Susan Russo Anderson

Death of a Serpent

Part One

October 7-22, 1866

Bella’s Body

Sunday, October 7, 1866

Serafina Florio saw the soul leave its body, a shadow hovering over the corpse, sliding up the stucco before vanishing. “Poor woman,” she muttered. She swallowed hard.

She should have been used to death by now. Sicily was smothering in bodies. They rotted in the fields of war, swelled cholera pits, lined the streets after an uprising.

She heard Rosa’s sobs and wrapped her arms around her friend. Afternoon light freighted with the sea slashed the three figures.

The victim lay on the rear stoop facing upward, torso turned to the side. She was clothed in a traveling suit of fine wool detailed in velvet, not at all the costume of a prostitute. The coils of her chestnut hair were undone. Where were her gloves? Her hat? Her reticule?

In a face so still, the mouth was a rictus of surprise. There was a cut in the center of her forehead. A dark stain seeped through the bodice on the left side. One arm was flung outward, the fingers curled.

Serafina lifted the skirt just enough to reveal a layer of taffeta over lace petticoats. The taffeta, she knew, was for effect: a woman wearing a stiff underskirt crinkled when she walked, inviting eyes to turn in her direction. Noticing that the hem was damp, she closed her eyes, breathed in deep. She smelled seaweed. The woman’s boots were caked in sand. Serafina crossed herself.

“Oh, my sweet girl!” Rosa slid her eyes to the ceiling and wailed.

Serafina handed her a clean linen. “You sent for Inspector Colonna?”

Rosa nodded. “Dr. Loffredo, too. But stay here.” She buried her head on Serafina’s shoulder. “With me the longest, Bella.” She wept. “Sewed our garments, she did. Saved enough coins to follow her dream of dressmaking. Now she’s dead.”

Serafina patted Rosa’s black ringlets. She heard voices in the hall.

Swaying on splayed feet, Inspector Colonna lumbered in, holding his fedora, followed by two uniformed men and the artist.

Colonna’s good eye strayed to Rosa’s décolleté. “The body, found when?”

“This morning. My best girl lies here, snatched from life, the third one in three months.” Rosa glared at him.

Colonna opened his mouth to speak, but Dr. Loffredo appeared in the doorway carrying his satchel, accompanied by two hooded figures.

“Wait for my signal,” the doctor said to the stretcher bearers. Loffredo’s face, long and noble, creased in a half smile as he greeted the two women. His eyes gravitated to Serafina.

The two policemen stood on the stoop near the dead woman while the artist sketched. Serafina bit the inside of her cheek as Colonna bent, butt out, to the body. After a moment he rose, motioned to his men. They slouched down the stairs, stopping first to speak with Rosa’s caretaker. Serafina watched while they began their walk around the house.

• • •

The inspector’s gaze moved from Rosa, seated at her desk, to the bottle of grappa on a credenza behind her. He, Dr. Loffredo, and Serafina faced the madam.

Loffredo said, “Bella died by a single wound to the heart. Very little bleeding. Death, instantaneous.”

“Like the others?” Serafina asked.

The doctor nodded. “All three victims were killed by the same hand. Wounds almost identical. The killer wields a deadly knife, his placement of the blade, exquisite-clean, deep, accurate.”

Rosa pressed a linen to her mouth.

Serafina lowered her gaze. She should be enjoying the day with her family, but how could she leave Rosa?

Loffredo continued. “All three bodies were moved, I’d say, at least three or four hours after death: rigor mortis was broken,” he said.

Serafina saw the black hoods bear the body away.

Loffredo pointed to the stoop outside Rosa’s office door. “All three bodies were found in the same spot.”

“Deliberate, I’d say,” Serafina said.

“My dear, leave police business to us.” Colonna played with one end of his mustache. He slewed his eyes to the grappa.

Rosa said, “This time the viper bites my soul. Bella, my favorite, a friend. Her death, such a shock, so I sent for Fina to give me comfort.” She eyed Colonna. “But you could use her help. You’ve had three months to catch this killer without success. No leads, no hope, no nothing.”

Colonna’s face mottled. “It could be the work of-”

“Never! Not the work of Don Tigro. Pay him every month, I do.” Rosa poured him a grappa. “Marsala?” she asked Loffredo and Serafina.

They shook their heads.

“And the time of death?” Serafina asked.

The inspector downed his drink, opened his mouth.

“If I might answer Donna Fina’s question,” Dr. Loffredo said. “I’d say very late last night or early this morning, sometime before first light, but that’s a guess. I’m hoping the autopsy will tell me more.”

“The mark on the forehead?” Serafina asked.

Loffredo shrugged. “A spiral of some sort. The same carving appeared on the first two women. I couldn’t guess its meaning.”

“The calling card of a wild one,” Rosa said.

“The bodies of the first two victims, had they been…?” Serafina’s voice trailed off.

Loffredo shook his head. “No fresh bruises or other cuts on the bodies, other than the demon brand. No abuse of their flesh by their killer.”

“But how can you be certain?” Colonna asked. “We are dealing with fallen women.”

“My dear inspector, leave the medical business to me.”

After the men left, Rosa said, “I must bear the news to Nittù.”

“Nittù?”

“Bella’s father. Turi drives us.”

• • •

Swaying on plush seats, Serafina was silent. She looked out the window, marveling at the craggy hills, the sparkle of the sea.

In August, after the killing of her women began, Rosa hired five more guards. They surrounded the coach, two still wearing faded red shirts from Garibaldi’s campaign.

As the carriage picked up speed, Serafina’s mind wandered to the time of her mother’s illness, the news of her sister’s and cousins’ deaths the same week, the family’s helplessness. Caskets lined the piazza, many of them flimsy boxes slapped together. Nobles, merchants, peasants-no class escaped cholera morbus. And after the condolences, the funerals, the prayers in the cemetery, came the agony of quarantine.

The memory pitched her once again into that flat, dead landscape Giorgio called grief. Serafina didn’t know what to call it-only wished it would go away. She stared out the window in an effort to dispel her mood, but with the scent of orange peel and lavender came the image of her dying mother. Serafina heard her speak.

“He’s your half-brother. Are you listening?”

“No need to explain,” Serafina said.

“Your father, away for months in the north. And I? I was lonely.”

“Pray with me.” She wiped her mother’s brow.

“A man from the next village knocked. Middle of the night,” Maddalena said, her breathing labored. “He told me, ‘Bourbon bastards brought me to your door. My sister’s in labor. Cries out. Too hard to bear.’ “

“You’re having a fantasy.”

“He took me to his home. Like the wind we rode. I see the fields, smell oranges in moonlight.”

“Enough!”

“Young girl, twelve, thirteen, lay on rumpled linen, sharp smell of blood. Lying there, a child she was, dead, the infant, stillborn.” She stopped for breath.

“Hush, my sweet.” Serafina dried her mother’s cheeks with a cloth. “No more bad thoughts. Think instead of the women you’ve saved, the infants you’ve birthed. The good times. My wedding day, remember?” Blue, her mother’s lips. “And Papa took you in his arms and you danced. The guests clapped. How you loved Papa. You’ve had a dream, that’s all, a bad dream.”

She held her mother’s hand.

“Hear me.” Maddalena’s breath was ragged. “Afterward, the man and I, we sat in his kitchen. Wept together, found comfort in each other, became friends. More. Hid my condition, delivered the boy myself.”

Bones clutched Serafina’s arm. “Never told your papa. Away he was, teaching in Turin. Worked hard for us…loved me. I took the infant to Mother Concetta. God, forgive me, so hard, oh please forgive me.”

“Nonsense, nothing to forgive. I love you, sweet Mama, forever.”

“Remember him?” she asked. “Remember the boy with hair like ours? Concetta said the priest named him Tigro.”

“No one else knows this?”

“She kept my secret.”

Serafina heard a sound like the wheezing of bellows. Her mother had used up all her words.

The image vaporized.

Closing her eyes, Serafina made a conscious effort to forget her dying mother’s secret, an hallucination, she was sure.

• • •

With the bend in the road, Serafina hung onto her seat.

“Help me find the killer,” Rosa said. “You’re a wizard. You saw Colonna. He does nothing.”

She was surprised by the madam’s request. “Let me think. I need to think. My family. My children. I need to spend more time with them.”

Rosa sniffed into her handkerchief.

Serafina had never seen Rosa like this. They met as children when Serafina’s mother, summoned to the house for a birthing, brought her daughter along. ‘Best way to learn midwifery,’ her mother had explained. Rosa and Serafina would help with the cleanup. Afterward, they’d sit together at the long kitchen table while the robed women laughed or sat silent, eating their sauce.

Serafina handed Rosa a fresh linen.

• • •

Ochre light filtered through palm fronds, the stillness in this fashionable Palermo neighborhood not unusual for a Sunday. They walked the short distance to the home of Bella’s mother and father, located on the top floor of a large building near La Vucciria. Rosa gestured to the Baldassare family business, a costume and tailor shop, across a small piazza. Its doorways and windows were shuttered. When she glanced over, Serafina thought she saw movement behind a window on the second story, a flash of white. Bella’s ghost?

A man in livery opened the door to the apartment building and ushered the two women inside. They ascended, the madam running up five flights like a mountain goat. After knocking several times on Baldassare’s door, they waited. Serafina’s stomach growled.

“Can’t leave a note.” Rosa fanned herself with a glove. “Lost his sons, he did, in the war. The wife, caught in a spell. Now they lose the daughter. When he hears the news, oh, Madonna, the dread.”

“Of course we must wait.”

Rosa’s eyes welled up.

Bella’s killing is too much for her. “We’ll stand here a few minutes,” Serafina said, hugging Rosa, “and if there’s no answer, we’ll grab a bite and return. Must be a taverna open in La Vucciria. Or a vendor grilling paneddi. Aren’t you hungry?”

Rosa re-pinned her hat and looked away.

Minutes passed. They knocked again and were about to leave when they heard a voice coming from inside the apartment.

“One moment!” The shuffle of slippered feet, the tumble of locks, and a tall man with a large head stood before them. “A thousand apologies. Maid’s off today. Rosa!” Nittù Baldassare’s voice boomed. His smile faded when he saw her face.

“Bad news I have,” Rosa said. “It’s Bella.”

In the center of the room, a woman sat motionless. She faced the light, her mouth, a slash. Bella’s mother. Rosa planted a kiss on her forehead, whispered in her ear. No response.

A marble bust of Garibaldi stood on a side table. Serafina looked away. On the far wall, doors led to a patio with a view of Palermo, its domes gleaming in the afternoon sun.

Serafina and Rosa sat across from Nittù Baldassare. His eyes were focused inward.

Through clenched teeth he said, “Find him!”

• • •

On the ride home Serafina considered Rosa’s request. Giorgio’s death had been so sudden-what, less than six months ago. Her children needed her now more than ever. Bad enough leaving them when she was called in the middle of the night to a birthing, but she must continue with midwifery: it was her specialness. Besides, she had a commitment to the town, received a stipend, and they needed the coins. If she were engaged in finding the killer of Rosa’s women, she’d be away from the little ones too much of the time; when home, her mind would be forever wrestling with the mystery.

She looked over at Rosa who was wrapped in grief, frowning out the window. Well, then, Serafina would tell her later: she could not, must not, take up sleuthing.

The carriage slowed.

“What’s that? A pounding, I hear,” Rosa said.

“Nothing. The wind.”

They stopped.

She heard voices, laughter, the crack of a whip, an animal roar. Serafina squinted through clouds of dust to a long line of wagons.

The madam stuck her head out the window. “Turi,” she called, “why have we stopped?”

“Barco’s circus blocks the road.”

“Off the highway!” someone yelled. “Let us pass!”

Serafina asked, “Can’t the guards do something?”

“Thick, the guards,” Rosa said. “A show for bandits.”

“Stay here.” Serafina opened the door and climbed out.

Barco was a ball of a man, short and round, clothed in the only garb she’d ever seen him wear: overalls, a tattered shirt stained with sweat, red tails, a balding top hat. He rolled over to Serafina.

“Eh, Donna Fina, haven’t seen you since you was a tike. Heard you married the apothecary. And you, a midwife, same as your mama, popping out babies like a hocus-pocus lady.”

They hugged. She told him about Giorgio’s death and the killings at Villa Rosa.

“Heard about the trouble at Rosa’s. Word is, the red fox, he’s in the coop.” He leaned over, spat.

“Another woman killed today. We come from Palermo where we broke the news to her poor parents.”

He chewed the butt of his cigar. “Might as well camp here as anywheres,” he said, pointing to the open field.

Barco motioned to his foreman. In minutes, mules towed the wagons onto the side. Performers and animals flooded the field. A group of knife throwers crowded around a tree where they had set up a target. Acrobats tumbled. The cook began building a fire.

As Serafina waved goodbye, a clown in whiteface with a tuft of ginger hair stared at her from the side of the road, the butt of a knife sticking out of his belt. Running splayed fingers through her curls, she looked away, heard her mother ask again, ‘Remember the boy with hair like ours?’

A Fair Foreigner

Monday October 8, 1866

Serafina decided to drive the long way to Rosa’s, not wanting to navigate the Via Serpentina alone. The neighborhoods through which it snaked teemed with alleyways and crumbling fountains, infants wailing in one-room homes, young boys tossing knucklebones, the smell of garbage in the throat.

She flicked the reins but Largo kept his own pace, skirting the piazza with its fountain and suppliant statue of St. Benedict.

Without warning a begging monk stepped in front of her, his cart blocking her trap. He caught her eye, looked away. Fair-haired and gloved, he wore a frayed cassock. Next to him white-haired women gathered around a street vendor preventing the monk’s rapid movement. Or was it his swaybacked beast, moving with the rapidity of a snail, that delayed him?

“Whoa, Largo. This won’t take long,” she said, hitching the trap to a post. She stepped into the throng. Largo’s ears twitched.

Serafina clanked money into the mendicant’s cup, knowing as she did so that she shouldn’t have. ‘Can’t afford to help others, or we won’t be able to help ourselves,’ she heard Vicenzu’s words.

“We don’t see many begging monks around here, not since the new government shackled us with more taxes,” she said. “Did you have to wait long for your permit?”

He hunched a shoulder.

“You’re from what abbey? Not in Sicily, I take it.” Something familiar about him. He wore crusty boots instead of sandals. She sniffed the air. Unusual odors assaulted her nose-a little seaweed, salt, the dung of foreign animals. Hadn’t washed in a month or two.

