No More Brothers (A Serafina Florio Mystery) (11 page)

A memory swept her away. It was early summer. She was home from school. Entering the study, she surprised her father and Loffredo in heated discussion about some activist or other. The reverie faded as she forced herself to consider her present situation. Yes, she wanted him. No, she would not act on her feelings. There were others to consider—her children, Elena, and of course, Giorgio’s memory. No, the affair was impossible, at least for now. She was here because she needed information and she prayed he wouldn’t misunderstand the intent of her visit.

He entered.

She could see his hurt in the way he held his shoulders. It made her feel all the more disheartened by her behavior. She hadn’t considered his feelings. Worse: if she hadn’t needed information from him now, she wouldn’t be here at all. No, not at all. That’s how little she felt for the suffering of others.

“I’m sorry.” She hung her head.

“But you’re here now. That’s all that matters.” He began moving toward her.

“You mistake the reason for my visit.” She couldn’t control her tears.
Oh, Madonna, help me
. How she had used him. She swiped at her eyes and blurted out, “Which one?”

“Pardon?”

“You found arsenic around Ugo’s mouth. It matched the stain on the napkin, the residue in the glass. Which compound? Is it the same as the contents of this?” She held up the small tin from the shoemaker’s workroom.

For a moment, he stopped and made no sound.

A tide of rapture charged over her, so powerful, it felt like the first time.

He moved to her, taking the tin from her grasp, and she succumbed to his charms.

•  •  •

Later, he whispered in her ear as he kissed her goodbye. “Arsenic trioxide. Same as the contents of the tin.”

Tuesday, February 19, 1867

I
t had taken all of Assunta’s skills to mask the circles beneath Serafina’s eyes. After she combed out the knots in her hair, she was ready to attend Ugo’s funeral. The bell in the campanile began to toll.

Wearing her finest black bombazine for the occasion, Serafina walked between Carlo and Vicenzu. She kept her shoulders straight and her head still. Trying to ignore what she felt were an unusual amount of nosey passersby, she stared straight ahead at something indistinct. Did she imagine the sly glances her sons shared with each other?

She didn’t know, but she felt herself a fool one moment and a schoolgirl the next. She shook her head. What right did she have, jeopardizing the investigation, her reputation, her stipend, and her children’s future by having an affair with the town’s medical examiner, even if he was an old friend with the stamina of youth? And Oltramari was such a crotchety town. Word would get out. It would lead to misunderstanding, ill will, finally to disaster.

And what about Elena’s feelings? How could she, Serafina, be so uncaring? What if
she
were Loffredo’s wife and Elena the lover? Impossible, he’d never fall for Elena. After all, there was a reason the poor woman bore him no children.

Truth be told, he’d loved Serafina all his life. A pity they hadn’t married: they would have filled that empty villa of his with lusty screamers. She felt her cheeks take on a glow. But the danger of having an affair was too deep. Never again, she told herself and smiled.

As they approached the church steps, they were stopped by a line of carabinieri blocking their path. Serafina jumped up and down, trying to glimpse the bier. The piazza bulged with onlookers, some of them crowding the carts of vendors who sold candles, flowers, or religious articles. Mourners dressed in their best black attire. Men held onto their silk hats in the brisk wind. Women in watered silk clutched at their skirts, ends of their shawls whipping in the blowing air. Peasants stood silent, waiting for the procession to begin.

A corner of her cape brushed Serafina’s eye. She held a hand to it and gritted. Through the blur she watched the casket appear. Draped in black and carried on pallbearer’s shoulders, the coffin bobbed up the Duomo’s steps. Wearing a tall hat, Rodolfo held a handkerchief to his face. Veiled in thick gauze, Graziella held his arm, her head bent. Teo and the baby were not in attendance, apparently left in the care of a nurse.

Behind them, carabinieri marched two by two, keeping time in halting step, swords drawn, faces solemn. Surrounded by guards wearing their plumy helmets, the dignitaries marched into the church. Serafina blinked several times trying to clear her vision, lined up with the others waiting their turn to enter the church. Inside, the audience pushed and prodded her on either side. She found it impossible to view or hear the proceedings.

Carlo whispered in her ear. “This is useless.”

