Death In Bagheria (A Serafina Florio Mystery) (23 page)

The
S
uspects

T
h
e
y gathered in Serafina’s room, the largest one, as it turned out, the company brightened by one another and a fire in the hearth and the bottle of wine Umbrello brought with him.

Whil
e he poured and Loffredo passed the glasses, Serafina began by telling them all about Doucette’s denial. “The woman was distraught, claimed that the baroness had visions, would admit nothing, even after I detailed the state of Reggio’s body. In the end, she became indignant.”

“Hard to believe,” Umbrello said.

“She did not change her story, saying that she did not take the journal, that someone must have planted it in her room. Thanks to me, she may well have changed her plans, might be on a packet heading for France tomorrow instead of a carriage going to Prizzi. And she may know the poisoner’s identity, but not know the mastermind,” Serafina reminded them. “Or perhaps she does.”

They were lost in their own thoughts until Serafina spoke again, telling Rosa, Umbrello, and Renata about what Arcangelo found in the chapel and in the hold of the ship.

“Did Doucette know there was smuggling going on—because I was not aware there was.” Umbrello said, rubbing his knees. “How could I have missed it?”

“Not to my knowledge.” Serafina sipped her wine. “Let’s hope you turn up some more journals tomorrow morning when you riffle through her trunk. I’m sure that the poisoner used Doucette, asked her to look away whenever someone tainted Lady Caterina’s food, but that may be the extent of her involvement, for which she was paid a tidy sum. I hope she’ll be haunted by it for the rest of her life.” Something about Doucette’s role—that she was blackmailing the poisoner—seemed too obvious, and she wondered if she, Serafina, weren’t also the killer’s dupe, but now was not the time to share her misgivings with the others.

“If the housekeeper knew someone was poisoning her mistress, as the journal entry suggests, and was more interested in extracting payment from him rather than in stopping him, then she colluded in Lady Caterina’s killing and is guilty of murder,” Loffredo said. “If we could take her in for questioning, a clever interrogator might wrest the truth from her.”

“A tall order without a shred of evidence,” Rosa said.

“But we have the journal,” Loffredo said.

The madam shook her head. “We have the words of a sick woman during the last months of her life.”

“Rosa’s right,” Serafina said. “But that’s all we’ll ever have, I’m afraid—the words of a dying woman. My hope is to gather enough of the baroness’s words that they’ll begin to stand up in court.”

“Getting back to taking her in for questioning. Don’t forget, Doucette is the trusted housekeeper of a powerful aristocrat, one with lofty friends. Mark me, she won’t see the inside of a cell, but who are we if we don’t dream?” Rosa asked.

There was silence for a time as the truth of Rosa’s words sunk in, and the image of the baroness’s words, smoldering in a refuse pile, haunted her mind.

This time it was Umbrello who broke the mood, setting down his glass. “Right.” He clamped his jaw and looked at his watch. “The coachman is scheduled to be on the carriage drive tomorrow at seven to drive the housekeeper to Prizzi. I’ve told Doucette that we’ll pick up her trunk at six. Lina’s brother will return tomorrow morning by five-thirty, ostensibly to help fit the last of the new locks in the pantry and wine cellar, but really to help me by picking the trunk’s lock.”

Loffredo proposed a toast to Umbrello’s ingenuity, and they clinked their glasses.

“Who would want the baroness murdered and why?” Loffredo asked.

Perhaps it was the hour and the wine, but Serafina was beginning to feel lightheaded. “I believe the mastermind is one of these four—the baron, his son, della Trabia, or Don Tigro.” She cringed saying the don’s name. “And it goes without saying that whoever arranged for Lady Caterina’s death had Reggio killed because he knew too much, and he’ll try to kill whoever else gets in his way.”

There was a long silence, but she saw Rosa holding out her glass for more wine, smiling into Umbrello’s eyes and nodding.

“The motive?” Loffredo asked.

“She was poisoned because she found out about the smuggling and was a threat to its continuance without causing a lot of, what to call it, a lot of confusion, pleading, and pain.”