“Your centesimi will help many of the poor, dear lady. Grateful thanks to you. May your family prosper. Don Roberto’s my name. Remember me in your prayers.” He brushed dust from his sleeve and turned to go, but was wedged between another cart and a woman carrying a basket of vegetables.

Serafina persisted. “Where’s your monastery?”

His eyes were ancient coins. “In one of God’s neighborhoods far to the north of Naples, lady. But the people are too poor to buy our bread, so a number of us travel to raise funds. And now, good day to you.”

She pursed her lips. Begging from Sicilians? — like squeezing wine from a stone. Took her centesimi, but didn’t answer her questions. And what sort of monk wore boots instead of sandals? Shadows in his face she didn’t trust.

The Ride to Rosa’s

The Duomo’s bells clanged the angelus as she as she climbed back into the trap and flicked the reins. She waved to the baker whose fifth son she delivered last month, passed the expensive shops, the straw market, the open fields on the edge of town.

But in her mind, she was with Giorgio. They rode in a coach and four, the air heavy with the scent of lavender. ‘I’d give anything for a carriage this fine,’ he said. She drifted to childhood, watched men clip trees, plant geraniums in great pots, scythe the grasses and wild broom. It was a time when her family kept a full complement of servants. Those days had disappeared.

Giorgio worked hard. As an apothecary, there was no one more respected. His shop, run now by her son, Vicenzu, was busy. But more and more, the townspeople paid for their potions and medicinals with wheat or fish instead of with coins. Because of crippling taxes, Carlo’s school expenses, and maintaining a home for her family of eight, she had trouble making ends meet.

Tilting her head she turned into Villa Rosa and signaled the guard to unlock the gate. Serafina remembered their hotel on the Via Sistina which had a similar grill and a merry footman who doffed his cap, and beckoned to them with white gloves. Mustn’t let the head wander, Giorgio warned her. In a blink, something might happen. Her eyes moistened at the memory. Oh, she knew his words by heart, pictured him, tall, spangled, scratching one ear, his finest frock coat stretched across his chest. ‘And you’re a woman traveling the streets alone. Even driving a trap in broad daylight, you must be wary. Keep the eyes fixed on your surroundings. Dreaming, bad for the bones.’

Rosa’s front lawn was packed with men pruning palms, tending to her flowers and pools and conservatories. A high-class house on the outskirts of Oltramari, Villa Rosa backed onto the Tyrrhenian Sea. It was shielded by cypress trees from its neighbors, the estates of British merchants who came to Sicily in the eighteenth century for a vacation and wound up staying for good. Inherited from her ancestors, Rosa’s business had remained untouched for centuries by war and economic blight.

Like her mother and grandmother, Rosa had an eye for the main chance. During the war she devised a scheme to remain open, charging Garibaldi’s soldiers a special fee-five minutes, five grani. After the war, she redecorated, hung paintings, raised fees. Velvet draped the windows. When the town installed gaslights around the train station and the promenade, Rosa had lines run into the villa and the nasty-smelling jets fastened to the walls in every room. Water ran in closets discreetly situated on all four floors. Unconventional, Rosa. She didn’t keep a full complement of servants, but she had upstairs maids, downstairs maids, a cook, a laundress, a driver, stable hands, gardeners, and now, guards.

The wheels of the trap whirred on the drive leading to the main house. Largo’s ears pricked. “Rosa’s stableboy spoils you,” Serafina said. “Apples and sea grass, is that what moves you?” When she flicked the reins this time, he trotted.

“La Signura, not down yet,” the maid told her.

“Then I’ll walk around the grounds. I haven’t seen the new conservatory she talks so much about.”

“In the back, dear lady, toward the sea. I’ll tell her you’re here.”

Serafina took the path around to the rear of the villa. The salty air prickled her skin. Fat gulls flew in the distance, circling the shore. Ahead was an octagonal glass structure filled with plants and exotic birds. Serafina opened the door, sniffed the air. Stuffy. She decided she’d had enough, shut the door, and left.

A sloping lawn led to large rocks surrounding a narrow path to the shore. As Serafina got closer to the water, the wind blew sand in her face. It whipped her skirts, and she punched them down, expelling the trapped air. She squared her shoulders and stood for a moment, her face to the gale.

Plunging ahead, she tripped, catching herself in time to avoid an ungainly fall and, looking down, noticed her laces were untied. As she bent to fix them, she saw something, a cloth object peeking out of the tall grass on one side of the wooden stairs. A nest or a purse? She reached out and grabbed it: Bella’s hat.

• • •

Rosa sat behind her mahogany desk counting her coins and writing numbers in a book. Her office was in the back of the villa, dark-paneled with a stone hearth and a domed ceiling around which frescoed cupids flew. Hanging from its center was a crystal chandelier with over a hundred candles. She knew: Serafina had counted them once, waiting for the madam to appear.

One wall was lined with bookcases holding ledgers going back at least a hundred years, all of them fat with black ink. A marble bust of the Magdalene sat on her desk, head mantled, neck S-curved, lips parted in earthly delight. And on the outer wall, lead-glass windows faced the sea. This afternoon, bright sun played on the cliffs sloping down to the shore.

Rosa pointed to a chair inviting Serafina to sit. Colonna paid her a visit yesterday, the madam told her. He asked Rosa how long Bella had worked here, when was the last time anyone saw her, that sort of thing. “Not what you’d ask.”

“How so?”

“Nasty barbs, your questions are. Make me furrow the brow, lip a reply.”

“Did he ask for a list of customers?”

“Don’t keep lists, you know that.” The madam’s face darkened.

“Bella was dressed for traveling, not for entertaining,” Serafina said. “Did he ask where she’d been?”

Rosa shook her head. “And I couldn’t tell him if he had. Different, Bella. She comes and goes as she pleases. All my girls do, come to that. Trust them, I do, or they don’t work here.”

“She came and went as she pleased, you mean,” Serafina said, regretting the words even as she spoke them. Why must she always correct?

“The inspector, he squirmed his ample behind in my chair, flung his questions at me like an absent-minded butcher slicing a pig. And I could tell he wasn’t listening to my replies. Poured him a grappa. He drank. He departed.” She wiped her palms back and forth. “He sees nothing, does nothing.”

“I found this.” Serafina held up the velvet hat, spilling sand on the madam’s desk. Same color as the trim on Bella’s suit, diamond shaped, with grosgrain ties and a feather. “Bella’s?”

Rosa nodded, wiped her eyes.

The feather had a black oval design, an oculus, near its base. There was a smugness about it, as if it saw everything on the earth, in the heavens, under the sea. Like the eye of God.

“Where was it?” Rosa asked, then answered her own question. “Outside somewhere. What does it matter?” Water spilled from her lids.

Not dressed yet, the madam. Attired in her black negligee and robe, the one with the crimson silk tassels and matching slippers. She didn’t deserve to lose her business like that, one woman at a time.

Serafina rubbed the plush of the hat and held it to her nose. She smelled the sea. “Must have dropped when the killer carried the body up the stairs to the back stoop. I’m sure Colonna has his men combing the shore, scouring the coves for her reticule and other belongings. And whatever else it is that the police do to ferret out killers. They’ve been investigating these murders since when? Gemma was killed in July, no?”

Rosa nodded. “That’s why I asked you for your help yesterday.”

“Go to the commissioner. Ask for a full report. A customer, isn’t he? Surely he’ll-”

“Not your business, my customers.” Rosa frowned.

Sometimes the madam’s words masked her loving spirit. But she, Serafina, welcomed the barb as the harbinger of her friend’s return from the isle of grief. It was too soon, she knew, for the initial shock of Bella’s death to end. It took Serafina over a month of sitting in her room after her mother’s death for a restoration of her spirit to begin, and she knew she’d never get over losing Giorgio.

Rosa stared at the coins on her desk. “Sorry. Not myself today,” she said and began counting a stack of gold lire, whispering the numbers to herself like a nun at her beads.

Serafina hugged Rosa. “Have Gesuzza draw your bath. You’ll feel better after you’ve dressed. And I’ll go with you to visit the commissioner. Tomorrow good for you?”

She shook her head. “The wake’s tomorrow. The funeral, Wednesday. But Thursday?”

Serafina nodded.

“Will you come with me?”

“To the mourning, of course. But won’t it be here?”

“Think before you speak. How could I hold it here? In the parlor adjacent to the embalmer’s office. His parlor. Used rarely, but my only choice. Cannot have my girls forgotten.” She sniffed.

“I need to see if I can get away for the funeral.”

“Then you’ll help me find the murderer?” Rosa asked.

“I can’t promise that. When the babies start coming, I must deliver. And my children come first. But they’re in school today, everyone except Totò and today Renata takes him to the public gardens. If he only had children his age around us. Lonely, I think. But while I’m here, I might take a look in Bella’s room.”

She must not, must not become entangled in Rosa’s web. She must consider her children. Her temples pounded.

The madam’s eyes sparkled. “A wizard you are.”

“I’m a midwife, not a detective.”

“With the mind of a marvel,” Rosa said.

Serafina shook her head and was silent.

“When we were young, you solved a riddle faster than a tuna flips its tail. Who solved the mystery of Scarpo’s missing sheep?” Rosa asked.

“I did.” Her temples pounded.

Rosa peered up at her. “And who caught that flashy accountant skimming my profits?”

“Handsome crook, that one. I remember you saying, breathless, simpering, ‘Come into the office and feast your eyes, he looks like a Greek god.’ So struck were you, you hated to see him leave.”

“Kicked him out with relish, I did, the minute you discovered he was the one snatching my coins. I still don’t know how you did it-you’re so bad with numbers.”

“Opened my eyes. Opened my mind. Spoke with Scarpo, your gardeners, the other servants. Kept detailed notes. Asked my mother’s opinion. Had Beppe follow him and, of course, watched his clothes turn from shabby to silken, and the shadows lengthen on his face.”

“Too many words as usual, and your mother was dead at the time.” Rosa shut her ledger, scooped up the coins, and threw them in the box. “But you’re as good at birthing as your mama was, and if you can make a stubborn baby slip out of its womb, appear as if by magic, corner a wolf, uncover a thief, then you can do the same with the killer of my girls.”

“Make truth slip out from wailing lungs for all to hear?” She chewed her cheek. “Truth never slips out, not for me, not whole and breathing.”

Rosa pulled the cord. “If it’s clues you’re after, Bella spent time in the new conservatory. Loved it, she did.”

“Gloomy in there, I’d say. Just poking my head inside was enough to frizz my curls.”

Rosa smiled. It was the first real smile Serafina had seen on her friend’s face since the killings began.

Tessa appeared, ran to Rosa, and put her arms around her. She stopped, walked over to Serafina who hugged the child, felt the blades of her shoulders through the fabric of her dress.

“Grown, my girl, since you last saw her,” Rosa said.

For an instant the corners of Tessa’s mouth moved upward.

Five years ago Rosa sent for Serafina: ‘Bleeding, no baby, come at once.’ Serafina slapped the reins. Largo galloped. The trap careened around corners, nearly tipping onto Via Marsala. Too late. The mother died, a messy, sad business, but Serafina saved the infant. Health officials ordered Rosa to bring the baby to the orphanage. She refused. Money changed hands. Tessa remained with Rosa.

Serafina opened her bag. “I brought you some marzipan candies.” She handed them to Tessa, kissed her on both cheeks. Embracing her friend, she said, “We’ll concentrate on Bella’s life, the last one killed. She’s left more for us to discover. I’d like to spend some time alone in her room.”

“Tessa will show you the way, won’t you, my girl?”

Bella’s Room

Serafina smelled stale air and lye. Tessa led her to what looked like a ghostly presence under one of the windows. She removed the muslin draped over the object and saw a machine attached to an oak table.

“Bella used this to make our dresses,” Tessa said. Her hand stroked the arm of the machine. “’My magic machine,’ she called it. She showed me how to turn the wheel and make stitches.” Tessa opened the table’s middle drawer, pulled out a piece of dark cloth with crude white stitching. “See? Bella was going to teach me how to thread the needle, too, but she died.”

“My daughter, Giulia, has one of these. She tried to teach me once, but gave up. She said I haven’t the patience. Run along, now, Tessa. Tell Rosa I’ll return soon with the key.”

Serafina touched the wheel and shut her eyes, trying to feel Bella’s presence through the instrument that in life was her silent companion. Nothing happened. She roused herself: dawdled long enough. She’d head for home soon, but first she’d search the room carefully. She owed that much to her friend. She walked to the hearth swept clean of ashes and began to examine each object in the room, picking up a figurine on a nearby shelf, swiping the dust from a book cover.

She saw movement in the far corner, swung around, discovered that the deception was caused by her own reflection distorted in a spotted mirror.

Even though the prostitute had been dead only a day, a film of dust lay over the room, on the mirror’s gilt frame, on the chair below it, on the red silk bedcovers and pillowcases. Little wonder: someone had neglected to close a window. Serafina walked over and secured the shutters that banged against the house. She felt grit on the brocade draperies and on the windowsill, heard it grind underneath her boots.

She looked down at the edge of land. Foam and wind seemed to stir up the beasts of the deep. Bracing herself against the sill she let the elements blow full-throated against her face. For a while she stood like this, listening to the incessant work of the sea. Why was a woman with such talent a prostitute? Doubtless money was a factor. Prostitutes, at least at Rosa’s, earned far more than seamstresses. Did she have enemies? Where did she go two nights ago on the evening of her death? Whom did she meet? Who were her regular customers? Her customers on the night she was killed? No doubt Rosa had a list of who was with whom and for how long, but, at least for now, the madam’s mouth was a sealed tomb.

Serafina closed the shutters, pulled down the sash, and turned away.

Two large cabinets stood on the far wall, both of them unlocked. One held Bella’s personal wardrobe, each item covered in muslin. Serafina leafed through these, one or two day dresses, several gowns, many a little too revealing. She smiled to herself, remembering how her children described her taste-what was the word Renata used? — ’burgisi,’ that was it. She held out a dress, examined the stitching. Although not a seamstress herself, Serafina knew expert finishing when she saw it. Again she pulled out a frock, looked at it. She examined another and another. She began to recognize Bella’s strong gift, a sense of costume, a unique flair. And then she felt Bella’s presence. The dead woman hung between her frocks, a specter not yet departed.

Below the garments in neat rows were pairs of shoes crafted in fine leather, polished, buffed, and arranged below the matching garment. Serafina made a mental note to visit the shoemaker. Bella may have been his customer, a frequent one, unless she had them fitted in Palermo. Perhaps he saw her recently. Merchants often knew a lot about their customers, when they were flush and when not, the company they kept.