“Let’s go. I need to open the shop,” Vicenzu said.

“Why? No one’s buying medicinals this morning. Besides, I want to say a word to Rodolfo.”

“You haven’t yet realized, have you? You know he’s guilty. Even I think he poisoned Ugo’s wine. But it’s over. Abatti’s the killer and will be hung.”

“You’ve done your best,” Vicenzu muttered. “Give it up.”

After Ugo’s requiem, the mourners processed to the cemetery for the burial. Altar boys swung censers. The choir sang
In Paradisum
. Serafina squinted into bright sun, looking for the shoemaker and his wife so she could offer her final condolences, perhaps ask him a question or two while she had him backed into a corner.

She turned to Carlo. “Something’s not right. Where’s Rodolfo? Graziella?

“Not here. So why are we still in line—to kiss the priest?”

S
he told her sons she needed to buy something from the grocer’s.

Vicenzu looked at her.

“Something personal. Even a mother needs her privacy.”

He grinned—so
unlike
Vicenzu.

“Go home without me. Eat if I’m not back.”

When they were out of sight, she picked up her pace. She hurried past the apothecary shop and knocked on the shoemaker’s front door.

No answer.

She peered inside. Empty.

Her stomach knotted.

Lifting her skirts, she went around to the back. Motes of dust swam in the late morning sun. The stable was empty. No evidence of life except for a wizened man in straw hat and apron who emerged from one of the stalls, mopping his face with a bandana. He called himself the caretaker.

“I came to see Graziella.”

“Not here.”

“Do you know when she’ll return?”

He stared at the ground. “No harm in telling you, but keep it to yourself.”

She waited.

He removed his hat and bowed. “Not here, dear lady.”

“The shoemaker?”

He stepped closer to her. One eye wandered. “Whole family’s gone, but like I say, not a word.”

“Of course.”

“Took the lot of them this morning to the station.”

“Where?”

“Boarded the train for Bagheria.”

“When will they return, do you know?”

The caretaker shrugged. “Locked up the house, the shop, everything.”

“Are they visiting relatives in the north, perhaps?”

“Couldn’t say.”

“Couldn’t or won’t.”

“Like I say, they’re gone.”

She stood, trying to take in his words.

“But when? Rodolfo attended his brother’s funeral today. I saw him and his wife walking behind the coffin.”

He shook his head. “Nope. The domestic and her husband stood in for them.”

“But I was sure I saw Graziella. Wore a veil of mourning over a big hat?” She gestured haloes around her head to indicate a wide brim.

He lowered his voice and spoke to her as if she had a distemper. “The shoemaker asked me to take them to the station this morning. Cart was creaking with the load. All their belongings. Gave me nice coins for my trouble, I can tell you. Threw in the mule and trap. Asked me to guard the house and stables.”

“How long?”

The man closed his eyes. “No returns, dear lady, no returns. Told me not to tell anyone, but like I say, no harm in telling you.”

S
he ranged around the piazza, oblivious to everything around her, mentally ordering all that she knew into neat piles before heading for the Municipal Building.

Without knocking, she stuck her head in Colonna’s office. He was busy dunking a biscuit in and out of his coffee.

“First it was only a burr on the edge of my understanding, but now, finally, I’m convinced that Rodolfo planned Ugo’s murder and hired Abatti to do the deed.”

He flapped his hands in the air and rolled his eyes. “Again?”

“Hear me out!” Rodolfo and his family had fled. There was a chance she could still catch them if she hurried, and here she sat, trying to convince this oaf of an inspector. Why? Even the commissioner told Serafina not to bother with Colonna, but just this one, final time, she must try.

To her surprise, Colonna sat up, folded his hands, and seemed attentive. “All right, let’s hear it.”

“No interruptions?”

“You know me.”

She rubbed her temples. “Several years ago, the shoemaker purchased arsenic trioxide from the apothecary shop. I found a tin of it in his backroom.”

“And that proves?”

“That Rodolfo had the means to poison his brother.”

“But
I’ve
purchased rat poison from Giorgio. Does that make me a murderer?”

She bit her tongue. “And now the shoemaker’s taken flight—damning evidence of his guilt.”

