Death In Bagheria (A Serafina Florio Mystery) (29 page)

H
ome Again

Sunday, March 27, 1870

“I
p
icked up Giulia from the contessa’s studio, and we rode the train together,” Carlo said, coming into the dining room and walking over to cuff Totò’s ear. “We’re here to surprise you. Wouldn’t miss your mass tomorrow.” Looking at his watch, he corrected himself. “Today.”

Serafina rose from the dessert
table and kissed them both while Carlo took Giulia’s cape and Vicenzu brought two more chairs. As it was, they were still short a chair, so Tessa had to sit on Rosa’s lap. While they waited for Renata to cut two more slices of the cassata—Carlo’s favorite, as it turned out, dripping with sweetened ricotta and marmalade—Serafina looked at her middle daughter. Giulia was radiant in a rose watered silk, the finishing of her dress exquisite with organdy overskirts gathered to form a bustle in the back. Little wonder, she was the designer at a house of fashion in Palermo. By contrast, the clothes that Serafina and her other daughters wore were dated, especially Carmela’s, whose dress was frayed at the hem and spotted with who knew what, no doubt from caring for the garden and the children. She recalled with a start Rosa’s words earlier, scolding Serafina for disregarding her oldest daughter, and her attention was snagged up in the memory until someone handed her a plate of cake and Carlo, charming as usual, shook hands with Loffredo and sat on the other side of Serafina.

While they ate, Serafina told her son about her most recent case.

“What I don’t understand is how we were duped by the baron. I never once figured him and Doucette for lovers, and I still can’t see it,” Rosa said. “He has the sexual drive of an ancient eunuch. I wonder if the servants suspected?”

“Only the ones he got rid of,” Serafina said. “But I’m the wizard, and he had me utterly fooled. I was sure he loved his wife.”

“Let me understand something,” Carlo said, stealing a large piece of dessert from Serafina’s plate and swilling it down with marsala, “this baron fellow murdered his wife because he was afraid she’d expose his smuggling.” He looked around the table at his audience, making sure they were listening, spied Teo, Totò, and Maria in rapt attention. “He enlisted the help of a French what-to-call-her and together they had the baroness poisoned; then he killed his daughter, a nun, days before the terms of her dowry took effect, because she realized her mother had been poisoned. But as luck would have it, he was killed by his son, whether by accident or not, moments before he and his friend were to escape.”

“Trust Carlo to get it right,” Rosa said.

“Trust Carlo to have enough wind to say it in one mouthful,” Serafina said.

“Trust Carlo to leave out all the human complications, the fascinating detail that make life so mysterious and beautiful,” Carmela said, taking a bite of cake.

“Who did the baron get to do his dirty work—the mafia?” Carlo asked.

Serafina shook her head. “Don Tigro told me that he is involved with the baron, but only to protect his ships in Bagheria.”

“He told you that, and you believed him?” Carlo asked. “The don’s underboss is the baron’s
gabelloto
.”

“Della Trabia? How do you know this?” Serafina felt her head throb.

He shrugged. “It’s the rumor.”

“Don Tigro
was
involved with the baron, you mean,” Rosa said. “And speaking of della Trabia, I meant to tell you, no one knows where he is.”

“Says who?”

“Says Umbrello. I spoke to him briefly tonight, and he said that Della Trabia didn’t show up for the baron’s Saturday meeting. They hadn’t seen him all afternoon. Umbrello told me that Naldo wound up paying della Trabia’s men.”

Serafina was silent, the activity of the day beginning to wear her out. Instead, she focused on what she knew for certain. “The baron’s henchman is an unfortunate soul who—”

“‘Unfortunate soul’?” Loffredo cried. “He slowly poisoned the baroness by dressing as a priest and feeding her a tainted wafer; he nearly threw you over the roof in a drenching rain; he strangled a nun, a woman he claimed he’d loved since childhood; he would have whipped us to death tonight if Arcangelo and the
carabinieri
hadn’t tackled him—and you call him unfortunate?” He smiled, kissed her cheek, and her children stared at him in silence while Aunt Giuseppina, who had been quiet ever since arriving with Maria earlier that evening, looked down at her plate of half-finished cake, clutching her throat, a maidenly blush filling her cheeks.

“The man is quite mad,” Rosa said. “He’d been in love with Genoveffa ever since they were children.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Carlo asked.

“He’s the cook’s son,” Renata explained, wiping her hands and taking her seat at the table beside Badali. She turned to him, and they began talking in low tones, heads together, a healthy color in her cheeks.

“An impossible love affair that’s been going on for years, ever since he and Genoveffa were young, the groom told me,” Serafina said. She and Loffredo exchanged looks. “The love affair, of course, was all in his mind, a fabrication, and I could never prove it, but I believe he is the one who pushed Ernesto off the roof.”