In the second cabinet she found a shelf holding hats, a few of them wide-brimmed with feathers and pins, some straw hats, wool hats, no doubt all made by Bella, one or two like the brown velvet she found on the beach; shelves with bolts of fabric, watered silks in all shades, a few garish colors, wools in gabardine, bombazine, cloth in a variety of textures, some finely woven, others thick, nubby, boiled. The bottom shelf held a basket stuffed with spools of thread, needles, jars of beads. Next to it was a stack of Godey’s Lady’s Books. She knew this name: Godey’s. Giulia waited for it each month, disappointed when publication stopped during the war in America.

Serafina grabbed a few of the magazines and flipped through them, pausing at some of the colored plates.

She looked at her watch and felt pinched. How did she get herself into this? She wanted to continue helping Rosa, she must, but she must be home when her children returned from school for the noon meal and siesta.

Dust flew up her nose. She sneezed, stopped at a page with a creased corner, and peered through watery eyes at an article with drawings of Italian beadwork, embroidery, and church vestments. In a prostitute’s bedroom, of all places. What were those swirling things carved in wood, etched onto a chalice, or embroidered onto vestments? One snake-like creature wound itself around a holy book of some sort. Another drawing showed it slithering around a cross. She tried to read the words, but the article was written in English. No matter, she’d get Giulia or Vicenzu to translate.

She blew her nose and sat. Her ballooning skirt forced more dust into her face, and she coughed, wishing she had known Bella in life. She was someone who would rather have worked with her hands and mind than with her body. The woman could have been a designer of high fashion, a creator of unique lines, expensive gowns for the nobility. Did all of Rosa’s women have dreams like Bella’s? She decided to take another look around. She’d be home just in time if she left by 11:30. That gave her forty more minutes.

She opened the second cabinet again, feeling around in the dim light for something she may have missed. Wedged between the Godey’s and the back of the cabinet were letters neatly tied into two packets. She scooped them up, stuffed them into her pockets, and stopped. If she were Bella, where would she hide valuables?

She looked behind the mirror. No holes. No patching. She walked the floor looking for loose boards: none. Of course, the bed. Why didn’t she think of it before? After feeling underneath for a box or hole in the boards, she yanked off the linen, ran her hand over the top and sides of the mattress, but found nothing. Wait until Rosa saw the mess she was making of ‘our sweet Bella’s room.’

Serafina thought she’d just enough muscle to flip the mattress, but try as she might, it wouldn’t budge. Stuffed with the feathers of a thousand geese, oh Madonna. She prayed for more strength, stopped to catch her breath, felt sweat beginning to bead on her forehead. With an upward thrust, she lifted the mattress, steadied it while it teetered on end for a moment before thudding against her body. The heft of it almost knocked her down. She waited, took ragged breaths, felt drops of water running down the sides of her body and losing themselves in a mass of moistening corset. Again she flexed her arms. With one large grunt, she pushed it. When it fell over, it shook the mirror on the wall, dislodging more dust.

She mopped her face, sat down, and stared. Then she felt every centimeter of its surface until her fingers found a neat square of stitching. After fishing around in the sewing basket for a scissors, she cut the thread and pulled out one feathery book. It looked like an account ledger. She shoved it into her pocket, picked up the Godey’s with the snaky designs, closed the door.

All that work for such a meager result. Perhaps reading the letters would reveal more information, something about the woman and her dreams, her friends, her enemies.

Dates

“What did you find?”

“Not much. Any water?” she asked, wiping her face. Serafina dumped the letters, the Godey’s, and the account book on Rosa’s desk.

The madam stuffed the book down her front, reached for the bottle of mineral water, and poured a fresh glass. “You look worse than Scylla on a bad day. What have you been doing, luring young sailors to your lair?”

Serafina gulped the water, choked, and said, “That’s better. Dust in the mouth from Bella’s room.”

“That clown, Colonna, didn’t bother to search her room, and look what you discover in a few minutes. And the most important discovery of all,” she said, patting her chest. “This book belongs to Nittù.” Rosa winked.

The madam was in a jovial mood. Time to strike. “I need the names of the customers who visited Bella on Saturday. One of them might know something, might even be the killer. Anyone come to mind?” She watched Rosa’s face, now a wintry sunset.

“Bella had the evening off.”

“On a Saturday? Your busiest evening?”

“An exception to all the house rules, Bella. She asked for the weekend, left on Thursday. Probably went to Palermo to see the contessa. They were going to open a business of some sort.”

Serafina raised her brows.

“Not that kind of business. Venturing into the dressmaking trade, the two of them.”

Serafina opened the Godey’s and showed Rosa the plates of the writhing serpent, the strange vestments.

Rosa looked at them a moment and shrugged.

Serafina untied the bundles of letters and fanned them out. Sunlight and shadows from the sea undulated on the envelopes. They crinkled at her touch. “From her father,” Serafina said, indicating one. “But this address?” She tapped on the return address written in flowery script.

“From the contessa,” Rosa said.

“Don’t have time to read them now. I’d like to take these with me. They may tell us something we don’t already know, but I doubt it. And the Godey’s, I’ll take that, too.”

The madam sat there grinning, her fingers bent like hooks, not caring a jot about letters or magazines or serpents, only that she, Serafina, was being raked into the search for the killer.

And truth to tell, she felt herself drawn into the mystery, powerless to stop the pull of her own curiosity. Little wonder: the need for truth and justice was great. Sicily bled. Officials did nothing, and the dead women couldn’t speak for themselves. They needed her voice. Well, she would continue searching for clues until she found enough evidence to reveal the villain, dump it all into the lap of Colonna, and compel him to act. Simple.

• • •

She was half-way to the door when she said, “The dates?”

“What are you talking about?” Rosa asked.

“The first two bodies.”

“What about them?”

“You discovered Bella on October 7. But on what dates did you find the first two women?”

Muttering something about late for dinner, Rosa retrieved a large leather-bound book from the shelf behind her desk, its ecru pages smelling of broom and albumen. Serafina walked around to get a better look.

Rosa leafed through its pages. Each spread contained a month, seven columns across, with four or five rows down. The madam’s scrawl appeared in many of the squares.

Light from the sea swam over Rosa’s face. She turned to August.

Rosa said, “The beginning.”

The square for August 7th contained one word, ‘Gemma,’ written in Rosa’s scratch.

“The day you found Gemma?”

Rosa nodded.

Serafina turned the page.

Rosa gestured to September 7th and saw the word, ‘Nelli.’ “I opened the door. There was our darling Nelli. It dries the throat.”

Without looking up, Rosa refilled their glasses. “October.” Rosa gulped her water and caressed with a finger the name she’d written on the seventh, turned, and said, “You’re on my side of the desk.”

“Sorry. Only that-” Serafina stared into space.

“That what? I hate it when you do that.”

“Do what?” Serafina moved around and sat in her own chair, her skirts puffing.

Rosa put on her spectacles and began flipping the calendar pages back and forth. “Peasants are starving and you bite off a chunk of words and don’t finish them. At least spit them out before you stare into space.”

Serafina looked out to the sea, one finger tapping her chin.

“You are impossible! Always late, always three times as much time as I take, you take. Make three times as many words as you need. They cling to you, your words, like maggots on the dead.”

“I was going to say that if you found all three bodies on the seventh, it means the killer attacked on the sixth, or early on the seventh each time. Don’t you see? It means if he kills again-and he’ll try, mark my words, he’ll try-he’ll strike on the same date. It means we have until the sixth of November to find him before he kills again.”

Blanched, Rosa’s face.

Serafina continued. “There’s a systematic ghoulishness about these murders, a wildness about this killer that we will never understand. He lusts not after flesh, but has the cunning of the wild, intent on one thing only-eliminating you and all your women and the business you think I know so little about. For lucre? I doubt it.”

The madam’s eyes were flaking embers.

“Why the mark carved into their foreheads?” Serafina asked. “Why did each death occur between the sixth and the seventh of the month? We must discover how the victims’ lives touched their killer’s path. Why did these women need him? Agree to meet him? What did the three have in common, other than their profession and their address? How did they know their killer? Is he a customer who helped himself to all three? To others?”

“Never!”

“Who is the one woman most likely to be his next victim?”

The Apparition

Tuesday, October 9, 1866

Serafina’s wardrobe wasn’t extensive, never expensive, wouldn’t do, not for her class. The dress she chose to wear this morning, made of watered silk trimmed in velvet, was designed and crafted by Giulia, her middle daughter, in a style dated by a year or two. For daytime, she wore a single petticoat, not too full in front, with an undergarment of unbleached silk ruffled at the collar. She fastened the ivory brooch her mother gave her, rouged her lips, and called for Assunta to help with her hair.

“Not too busy, something simple,” she told the domestic.

After Assunta left, she tied an embroidered net over her hair, just like Queen Maria Sofie would have worn. “Ready,” she called out to the air in the room.

There was a rattling at the window panes. The candles flickered. Serafina felt the rush of air. A new smell, sharp, like shaved citrus and lavender, flooded the room.

A cloud appeared, faded, and, in its place, a specter, vaporous at first, almost invisible, a frescoed glaze upon the cushions of Giorgio’s overstuffed chair. It grew more distinct, taking on the shape of a woman. Serafina saw her mother, Maddalena, crimson cheeked, skin moist, clothed in a gown of viridian deep. She’d forgotten how much like her own hair her mother’s was, at least before hers started to fade. Her mother was younger than Serafina herself.

Maddalena’s head turned in Serafina’s direction, but gazed through her, at something beyond. Wrinkling her nose, she turned her attention to an object in her lap, a midwife’s satchel. Her hands fiddled with the clasp. Her lips moved. She shook her head.

“Can’t you say hello to your own daughter?” Serafina asked.

Hunching her shoulders, Maddalena plunged one arm into the bag. She rattled objects inside, as if stirring old bones.

“Carmela’s gone and you do nothing. All alone, she is, knowing not of my death, nor of her father’s. You must find her.”

“But how?”

Maddalena stopped, lifted her head, wary and still, like a cat about to pounce. At the sound of footsteps, she vanished.

The doorknob turned.

“Are you coming? I’ll be late for my lesson.” Maria said. Her arms were full of schoolbooks and musical scores.

The Duomo’s bell chimed the hour. Seven o’clock and Serafina’s head ached.

Numbers

Serafina and Maria traipsed across the piazza and opened the door to Lorenzo Coco’s music store where Maria had a lesson each day before school.

She smelled sawdust, resin, and glue. Instruments hung from the rafters. Minerva’s cello stood in the corner. The maestro was playing one of several harpsichords that sat the floor.

“How lovely. Scarlatti?”

“Mozart.” He continued to play as they talked.

“Isn’t it lovely, my precious?”

Maria hunched her shoulders.

“If only our little genius here would play pieces with more melody. I tell her she can’t go wrong with Scarlatti, but all she’s interested in at the moment is Brahms. Brahms this, Brahms that, chords crash.”

Lorenzo twisted his mouth and finished his sonata.

Maria clutched her books to her chest. Shy, Serafina’s youngest girl.

Serafina kissed her daughter goodbye. “Straight to school after your lesson.”

Minerva entered the room, tapping a white cane in front of her.

Serafina pecked the maestra’s cheeks. “I’d like your advice if I could steal some of your time while Maria takes her practice with the maestro.”

“My studio. Follow me.”

Serafina could hear Maria’s scales while she told Minerva about the investigation. “Dr. Loffredo is certain the women were killed by the same man.”

Minerva nodded.

“And I’m convinced he’s a wild creature who doesn’t kill for pleasure or to sate his appetite,” Serafina said, “but the dates he’s chosen to kill are significant in a way I don’t understand. He has killed one victim a month for three consecutive months, each murder occurring sometime between the sixth and seventh day.”

Minerva shuddered. “Not my field, numbers. But my brother is professor of mathematics, interested in the occult. I have an hour before my next lesson. I’ll introduce you. He lives on the edge of town.”

• • •

Professore Gasparo Rafaello lived alone in a small house filled with books. Not a dish out of place, no dust on the floor. After greetings were exchanged, the reason for their visit explained, and refreshments declined, they sat down.

The professor was a thin man. He wore a white shirt, grey vest, and sat on a wooden chair while the women faced him on the edge of a horsehair sofa. Minerva braced herself with her cane. Serafina squirmed. She hoped he was not long-winded.

A slight lisp obscured his words. Serafina strained to hear him. She reached in her reticule for her notebook and pencil.

With curled fingers he combed his mustache, addressing the two women as if they were students in a large auditorium. “So,” he said.

A pause. Overlong.

Minerva said, “What? So what, Gasparo. Please to continue.”

“What I know of the numbers, six and seven, I tell you now. Or…”

Another pause.

“Or?” Minerva asked.

“If you prefer, you can read my book, Numbers and Ecstasy.

“Tell us please,” both women said in unison.

“So. Six is a perfect number,” he said, looking first at his sister, then at Serafina.

“Please to get on with it,” Minerva said.

“A perfect number is a whole number greater than zero. When you sum all of its factors, except for the number itself, you get that number.”

Serafina rubbed her forehead. “I take your word for it. Six is a perfect number.”

Minerva explained. “The factors of six are one, two, and three. When you add them, they make six. So six is a perfect number.”

“Six is followed by twenty-eight, then four-hundred ninety-six, followed by-”

“Somehow I don’t think the killer is a mathematician,” Serafina said.

“Not too many murderers are interested in the genius of Euclid,” Gasparo said, biting his mustache.

Minerva nodded.

He continued. “Now we come to the number, seven. According to the Greeks, it contains perfection, being the sum of the sides of an isosceles triangle and a square. The Romans, on the other hand, thought the number contained everything since it is the sum of four, the four corners of the earth, and three, a symbol of the divine.”

Serafina thanked the professor. She and Minerva were about to depart when he stopped them. “Caught in the web of numerology, perhaps, your killer. But sometimes the mad will act according to the heavens, a full moon, for instance.”

Serafina shook her head. “Not a full moon last Saturday. I would have remembered.”

• • •

Midway home Minerva said, “Trouble ahead. Can we take another way?”

Serafina heard only a faint blowing in the distance, like the whisper of air through fronds. “Children playing?” she asked.

“Not children. Something else.”

Her best choice was to trust Minerva’s hearing and Largo’s sense of direction, so she turned the trap and headed into a maze of narrow streets. The mule plowed through one twisted lane after another.