“Why not just say she got in the way?” Rosa asked.

“Perfect. But I’ve no proof of that yet.”

“She’s a wizard. She makes leaps, then discovers proof,” Rosa said, looking at Umbrello.

“First, the baron.” Loffredo said.

Serafina closed her eyes, carefully choosing her words. “What puzzles me about him is that while we may not think much of him as a man, we do know that Geraldo cherished his wife. About the only emotions I’ve seen from him, other than his anger, have been his desolation because of the baroness’s death and his sheer joy around Adriana. I confess, I have a hard time believing that he murdered Lady Caterina. Of course, there is the possibility …” Serafina trailed off, considering something.

Rosa tapped Serafina’s shoulder. “Don’t leave us yet. Finish your thought.”

Serafina continued. “There is the possibility that the baron is a consummate actor and that what he feels when it comes to his wife, is remorse for having murdered her. If so, he has me fooled.”

Rosa disagreed. “Actors have feelings in abundance. Not much of it coursing through Geraldo’s blood; he is a child when it comes to emotion. But I agree: he grieves for his wife.”

Umbrello nodded, smiling at Rosa. “I would have to agree. After her death, he sank into himself. I thought he’d never recover.”

“From the little I know of the man, I’d say he does not respond well to the emotions of others; has no sense of what another feels; does not want to know,” Loffredo said. “Take, for instance, his meeting tonight with the servants. He had no idea what his servants were feeling.”

“Good point,” Serafina said.

“Typical aristocrat,” Rosa said, then stopped herself and looked at Loffredo. Realizing what she’d said, her face flushed. “I didn’t mean …”

“Of course not,” Loffredo said.

“What about the son?” Rosa asked. “No love lost between him and the mother.”

“He’s another mystery,” Serafina said. “Remember, he was in Genoa and Scotland during her illness. He claims he was abroad at the time of her funeral.”

Rosa quaffed the last of her wine. “He didn’t try to hide his hatred for his mother during our meeting yesterday, remember? He’s a sour soul. Did you watch him at dinner? Didn’t say two words to anyone.”

“He said three words to me,” Loffredo said, finishing his glass. “But I know what you mean, and I agree. He seems …”

“Like a child at dinner tonight cutting up his food—his poor wife.” Rosa blotted her lips. “Of course, you can’t blame him: the food was atrocious and no dessert. We looked but couldn’t find anything in the kitchen.”

“He’s always like that,” Umbrello said.

“I think I saw him, or someone of his bearing, talking with della Trabia and Doucette,” Serafina said. “I can’t be certain. The light was failing, and I was on the roof— they were on the ground near della Trabia’s house.”

“You went up there again?” Loffredo asked. “After you’d nearly been thrown off by an attacker?”

“Not alone, I was with Rosa.”

“Fina …” Loffredo stopped, seeming to search the room for the right words. “I’ve no right to say anything. You are a marvel of a sleuth, but you know how much I would hate it if …” Eyes lowered, he rubbed his hands and shook his head. “I know you’re brave—we all know it—but you are in danger. Come to think of it, we all are in peril—you and Rosa, especially. You escaped once; the next time, you won’t. What if Doucette goes to the killer, tells him you know that the baroness was poisoned, asks for more money because she’s kept her mouth shut?”

Serafina shook her head. “I think she’s so frightened, she just wants to quit the house and be rid of this whole chapter in her life. I’d bet she’s not planning a trip to Prizzi, not at all. She wants to be on that steamer to France.”

Rosa squirmed in her chair. “What Serafina means is, no more trips to the roof, she promises.”

Serafina looked at Loffredo and nodded. “I promise.”

There was a momentary pause, Renata looking from Serafina to Loffredo, before Rosa spoke. “If you saw all of them together—della Trabia, Doucette, and Naldo—they might be in league, the
gabelloto
taking orders from the son, not the baron.”