“Means nothing. Look around and you’ll see whole families disappear in the middle of the night. Rodolfo’s business turns sour; he thinks he sees verdant pastures; he leaves. His ‘flight,’ as you call it, has nothing to do with his brother’s murder.”

She blew a stray curl off her forehead.

“I must admit, your arguments are persuasive.” Colonna leaned back in his chair and folded his fingers over his stomach. “But tell me, why are you so sure Rodolfo knew the Abatti?”

“Boffo told me that he’d seen Rodolfo with a faded soldier.”

Colonna shook his head. “How many faded soldiers did you pass in the piazza today?”

With that, Serafina realized she would never convince him. She rose from her chair.

Stopped. Felt the missing piece click into place. “Of course! How could I have forgotten?”

“Forgotten what?” a voice asked behind her.

She turned and saw the commissioner leaning against the doorjamb.

“Go on, don’t mind me.”

So much for Colonna’s rapt attention.

She faced the inspector. “Thank you.”

Colonna’s smile was broad. “Anytime, my dear.”

“No. Truly, I mean it. Thank you. Your questions dislodged a memory—something I’d forgotten—the image of Abatti pounding down the shoemaker’s steps, brushing my shoulder as I prepared to enter the shoemaker’s shop on the day I found Ugo’s body. He had the Marsala Medal in his hand.”

There was a momentary silence.

Colonna sighed. “Long gone, that medal, I’m afraid.”

“Splendid work, Dona Fina. Both of you,” the commissioner said. “We’d be fools to press charges just yet, but there’s enough circumstantial evidence to take the shoemaker in for questioning.” He looked at Colonna. “Do we have men to assist her?”

He shook his head. “Most are on loan to the city of Catania. Only three here and I need them by my side.”

The commissioner shook his head. “You can spare Badali. Send for him.”

“Tell Badali to meet me at home.” Serafina looked back at the commissioner as she rushed down the hall and waved.

T
he sun was at its zenith as Serafina crossed the piazza on her way to Rosa’s. She quickened her pace.

Tart experience taught her that the only way to handle Rosa was to start talking immediately and to use the most important word first. Serafina knew she’d have at most three short sentences in which to galvanize the madam into action before she lost Rosa’s attention.

She rehearsed while opening the gate. When her head was clear and her breathing softer, she ran up the steps and into Rosa’s front office where the madam sat behind her desk, whispering to stacks of coins and writing numbers into her precious ledger.

Rosa looked up and opened her mouth.

But before she could speak, Serafina began. “Lucre was behind the shoemaker’s plan to kill his brother. This morning he and his family fled. We must stop them.”

Rosa pulled the cord. When a maid appeared, she said, “Tell the driver to ready the coach and meet me in front. Be quick!” She pulled Serafina with her.

“Where are we going?”

“To visit my friend, the admiral.”

Of course. It fell into place, the shoemaker’s trips to Bagheria, perhaps to Palermo. He booked passage on a ship. How else would a family flee with their belongings?

“His office is onboard a ship docked at the
cala
.” Rosa’s eyes sparked. “Tell me the details on the way.”

Serafina opened the door. “Wait for me in front. Must tell my family I’ll be late for supper.”

“R
osa’s waiting outside. Sorry, I must leave for—”

“Where have you been?” Carlo stood at the table holding an empty wine glass and pulling on the napkin wedged into his collar. He slammed the linen onto the table, just missing a platter with the remains of dinner—risotto, pork, and peas—the juices now congealing.

As she stood taking in his words, Serafina scooped up a spoonful of lemon custard poured over cassata which sat melting in a bowl on the sideboard. Vicenzu sat at his desk, oblivious to everything but his abacus and ledger.

“Our dinner was cold because we waited too long for you. I’m sure Giulia and Maria were late for school. Carmela is doing whatever it is she does to Rosa’s gardens. Her baby’s been yowling most of the day until I finally changed its…pantaloons. And your youngest has been crying for you. His nose is stuffed; he’s sick to his stomach; his head is flaming. Gloria departed for Prizzi this morning. All my friends are enjoying a holiday in Taormina. And here I sit in a cold house acting as the only mother Totò knows. Once again, you leave me with your work.”