“I hope you know where you’re going.”

Largo brayed, increased his speed.

In a few moments, she could see the piazza.

As they drew closer, Serafina peered over her shoulder down a cross street and saw what must have caused the commotion, a crowd gathered around a cart. She slowed. An accident? A dodgy cart vendor? Voices grew louder. Pushing and shoving his way out from under the throng, a disheveled creature emerged, chased by a knot of yelling men. He pulled a swaybacked mule and weather-beaten cart.

“Poor man. Living rough, I suspect,” Serafina said.

Minerva said nothing.

Serafina flicked the reins, stopped in front of Lorenzo’s studio. She thanked her friend, kissed her on both cheeks, and led her inside.

The Autopsy

Who else but Dr. Loffredo would sit at his desk with his breakfast served on fine china by a maid dressed in black with a white apron, a table linen tucked into the collar to protect his boiled shirt.

Pulling at the napkin, he came around to kiss Serafina’s hand. So gentle his touch and understanding of women, and with eyes that would melt Scylla. Tall, not a hint of paunch, his clothes from the best tailors in Palermo. No children, a shame: they would have jammed that empty villa of his with offspring. She remembered their university days together, heady times, when class differences didn’t matter and bedroom walls echoed with daring talk of revolution. A pity she had loved her Giorgio so much.

He held the back of her chair. “Latté, my dear?”

“Don’t worry about me. Eat your breakfast while you tell me the results of the autopsy.”

He rang the bell. “Too early in the day to talk of murder.”

She ignored his remark. “Rosa asked me to investigate the deaths of her women.”

“But you’re a midwife.” His gaze was tender.

She raised her shoulders, palms out. “My best friend, Rosa. I can’t sit by while her business is destroyed. Colonna does nothing.”

“The police have their hands full.”

The maid entered, balancing a silver coffee service. She swept up his plate and left. Loffredo poured espresso and steaming milk, passed a cup to Serafina.

She said, “You’ve heard the rumors.”

“Don Tigro?” Loffredo sipped his caffè.

“Doesn’t make sense. Not to me. You?”

He shook his head. “Not the don’s kind of killing, unless, of course, Rosa’s not telling us everything.”

“She doesn’t hold things back from me.” She paused. “Well, almost nothing.”

He reached over and touched her hand.

“Spent time combing through Bella’s room. I uncovered some information, nothing that gave me answers, only more questions.” Serafina’s gaze swept his face. She savored her first sip of latté, breathing in the cocoa, the caffè, and the steam. “To tell you the truth, I’m intrigued. Horrified, yes, but also fascinated by the prospect of sleuthing.” She looked into his eyes. “Of late, my practice has been slow. Most families do their own birthing when coins are scarce, so no more coins from grateful fathers.”

“Is it hard for you with Giorgio gone?” he asked.

Her face colored. She couldn’t tell Loffredo coins were difficult. Wouldn’t do. “Oh, that. We’re fine. No worries there.”

Loffredo swiped his mouth with fresh linen. “Be careful, Fina.”

“You know me.”

“Too well. Yes, you’re a wizard, but sometimes it takes more than magic to right the world’s wrongs.”

“But I have to try.”

“Perhaps, but I couldn’t bear to think of your meeting the same fate as those women.” Loffredo crossed long legs. “This killer knows what he’s doing.”

“He?”

“Don’t know for sure.” He ran two fingers down a perfect pleat. “A knife has been the weapon of choice for female killers for centuries. Takes great skill to wield a deadly blade, but not great strength. Judging from the wounds on the three victims, the blade was razor-sharp. Double-edged, a stiletto. A vigorous woman could have killed Rosa’s women, but with these murders, I’m inclined to suspect a man, even though-”

“What?” she asked.

“There was no indication that this prostitute had been sexually violated either before or after death,” Loffredo said. “No bruising.”

And the other two?”

He shook his head. “None. But I still think the killer is male.”

“You said rigor mortis had been broken.”

“Yes. Bella’s right arm defied gravity. The body was moved sometime after death.”

“So that means the murderer could have left the scene, returned for the body.” But why, she wondered. Did he need to perform ritualistic acts after killing? Or did he wait for help to arrive? She asked, “Did the autopsy tell you anything more?”

“It corroborated what seemed apparent when examined initially: the wound to the heart was mortal. No food in the small intestines, so Bella died at least eight hours after taking food. Assuming she ate a light supper at the normal hour, say, anywhere between four and six o’clock, death occurred very late on the sixth or early on the seventh.”

The Embalmer

The embalmer wore a large apron over striped pants. A round man with fish lips and protruding eyes, he stood in the doorway of his shop sucking on a cigarillo.

Serafina told him that Rosa had asked her to find the killer. “I am interested in the mark on the dead women’s foreheads. I saw Bella’s body on Sunday morning when Rosa found her, but wanted to talk to you before the wake this evening. I’m sure you’ll make her look like a sleeping angel.”

He gave her a pursed smile.

“Dr. Loffredo told me Rosa’s women died from a single stab to the heart, the wounds, identical.”

“Almost finished, the body, but the face, not yet painted. Would you like to see?”

Did she want to see Bella’s body again? She followed him.

The embalmer slammed the butt of his wet weed between his lips and opened a door.

Serafina lifted her skirts, held her torch high, and walked down a stairwell wide enough to hoist a casket. The smell was like the distillation of death. She heard the scurrying of claws, the swish of tails. Her imagination? A lizard slithered away.

He held the door and beckoned her inside. Before her was a room with a long table. On it was a body covered with a sheet, and by its side, an oil lamp, vials, powders, a glass magnifier.

He turned back the covering, handed her the glass.

It was Bella, all right, the face like wax. Through the magnifier she studied the mark on the prostitute’s forehead.

“All three marks the same, but this one, artistic.”

“How so?”

He pointed a nicotine-stained finger at the cut. “The top of the coil has a faint mark, like the tongue of a serpent.”

Serafina peered down at the evil brand and saw the split of a serpent’s tongue. She turned away.

“Yes. And the look on the first one’s face? Who or what did she see the instant before death? Perhaps the scales of Satan himself.”

His shoe ground the butt of his cigar and he motioned her upstairs and into his office, a room cluttered with papers, caskets, and the dusty contraptions of his trade. A diploma from the Capuchin catacombs in Palermo hung above his desk. The room smelled of tobacco, vinegar, and dust.

Something deep and complex ran through Serafina. The thought, or whatever it was, disturbed her stomach.

The embalmer blinked several times and held out a plate of sweets. “Caffè, dolci?”

She shook her head, swallowed.

He bit into a cookie and said through the crumbs, “Ah, the inspector, he asked me to say nothing about the marks, but for you?” He smiled.

“One more question if I may.”

“For you, dearest lady, what you wish.”

“At the other two wakes, was there anyone you didn’t recognize?”

“Not many attended. Rosa asked me to do my best work, and I did. But no, no one that…but now that I mention it, yes, there was a man. To Gemma’s mourning he came, with leather face and seeping eyes.”

“Seeping eyes?” she asked.

“They watered, but not from grief. The eyes, disconnected from the mouth, you see.”

She nodded.

“Carried a cane, unusual for one his age. Not old, not young. Kept to himself.”

“How so?”

“He came alone, stood in a back corner until it was time to close. Then he walked to Gemma’s casket, scowling and shaking his head. I watched as he raised his fists and cursed the corpse.”

The Wake

A tribute to the artistic powers of the embalmer, the corpse lay as if sleeping while the males in her family took turns standing alongside the bier. Candles flanked the open casket and flickered in wall sconces.

Accompanied by her son, Vicenzu, Serafina made her way to the front of the waking parlor to pay her respects, then stepped to the back of the room and watched as a stream of mourners filed to the front. Most of the men wore frock coats, carried silk hats. The women, corseted, clutched their children, whispered in their ears, and led them to the front to say their farewells.

Parting this sea of black, Nittù Baldassare wheeled his wife into the room. A gaggle of women flocked to her. In the lead was a dramatic, willowy figure in a flowing black gown. She was thick with rouge and French perfume. Sobbing and flouncing, the woman bent to hug Bella’s mother. Such a display. Not one of Rosa’s girls.

Younger mourners gathered in a far corner of the room. Rosa acted as hostess. She moved in measured grace and made introductions. Family members and Baldassare business associates greeted one another. Serafina heard the talk of wakes and funerals, knew this jargon by heart, she’d been to so many of these gatherings. Smiling, nodding, Serafina listened to snatches of the conversations: “I’m the cousin twice removed…how can the father…he’s alone now, except for the wife and she, poor soul…the harvest, another desolation…on her father’s side…the hair…? No, the heir…who will run the business…such a swagger.”

Someone tapped her on the shoulder.

“You don’t recognize me?” the man, a younger version of Bella’s father, said. Her eyes rested on his armband. “It’s me. Falco.”

Serafina shook her head, confused, until the years tumbled away. How could she forget him? He pointed to the casket. “Her father is my brother. He cleared his throat. “Such a pity. Lost his sons. I run the business now. My sons and I.”

She drummed a fist back and forth on her thigh, remembering their affair. Brief, torrid. Betrothed to Giorgio at the time, she had betrayed his love.

“Ravishing, still, Serafina. You are Rosa’s friend, no?

She smiled.

“Give her this message,” Falco said. “Tell her Nittù and I, we want to help her catch the killer. Tell her to call on us.” He kissed her hand, gazed into her eyes, a look that once had the power to melt.

“Rosa told me about your husband. My deep-” But he was interrupted by something that caught his eye. She followed his gaze, saw a lithe creature, one of Rosa’s prostitutes, wave to him. He took his leave with a nod and, she was sure, not another thought for her.

“See that tall man with the curls? I saw him kiss your hand. Who is he?” Vicenzu asked, pulling Serafina aside while Bella’s father talked to Rosa and Falco cavorted with the young woman.

“Later,” she said.

“Quite a way with Rosa’s women he has. Must know all of them,” Vicenzu added.

Before she left, Serafina gave Rosa a double kiss. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Falco and a young redhead in the back of the room. They acted like love birds in a nest of rooks.

Hadn’t changed, Falco.

Serafina took her leave. She walked out of the parlor the same way she’d entered, on the arm of her son. As they passed Falco’s group, the redhead waved.

Bella’s Letters

Wednesday, October 10, 1866

Serafina chose to read Bella’s letters in her father’s study, hoping they’d contain information of value-not just addresses and facts, but something of the character of the writers and, more importantly, a glimpse of Bella’s life.

In addition to those from Baldassare, there was correspondence from a woman, a noblewoman, judging from the seal and fine grade of parchment. And considering the loopy script and garish color of ink, the letters were written by the black swan Serafina had seen at the wake last night, Bella’s contessa friend. The return address was a number on the Piazzetta del Garraffo, which, if Serafina remembered correctly, was close to Baldassare’s shop.

She arranged the letters by sender, sorted them by date with the oldest on top, and settled in for a good read.

The father’s spanned a decade, a long time in a prostitute’s career. The oldest contained short bursts of news along with commands for his daughter’s return. Nothing of the man in them, only announcements of life and death. In an early letter her father wrote,

Your brothers are dead, all of them. Lost in a despicable battle on the outskirts of Milazzo. One day, one bridge, four brothers, eight-hundred lives. Your mother’s mind, too heavy with grief, is a sinking ship. You must come home.

N. Baldassare

In his middle correspondence, Serafina noticed a shift in the old man’s regard for his daughter. Gradually, he changed from anger and disbelief to resignation. Those were the longest letters, containing news of this cousin, that marriage, a feast, a play they’d attended. He told Bella about their customers, their orders, the relative ease of obtaining cotton ‘now that the war in America is over.’ Serafina began to get a sense of the man, laughed at his humor, smiled at his words of endearment.

In his last letters, it was apparent that father and daughter had been meeting and that the reason for his change toward her was Bella’s decision to leave an occupation he loathed. Serafina read his letters a second and third time, was struck by the frequency of words like ‘love,’ ‘sweet,’ ‘tender,’ phrases such as ‘your joyous face,’ his hope for the future. He signed all of these, ‘Your loving father, Nittù.’

The contessa’s were fewer. They alluded to Bella’s plans with phrases like, ‘I go to Paris next month to visit Worth amp; Bobergh,’ and ‘I trust the monzù will honor his intention to let me visit his great house,’ and ‘My trip proved all that I hoped it would and more. I cannot wait to talk. We have so much to prepare.’ It was clear that the two women were engaged in an economic venture. Bella’s need for capital explained her work at Rosa’s and supported the madam’s contention that the prostitute planned to quit the house.

Serafina wrote a summary of what she’d learned from the pile of letters-character impressions of Baldassare, Bella, and the contessa, plus a corroboration of what she’d already known. No fresh information. No leads. She fingered her brooch, lost to her surroundings.

The Brazen Serpent

“Giulia, sweetness, I need you to look at something,” Serafina said, entering the kitchen.

Her middle daughter, the one born with a needle and thread, took the Godey’s from Serafina and made a face. “Where did you get this?”

“At Rosa’s. Tell me what the words say.”

Giulia hunched over the pictures, scanned the type with her fingers. “It’s about a church in the north, their vestments and cups and such. And,” her finger paused over a phrase, “it talks about a bronze serpent. I didn’t know Rosa embroidered.”

“You’d be surprised what Rosa gets into. And by the way, who’s been using Papa’s English dictionary?”

Giulia’s smile lit her face.

“So industrious, my best designer of high fashion. Just remember to put his books back when you’ve finished with them. I noticed some of his shelves were disordered.”

Giulia nodded.

Serafina kissed her daughter’s forehead.

Bronze serpents? ‘Cups and such’? Serafina wanted more information. She decided to visit the Duomo’s priests.

As she hitched her trap to a post, she saw a group of children on their way to school, some running, others walking backward or skipping. The streets were full of people heading to the straw market or to the more expensive shops facing the piazza. Mules with jingling headgear pulled painted carts. Serafina caught the scent of warm bread and waved to the baker, greeted Arazzudda, a peasant whose thirteenth child she delivered last week.

She plowed up the rectory’s stoop. Misjudging the depth of the last step, she tripped and snagged the hem of her skirt.

While she waited for the priest, Serafina ran a palm over her scuffed boots, wiped her hand on the side of her dress. She was sick of wearing black, certain she could grieve for her husband just as well in a fine watered silk of alizarin crimson or jade.

The door opened.

“I’m investigating three murders. Perhaps you can help.”

When he sat, she smelled tobacco and grappa.

