Death In Bagheria (A Serafina Florio Mystery) (9 page)

The Cook

S
erafina and Rosa made their way through the oven room with its massive stone hearth and roasting pit, down several steps and through a grilled entryway leading to the kitchen. They walked through a small foyer with a round table and chairs, a room for the servants’ visitors, Serafina assumed, the trim painted shiny white like the rest of the rooms below stairs, the walls newly washed in ochre and hung with prints and drawings of country kitchen scenes. They passed through the servants’ refectory and into the main room, a high-ceilinged cavernous space tiled from floor to ceiling and containing the kitchen hearth and spit and several ovens.

Copper utensils hung from hooks suspended over a main working table. In a small nook, strands of onion and garlic hung overhead, and beneath them in a corner stood a large barrel. Serafina stopped and plunged the dipper in to retrieve several olives, popping them into her mouth. Two scullery maids were busy polishing brass bowls, and the pot-boy was scouring the stoves. On a near wall stood a slate sink with running water, and at the workbench, another maid, with Renata’s supervision, added the finishing touches to a cassata while a fourth prepared a silver tray for afternoon collation.

When she saw Serafina, Renata stopped what she was doing, smiled, pointed to the corner where a white-haired woman sat. “The cook,” she mouthed and continued with her task.

The cook had close to fifty years, Serafina judged by her sunken eyes and drooping cheeks. Clothed in a pinstriped dress, long white apron and crisp cap, she sat at a chestnut desk, peering through her lorgnette at a piece of vellum. Her eyes were intelligent, her figure, slight; her dress and apron, starched, and she wrote something on linen paper with manicured hands, her pen dipping from time to time into a silver inkwell, her mouth twisting this way and that. After blotting the ink, she stood to welcome them, straightening her shoulders. “Umbrello told me that a detective would want to speak with me about the baroness’s death,” she said and offered a slight smile.

Serafina introduced Rosa and said, “Is this a good time?”

The cook held her arms wide, gesturing either beneficent hospitality or exasperation, Serafina couldn’t tell which. Today was busy in the kitchen, the cook affirmed, what with the extra plates for lunch and the bishop coming tonight for dinner, but she had unexpected help from such a lovely creature, the
monzù’s
pastry chef, if you can imagine, come to pay a special visit, and they were welcome anytime, anytime, most assuredly. The woman’s lips pursed. “Sometimes that girl, ’Veffa, gets ghosts into her head with her far-flung notions.”

“Are you speaking of Genoveffa?” Serafina asked.

“Who else?”

“Did the butler tell you about Genoveffa’s belief that her mother was poisoned? That’s why we’re here, you know.”

The cook nodded, a slight twist to her mouth. “The notions that come into that girl’s head! Same as when she was little. One time I remember, she was convinced there were specters in the attic. Walked around holding the top of her head. Cried for days, the poor little one. Impossible to convince her otherwise, although we all tried, her poor mother most of all, even consulting with the priest. But all of a sudden, faster than you can blink, she didn’t want to hear another word about ghosts or whatnots, mind you—it was as if her fantasies never happened and we were the ones who were wild. So you’re liable to go back home, having found nothing but a perfectly run household, and she, my girl, Genoveffa, haughty as ever, will have forgotten all about her whimsies. Now I ask you, how would a poisoner get into my kitchen?”

“So you are saying the baroness could not have been poisoned?”

“I’m saying my food was not tainted.”

“The poison did not have to be introduced here in the kitchen, but weren’t there many hands involved in the presentation of her food?”

Mima’s brow furrowed. “I suppose so, but by whom and when?”

“By a maid, a footman, the housekeeper—whoever brought food to her,” Rosa suggested.

Serafina shook her head, looking at Rosa. “Not the housekeeper. She’s difficult at first, hard to talk to, a little demanding,” Serafina said.

The cook screwed up her face. “Difficult? Demanding? Not like Genoveffa—haughty, the likes of which you’ve never seen. Gets it from the father. Got that nose pointed to the heavens, does my girl! But when you get to know her, she’s got a heart of gold, I tell you.”

“But what do you think, was the baroness poisoned?”

“I can’t see it,” the cook replied promptly. “Oh, we’re a little lax here, what with footmen having keys and all, but the help adored the baroness. No, try as I may, I cannot abide it.”

Changing the subject, Serafina said, “Your cuisine is unique. My daughter told me so, and the lunch was impeccably prepared and served. And I’m sure, the food you served the baroness was never tainted, not in your kitchen, at any rate. If so, I’d be conducting a far different investigation.”