“So although he was elsewhere during his mother’s illness, Naldo could be the mastermind of his mother’s murder, managing others into carrying out his orders,” Loffredo said.

Serafina nodded. “Della Trabia said something strange yesterday, I didn’t quite follow him, but now it makes sense.” Serafina pushed her glass aside, rooted in her purse for her notebook, and flipped around in its pages. She stuck a triumphant finger in the air. “I’ve found it! He was talking about the ship, something about the hold—refrigeration—saying he didn’t know much about it yet. I wondered at the time why the baron’s
gabelloto
was so interested in the ship, unless his management extends to the wharf.”

“I don’t think so,” Loffredo said. “Arcangelo said he saw some of Don Tigro’s thugs lurking about the ship.”

“Yes, and he’s one of the suspects because, first, we know the baroness did not like him,” Serafina said. “She referred to ‘the red fox’ in one of her journal entries. And second, because wherever he is, there is crime.”

“That’s his nickname in Oltramari,” Rosa explained to Umbrello, who nodded and said he’d heard it used in Bagheria, too.

“And I don’t trust him, not at all, but the problem I have is that I just can’t see Doucette doing his bidding.” There he was again—Don Tigro. Would she ever be free of him? “So I still don’t know what role he plays in all of this.”

“Protection of the docks, I’ll wager,” Rosa said.

Serafina’s heart bolted. “But does he know about the contraband?”

No one answered. It was late, Serafina knew, and she was having trouble keeping the conversation on topic. She wanted to be alone with Loffredo, but she had more to learn.

“And speaking of sons,” Renata said. “I don’t know how important this is, but …”

“Tell us, of course it’s important,” Serafina said.

“Mima has this theory that Genoveffa and her son were … close.”

“You mean lovers?” Rosa asked.

Renata blushed. “Yes. And she said the baron put a stop to it and that began all of her son’s problems.”

“Very interesting,” Serafina said. “So Domenico bears a grudge.”

“His mother called it ‘a smoldering resentment.’”

Umbrello yawned.

Renata squirmed. “Mima asked me to make some sweets, and I did. I was just finishing when della Trabia came, and we all know what happened then.”

Rosa held a hand to her forehead. “I didn’t have enough food at dinner—I might not make it through the night.”

Umbrello smiled at Rosa. “There’s always the cold fish.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” Renata said. “I’ll go down and whip up something.”

Serafina shook her head. “Not by yourself you won’t! We’ll all go.”

In the Kitchen

T
he
y locked their rooms, taking their new keys with them, waiting on the landing for Umbrello whose room was on the floor above theirs. In a few moments, he met them on the landing and, jingling his keys, said, “If there’s a balcony in your room, we must secure it.”

Rosa rolled her eyes in Renata’s direction.

Loffredo looked at the women. “I should have thought of this before now.” Loffredo and Umbrello went into all of the women’s rooms and made sure their balcony doors were secure. As she stood waiting for them, Serafina overheard Umbrello say, “Nothing in this house is secure, but now they are as safe as they can be.”

They wound down to the kitchen, Serafina swiping a few olives from the barrel, and sat around one of the long butcher block tables, watching as Renata baked a large pastry and boiled some caffè. Rosa served, cutting huge slabs of cake for everyone.

Serafina let the others talk while Loffredo poured coffee and brandy. She began eating, surprised at just how hungry she was. As she ate, she rehearsed in her head the main events of her stay. It was the end of another day, long past midnight, and thank the Madonna, they’d be leaving this joyless villa tomorrow. She missed her home, missed her children, the noise, the fights, all of it, pictured with a pang Totò wiping her kiss from his face. But unless this wrapping up presented her mind with more of a conclusion, she’d be leaving without knowing how she was going to catch this band of killers. She thought of her mother reciting Shakespeare and wrinkling her nose, “If it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all.”

“Mima’s afraid of something,” Renata said in response to Loffredo, who had asked her what she thought of the cook.

From his point of view, he told them, he thought that the woman bordered on hysteria last night.