She handed him the Godey’s Lady’s Book, open to a colored plate of the brazen serpent on a cross. “What can you tell me about these drawings?”

He glanced at the pictures, stabbed a dirty fingernail at one. “Of these I know nothing, except that they’re very beautiful, especially this chalice. We could use it here.” He put a finger to his lips. “But we have a visiting priest, a scholar. He might know.” He rang the bell.

Soon a tall man entered, tonsured and wearing a hooded cassock. He had a large set of rosary beads hanging from his belt. Serafina wondered what possessed monks to wear sandals. His feet were yellow and blue.

After introductions and a brief explanation of her murder investigation, she asked, “What can you tell me about the symbols on these pages?”

He examined the plates. “The brazen serpent. Where did you get these?”

“In the room of a seamstress, one of the victims,” she said.

“Beautiful, this magazine. I’d like to study it some more. May I?”

“Sorry, not mine to lend, I’m afraid,” she said, and continued. “Each of the murdered women had a spiral carved into her forehead, not unlike this,” she said, tapping the embroidery detail of a serpent. “The mark was a spiral of some sort, starting from the bridge of the nose winding to the top of the forehead.”

He shrugged. “But the brazen serpent is a symbol of salvation, not of destruction, of eternal life, not death. In some form it appears in most cultures. Michelangelo painted Moses with the brazen serpent on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.”

In her mind she was with Giorgio on their honeymoon in Rome, what, some twenty years ago? He was explaining the meaning of one of those writhing depictions on a frescoed ceiling, probably the same chapel mentioned by the monk. Was it the fresco with Moses and his staff? She wished she’d paid more attention, wanted to rest her head on her husband’s shoulder instead of listening to Fra Yellow Feet.

The priest shook his head. “The carvings you saw were something else entirely. The marks of a deranged soul.”

Serafina didn’t think so. She considered telling him about the serpent’s tongue she saw yesterday morning on Bella’s forehead, but rejected the idea.

“I need to know more about the plates in this Godey’s. It belonged to one of the murdered women. Odd that she would have such a magazine in her possession, but there it is. I need to find out why. And the bent corner indicates she read the article, perhaps studied it. But at least she saw it, was curious enough to mark its place.” She showed him the crease in the page. “Before he died, I would have asked my husband about the brazen serpent. He knew everything.” Serafina blinked hard. “But now I must ask others. And since you’re a church scholar, I’ve come to you.”

He ran the end of his crucifix back and forth through his beard and began. “In the Book of Numbers we find the reference to a bronze serpent, a powerful creature who drew his strength from the God of Moses and saved the Israelites from a plague of fiery serpents. The symbol of the brazen serpent continues in the New Testament where it is linked to Christ. St. John said, ‘As Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have eternal life.’”

Her head swam as she tried to digest his words. “I’ve never seen vestments like these in Oltramari, not that I pay close attention to what priests wear in church.”

He shook his head. “You won’t see them here. Only in churches where they practice the Ambrosian Rite. They use the image of a serpent winding itself around a cross as the symbol of a healer. Their chalices are carved with it, their vestments embroidered with it, their croziers bear the brazen serpent. It is a symbol of Christ. Has nothing to do with murder, I’m afraid.”

“Not in the keep of a sane man. But this killer does not murder for pleasure or for coins. He is lunatic, bent on twisting meaning to suit his own ends. His mind is riddled with phantoms.”

In the Conservatory

Thursday, October 11, 1866

Not available, the madam, so Serafina headed outside, glad for the prickly sea air on her skin. She followed the path to the conservatory and opened the door. A humid blast hit her.

There was a bench underneath large palm trees where she sat for a moment looking out at the park before beginning the search for Bella’s reticule. A parrot squawked. Another large-winged creature flew over to a wide palm tree and perched on one of its fronds. Her curls frizzed.

“Interesting,” a voice said. “Your hair and such, I mean.”

“I didn’t hear you enter,” Serafina said to the woman who was clothed in an ultramarine day dress, low cut of course. Petticoats crinkled when she sat beside Serafina. Her hair was perfectly coiffed. Serafina remembered her, the redhead from the wake.

“Gioconda’s my name,” she said.

“Don’t tell me your parents named you after a painting.”

“Oh no, it’s the name I took when I arrived. And I never knew my parents.”

Serafina was about to ask her how she knew Falco when the prostitute continued. “Don’t use our real names, mostly. Well, some of the girls do. Take Carmela, for instance. Said her father gave it to her. That was good enough for her.”

Serafina’s feet went cold. Perhaps she misheard the woman. She needed to focus. “Carmela?”

“Bit of a thing,” the redhead said. “Here about three, four years ago. Hair like yours. Ginger, I’d call it. I saw your hair from the path, the color, tight curls and such. That’s what made me come in. I said to myself, Carmela’s back.”

Rosa would have told her if Carmela had knocked on her door. Must be another Carmela, such a common name.

“This girl with hair like mine, when was she here?”

“Three, four years ago. Didn’t last long, mind. Took up with a soldier or guard or one of those soon after she arrived.”

“Did you know her well?”

The woman shook her head. “Kept to herself. Don’t get me wrong, she was friendly, not snooty like some round here I could name, I’ll tell you. But particular, you might say, as to how she spent her time. Smart. When she wasn’t working, well, she, I don’t know, walked on the shore a lot, tended to flowers. Loved the blooms.”

“Do you know where she was born?”

“Well, why would I know that? But let me think.” The woman wrapped a curl around her finger. “Not far from here.”

“Yes?”

“Right. I remember once, early spring it was, gorgeous day, and Scarpo and Turi-this was a long time ago, mind you, before the madness started-they used to take us on drives. And we’d all pile in the carriage, some of us on the rumbler, all fixed up, waving and shouting and sticking our arms out the window, none too delicate, mind, and Turi, he’d drive fast round the statue, the one with the sunken eyes. Well, this one time, Carmela, she asked that Turi stop and she started to cry because she said it was close by her home and she had half a mind to get out, just get out and walk. Said she could walk home from the sunken-eyed statue.”

“What town?”

“Oltramari, of course.”

Serafina felt her stomach churn. Her daughter worked at Rosa’s, and the madam-whom she thought was a friend, who knew Giorgio and Serafina were wretched about Carmela’s flight-that same madam, that strega, that sometime friend, never bothered to tell Serafina.

She swallowed. “Anything else you can tell me about Carmela?”

“That’s about it. Said she had a twin brother. Thinking of writing to him, but said if her mother found out, she wouldn’t like it. But she was smart to leave, Carmela. Money’s good and Rosa, she’s fair, always jolly and such. Pay’s more than double what it is in Palermo, I tell you. But now, no good.” Gioconda stopped. “Is something wrong? You look like you’ve seen a specter!”

Serafina closed her eyes. “The damp air unsettles my stomach. What did you mean by ‘now, no good’?”

“Well, you never know who’s going to creep round the corner, do you, stab you in the heart. Some of the girls, the careless ones, getting knifed, I can tell you.”

“Any of Carmela’s friends still here?”

“Gusti. Want me to get her?”

• • •

Serafina was about to leave when she heard another voice.

“Gusti said she’d be down in a minute.” Tall and blonde, the prostitute. She spoke with an accent. “She’s dressing, you know, but perhaps I can help? I’m Lola. Oh yes, I see. Gioconda was right; you do look just like Carmela. But you’re much taller and, you know, older. If Carmela wants to know how she’s going to look as an older woman, she should look at you.”

“Carmela doesn’t want to see me, not today, not tomorrow, not ever.”

The prostitute’s smile was warm. Serafina saw why the madam liked her.

“You knew Carmela?” Serafina asked.

“Not very well. We didn’t talk that much. Liked one another, we did. Bit of a thing, Carmela, but she had her opinions. Not friendly to me.” The prostitute brushed a curl from her face. “Probably jealous. Most of the girls are when they first meet me. And Carmela wasn’t here all that long. A year, maybe more.”

“But she worked here? Like you? I mean, she wasn’t a maid or a laundress?”

“She worked like me. Not good with the work at first, but those of us with experience, we helped her.”

She retrieved a cigarette holder wedged down her front. From her pocket she drew out paper and tobacco and began rolling a weed. “I suppose you want to know about the murders?”

“Not interested in the madam or her murders. I’m a midwife, not a sleuth. But I’d like to know for certain if the person who looks so much like me, according to Gioconda, is my daughter.”

“Well, her name is Carmela, and she was here for a year, maybe more, and she looks exactly like you. Same eyes, a light jade, I’d say. Doesn’t have your wrinkles or crooked nose.”

Serafina felt her cheeks crimson. “Rosa’s told me a little about you. Said you were from Enna. How long have you been here?”

Lola laughed. “From Enna? Rosa invents new histories for us. Been here five or six years. I’m sure she’s told you all about me. You’re good friends. You must discuss everything.”

“Only what Rosa wants me to hear, and that’s precious little. And you’re right, she molds the truth into a pleasant fantasy. But she speaks highly of you. I’m curious. Your accent is not Sicilian.”

“Born in Lombardy, in the hills. Poor my family. My father was a shepherd.”

“How was it you traveled all the way to Sicily?” Serafina asked.

She looked out the window, not at the rocks or sea, but at something half-formed, like the shard of a memory. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Perhaps not. Hard for me to understand why a woman would want your profession. The work is hard, no?”

“Tell me, dear lady, have you ever delivered a child and then removed that child from his mother?”

“Several times. Women die giving birth.”

She frowned. “Not that.”

“Taken the child from its mother you mean?” Serafina asked.

She nodded.

“Never. I would never do such a thing, no, despite what the state says are the laws now. They say if the mother is a criminal or dying, the child should become a ward of the state. That’s talk from Turin. Some women, one or two, maybe, unmarried, don’t want their children, but even in those cases, I would not take the child from the mother, unless the mother was a wild one. And thank the Madonna, I’ve not run into that mother, not yet. Not Sicilian to take a child from its mother. Against our blood.”

Lola rubbed an eyelash. “I wish you’d been my midwife.”

Serafina stretched an arm around Lola’s shoulders. “And the father?”

“A man of learning. He wanted the child raised by the monks, so they took him from me.”

“How did you happen to meet this man?”

“After my mother died, my father brought us to the orphanage. All right for a while, until the mother superior died. Not so good then, so I left. Found work at the university.”

“Teaching?”

She shook her head. “I cleaned the lecture halls, the library. Good, honest labor. No pay. Worked for my keep. Backbreaking. Not like this profession, mind, but hard. One day I opened the door to a professor’s office. He was in the room reading some papers. I excused myself, but he said, ‘No, wait.’ He began to talk to me. Talked to me as if I were a man, you know, someone worthy of his words. Fascinating talk it was, about the oceans, the rivers of the world, the ebb and flow of tides, of ideas, of religious fervor and upheaval. The next week I came back. He was there. We talked again. It began that way. Nine months later, I gave birth to his son.”

“How old were you?”

“Thirteen.”

Serafina shuddered.

“Unless you’ve had a child taken from your arms, you’ll never understand, never. I walked until I came to a land that looked foreign to me. A new land, a new life. Stayed with a family near Naples. They fed me, gave me work, but something happened. Too long ago to matter. Ran away. Fishermen brought me here. I worked in Palermo, but the girls talk, you know, and Villa Rosa, well, it has a reputation. I was fifteen when I knocked on Rosa’s door.”

Shadows covered Lola’s face. She blinked several times. Her mood changed. “But you have to make your life, don’t you? You have to heave the past, just chuck it out and move on. My good fortune to find Rosa. Bad times, these. If I can help her in any way, please let me know.”

“You can help me right now. Tell Gusti I’ll talk to her another time.”

The Fight

Serafina stormed into the office. “Was my daughter here?”

The madam looked up from her ledger, still whispering numbers. “What are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about. Carmela. Was she here?”

Rosa bit her lip.

“Say something. My daughter. Did she come here four years ago? Did you let her in? She worked here? You didn’t tell me?”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Never mind. Answer my question: did my daughter work here as a prostitute?”

“Fina, that was long ago. Only a few months she stayed. She had no roof over her head after you made her leave.”

“I made her leave? Not on your life. Giorgio and I told her she had to finish school. Women of our class do, you know.”

“Women of your class? Putting on airs, is it?” Fists in her armpits she cocked her elbows and strutted with her torso like a clown. “ ‘Women of our class!’ Well, women of my class never talk to our children the way you talked to her. Mean, snarly words you used to your flesh and blood. Sicilian I am and proud of it, not ‘pretend noble.’ Nasty they are to their offspring, shipping them off to school barely weaned. We love our children. Ashamed, you should be.”

“What would you know about children?” Serafina asked.

Rosa stood. “Strega!” She stabbed the air with a finger. “I fought for my child. Flesh and blood? No. But I’m the mother, she’s mine. Ever in my heart, she is.”

“I take it back.”

Silence.

“I take back the part about Tessa. But you believed my daughter’s story. You never asked for my side. Worse, you took her in to work in your…your bordello, and never came to me. Never told me, even though I was here. Whenever you summoned, I dropped everything in the middle of the night, cared for your prostitutes as if they were my own clients. Saved them after they’d taken the strega’s evil draughts to rid themselves of their baby. And all the time, Carmela was right here, under your roof working on her back and not a word out of your lips about her. A child came to your door, not yet fifteen, and you took her in!”

“Take this handkerchief. I hate it when you cry. And sit down.”

“Keep your damn linen! Running around with boys, Carmela. When I saw her in the public gardens with that soldier, half undressed she was, I became incensed, yes. Mad. Wild. Perhaps I used words.”

The madam snorted. “Perhaps?”

“You know nothing, you shrew. Carmela found school ‘boring.’ Said she knew more than the teachers. ‘Only children attend’ and ‘I’m a woman now.’ We insisted she finish school, Giorgio and I. She refused. We told her, ‘Follow our rules while you live under our roof,’ never suspecting, never dreaming that she’d leave. She packed.”

“Did you try to stop her?”

“Of course we tried! Giorgio and I pleaded with her, so did Carlo. But no, she left, running down the steps one horrific night. Haven’t seen her since.”

“And you looked for her?”

“What a question to ask! Of course we did. And she was here, right under our noses, and you didn’t tell me!”

“Not here long.”

“Over a year.”

“Who said?”

“Gioconda.”

“What does she know?”

“Lola, too.”

The madam was silent.

