed his eyes, and was silent for a long moment. “You’ve got the tongue of a viper. You’ll stay with her?”

“Tonight, yes. In the morning, I must leave, but I will send for Dr. Loffredo.”

“Your … friend?”

Does he know
? Her heart flew to her throat. “We’ve known each other a long time, yes.” Serafina’s temples throbbed. She must remain calm, keep her face immobile.

“Like you and me?”

“I’ve known him a long time, but not as long as I’ve known Betta. If I could stay, I would.”

“We are family, you know. You owe it to me.” He flashed his teeth in what was, for him, a smile.

“Betta is my dear friend.”
The beast! Mama, a burden you’ve given me.
“And you owe it to your wife to make sure she stays in bed for the next two months, even when she is feeling better and wants to resume her daily routine. It is a temptation you must not allow.”

“Betta is given to, how shall I say, exaggeration.”

“Be in no doubt as to her danger. She’s lost blood. If her water breaks and contractions begin, we cannot save the child and Betta runs a real risk of bleeding to death.”

He nodded slowly, beginning to comprehend. “Think for a moment. Look at the two of us, brother and sister, same face, same hair, same mother. Why don’t you forget your hatred of me and fight for your children? I can give them so much help.”

“You are not family; you are not friend. I am here for Betta.” Serafina walked out of the room.