Serafina rooted in her bag and brought out her notebook.

“The cook’s beside herself, all right. Something dodgy’s going on,” Rosa said. “She’s got the look that guilty people have when they fear they’re about to be caught.”

“Not necessarily,” Serafina said.

“She wasn’t this way yesterday afternoon,” Renata said. “As a matter of fact, she seemed relieved when Reggio was dismissed, agreeing with those who said that it was about time he’d been given notice. Apparently he had a habit of disappearing whenever there was work to do, leaving his portion for others to pick up, but oddly enough, she became crazed when she learned of his death.”

“How did she hear about it?”

“Long before the baron told us, that’s for sure.” Renata frowned. “In the afternoon, I think it was, when Domenico came in and told us.”

“Now you’ve lost me.” Rosa forked a piece of cake into her mouth and swallowed. “Too many servants by half.” She cut the rest of the cake into five pieces and took another slice.

“Domenico is Mima’s son,” Umbrello said, helping himself to a second piece. “Excess baggage if you ask me. Works for the groom.”

Serafina ran through her notes, wiping the corners of her mouth, and read what the groom had said about him, not flattering at all. “And the story Renata told us about Domenico and Genoveffa could be an illusion, could be that a mother’s love has blinded her, but I think it’s an exaggeration of a childhood flirtation and there’s a thread of truth to it.”

Renata continued her story. “He came into the kitchen, picking up vegetables with his grubby hands and stuffing them into his mouth. Asked to speak with his mother. She went to her desk, and I guess he told her then about Reggio’s death because she let out a wail and began carrying on, grabbing on to her son and telling him not to leave her side. Like a wild woman, I’ve never seen a person change so quickly. One minute, in charge of her world; the next, a feral creature. That’s when she begged me to stay—‘you can’t leave, no, you mustn’t leave, not now, no, just when we’ve started, so many recipes to share and the techniques of the
monzù
you must show me’—it was creepy to see the change.”

“Do you think we should tell the woman that her tea was laced?” Rosa asked.

“Not on your life,” Serafina said.

“Laced?” Renata’s eyes widened.

“Of course—you weren’t there. Rosa realized something was wrong when no dessert appeared last night, so we went down to the kitchen and found Mima.”

“Pacing and carrying on,” Rosa said through the cake. She swallowed the rest of her coffee.

“But like I said, I made a cassata before I left. I didn’t have time to ice it.”

“Well, it wasn’t there after dinner. Believe me, I searched.” Rosa patted her hair and looked at Umbrello, who nodded.

“We all looked for it. I, for one, was still hungry. The food was, well, ordinary tonight,” Loffredo said.

“Mima was hysterical this evening.” Serafina paused to take a bite of cake. “At one point, we sat her down at her desk, trying to calm her. She asked for her tea which was sitting next to her—”

Renata nodded. “She always leaves a cup of tea on her desk and from time to time stops what she’s doing, goes over, and takes a sip. Automatic with her.”

Serafina reached out and held Renata’s wrist. “Think, now. Who was in the kitchen who shouldn’t have been?”

Renata worried her lip and sat, sipped her coffee. “Domenico and of course—”

“Della Trabia!”

“Anyone else?”

“Not while I was there.” Renata slapped a hand on her heart. “Thursday night the baron and his son came down to compliment Mima on the dinner, but that was a full-course dinner, with the bishop and all.” She canted her eyes, remembering, then looked down at her plate and ate a forkful of cake, pushing her plate away.

“Renata looked so much like you just then,” Rosa smiled at Serafina. “Let’s hope she picks up your ease with—”

Serafina threw her friend a sharp look. “Don’t say it! Not true, not always. Take the baron, for instance. If it weren’t for your presence, charming him, he’d have thrown us out ten minutes after we arrived. And the gardener, too, remember?”

Rosa said, “That’s because you’re afraid of them.”

“Am not!”

“Sometimes you are, but none of them scare me. Men, that is.” Rosa folded her arms and shot Serafina another rancid smile.