“And she doesn’t know about the deaths of her grandmother and her father. You had the chance to send for me when she knocked on your door. And what did you do? You saw a child. You saw coins, the coins you think I know nothing about, and you never told me. You groomed her, ate off her earnings. You slut!”

Serafina slowed her breathing. “You never told me. Fine. You can get yourself another detective. You can find yourself another friend.”

The Discovery

Tuesday, October 16, 1866

The next few days were a blur. When she wasn’t delivering babies, Serafina helped her children with their schoolwork, accompanied Renata to market, went with Maria to her lessons, or watched Giulia sew their garments. Evenings, she spent in her mother’s room on the third floor. She read, thought, frowned up at the stars.

Despite her best attempts to banish it from her mind, Serafina could not forget her behavior the other day. Vicenzu had berated her for spending too much money on fabric. Her face flushed as he showed her the ledger. While he chattered on about red ink, Renata clattered in the kitchen. The domestic shuffled. Maria played her scales. Totò raced around the table like a wild specter.

Something inside her snapped. “Enough!” she yelled, slamming a platter to the floor. Shards of porcelain flew all over the kitchen. She saw fear in her children’s faces. It must never happen again, never.

The following morning she traipsed around the Duomo and piazza, climbed up to the promenade, wound down to the sea. The sun bounced off waves. Gulls cried. Sitting on the edge of the arena between the remains of two Greek pillars, she breathed in the salt air, glimpsed shards of porcelain in her mind, watched fishermen leaving with the tide. In the distance a steamer plowed the waves.

She decided to walk on. Where she was headed, she did not know, maybe as far away as Cefalù, maybe farther. She wanted to be on that steamer unfurling her sails and kissing the waves. The stones bit into her boots. The wind tore at her clothes, but she continued walking, past a platoon of boats heading out to claim their catch, past the cove on the edge of town, past citrus groves now picked clean of fruit.

She walked on as if walking would kill the lump in her throat, sinking into the soft soil, on and on until her legs hurt and her vision blurred. Soon she came to steep rocks jutting out almost to the water’s edge. Straight above her and some thirty meters from the edge stood a decrepit building, its lawns replaced by sand and clumps of grass, its gate rusted, its shutters askew. Guardian Angel Orphanage read the sign, Mother Concetta’s domain. As Serafina stood there staring up, she heard laughter, carefree, guileless. She smiled.

Something glinting near the rocks broke the moment. She walked over to the offender, lost or discarded in sea grass and picked it up. A reticule, brown velvet, with a gold chain and clasp. Inside she found Bella’s identity card, a fifty lire gold piece, a pair of yellow gloves, a rosary. She kissed the cross, dumped the articles back in the bag, and headed for home.

Shutting the gate behind her she saw the caretaker perched on a ladder pruning the bougainvillea. His shoulders bladed in and out as he cut. When Serafina waved to him, her skirt snagged on a prickly pear, and, yanking to free the silk, she pulled another thread. Her hem, wet from the sea, now puckered. She’d blame it on the goat.

Near the cactus bloomed the geranium her great-grandmother had planted, one of her mother’s favorites because of its acrid stench, its stem now the size of a man’s thigh. Serafina smelled its sourness, the bitter-sweetness of the soil.

The stone angel over the lintel smiled down at her. She glared back. Her stomach growled.

“Too early in the morning for you, Mama. Where were you?” Renata asked.

“Took a walk.”

“And what’s happened to your skirt?”

Before Serafina could reply, Giulia said, “The goat again.”

Maria played her scales or one of those Brahms pieces, Serafina couldn’t tell which.

“Vicenzu?”

“Left early for the shop.”

Renata said, “While you were gone, Rosa came in her shiny carriage. Surrounds herself with an army these days. First time she’s come to the house since Papa died.”

Serafina shrugged. She listened as Maria transitioned to Scarlatti.

“She brought us these,” Renata said, holding up a silver tray piled with dolci.

Serafina said nothing. She kissed her daughters.

“Beppe!” she yelled.

When he appeared she handed him the reticule and said, “Take this to Inspector Colonna. Tell him I found it on the shore. It belongs to one of Rosa’s deceased.”

Reconciliation

Sunday, October 21, 1866

From her room, Serafina saw the madam’s carriage pull into the drive. She grabbed a book from Giorgio’s shelves, ran up the steps to the third floor, and curled up in her mother’s favorite chair.

“Donna Fina! La Signura to see you,” Assunta rasped.

Serafina imagined the domestic’s lips on the keyhole. “Put her in the parlor. Tell her I’ll be down in a while. There’s something I must finish. If she wants to wait, fine.”

Serafina shivered. She flipped the pages of Moby Dick, attempting to get beyond the first sentence. But she found the story boring, the English words, difficult. She turned up the wick, ranged over the floor, sat down with the book again at the sound of a knock.

Her daughter entered. “Rosa’s downstairs in the parlor.”

“So?”

“She’s your oldest friend,” Renata said. “What happened between you two?”

“I’ll be down after I finish this book.”

“She doesn’t look well. Lost weight. Her face is drawn.”

“Tell her I need to finish something. Perhaps she doesn’t need to know I’m reading. Tell her I’m straightening Giorgio’s papers. If she wants to wait, I’ll be down. I don’t know when.”

“I can’t imagine what words were exchanged, but-”

“She crossed the boundaries of friendship.” Serafina continued to read, but the words ran together.

Renata sat on the corner of the bed. “It’s going to take you a year to finish that book, especially with Giulia not here to translate every other word.”

“Nonsense. I do quite well in English.”

Silence.

“Rosa helped us during the war. Saved the apothecary shop, Papa said.”

“Since that time she’s hurt us, I can tell you that much. The disturbance between us, it has to do with your older sister. I’ll say no more.”

“She doesn’t look well. Her gait is slow, her color, pallid.”

“A fantasy she creates.” Serafina gazed at her daughter, saw the frown.

“She’s your friend, Mama, no matter what she’s done. Besides, it looks like she’s aged fifteen years.”

Serafina rose. She should have chosen a more interesting book.

• • •

Rosa stood when Serafina entered the parlor.

Renata served them caffè and brought Rosa a special tray of dolci, but the madam declined.

Serafina heard soft notes coming from the parlor. “Maria’s piano,” she said.

Rosa nodded. “Lovely.”

They listened to the music, a slow movement, melodic, hopeful. Their eyes did not meet.

Rosa said, “Sorry I am that I didn’t call you when Carmela knocked on my door. I was wrong. Scarpo hired two more guards. On his orders, they begin the search for her.”

Serafina pressed her lips together. She looked down at her hands. “Nothing more you can say or do. No more about Carmela.”

The music stopped.

A moment of silence.

Scales again, oh Madonna, but at least it’s not Brahms.

“The commissioner, that prancing hippo, accused me of not wetting the don’s beak.”

“He said that?” Serafina asked.

“Not with words. Simpered around the room, he did.” Rosa moved her torso from side to side, crooking her elbows and swaying in imitation.

Serafina smiled. She had missed the madam’s view of the world.

Rosa continued. “Spread thin, he said. Talked about the uprisings, the loss of men. Said they are doing everything they can against such a force.”

“What force? And the uprisings have diminished, not like last month when the prisons were unlocked and we couldn’t leave the house,” Serafina said.

“A day after I met with the commissioner, who chances to visit but the inspector. Waddled in, he did, with Bella’s purse. Found on the shore, he told me. Contains fifty lire and a pair of yellow gloves.”

“Along with a rosary and Bella’s identity card,” Serafina said. “I was the one who found it near some rocks past the cove. I had Beppe bring it to him.”

“That fat inspector!” Rosa twisted her handkerchief. “What will I do? Whatever we know about the killings, we know because of you.” She looked at Serafina. Her eyes were hungry.

Serafina looked at the floor and shook her head.

Silence.

She told Rosa about visiting the embalmer, the carving of the winding snake-like creature on Bella’s forehead, and what she’d discovered from talking to the priests about the brazen serpent.

The madam put a hand to her chest. “Brazen serpent?” She smiled. “Was a girl from the north, she talked about the end of the world. My girls loved to listen to her fantasy. ‘At the end of the world, the serpent will hiss.’” Rosa made a long hissing sound, imitating the prostitute. “How her eyes looked when she hissed. Such a lovely fantasy. But long gone, the girl.”

“When did she leave?”

“I sent her away. Not popular with the customers.”

“When was this?”

“Two, maybe four years ago. Didn’t last long, the girl.”

“Her name?”

“Hilaria, she called herself.”

“Do you know where she is now?”

The madam shook her head. “Nor if she still uses that name.”

Serafina said, “There was a reason why you found the bodies on the seventh day of each month.”

“Reason? Tell me, oh sorceress.”

She told her what she’d learned from the professor about the perfection of six, the fullness of seven, but she could tell that the madam wasn’t listening.

Rosa fanned herself. “Too many words. Just say, ‘A wild creature kills the girls.’”

Decisions, Suspects, Plans

Monday, October 22, 1866

“Don’t wait up for me. One of Rosa’s women must be in a difficult way.” Serafina studied the pale skin beneath her children’s eyes. “Come here, all of you and give me a kiss. Renata, Vicenzu, you are in charge. Maria and Giulia, don’t forget your studies. Who will help Totò brush his teeth? Thank you, Maria.”

“Do you have to go?” Totò asked.

“Shhh!” someone said.

• • •

As she entered the room, Serafina sensed a brighter mood. She glanced at the bust of Mary Magdalene on Rosa’s desk, kissed her friend on both cheeks, and sank into a chair.

“The earth cools; the babies are busy. So many to deliver.” Serafina removed her gloves and rubbed her hands. “First it was Graziella. Her babies arrive with big heads, and she’s such a small woman. The peasants have been at it, too: Crocifisa and Maruzzedda, two of them at once. Ran back and forth from one home to the other. No sleep.” She paused. “And now another one? A prostitute needs me?”

Gowned for the evening in deep aubergine, Rosa poured the Marsala, handed a glass to Serafina. Rosa’s eyes, Serafina saw, were like a squid’s.

“No birth tonight. Only death.” Rosa stroked a page in her ledger. She spoke in Sicilian, the language of their youth. It suited her gravelly voice. She shook her head. “I pay the don every month, but I won’t beg for more of his help. It would destroy the high character of this house.”

“But your visit helped?”

Rosa shrugged. “Colonna. He waddles in today, sits his backside down, says, ‘No other news. Have patience.’ As if the murders happened yesterday.”

Her eyes blazed. She slammed the desk. “My beauties are in danger and he does nothing! What can I say? He certifies the house, so I swallow my words and pour him another grappa.” Rosa twisted linen back and forth in her hands. “That’s why I sent for you. No more dawdling. For the sake of our friendship, I need you to find the killer before another girl is murdered.”

Silence, except for the wind outside and the spitting of logs. Rosa dried her eyes.

Serafina turned to the hearth. She remembered the casket of the first victim as it journeyed to the grave in August heat, the procession engulfed in a cloud of dust, the smell of death and the sweat of mourners thick around the jostling bier. After Rosa found the second prostitute’s body, Giornale di Sicilia featured a story about the two murders, listing their ghoulish similarities, lamenting the increase in violence. Increase, what increase? We are so full of dead bodies, they choke us. The slaughter continues, that’s what those inky fingers should have penned.

Two weeks had passed since they found Bella’s body. No words in the papers, no prayers from the priests, but the gossip had begun in the straw market and behind merchants’ shutters. A growing hum in the air, it flew to the far corners of the piazza where wizened crones scattered their words like bits of straw. Even Vicenzu voiced it one evening by the fire, sticking his head above the top of his apothecary catalogue long enough to say, “Rosa forgot to wet Don Tigro’s beak.” But Serafina knew better. Not the don’s style, these killings.

She walked to the window, stared into the dark. Tall and high-breasted, Serafina, proud of her figure, even after having seven children. But she admitted it: a corset laced with care tucked her in at the waist and lifted the start of sagging flesh. Each year the lines on her face multiplied, deepened. Too well she knew that monster, Time, crouched ahead, ready to pounce. She pictured Bella’s face, the remains of those three women lying cold in the ground, their murders unsolved. Are the rest of Rosa’s prostitutes in danger? Rosa, too? Carmela?

She fought to catch her breath and sat down. “You and I will find the killer. We must.”

Rosa’s eyes sparkled.

“Tell me about the dead women,” Serafina said and reached for her notebook.

“Too late, our guests arrive soon.”

“But time runs out.”

“Because you took so long to decide.”

“Do you want me to solve the murders or not?”

“You’re right. Tonight. But first I must discuss the sauce with cook. She needs to know how much to make. Big appetites scheduled for this evening.” She got up from the chair, whisked around the desk, kissed her on both cheeks, and bustled out of the room.

• • •

Serafina rubbed her arms, smelled citrus and lavender. Got up. Sat down. Up again. She swept the room with her gaze until her senses were arrested by a cloud growing more distinct, encompassing the chair in the corner. Once again, she saw her mother, young, gowned in velvet.

“You toy with a riddle. Where’s your daughter?”

“The guards and Scarpo search for her.”

“The guards are dim.”

“Carmela’s the one who left us. You were the one who spoiled her.”

Maddalena’s nose wrinkled. Serafina knew it signaled a storm.

“Stop blaming others. Who’s the mother, you or Rosa? Find your daughter.”

“Look at me: two, three hours of sleep a night. The babies arrive. I must attend, you know that. Giorgio’s death, a devastation. Rosa needs me. Most of all my children need me.”

“Say that last line again.”

Serafina crossed her arms, closed her eyes, shook her head.

“Just like your father. Listen to yourself. ‘My children need me.’ And who is Carmela? — a stranger? A child left, and you, the mother, heap shame on Rosa’s head for taking her in. Yet you, the mother, do nothing to find your child. Shame on our house. Yes, the guards can help, but you must find her first.”

“Too much to do. It’s all a muddle. You make no sense.”

“You must find her first in here,” she said, pointing to her heart.

The vision faded, and Serafina sat, arms wrapped around herself in a cold, dark room.

• • •

The door opened and Rosa entered, her skirts swaying above stiffened hoops. She licked her fingers. “You look like a startled ewe. Scare yourself? Or do you dawdle as usual while I do all the work?”

Serafina turned this way and that. She remembered the look on Maddalena’s face before she vanished. “My daughter?”

“Still searching, the guards. Early, yet. They canvas the brothels in town. Next, they go to Palermo.”

Silence, except for the wind outside.

“You’ve asked the women she knew? Gusti? Gioconda? Lola?”

“Of course.”

