Death In Bagheria (A Serafina Florio Mystery) (11 page)

Naldo

“
Y
ou weren’t here when your mother died, I understand.” They sat in the baron’s study below the portrait of the baroness. Rosa occupied the overstuffed chair; Naldo, the son, perched on an arm of the sofa, swinging one leg back and forth, and Serafina in the chair opposite him.

He shook his head. “In Glasgow. I needed to be there to supervise the building of our ship to Father’s explicit instructions. He’s a perfectionist, Father, must have everything his way, down to the smallest detail. But to be fair, this perfectionism of his accounts for his success, that and the alliances he’s been able to forge of late.” He paused, canted his eyes from one side to another. “Alliances that were odious to his wife.”

Rosa shot Serafina a veiled look.

Serafina narrowed her eyes and took a good look at the baron’s son while she waited in silence for him to continue. He was a younger, clean-shaven version of his father, the face almost naked of remark, and taller, bonier, with fair skin and auburn curls—his coloring inherited, perhaps, from his mother. Serafina’s immediate response was to dislike him, and she fought with herself to dash the preconceptions out of her mind. “Send them into the sea,” she heard her mother counsel. With a pure heart, that’s how she must conduct her investigation. After all, she owed it to the baroness, to Genoveffa, and to the truth. Besides, what had this young man done to her, except be born into nobility and wealth? The first-born male, he’d inherit most of his father’s fortune, his lands, business, and title. Was it envy, this worm inside her?

Still, he didn’t speak, but swung that dratted leg back and forth, back and forth. She could wait for him; she’d wait all day if necessary.

So she laced her fingers, considering him without his money and land and title. Being a man didn’t plead his cause with her, either, she realized, whether rich or poor. As a matter of fact, it was his manly demeanor, that maddening assurance most men have, that’s what hurt his case. Was she jealous of all males? Perhaps—jealous because men, as a result of their genetic complexion had everything and women nothing. The road to success was easy for men of his class, impossible for a woman of any class. Was her animosity also fueled because this young man, like most, sensed her weakness and, like a fox about to pounce upon a fowl, took advantage of her inferiority?

“Too complicated,” she heard her mother’s voice again. “Let wild thoughts fly away, stand ready, and get on with it.” The dead Maddalena chose all the wrong moments to appear and left Serafina with no fresh ideas. She must try for a clean slate so she closed her eyes, opened them, and saw Rosa sending her irritating signals to get on with it, but she waited, still and unmoving, patient for Naldo to take the bait and fill the void with words, a technique which doubtless was time consuming, but in the end resulted in success.

“Not much to tell you about her.”

“Her?”

“My mother. We weren’t close.” He looked up at the portrait and smirked.

“I was in Glasgow or Genoa for most of her illness. Came home one weekend, and she was ill—‘fighting poor weather,’ was the way my father put it. Next thing I knew, I received a telegram from him saying she’d died.”

“You couldn’t have gotten home?”

He shook his head. “In the middle of business.”

“But she was your mother,” Rosa said.

Naldo turned to her, as if seeing the madam for the first time, and Serafina glimpsed something old and dark sweep over his features. He slid down the arm of the sofa and edged to the front of the seat, elbows on knees, reminding Serafina of Genoveffa’s bird-like stance during their meeting yesterday. Switching his gaze, he scrutinized Serafina. “Mother never cared for me. I was suckled by a wet nurse, changed by a nanny, sent away to school. Six years old, I remember it, standing right here before the hearth, clothed in the school uniform, receiving no kiss from her, not even a peck on the cheek. She looked down, smiled, dabbed her eyes—I’ll give her that—and extended her hand to me, waiting for me to kiss it, I supposed, but I must have hesitated too long, and when finally I bent to do so, she withdrew it. So, not even a kiss good-bye.”

“Perhaps she was dying inside at the thought of losing you,” Serafina said.

His laugh was a sudden bark. “The first and last time she kissed me was on my wedding day, and then only because it was the thing to do. Alabaster lips, I still feel them. Cold and wet and uncaring, barely brushing my cheeks. Other than that, I don’t think she ever touched me.”

