Death In Bagheria (A Serafina Florio Mystery) (13 page)

A Mirage

S
erafina and Rosa descended the main staircase, stopping on the second floor to admire the ballroom and its five crystal chandeliers suspended from a vaulted ceiling, the walls made of red marble with decorative inlay. Except for three small parlors off one end, the room, devoid of furniture, took up one floor of the villa.

Rosa pointed to the crown molding with its four corner blocks. Each one contained the bust of a woman holding a torch. They laughed at the excess, then at the echoes of their laughter, listening until the last remnant of sound rolled away. Serafina stood for a moment, struck by the similarity of echoes and truth; sometimes, verities that she’d initially proclaimed with such force soon bounced off the walls of her mind, slowly losing meaning before evaporating.

French doors led to balconies that overlooked the front of the house, and their footsteps reverberated over the parquet floor as they walked the width of the room and stepped outside. She and Rosa gazed at the baron’s ship, astonished at its swift progress since leaving the harbor just a few minutes ago, now little more than a speck in the vastness. Both stacks were blowing smoke, and the sails were unfurled, slashed with purples and reds from the setting sun before melting into the distance.

“Look what’s coming home to roost,” Rosa said. “The baron does a brisk business.” Tugs were guiding another large steamer toward the pier recently vacated by the
Caterina Bella,
this one a little worn looking. They watched its progress for a while before making their way back across the ballroom floor when Serafina closed her eyes, conjuring the strains of a full orchestra. She held out her arms, unable to resist twirling in time to the music. “Who is that exquisite beauty dancing in my arms?” she heard Loffredo whisper. Opening her eyes, she stepped back, longing for his presence even as the ghost of him vanished. She felt Rosa’s eyes upon her, whirled around, and smiled bleakly at her friend.

Arcangelo

O
utside, they wound their way on an uneven path, asking the first person they met, a wizened-looking man in apron and straw hat, if they could speak with Arcangelo and were directed to the stable where, they were told, he was busy helping the groom. Lifting her skirts, Serafina threaded her way over straw to the center of the stable, felt the hushed warmth of large beasts, and heard the rustle of Rosa behind her. The two stood and watched Arcangelo combing the mane of a skittish horse.

“He’s a boon
to us, lady. We’re short these days, what with my helper missing.”

She turned around to face the groom who had introduced himself.

Arcangelo grabbed one of the animal’s hind legs and, with deft movements, began examining the hoof while the horse stood, becalmed.

Serafina looked at the groom, inviting him to say more.

“I could use a good assistant like this boy here, that’s sure, but I’m stuck with Domenico, my
senior
assistant, and notwithstanding that fancy title they’ve given him, I can’t count on him, not that one. Been uppity all his life, gave himself airs, he did, right from the start. Course I think it might have been the daughter’s brash enticements years ago when the two were schooling together. That started him off, as you might say, but I think his mother talked to him of grand possibilities, too, and spoiled him. What you will, now I have to put up with it. First they had him helping his father, trying out this job, that task. Nothing suited him. And then, when the grounds started suffering and the baroness overheard talk from the other gardeners about how the little snot shirked his work with the pools and made them stagnant and then a favorite bush of hers withered under his care, well, that was my unlucky day, I tell you. He was sent straightaway to me. Know what the lout says when he first comes my way? Told me the daughter fancied him. Imagine that. He was sure of it, matter of fact. Horrible when you consider the blindness of some people. And today, he just up and left, he did, with nary a by your leave nor nothing, but what can I say, seeing as he’s the gardener’s son and the cook’s besides and got the ear of the baron. Have to put up with things, I tell you, our lot in life, I expect. But this youngster here, he’s been a boon, a real boon. Now if you could spare him once in a while, that’d be my lucky day.”

Rosa’s retort was like the snap of a whip. “Arcangelo works for me, and my stable would collapse with
out him, to say nothing of the health of my animals,” she said, but smiled sweetly, working her charms on the man.

“You’ve been most helpful,” Serafina said to the groom. “But might we speak to Arcangelo for a few moments? We won’t take up too much of his time.”

O
utside, Serafina and Rosa asked Arcangelo to search the stable, the carriage house, and the chapel. “You are looking for white powdery substances—”

“And don’t smell it or touch it or, heavens, eat any. May be dangerous, so take great care,” Rosa said.

Arcangelo buried his hands in his sleeves, a cockeyed smile smearing his face. “And if I find something?”

“Leave it alone, but make good note of it in your head—what it looks like, exactly where you found it—and tell us about it tomorrow,” Serafina said.

“If you have a question, interrupt one of us, by all means,” Rosa said.

“Search the chapel, too?”

“Yes, but wait until after Mass tomorrow. It’s a big one with a bishop and singers and everything. In the chapel, you’ll also be looking for something else—any books that are not holy books,” Rosa said.

“What kind of books?” he asked.

Serafina dug out the journal in her pocket and showed it to him. “It’ll look just like this.”

He nodded, fingering the pages and looking at the ink.