Rosa raised her brows, slowly nodding her head. “Makes sense.” She and Serafina told them about the accident.

Totò was making faces at Tessa, and Teo was busy shining his knucklebones, stealing glances at Maria.

Aunt Giuseppina rose. Shooting a sour look at Serafina, she said, “If the children will please follow me, Maria will be delighted to give you a concert, won’t you, my dear?”

Teo brightened, smiling at Maria, who, hugging her score, pretended not to notice, but just the same, Serafina saw the slight bounce in her youngest daughter’s steps. Totò welcomed any excuse to leave the table, and they trailed out of the room. Giulia, looking wan, excused herself, and Carmela, hearing Nunzio’s cry, went to tuck him into bed.

“The cook told me that Genoveffa led him on when they were young, and he never got over her,” Renata said. “And the shock of her betrothal left his mind quite addled.”

When he wasn’t looking, Serafina grabbed Carlo’s glass of marsala and took a sip. “So he could have been the one who pushed Ernesto off the roof.”

“You might be right,” Rosa said.

“The baron and Doucette must have stirred up Domenico’s wildness, and tonight he met Genoveffa in the sacristy, pleaded for her love, and when she refused, he strangled her.”

“How do you know all of this?” Carlo asked.

“She’s a wizard,” Rosa said.

“I added up the pieces, thanks to Teo and Totò.” Serafina told him about the argument the two boys overheard in the sacristy.

“Umbrello told me that Domenico’s been a problem for a long time, going from job to job on the estate, the baron reluctant to send him packing because his mother and father have worked for the family for such a long time. But what makes more sense is that he became indispensable to the baron, who used him to do his killing.”

Carlo looked at Serafina, then at Loffredo, and finished his last morsel of cake.

“We found Genoveffa lying on the floor of the Duomo, her body not yet cold. And all the while, Domenico, it turned out, was in the choir loft,” Loffredo said.

“He wanted to be caught,” Serafina said.

A cry of protest went up from Rosa, who reminded her of Domenico’s animal cunning.

Loffredo shook his head. “He escaped our clutches in the church. No one could hold him. It was as if he had the strength of ten men. And it was only much later in the villa’s stable when we came upon him that we succeeded in subduing him. I’ll not forget the sight of him, his eyes darting back and forth while polishing a loaded gun with a piece of starched cloth.”

“The missing piece of Genoveffa’s wimple,” Serafina said. “I hope the
carabinieri
took it with them.”

Badali spoke for the first time. “Standard procedure. They’d take the gun and the polishing cloth and anything else in his immediate vicinity.”

“Speaking of missing pieces, whatever happened to his gold earring?”

“Who knows? I heard it clatter over the side after I pulled it off his lobe. An intriguing costume, but a horrid disguise—quite the opposite. In fact, the earring helped me to remember where I’d seen him—in the piazza right before Genoveffa’s journal was stolen. And it certainly was a liability during the attack—it helped me to subdue him.”

Turning to Badali, Loffredo said, “When we first arrived, he lashed out with his whip. We could see from the beginning that he was quite mad. One of your men talked softly to him while the other went round and grabbed him, but it took all four of us to capture him. We could have used that bottle of laudanum Arcangelo gave me.”

Carlo perked up at the mention of the medicine. “I hear trafficking in opium is happening all over and the harbor police have their hands full,” Carlo said.

“And probably have their hands in the till, too,” Rosa said.

Carlo nodded. “Families are making fortunes. I’ll bet the don has burrowed into that part of the baron’s business.”

“He says not,” Serafina said.

“Of course, that’s what he’d say.” Carlo finished his marsala. “How could he be protecting the baron’s ships and not know what’s going into the hold? I don’t understand why you always believe him.”

The accusation stung Serafina. Did she believe Don Tigro because there was a chance he was her half-sibling or because she was too fearful of incurring his wrath? Either way, she was damned; her quest for truth and justice had its limitations, but she was too happy, and it was too late.

“What I don’t understand is why the cook’s son stayed in the church. Daft, if you ask me,” Rosa said. “He sat there waiting to be caught.”

“After we captured Domenico, we asked him what he was doing in the loft, and he told us an angel commanded him to watch over his bride,” Loffredo said.

“Had she been violated?” Carlo asked.

Loffredo shrugged. “The autopsy will tell us. She’d been strangled, that much is clear.”

Serafina looked at Carlo. “What a question!”

“I’m hungry for every detail,” he said, looking at Carmela, who had come back into the room rolling her eyes.

“You? Details?” Carmela asked.

“He’s the one who’ll hang, by the way,” Carlo said, slicing himself another piece of cake.