Serafina felt a draft. “And your wife?”

“She liked my wife’s family well enough. Valued the connection.”

“Your children?”

“Never saw them.”

Rosa looked down at her shoes.

“Your sister thinks your mother was poisoned.”

“Does she, now.” He smiled. “What a perfect candidate.”

“So you think it’s possible?”

“Of course. Cold-hearted, uncaring, conniving.”

“Did you arrange for it?”

Silence in the room.

“I’m not clever enough to have done so.”

He had a venomous look. How could a son think such thoughts of his mother? Serafina stared at him, picturing her own sons—Carlo, for instance, when he’d had too much wine, picking her apart, or the hardness in Vicenzu’s eyes after he’d told her she couldn’t spend coins on fabric, or the eyes of her youngest son, Totò, filled with stubborn disappointment. But these were nothing, the vagaries of male personalities not yet fully formed. She pushed her boots deeper into the carpet, trying to warm her toes.

Naldo continued. “Always picking us apart. Hated our associates, anything that occupied our attention. Thought business was beneath her. Perhaps she thought coins flew down from the sky to pay for all of this.” He waved a hand around the room.

Serafina swallowed. Judging from Naldo’s last remark, it sounded to her like father and son had discussed the baroness’s dislike of trade. She pulled out her notebook and scratched some words. “I shouldn’t have asked if you’d murdered her. I should have known you lacked the courage to do it.”

Rosa shot her a look.

Naldo looked at her with eyes that were old wounds. He shook his head and smiled. “I wouldn’t have done it, a waste of energy. She had enough venom in her soul to poison the lot of us. It was inevitable that one day it would turn inward.” He pulled out his watch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some pressing business.”

Without giving her a chance to ask another question, he stood, rocked a bit on his heels, and strode out of the room, glancing one more time at the portrait of his mother.

In his wake, a heavy silence, except for more scribbling from Serafina’s pencil and the furious shaking of Rosa’s head.

“What do you think?” Rosa asked.

“Hurt terribly by something. Love twisted into anger?”

“Couldn’t call it that,” Rosa said.

“But could he have killed her?”

“His own mother? He wasn’t even here!”

A
fter that interview, Serafina needed fresh air, so she and Rosa walked through the French doors to the terrace and down the path to the gazebo on one edge of the lawn, midway between the house and the harbor. Serafina sat and visored her eyes and looked out at the sea. Her mind drifted.

“Where are you?” Rosa asked.

“I’m here.” She was tired; her sails were deflated, and she was attempting to catch her second wind. “What did you think of the food?”

“Not bad,” the madam said. “The sauce was a little heavy, and only one course, a disgrace for such a large house. No dessert to speak of—tiny cookies with caffè.”

“Renata’s pastry, otherwise there would have been no dessert. But what they served was a luncheon. They dine in the evening.”

“Strange,” Rosa said.

“A borrowed custom. From one of the baron’s remarks, some of his business associates are British. They have their villas all around here, you know.”

“Of course I know. Some of them were customers of the house, probably still are, but I didn’t encourage it; they’re fussy and snooty and have no humor, and my girls didn’t really seem to please them … I didn’t hire their type.”

“Like the baron?”

Rosa smoothed her skirts. “I’ve changed my mind about him.”

“Yes, I thought his tears would flood the room, but he truly loves his wife.”

“Loved, you mean.”

Serafina shook her head. “Still does, poor soul.”

Silence until the madam spoke. “Aren’t we going to see Renata? We shouldn’t be leaving her all alone with the cook.”

“In a moment.” Serafina stared at the scene before her. Presently, she saw men congregating on the pier. Although she had a clear view, they were far enough away that the pier and the ships and the men looked like toys in a nursery; the sounds they made were swallowed by the roar of the sea. Serafina watched as the throng grew to a crowd, and dust puffed around them. It appeared to be the start of an altercation of some sort, and soon a police wagon came into view and turned onto the pier. “What’s happening?”