Gazing from Renata to Serafina, Mima smiled and wrapped Serafina’s hands in hers. “Renata’s mother! Of course! I didn’t know at first! You see, the baron referred to you as an inspector, or some such. But now I see the connection, a likeness in your expression, around the eyes and mouth especially. And you must be Rosa. Renata tells me you’re the family’s best friend. Forgive me, not as sharp as I once was.” Her mouth twisted. Looking at Serafina, she said, “What a talent you have in the home, your Renata. We met this winter over cups of tea and bowls of laughter at the goings on above stairs in all the big houses up and down the shore. We can tell you tall tales, believe you me. Please call me Mima—Mima Scarpanello—married to Pietro, the gardener. You may have seen him,” the woman said.

“Not yet. Della Trabia gave us a brief tour of the citrus groves.”

Shadows crossed Mima’s face at the mention of the
gabelloto’s
name, and Serafina wasn’t sure of the expression in her eyes. Was it a fleeting moment of mistrust or anger, of sorrow and regret, of promises made and broken—or perhaps a more complex emotion, combined and diluted and layered like the fashions of the day? Was it mere dislike of the man or could it be a hate so primal that it was hidden from Mima herself? For after all, Serafina reflected, who knows what we conceal from ourselves? She glanced at Rosa and forced her mind to resurface. In any case, she liked this woman with her buoyant spirits, her sensitive hands and expressive mouth, her inquisitive face.

Mima continued. “And you must meet Domenico, my son. Tends to the mules and horses. Does a smith’s work, you see, and helps the driver with the tack and such and learning to keep the carriages, too. Dreams of being the gardener of a large house just like his father or perhaps even a
gabelloto
. Such a bright boy.”

“Your son’s the groom?” Rosa asked.

“For now, he reports to him, but soon he’ll take over when the groom moves on.” Mima chewed her lip. “Have a seat, both of you, do, please.” She turned to Serafina. “And you, blue shadows under the eyes, my dear. Not enough sleep.” Changing direction yet again, she called out, “Renata, join us, won’t you?” Mima motioned them to chairs around a small table near her desk.

“Oh, we’ve had a delightful day, your daughter and I. We cooks, you know, we need each other’s company. Must do this more often. What can I offer? Caffè? Is the cake finished, darling one? How about a slice for us?”

Serafina shook her head. “We’ve just gotten up from—”

She felt Rosa’s not-so-subtle kick. “If you can steal olives, I can have a piece of cassata. Yes we’ve eaten, a delicious meal, too.”

“Oh, go on. Baron’s orders, you know, serve light on weekdays, he tells me. Needs to keep himself trim, he says to me. So I go light on the richness.” Mima caught a scullery maid’s eye. “Caffè for us and cassata, all around, my little lovely.”

When they were seated, Serafina began. “Excuse me for saying it, but judging from the size of Villa Caterina, I thought we’d find a
monzù
here.”

She felt Renata’s elbow.

Again, a quick succession of emotions crowded the cook’s face. Fear and hurt were replaced by exasperation, then amusement. Mima smiled, showing a full set of strong teeth. “Been with the baron’s family since, oh, many years now. When they first bought this villa—oh, ten, fifteen years ago it must have been—the baroness hired a
monzù
for this place, kept me and my staff in Prizzi, but the baron hated the French style—too fussy, he said, not in those words, mind, but I think he said, too rich, too involved, those were his words, I trust to recall, and the baroness, she tried to train him, but no telling a
monzù
what to do, if you get my drift. Snooty, nose in the air and him trained in Paris, you understand. Didn’t like the baroness, no, not at all. Well, I can tell you,
that
was the kiss of death, yes indeedy, I’ll tell you.”

Mima paused to savor her tale.

“What did Doucette think of him?”

The cook, disconcerted at the mention of the housekeeper’s name, recovered quickly enough. “I’ve no idea, truly. Mind you, she’s not a bad sort, for being a foreigner and all. Been with us for a long enough time. Knows her business. Keeps herself to herself, but she has little business in this kitchen, you’d better believe. Oh, she thinks she runs the place. Good, too, I’ll give her that. But she learned soon enough that she’d better not try to run my kitchen.”

“Are you friends?”

Mima looked at Serafina as if she’d gone round the twist. “She’s the housekeeper and from a different country. Why in the world would we be friends?”