“Who?”

“Domenico. Naldo, now a baron, will be out this evening. What he did defied his father and saved his little sister.”

“I wonder what will happen to Doucette,” Serafina said.

“The baron’s French—”

“Don’t say it!”

Carlo swung his neck from side to side. “I don’t know, but I can only guess. If the baron were alive, she’d never see the inside of a jail, so her fate depends on Naldo.”

“Doucette’s depends on Doucette, make no mistake of that. A conniver, that one,” Rosa said.

“How would you know?” Serafina asked. “You spoke one or two words.”

The madam pursed her lips. “Two: hello, goodbye. It was enough.”

“And the child?” Loffredo asked.

“What child?” Carlo asked.

“Adriana, the baron’s youngest child,” Serafina said. “My guess is that Naldo and his wife will raise her along with their own children. No doubt he and his family will spend the season in Villa Caterina.”

“Is anyone going to eat that last piece?” Carlo asked.

“Your son has appetites,” Rosa said.

Everyone was silent. Serafina could hear a Scarlatti sonata coming from the parlor. It was after two in the morning, but she didn’t want the evening to end, and wondered how she could contrive to sleep with Loffredo. For the moment, she was glad to remain at the table sitting next to him with her family gathered around. When Assunta came to the table with a fresh pot of coffee, Serafina took another cup, and Vicenzu poured more marsala.

There was a knock on the door.

“At this hour? Must be one of your friends,” Serafina said.

Carlo went to answer it.

“I hope I’m not too late.”

At the sound of his voice, Rosa sprang to her feet and hugged Umbrello, who took a seat next to her. Assunta brought another plate of food while Vicenzu filled Umbrello’s wine glass.

“Shortly after the police took Naldo and Doucette away, the coroner came for the baron. The Prizzi housekeeper arrived, and they’ve taken Adriana to her grandfather’s, so there was no reason for my staying.”

After finishing a large helping of pasta con le sarde, gulping his wine, Umbrello said, “They found della Trabia.”

“And what did he have to say for himself?” Serafina asked. “He often went missing, Lina told us.”

Umbrello looked at his empty plate. “He’s dead. They found him in the orchard, sitting underneath a lemon tree, one bullet in his forehead, one hand holding his severed tongue.”

Around the table, the silence lingered. Serafina couldn’t, wouldn’t think about della Trabia or his dreams or the don. Instead, she looked at Loffredo. In the parlor, her daughter was playing something gentle. She imagined her children gathered around the piano, long since through with listening, lulled into a state that was akin to peace but was, really, a kind of stupor—Teo idly thumbing through a book, Tessa watching him through half-closed lids, Totò playing with Teo’s knucklebones, his eyes heavy, unable to admit he wanted his bed.

The
L
etters

I
n the end, Serafina was too tired to go to Loffredo’s, so she invited him to stay, and they made good use of the bed. Afterward, while he kissed her neck and held her tight, he said, “I received a letter from Paris today.”

Stunned, she had nothing to say at first, remembering her unopened letter.

“She wants me to come for a visit, a small one. ‘I’d like to show you off to my friends, you understand, dear heart, so don’t deny me this one request.’”

“When will you leave?” she asked.

“There’s more,” Loffredo said. “She said she’s heard we’re lovers. ‘My friends tell me I should redraw the will, but I care for you.’ I know her so well, you see. She means to frighten me.”

Serafina closed her eyes feigning sleep, waiting until she heard his breathing become regular. For a time, she sat on the edge of the bed. Picking up one of the boots that earlier she’d thrown off in her haste to undress, she laced and unlaced it, before discarding it again, trying to forget the stone in her heart, vowing she would not let tears roll down her cheeks. She flung on her kimono, tiptoed up to her mother’s room, and read Elena’s letter.

When she returned, she doused her candle and slipped into bed. Loffredo was asleep facing the wall, and she glued herself to him, wrapping her arms around his waist and holding on as if she’d never let him go.

He stirred.

“In my letter, Elena vowed there would never be a divorce, that if we were to continue in our sin—that’s the word she used—she would cut off all funds to you.”

He sat up and forked a hand through his curls, a look of incredulity on his face. Throwing on his borrowed nightshirt, he stood and faced her.

For one bitter moment, Serafina thought he was going to leave, and she remembered Carmela’s words, “Men grow tired of us, they all do.” She heard the house settling, the hollow sounds of the sea.

Instead, he strode to the windows, threw open the shutters. Fresh air and first light filled the room.

“Come here, Fina.”

He drew her to him and kissed her forehead. “Let the dawn witness that I love you; I’ve always loved you; I’ve never been as certain of anything else.”

They kissed as if for the first time.

The End