The madam shook her head. “There’s more than citrus being loaded onto the baron’s ship, and someone from his household will arrive soon to grease the way.”

“Your mind runs in strange circles,” Serafina said.

“Wait for a bit.”

A few minutes later, Serafina felt movement somewhere in back of her. Turning around, she saw a carriage pull up and stop in front of the big house.

The madam slapped her thigh and grinned.

“Means nothing. Someone is going somewhere, that’s all,” Serafina said.

“Of course, the son,” Rosa said. “He’s going to the harbor.”

“Not the father?”

Rosa’s eyes were slits.

The carriage waited, the horses blowing steam. In the harbor, the dust thickened, and from time to time, Serafina saw a man in blue, bent and with sleeves rolled, gesturing toward the ship and waving his hat up and down.

Soon she heard the villa’s front door open.

Without turning around to see for herself, the madam said, “Don’t tell me, it’s Naldo.” She continued to stare at the crowd of workers on the wharf.

Serafina saw the son get into the barouche and watched as it pulled away, the horses hooves making righteous clops on the gravel. “How did you know?” Serafina asked, amazed as always at the madam’s quick grasp when it came to business.

In a few minutes, the carriage stopped in front of the wharf, and Naldo sauntered over to the police wagon, removing his top hat and leaning into the driver, his back supplicatory as he gestured toward the ship and the men. He pulled something out of his pocket and passed it to the driver who jumped from his seat.

Late afternoon light marred her view. As she waited for the sun, now a great ball of fire, to change its angle, she asked again about the son. “Could he have killed his mother? He denied it, but what do you think?”

“The son? Doubtful. He’s still hurt because his mother sent him away to school, a child’s temper allowed to smolder. Simple.” The madam folded her fat fingers and continued to watch the scene on the wharf as some of the men were hauled over and thrown into the wagon. Presently the police van and the son’s carriage drove away. The dust settled, and the sun edged toward the west as the crowds dispersed, and the loading of goods resumed.

Rosa chuckled. “What coins won’t do!”

“What are you talking about?”

“A rough path made smooth.” Rosa smiled. “But back to the son. A cold fish, that one.”

Serafina thought of her children and of how much she missed them. The image of Totò appeared as he tried on his surplice while juice from the fig he was chewing spilled onto the sleeve. “His mother hurt him, no question of that, and the hurt was allowed to stand. I feel so sorry for him, the fruit of her disregard,” Serafina said.

“Now you’re talking balderdash.”

“And no wonder the son and father bury themselves in business. I’m surprised the son’s turned out so well.”

“You don’t know that he has,” the madam said.

“But if you ask me, there’s something almost rabid about their pursuit of business.”

“Best find out what’s in that hold before the ship sails,” the madam said.

Serafina was silent for a while. “The son’s not one of your customers, is he?”

“Not while I owned the house. His kind are trouble. Did you see his eyes? Unreadable, unreachable. But you’d have to see how he treats his wife and children to see how he’s turned out.”

“And how could the sister love her mother and be so devastated by her loss, while the son is so treacherous in his hate for her?”

Rosa shook her head. “Don’t look to me for those answers. You’re the wizard.”

“Could he be the child of an illicit union by the baron and one of his servants, raised as their child, resented by the baroness?”

“Hardly. It’s just not done. Besides, the baron used my house and others to dampen his appetites, and at that, he was a cold fish, according to one of my girls.”

Silent, Serafina mulled over what she had learned so far, dwelling on their interview with the baron, the strange behavior of the son, the altercation on the pier. What arrested her, however, was an image—those small crates piled on top of one another, their sides filled with strange writing, symbols she was unable to fathom even through a telescope, their existence brushed aside by the baron. They burned in her mind, bright and inexplicable, sitting on the wharf, seemingly ignored, like Naldo had been by his mother.

“Your mind again,” the madam said.

Missing

B
reat
hless, Serafina galloped into the baron’s study and stood in front of his desk, where he sat engrossed in reading a document. “They’re missing, all of them, the baroness’s journals.”

He looked up, not comprehending.