“The baroness had a habit of writing words in a book. We think she may have written some clues that will aid us in ferreting out her poisoner,” Rosa said. “And we think there may be some of her journals in the chapel since she spent a lot of time there.”

He looked from Serafina to Rosa and furrowed his brow. “And what do I do with the books, if I find them?”

“Take them with you, and tell no one,” Rosa said. “You know where to find us?”

He shook his head.

“Then fetch the butler. He’s a good sort. He’ll help.” Rosa blushed.

They’d started down the path when Serafina turned. “And one more thing, Arcangelo.”

He gazed up at her, his neck canted to one side, waiting for her next command. What would Rosa do without his expertise? It was little wonder she had the best-kept stable in Oltramari. But in addition to Arcangelo’s horse sense, Serafina was drawn to his humor, his bright curiosity, and she knew her children felt the same. He and Teo had become good friends, and for that alone, she was beholden. “Now I have an impossible task for you. Are you ready?”

“Enough! I need him in one piece!” Rosa crossed her arms.

“And I need to know what’s being loaded onto the baron’s ship. There’s one in port right now, the wharf lit up with torches and crawling with workers.”

He nodded, excitement spilling from him.

“Find out as much as you can about the ship and the crew, its name, its registry, when it sails and for what ports. Think you can manage it?”

His eyes widened, and he pulled at his sleeves. “Looking for smuggled goods?”

“Of course!” Rosa said.

“Not at all,” Serafina said.

“Use your brain. Do the coins he makes from citrus buy a fleet of steamers, maintain the baron and his two opulent villas, a staff of over a hundred? And he’s got the don’s men lurking about? They must be smuggling.”

“You may know they’re carrying contraband, but I don’t, not for sure.” She spoke to Arcangelo as if Rosa were not standing next to her and rolling her eyes. “See whatever you can find out, but expect nothing of importance. Can you write?”

He smiled. “About as well as you cook.”

Rosa chuckled.

“Well, do the best you can, then. Scribble down everything you see on a piece of paper, just so you forget nothing. And Arcangelo?”

He nodded.

“Tell no one what you do, not the groom, not Rosa’s driver. Above all, do not let them catch you.”

“But if they do, say nothing. Get the butler. What you’re about to do is extremely dangerous.”

The Gardener

W
hile Rosa hurried off to take a sip of tea, Serafina walked across the lawn in early dusk. From the roof, distances looked much shorter than they actually were on the ground, and she doubted that she’d have enough time to finish her task, but she was glad for the walk. She smelled the pungent odor of cut grass and fronds mixed with citrus, the bittersweet, earthy smell of spring. A bird sang in the distance, and animals scurried about as she quickened her pace, listening to the grassy swish her skirts made.

A cursory g
lance confirmed that the sacks held pruned branches and weeds. She was dumping the first on the ground when she heard the metal door of the gardener’s shed scrape against something. A minute later, an imposing figure stood before her.

“Who are you? Why are you here?” the man asked. His arms were crossed over a thick, long blue apron. Most men removed their hat in Oltramari and in Palermo, too, when they talked to a woman, but his stayed firmly on his head, shadowing his face. Serafina noticed a bulge on one side of his apron, no doubt the handle of a knife or fork, perhaps even a pistol wedged into his belt.

She introduced herself and said, “I am a guest of the baron, commissioned by his daughter to investigate the death of the baroness.”

“Dead almost two years,” the man said. He spat. “No one touches my grounds unless I say so.” The man was tall, thick, with a long stick for a nose.

“Your name, please?” she asked.

The man straightened. “Pietro Scarpanello, chief gardener.”

“Fine. Then you won’t mind my telling the baron that Pietro Scarpanello obstructed my investigation.”

“Oh, you are the creator of all this loveliness,” Rosa said, walking toward them and swiping icing from the corners of her mouth. “Couldn’t take a proper tea while you’re working,” she whispered to Serafina, then took the man’s arm. “How I wish I had someone like you to tame the wildness of my lawn.”

He doffed his hat. “Anything for you, dear lady, and if this is your friend, she’s most welcome, too.” He nodded to Serafina, and despite her first impression, she warmed to the gardener.

“The gazebo, for instance,” Rosa said. “You must have built it for the baroness.”

He nodded, took their arms, and led the way to the little summerhouse. “And she had a tenderness for it, as my wife would say. Until her illness, the baroness spent many afternoons there, writing her letters and such. We planted her favorite flowers around it, irises just beginning to bloom over here, that patch of crocuses—about done now, I’d say—but they’ve been coming up regular, even after she left us. Strange, how they hold her memory. And over there, another spot she loved.” He pointed to a bench next to the spreading branches of an ancient tree and walked them over to it, holding each by the elbow so they wouldn’t trip in the high grass.

“A strange-looking olive tree,” Rosa said, fanning herself.

“It’s a cork,” he said, grinning. “The baroness loved it, her favorite tree in all of Bagheria, she told me. There’s a chestnut she was overfond of in Prizzi, but this was her beloved here. ‘Be very careful, Pietro, when you cut into it,’ she’d say. ‘This tree’s been here before the Romans—they made their sandals from its bark.’”