Serafina looked beyond Rosa to the windows. All she could see were dark shapes. “There’s only so much I can do.” Maddalena’s words rang in her head. What would Giorgio say? She felt like pushing all thoughts of children back into a dim room in her mind, but she said, “Tell me when Carmela was here. No fantasy. The dates.”

“Came to me she did in July 1862. Left in August 1863. No word since.”

“She could be anywhere, or not,” and having said those words, Serafina felt a flash of something hot. Her cheeks burned. Her armpits moistened. Better not to think of Carmela. Better to let the thoughts fly away like birds. She rose, opened a window, waited for her lungs to fill themselves. She breathed in large draughts of air before she fastened the sash.

“Tell me about the murdered women.” Serafina reached into her reticule for notebook and pencil. “I want to hear where they were born, their talents outside the bedroom, their families, their friends, their enemies, troublesome customers, where they went on their free evenings. I want to interview everyone who was in the house or who should have been here at the time of the murders. Details I want, anything that comes to mind no matter how small-a new shadow on the wall, a different scent in the air, an unsettled light in someone’s eyes.”

“First it was Gemma, my poor darling Gemma. A country girl. Seldom laughed, my Gemma.”

“A country girl from where?”

“How should I know where Gemma was born, or any of my girls? A girl comes to the door. She wants to work. While she talks, my eyes move up, my eyes move down. Most of them I turn away. I seek hunger and stamina and a certain something in the eyes. Do I care if she’s from Palermo or Naples or Rome? Or beyond? No. Would she tell me if I asked? No.”

Serafina waited.

“She may have been from Enna. Sperlinga, I think. Why are you smiling?”

“At you. Pulling the truth out of your mouth is harder than hoisting a net of tuna from the sea.”

Rosa’s black curls shimmered. “Now, no more interruptions.” Her mouth twitched. “Seldom laughed, Gemma, but born turning tricks, that one, with a silky bottom and a wink that made customers beg for more. Earned more than any of the others, my Gemma, given a five lire gold piece by one of Garibaldi’s generals. Dead these three months, my darling girl.”

Serafina ran two fingers up and down her pencil waiting for the madam to continue.

“Next it was Nelli, Nelli with a doll’s face. A natural in the kitchen, our Nelli. Helped cook make the caponata, but slow to learn the trade, so clever Lola became a sister to her, showed her artistic twists.” Rosa twirled ringed fingers to illustrate ‘artistic twists.’

Serafina scribbled. “Lola. Tell me about her.”

“You met her the other day.”

“But I want to hear what you have to say about her. And this time, I don’t want a fantasy. The more I learn about the dead women and those who kept their company, the more pieces of the puzzle I can fit together, the greater our chance of finding-”

“Enough! Lola appeared in the doorway one day, did our Lola, homeless and in rags, with whip marks on her back. My blessed day. From the moment she started, one of my best. She has style, has Lola. Oh, our Lola can do anything with her hands when she wants to. And droll? She is ever so gay. Trusses up our hair, doesn’t she, carved the sign hanging on the gates, even draws pictures. Makes us laugh, an actress, our little Lola.” She chuckled, and her corset creaked. “Where was I with Nelli?”

Serafina read from her notes. “’So clever Lola became a sister to her.’”

Rosa nodded. “Under Lola’s care, Nelli changed. Got repeats. Became popular with the priests. Now I’ve lost her.”

Rosa’s voice grew wispy. “Last month it was…but you know all about Bella.”

Serafina said, “Tell me about her, what she did, her friends, her customers.”

“You know not to ask about customers. Respectable, my customers.”

Serafina pictured Falco surrounded by a group of Rosa’s prostitutes at Bella’s wake, his arms around one while he flirted with another, but decided to save him for later. She didn’t know if what the madam told her would help. She invents a fantasy, our Rosa. Ever so droll.

Rosa continued. “Bella could embroider the bodice of a dress with her eyes closed. Beads and tassels, oh, all over and where they belong, too. Dreams our Bella had. Saving to buy her own dress shop.”

Rosa paused, cocking her head to the side. “Close to thirty and getting sour, Bella, but customers, they asked for her, and she couldn’t refuse. Now she lies stiff in her grave. Oh my sweet, sweet girls, how they suffered.”

Rosa dabbed her eyes. She waited until Serafina’s pencil finished scratching. “Don Tigro’s men are useless. They lurk in the shadows with their filthy clothes and flat eyes. I won’t let them near my house.”

“Describe finding Gemma’s body.”

“Came down here, didn’t I, to count the money. Early, about midday. The angelus had just rung.” The madam flapped her fingers to illustrate the campanile bell.

“What day?”

“Been through this before.”

“Day of the week, I meant.”

Rosa canted her eyes. “Let’s see, too warm outside it was, bad for business. A Tuesday, I know because Bella asked me if I had anything to mend, and Tuesday was the day she did the mending. Monday was her night off, and I had something for her, my crinoline with the iron hoops.”

“Go on.”

“I came in here to count the money and got a feeling.”

“Feeling?”

“Like a spider crawling up my neck. I looked around. Nothing. I opened the door to the back, and there lay Gemma with her face all stiff, wearing the mask of death, my dear beautiful girl, the insects already buzzing above her open mouth.”

“What did you do?”

“Sent for the inspector,” Rosa said.

“And Nelli?”

Rosa’s jeweled fingers caught the candlelight. She pounded her chest and said, “I found her body. In the same place as Bella’s, it was, by the door leading to the sea.”

The two women were silent.

Serafina heard the rasp of the wind. “Do your women go out at night after work?”

Rosa shrugged. “I’ve told you. I don’t ask them questions. I trust them. They take pride in their work. Every morning I give them their share of the take. If they receive tips, they share them with me, unless they’re trinkets-those they keep. They want to know who earned the most. The best girls clamor for a spot here, or at least they did. Now, who knows what will happen, although I still have a steady stream of knocks at the door. Unrivaled, my house.”

“No doubt. The grounds, beautiful.”

“And the girls are free to graze. They go down and bathe in the sea, walk on the shore, some of them. Carmela, for instance. Good exercise, climbing up and down the rocks.” Rosa winked.

Serafina rubbed her forehead. “Scarpo and his men watch the doors?”

“Yes, but they saw no one except for the customers.”

“A list, do you keep one?”

“Of what?” Rosa poured herself another Marsala, offered the bottle.

“You know what I mean. A list of customers.”

“List? Never. It would ruin me if word got out that I keep a list. This is a respectable house. Why do you keep asking that same question? Stop trying to trick.” She quaffed her drink, tapped the side of her nose and whispered, “But I know most of the men and if I don’t, Scarpo does. Some of them come to the door in costume-priests and council officials, mostly. We pretend not to recognize them. The police commissioner, for instance, he wears a wig.” She paused. “Don’t write that down, Fina. Are you mad?”

“Have you entertained strangers recently?”

“Admit a stranger? Never. Unless he has a recommendation from someone we trust, a member of the city council, for instance. That’s different.”

“So you reject?”

“All the time.”

“Make a list of the rejected in the last few months,” Serafina said.

Rosa pulled the cord.

“Get Scarpo,” she said to the maid.

• • •

Candlelight reflected from the bumpy surface of Scarpo’s pate. It reminded Serafina of a scarred cabbage. He wore red suspenders and his stomach was a flat rock. The butt of a revolver stuck out of his belt. A shepherd’s knife hung from the other side. He bowed to Rosa, nodded to Serafina, arranged himself in the chair facing La Signura.

Serafina smelled week-old sweat. What is it about him? She said, “Rosa tells me you turn men away all the time. Can you describe any of them?”

He snapped his braces, directing his gaze toward Rosa. “There is one who keeps coming back, Signura, a stranger, he has a funny smell, not from around here. Pigheaded, too. Returns many times. Wears a brown cloak and hat. The other day he’s in town when I go to the smith.”

Serafina asked, “Same man? You’re sure?”

He shrugged. “Same smell.”

“When did you last see him?”

Scarpo sucked his mustache. “Remember, Signura? Middle of last week. I wait for him to finish his business. I sniff. I think, that smell. It’s the same one who comes around here. I wait. He talks, talks, talks with the smith. I wait more. Same man I tell ‘no girls for you tonight.’ And something else I note: he wears gloves. Not cold.”

“That’s one, Scarpo,” Serafina said. She ran a hand through her hair and wrote down Scarpo’s description of the gloved stranger. When finished, she frowned at the page.

“Write what the man tells you and be done with it. You can rely on Scarpo. Whatever he says, take it. Customers arrive soon and you are slow as usual. Even as a child, you ate the cannoli like a toothless hag.” Rosa looked at Scarpo, waved her pinched fingers in Serafina’s direction. “She doesn’t change, that one. When we were children, she always had to have the last bite and there I sat, wishing I had more while she poked and played and dreamed.”

Serafina chewed her cheek.

“Well, what is it? Slower than a child eating spinach, you are.”

She told them about the begging monk she’d seen last week. “Smelled of foreign dung. Said he was from a monastery north of Naples. Didn’t like my questions.”

Scarpo shook his head. “Not a monk, the stranger. And not begging.”

“I want to know about all of the others you’ve told to leave. And anything else unusual that comes into your head-men walking outside or in the back, someone sneaking in the shadows, anyone who picked a fight or followed you in the Centru.”

“Well, there’s another, he limps, one of Don Tigro’s men. Keeps asking for a turn, such like that. You told me, ‘Nothing on the house,’ Signura, you know the one I mean.”

Rosa nodded. “The snake. Of course.” She snapped her fingers at Serafina. “Add him to the list.”

“Whatever you wish, sweetness.” Scarpo described a few first time customers who, because the prostitutes did not like their demands, were not allowed to return. When he’d finished, Serafina had seven descriptions.

“What about Falco? He’s your client. Has he ever given trouble?”

“Who?” Rosa glared. “No client called Falco.”

“At the wake I saw him with a few of your prostitutes. Two in particular: a redhead and a blonde. But the rest of your women gathered round them. They formed a group.”

Rosa shook her head, hunched her shoulders, and looked at Scarpo who said he didn’t remember him.

“Addled, your brain, Fina. Not my customer.”

Serafina rolled her eyes. “Did any of these men return, other than the blond stranger?”

Scarpo considered, shook his head, stood. “Getting late, Signura.”

“Thank you, Scarpo.” She glared at Serafina.

• • •

After he’d gone, Rosa said, “You’ve no sense of time, of right and wrong. Scarpo-”

“I don’t have a sense of right and wrong? What about your sense of right and wrong when my daughter came to you?”

“We’ve been over this before. She needed-”

“Don’t you tell me what she needed. She needed her mother. She needed her family. She needed sense knocked into her.” She stopped, gazed at the dark. “After Giorgio’s funeral, I don’t know, I just couldn’t do any more about her. I must take care of the other children. Better not to think of Carmela.”

Rosa bent to Serafina, handing her a linen. “My mouth is shut, but it’s an effort. More Marsala?”

Serafina shook her head and blew her nose.

“All right. Let me say it one more time. If she knocked on my door again, I wouldn’t be so beguiled. Such a darling, except for her tongue, of course. Too much like yours.” Rosa paused. “Yes, I want you to find the killer. And, yes, I should have sent for you when Carmela knocked on my door. I was wrong. Forgive me, but that was almost four years ago and you never mention her name.”

Rosa, for once, was right. Better not to think of her, Carmela. Sometimes life was just too crowded with the right things to do. Let the images float away. After all, Carmela chose her life. She wasn’t in danger, was she? She couldn’t be dead, could she?

“Stop staring into space and blow your nose. Take all the time you need. Only, mind the hour.”

“I’ll take plenty of time, don’t you fret. I have questions and more questions, questions galore. I might need to return.” Serafina chewed on the inside of her cheek and looked at the list. “Two of these descriptions, the brown-cloaked stranger and the one who limps-I have a feeling about these men.”

“Plenty of brown-cloaked strangers,” Rosa said.

“And there’s another.” Serafina brought up Falco’s name.

“Again we’re back to him? Like a cur and a bone. Falco, slippery: about to kiss my hand when someone tapped him on the shoulder and he was off like a cat hunting prey. But he’s not a customer. Nothing more.”

“Then how does he know your women?”

“A fantasy you entertain. Not a customer.”

Serafina nodded.

“Not a customer,” Rosa said again. Her cheeks puffed.

She told Rosa about her affair with him. “It was years ago. Both in school. Stopped studying, so infatuated I was with him.”

“Let me understand. A flirtation you had with him years ago. He’s the one who stopped it, and that’s why you don’t trust him?” Rosa’s eyes twinkled.

Serafina narrowed her shoulders, leaned over the madam’s desk so that their faces almost touched. “A customer, Falco.”

The madam’s face purpled. “Not a customer, Falco.”

“I saw him cooing with your women.”

“A fast worker, Falco.”

“Behind my back, he was dating other women. Betrothed besides, and I never knew it,” Serafina said.

“Like half the men in Sicily.”

“But there was something about him, about the way it ended.”

“Tell me,” Rosa said.

“I saw him kissing another woman. He was in disguise, wearing a cheap actor’s wig.”

“That’s good.” Rosa grinned. “And you remember this from school? Tell me more of the story, oh wizard.”

Serafina touched her temples. “And when I called out his name, he stopped kissing the little vixen, turned to me, doffed his cap, and bowed.”

Rosa laughed so hard she cried.

Serafina frowned. “Handy with a blade, Falco. Passable actor. Plays to the cheap seats.”

Rosa wiped her eyes. “Better than dolci, that story. So add him to the list, but circle Brown Cloak and Limping Cobra.”

“He’s Bella’s uncle. Might have gained from her death.”

The madam was alert. “How?”

“She was the last living child of the oldest son, no?”

Rosa’s eyes widened.

“We must visit Nittù Baldassare again. I’ve got questions,” Serafina said.

• • •

Rosa reached out, held Serafina’s hand. “You miss Giorgio, I know. But this nasty business, good for your brain.”

“How do you know what’s good for my brain?” Serafina wiped her eyes. “As soon as I’ve finished talking to everyone here, I want to ask Baldassare some questions. Both brothers. Perhaps we can see the black swan as well.”

“As long as we return by six o’clock.”

“We’ll leave early, take the train to Bagheria, then a cab to Palermo. More reliable than the roads. Renata can come with us and shop in La Vucciria while we talk to Bella’s father. Bring Tessa. Has she ever seen Palermo?”

“Too young.”

“You need to show Tessa the world. Bring her. Renata will mind her while we do our business. Meet us at the station at seven.”