“Forgive my abrupt intrusion, but there’s been a theft, and you must do something about it. Between the three of us—Rosa, Doucette, and I—we found forty-two volumes of Lady Caterina’s journals, some in her room, others in the ladies’ parlor, still others outside in the gazebo. We gathered them all and put them on top of the desk in my room. Now they’re gone, simply disappeared.”

He stared at her, unable, it seemed, to speak, his face a mixture of consternation and disbelief.

From behind her came a voice, “Could there be a misunderstanding?”

Familiar, that voice. She swiveled around.

“Surprised to see me, Serafina?” Don Tigro asked. He flashed his teeth, more in a show of power than in a smile. “Had you locked the door to your room?”

She nodded, trying to hide her surprise. “I arranged the journals in neat piles on the desk, counted forty-two of them—there were six piles, seven books in each pile—then locked the door to my room and went downstairs to speak with the baron. Afterward, I met with his son. Rosa and I went outside for a breath of fresh air and gazed for a while at the … activity on the dock. I was away from my room for, what, perhaps two hours? When I returned, the journals were gone.”

The don acted as if he were concerned. “Could you have moved them and forgotten about it? Time to time, I’ve done that. Been preoccupied with a problem, moved something to where I thought it would be safer, forgotten that I’d moved it and then confused myself when I didn’t see it in its original spot.”

What an actor, Serafina thought, he’s Mr. Helpful Dignitary, loved by all in front of the baron, the businessman he so desperately needs as a trusted associate.

“So you’re saying that someone entered your room and took my wife’s journals from your desk?”

“Yes.”

“This seems silly. Why do you need to read Caterina’s journals?”

Serafina could not believe the baron’s question. How much would she need to explain? For now, she decided she’d go for the minimum. “Part of my investigation.”

“Has your lock been broken or tampered with in any way? Did you see any marks around the keyhole?” he asked.

She hesitated, picturing the door and the lock and the keyhole, before shaking her head. “No. I was not thorough, I’m afraid. Just now, I unlocked the door, but did not examine the lock.” She paused. “But I think I would have noticed had there been damage, unless it was subtle.”

“Could have been a professional. They leave no clues.” Don Tigro smiled. “But why would anyone steal a woman’s journals?”

Hateful, the predicament she’d gotten herself into by bursting into the baron’s office. In future, she must be more careful. Now she’d given that despicable thug license to talk to her as if they were equals, a concerned friend trying to help. She continued. “I walked over to the desk. For an instant, I thought perhaps I’d stowed them in a drawer for safekeeping or in the closet, so I looked everywhere, in all the cabinet drawers, under the bed, in the closet, but no, they were nowhere in the room.” She pictured Rosa walking in with the footman and adding more books, pictured the desk and the books on top of them, mentally counted them for the umpteenth time. “No, I’ve just reviewed my actions. They are missing, all of them.”

“There must be some misunderstanding.” The baron rang for the butler.

“And this is not the first time, either.” Looking at Don Tigro while she relayed the information, Serafina told the baron about the theft of the journal Genoveffa had given her yesterday. “It was returned, but pages were missing. In light of the theft today, it seems clear that there is someone with a long arm who is afraid of what these journals contain. It validates my investigation into the death of the baroness, but makes it far more difficult. She lifted her eyes and gazed at the baron. “Now we must make the investigation public.”

Neither man replied, but the baron was visibly shaken. Serafina could hear faint sounds coming from the harbor. While he waited for Umbrello to appear, the baron, recovering from his initial shock, looked at Serafina. “I appreciate that you must be upset, but do not worry, my dear. Above all, no hasty action.” His face remained impassive, and the color slowly returned to his face. “There must be an innocent and quite simple explanation. Perhaps, misinterpreting your direction, a servant moved the books to another room—the ladies’ parlor on the first floor, for instance, or a corner in my wife’s room, accessible but out of the way. Best let me handle this.”

“Who would have a key to my room?” Serafina asked.

“My dear, I repeat, let me handle this.” The flush rode up his neck and flooded his cheeks. “Where is that butler?” He yanked the cord again.