Serafina pictured a group of gorgeous Roman soldiers in their little skirts sitting in the grass, their ropy calves, their thighs exposed, their brawny backs resting on the trees. She put her hand on the bark, feeling its gnarled grooves and noticed a few cuts in the surface lower down on the tree. Closing her eyes, she imagined the baroness sitting beneath the tree and writing her words.

The gardener broke her reverie. “And when it was time to take its hide, she’d remind me, and she’d stand there—about where you’re standing right now—and watch us do the job. She said she’d tell me again when it was time in nine years, but of course, we know what happened.”

“Do we?” she asked him as they walked back to the shed. “Do you know how she died?”

“The baroness?”

Serafina nodded.

“Sick in the stomach,” he said. “Growth of some sort, they said. Not at first, mind. Dunno more than that. The wife told me.”

“Mima?”

He nodded.

They walked back to the shed, and Serafina began emptying another sack.

“Let me help.” The gardener swung the sack upside down with one paw. Serafina kicked and rummaged about in the pile of debris, but finding no books, she scooped up a handful and shoved it back inside while Rosa held the sack. The gardener went into the shed, returned with a rake and in one sweep, picked up the rest of the debris and stuffed it back into the sack.

He pushed his hat back and scratched his forehead. “Not a doctor myself so I can’t tell you how she died. He should have been able to tell us, but they hum and haw, too, you know. Oh, the baroness had many visits from old Noce. He tried to help, but he was puzzled, too deep for him to fathom, I’ll say that about him. Always puzzled, seems to me. Out of his element, most times, the old fool, and on the take, too, if you ask me. Came all the way from Prizzi once a week, mind, with his black bag and his palms out. Bet his fee was a hefty one. Stayed here in the end. Friend of the family and all, but don’t think much of him. Once when I had a sore in the mouth—this was back in Prizzi—he stood there gaping at my gullet and shaking his head. Gave me a good dose of laudanum and told me to rest quiet.”

He grunted, picked up another bag, and dumped it, waited for Serafina to sift through the debris, then shoved it back in. “Couldn’t work for two days, eyes not focused and the head hurt awful, then the sharp pain came back. This time I was smart, went to the tooth-drawer in town. He took one look at me, pulled out the offender, thought my heart would stop, but after he sopped up the blood, the pain was gone.”

“You knew Dr. Noce in Prizzi?”

He nodded, took up the third bag, and dumped it. “Met him long before I started working for the baron, when I worked for old Ruffo.”

“The baroness’s father?” she asked, stabbing a clump of weeds and dirt with her foot and finding nothing.

Nodding, he heaved the weeds back into the sack.

“And you’ve been working here how long?”

“Ever since the baroness married. Mima and I, we came with her. Now we work wherever the family is, sometimes Prizzi, but lately the baron spends most of his time here. Geraldo and old Ruffo don’t get along much, and the baron’s family is dead, so his ties to Prizzi aren’t all that much. Still keeps his estate there, mainly to hunt—powerful keen on the pheasants. Sometimes shoots a buck, but he’s got his staff there and, anyhow, comes back quick. Leaves his little one with Ruffo. All right with me, staying here, I like it. Know all the gardeners up and down the road. Respected here. Cold in winter, I’ll tell you, with the wind off the sea, but last couple of years, the baron seems to like it more in Bagheria, close to his ships, and well, he needs to be here.”

They were silent a while, working on the sacks, the three of them, Serafina soon realizing her efforts had been wasted—except for meeting the gardener.

“You were born near Prizzi?”

He shook his head. “Came there as a young man.”

“From?”

“Sperlinga. Met my wife in Prizzi at the baron’s home there.”

“Any relatives in Sperlinga?” she asked.

“Found something!” Rosa held up the cover of a book, burned at the edges with all the pages missing, loose threads dangling from the spine.

Serafina held it up. “Know anything about this?”

He shook his head. “Men must have raked it up from someplace.”

“Getting back to your birthplace.”

He looked at her a long time before he answered, and Serafina thought, now she’d done it, asking too many questions, digging too deep, but she no longer had the luxury of considering what others thought. She was convinced now, along with Genoveffa, that the baroness had been murdered, and she saw there was something about Sperlinga that the gardener wanted to hide.

“Got a sister there, that’s all. Don’t see her much. He hesitated a bit before continuing. “She makes her living from potions and the like.”

“A
strega
?” Rosa asked.

Pietro nodded. “No harm in saying it. Practices an ancient form of healing, that’s what she calls it. Says it’s an art, but she and I, we don’t get along.”

Rosa looked at Serafina.

“You said the baron’s young daughter spends most of her time in Prizzi?”

He looked around, rocked back and forth a little before he answered. “My opinion only. Might be mistaken. Took her mother’s passing hard, the little tyke.”

They’d gone through all of the sacks without finding anything except more evidence of a concerted effort on the part of at least one or two people to destroy the baroness’s words.