The cook continued with her story of the
monzù
. “So I heard tell, from the butler if you must know, that there was quite a row. Of course, I wasn’t here at the time. Sent him packing, the baroness did, without notice and no reference. Next thing I know, a carriage arrives in Prizzi for me and the word from the butler—I still have the note, mind you—pack your things, Mima my girl, you’re cooking in Bagheria, and bring your family. So now I do all the cooking.”

“When you say ‘we’?”

“There’s a scullery maid, two kitchen maids. If there’s to be a large party, the staff from Prizzi arrives.”

“And how long have you worked for the baron?”

“Been with him ever since his marriage. Before that, me and the gardener worked for Prince Ruffo. We were husband and wife when we walked in the door, so we were like a package, you might say.”

“So let me understand. You were employed by the Di Calebravo family?”

She nodded and continued. “And after Caterina was married to him, we were attached to the baron, and I’ve been with him so long now. I travel with him. For instance, there’s the Palm Sunday dinner when he returns each year to his estate in Prizzi. He’ll take me and Pietro with him.”

“And Domenico?”

“He stays here,” the cook said, looking at her hands. “He has an importance now. I don’t mean to brag because he’s my son, but the baron understands his importance and wants Domenico working here in Bagheria at all times.” Mima looked at Serafina, and her eyes sparkled.

Rosa had been quiet, eying a cassata on the work table. “Permit me, Mima, is the cake your handiwork?”

“We made the cassata, the kitchen maid and I,” Renata said. “We’ll serve it at tea, I believe, with permission from the cook, of course.”

Mima shrugged. “As I may have hinted, I’ve kept my employ because of the purity of my table. Lady Caterina’s favorite dishes were my fish specialties, and I made them specifically for her. Loved doing it, and I spared the oil. She liked her fish steamed.”

Rosa frowned, no doubt at the thought of tasteless entrées.

The cook continued. “La baronessa had difficulty with a rich diet—had a delicate stomach poor girl, ever since I knew her—and that’s another reason why I hold no truck with Genoveffa’s fancy notions. The baroness suffered from her stomach ever since I can remember, even as a child.”

As the cook droned on, Serafina saw a flash of gold behind the olive barrel. She smiled, half-listening to the cook, who was in the middle of another non-stop sentence.

“Back to the
monzù
, forgive me, but his cuisine, like that cassata, is too rich for the baron, certainly for daily food, and the baroness got rid of the
monzù
. But I’m so happy to have your daughter here, and perhaps she can pick up a few tips from my kitchen. You’d all be healthier for it, if I say so myself.”

Rosa looked at Serafina with one corner of her mouth hitched up.

While the cook continued with her banter, Serafina’s thoughts raced. What did she think of the woman? Passable at her craft, but then she cooked for the baron, and she wasn’t surprised by the blandness of his taste. Autocratic, like most cooks, except, of course, for Renata. And blind: blind about her son, blind regarding the distinct possibility that the baroness was poisoned; unwilling to open her mind to it or to consider the opinion of others. In sum, Serafina pitied her daughter for having to spend most of her time with Mima. However, she did not consider the cook a suspect, far from it: Mima idolized the baroness whom she had served for most of her life.

As they were walking out of the main room, Rosa said she wanted to find the butler because he promised to tell her more about the gazebo, and Serafina stopped in front of the olive barrel, motioning to Renata. “Thank you for your noble work here, my darling. I’m afraid there is no way I can ease your task, but I need your eyes down here. We’ll leave as soon as possible Saturday morning. Have you met Queen Marie Sofie?” she asked, whisking her hand behind the barrel and pulling out Adriana, who bowed. “This is my daughter,” she told the child.

Adriana squinted up at Serafina. “Are you ready for me yet?” she asked.

Serafina nodded, charmed by the child, who had a poise beyond her years.

While she ran up the stairs, Serafina followed at a slower pace, stopping to admire the paintings on each landing.

On the top, Adriana looked down, waiting patiently for a few minutes, then leading Serafina to a room adjoining the nursery. Her bedroom was in the garret, a large space, charming by comparison to the rest of the house with its heavy rococo decoration. It was done up in pale green with orange accents.

“Who decorated this room—it’s lovely!” Serafina said.

“Me.”

There was a small bed in the corner, filled with dolls and a trunk at the foot.

“See all my costumes?”

“Lucky you,” Serafina said, plucking several outfits from the chest—capes and veils, mantels, old shoes. “Genoveffa told me you spend most of your time with your grandfather.”