“Seven? Too Early.” Rosa stared into the flame. “Still, a trip to Palermo would be good for her.”

“Settled.”

“Now I want to speak to your women, Scarpo and his men, the cook, the laundress, the maids.”

Rosa shook her head, “No time.”

“I’ll use your office. I might have to return, but I’d like to start this evening.”

“Colonna’s already talked to everyone.”

“And was he as thorough with his interviews as he was when he searched the rooms?”

Rosa ran one painted fingernail on the edge of her holy ledger. “If you must, but-”

Serafina said, “Organize it. I might be a wizard but I’ve yet to learn the trick of making handcuffed villains appear, presto, out of nothing. Oh, we’ll find the killer, all right, but it will take our time and our brains and all our might.”

Scarpo

Sullen creatures with hooded eyes, the first few women she interviewed entered the room one at a time, bathed but not yet dressed for the evening. Like parrots, each one said the same thing. No, the prostitutes had no trouble with their customers. No, they’d seen no one suspicious, not around here, not in the straw market, not in the piazza. And the maids barely remembered Gemma, Nelli or Bella. At the time of the prostitutes’ deaths, they saw, heard, felt nothing unusual. Serafina was beginning to despair when Scarpo entered.

He looked at her. “Cold in here.”

As he carried wood over to the hearth, his hobnailed boots shook the furniture. He struts around like King Bumma in a pair of braces. Serafina watched the muscles of his upper arm pump while he stoked the embers and added another log to the grate. If Rosa were out of the way, would he gain or lose? Mentally she added him to her list-the brown cloak, the limping man, Falco, Scarpo.

She asked him if he had time for a few questions.

He nodded and sat in the chair she’d pulled up in front of the desk. Displaced, the air rippled the flame in Rosa’s lamp. Serafina heard the new log crack as it fed the fire.

“What can you tell me about the women who died?”

“Meaning what? I’m a busy man. My son, he helps when he’s not in school but look here, look there.” He made large circular gestures. “A lot for me, this house. Manage the gardeners, take close looks at the guards, and they’re a sorry lot, the guards. Work all the time. Let me think.” He picked at a spot on one suspender, bowed his head, and squirmed to the edge of the chair.

Silence.

“The first one to die, Gemma. In August. I remember her funeral,” Serafina said. “Can you tell me about her?”

Again he did not reply.

A mysterious man, this Scarpo. He played the strong man, yet, like a child hiding in the corner, he longed for discovery. She spoke again, and this time her voice softened the room. “I think I met your son last week. Handsome boy. He looks just like you, but with hair. He helped Beppe with our trap and must have a way with mules because Largo seemed unusually calm on the way home.”

He gave her a down-from-under look. His smile was slow to spread. “Arcangelo, sixteen next month.” He dug in his pocket, fished out a dirty yellow bandanna. “The sudden heat you know,” he said, wiping his forehead. He took small swipes at his eyes. “The wife, she’s been gone three years.” He stared at the floor. “Good in the morning, baking bread for Rosa. Come home for dinner, the table is bare. She, the wife, curled up on the floor, dead. From the sudden sickness.” His body sagged. “Only me and him now. Works like a man and La Signura knows it. Arcangelo, the same age I was when I started helping my father here.”

“So you know this house,” she said.

“All of it.” He looked at her, this time in control of his eyes.

“That’s why I need to talk to you. If something were strange, you’d know.”

“Yes, I know when one of my men, he doesn’t pull his load. I know when Don Tigro’s men trample one blade of grass.”

“That’s what they’re saying in town.”

“What?”

“That Don Tigro is behind the killing because he wants Rosa’s business.” Her eyes watched his face for change of expression.

He shook his head. “Never. We pay him every month, and I take extra care of his men.” He tapped the side of his nose with a callused finger, squared his shoulders, and said, “Don’t tell La Signura about the extra. Besides, against their honor, the don’s men, to kill a woman for nothing. Kill Gemma, Nelli, Bella? Why would they? Not like the strega who owned a store some years ago and refused to pay. You know the one I mean.”

“The one who sold fruit and vegetables in town? Her daughter was shot, wasn’t she?”

“Yes, the daughter shot, they say, by his men, yes, after she was used, you know how. But the old woman, nasty of mouth, she didn’t pay. We knew it, too. La Signura, she pays Don Tigro’s men. I see to it.”

“Thank you for your help.” She meant it as a dismissal.

He stared at the patterns on the rug. “One thing I notice, but probably nothing.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“I need to find the words,” he said.

“Take your time. They’ll come.”

“Well, something in the air. More sound. Yes, and more movement during the day.” He twisted his mustache. “And the women dress earlier, more going out in the afternoon. Always more movement in summer, but this summer? — oh, the comings, the goings! Bella, she took trips to Palermo, stayed for a few days. Gemma, I think, in and out. Starting in June, maybe. The weather, hot, I know, because I remember seeing her leave while we were scything the field in back-Rosa likes it trimmed and a path cleared to the sea-and I can see them now, as I speak, going in and out, in and out.” He waved his arms back and forth. “Yes, and in August, just before La Signura finds Gemma’s body, Arcangelo stops in the middle of cutting. He tells me, ‘Got to drive Gemma to town. Then I come back.’ Yes, and he did, too, and we finished before evening.”

“Did he tell you where he went?”

He shook his head. “Gemma, all dressed up, he told me.”

“I’d like to talk to the rest of your men, then to Arcangelo. He saw something that may be important. Get them for me, please, Scarpo.”

• • •

Eight men stood before her, boots, aprons, bowed heads. One driver, two gardeners, five guards. Their squat fingers were hooked into their belts or held straw hats. No, they saw nothing, they told her. They spoke in a dialect she barely understood. Let’s face it: they barely spoke. She was sure that if they knew something, they were not about to tell her. She’d have to rely on Scarpo and Arcangelo.

Arcangelo

“Don’t look at me like I’m from the heavens. I’ve got a son a little older than you, although I think you’re taller, probably stronger. His nose always in a book, my Vicenzu, especially after the accident, and he loves his numbers.”

“Numbers?”

“You know, you add them, subtract them, make them tell whatever story you want. Vicenzu keeps the ledgers for the apothecary shop.”

“Ledgers?”

“Yes. He tells me I spend too much money. Do you believe it?”

Arcangelo pulled at his sleeves.

Serafina waited.

“One day, I’ll be the doctor of animals. And your mule, dear lady, needs new shoes.”

“I’ll tell Carlo, my oldest son. He’s supposed to tend to things like that.” She circled her hand in the air. “A mother doesn’t know about these things.”

“My mother did, but she died.”

Silence.

Softly she said, “So did mine. Last year.” Serafina paused. “Terrible, the cholera. One day she was fine, the next day, dead. I miss her, and I’m a grown woman with children of my own, but I still need her. I talk to her and she answers.” She saw Maddalena’s smile, her wrinkled nose. “Sometimes she still scolds me.”

Arcangelo looked up and furrowed his brows. His ears were red. His eyes might have been wet.

She continued. “My mama told me once she’d never leave me, and I believed her, but she did leave. She lied. And there are no answers and no smiles for that. Anyway,” she blew her nose, “I have a few questions to ask, and your father said you might be able to answer them. He told me you drove Gemma to town the day before she died. Can you tell me about it?”

“Of course, dear lady.”

“Call me Donna Fina, everyone does.”

“Of course, Donna Fina. I drove Gemma because she asked me to.”

“Where?”

“To the blacksmith’s, close to the stables. She told me, ‘My uncle meets me.’”

“Did you see him, the uncle?”

He nodded. “He wore a hat. I remember thinking at the time, it’s cool for August, but still hot, and I wondered why the uncle wore a fedora in summer. Dark, the color, and he dressed in a heavy jacket of some sort, as if it were winter.”

“Can you describe it?”

“Dark brown or grey, like a monk’s cape, but without the hood. His back was to me and hunched over, his cape, all bunched in the back. Tall, I think. But I didn’t say hello. I helped Gemma out of the carriage and said goodbye to her. He took her hand or beckoned to her or something.” Arcangelo’s face worked to remember. “He had a small mule and cart with him. The mule was old and worn. I could tell just by looking at him, he was not cared for by one who loves animals. His hooves, not shod. But I had to get back to help Papa-scything time. I left.”

“Of course. Give me a minute to write down what you’ve just said.”

When she had finished, she read it back to him. “A man, tall, in wintry clothes, wearing a fedora and a short jacket or cape. Mule and cart. Clothes bunched in the back. You mean like a hunchback?”

“Yes, that’s it. Like Quasimodo.”

She smiled. “My son liked the book, too. Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

He frowned. “Perhaps the clothes and his shape, but I didn’t see his face. His dress, not from around here. And he took Gemma’s case and put it in his cart. Now I remember; when he reached for the case, he wore gloves. In the heat of August.”

“Some men wear them when they work or drive.”

Arcangelo laughed. “Not around here. Kept his head down. Didn’t greet me or look at me. As if he were afraid. Or slippery. If I saw the hat again and the cape-”

“Cape or jacket?”

“Cape. Like Fra Berto wears in the winter, only without a hood.”

“The color?”

“Me? Colors? I’m no good with colors, but darker than the color of your dress, lighter than my pantaloons. Grey, green, brown, blue-they all look the same to me.”

“What did he wear on his feet?”

Arcangelo shrugged. “Shoes?”

“Shoes or sandals or you didn’t notice?”

“Didn’t notice.”

“And the day, do you remember? Do you know your days of the week?”

He laughed. “Of course I know the days of the week.” He looked up at the ceiling, one eye closed, and rubbed the fuzzy stubble on his chin. “It was the day after Sunday.” He winked.

She laughed. “Last time I considered, Monday followed Sunday.”

“I remember it was Monday because we don’t work on Sundays, so we sleep late, and I remember thinking as I drove, five more days until I can sleep late again.”

Serafina counted on her fingers. “Six more days.”

He rocked his hand back and forth, two fingers pinched. “Depends on how you look at life, my mother would say.”

Wise for someone his age. She liked this young man. “If you see him again, please tell me right away. You know where I live?”

He nodded.

“Ring the bell by the gate, day or night, doesn’t matter. We’re used to being awakened. I’m a midwife, you see, and babies love to arrive at night, just when they think everyone’s asleep. Tell me right away. It’s important.”

He said he would and rose from his chair. He held his cap. She heard excitement in his voice, saw it in that bent-toward-her way he held his torso.

“You think I may have seen the killer?” His eyes looked straight into hers.

“Yes. I think you did, but tell no one. I can count on you? It’s important.”

“Don’t worry.” He screwed his thumb and forefinger on tightly-closed lips, bowed, walked to the door, said, “And don’t feel bad, I talk to my mother, too.”

After Arcangelo left, Serafina sat for a moment, lost in thought.

Rosalia

“Rosalia, named after the saint,” the prostitute said, “the one in a cave high in the mountains. When I was old enough, my mother shoved me out the door. Not enough coins for my keep. Told me I needed to make my way in the world. All done with me,” she said.

Not yet sixteen, Serafina guessed, younger than Giulia. She cursed Rosa for taking in children.

“Are you going to catch the killer? Please, before he kills all of us. The others tell me he’s a ghost. Comes in the middle of the night.”

“Nonsense. He’s flesh and blood, this killer. We’ll catch him. But we must put our heads together. That’s why I called for you. What do you know about the women who were murdered?”

Rosalia drew in her lower lip, but said nothing.

Serafina heard the wheeze of gas jets.

“Tell me the first thing that comes into your head. I’ll decide if it’s important.”

Minutes passed. Serafina waited for the shell to crack.

“One thing about Gemma, she changed before she died.”

“How?”

The young prostitute picked at a blemish on her cheek. Serafina wanted to push the girl’s fingers away from her face. Instead she sat on her hands and waited. Why couldn’t she behave this way with her own children?

“Stopped talking to me, all at once, Gemma.” Rosalia snapped her fingers. She narrowed her eyes. “Maybe I said something she didn’t like? Maybe I asked too many questions? Yes, that’s it, too many questions. Maybe.”

“Did you ask her why she stopped talking to you?”

“Yes.” A wash of color began on the girl’s shoulders. It crawled up her neck and filled her the way dawn sometimes floods the world.

“And?” Serafina asked.

“She said she could no longer be my friend.”

“Did she, now.”

“Said I needed to be saved, she’d show me the way.”

“And you said?” Serafina wrote in her book.

“Nothing. Slammed the door in her face!” Rosalia was solemn.

Serafina raised her brows.

“Wouldn’t you? Brushed me away like a customer shaking off the last of me. All done, they say, before they leave.”

“But you can’t think you caused Gemma’s distance. She removed you because of some disturbance inside her head.”

“They all leave. Carmela, the same. She was a girl, here for a while, older than me. Knew the names of flowers. A miracle with the gardens. We’d talk after the men left, sometimes until morning. But one day she was gone, too. No goodbye, no nothing.” Rosalia’s eyes began to crowd. “One day, one day, I’ll show them all. They’ll be sorry.”

Serafina took deep breaths. Walking over to the girl, she had the sensation of falling. She stroked Rosalia’s cheek, took her in her arms. While she sobbed, the candlelight played tricks. For an instant, Serafina held her child, Carmela, but she shoved back the memory, punched it down deep until it disappeared.

Old Tarts and Absent Kings

After Rosalia left, Serafina heard footsteps.

The door flew open and Rosa stood before her, fists on hips. “Fina. You know nothing about this business. Guests arrive and you dawdle.”

“Get in here, you old tart.” As she yanked Rosa inside, Serafina glanced down the hall at a long line of tittering women. How many beds does Rosa keep? She must count coins all day long and Don Tigro doesn’t want a larger cut of the take?

She slammed the door shut and stuck her face close to Rosa’s. “Do you want me to solve these murders or not? Should I go home now and leave you to your work, a knife waiting for you around the corner? Think of how it feels to have your forehead gouged with that sign of whatever it is.”

Serafina wagged her finger back and forth, close to Rosa’s nose. “We hunt for a killer who has the cunning of a madman. And he has a method and a pattern and is intent on one thing only-eliminating you and all your prostitutes and the business you think I know so little about.” She pointed to the door. “Now. You go into that parlor and you tease and prime your customers, but I will interview all of your prostitutes and the cook and laundress and anyone else I need to interview, including the archbishop and the prefect and the king if I have to. And I’ll take as much time as I want. And I might decide to come back tomorrow morning at first light and interview them all over again.”

“Are you finished?”

Serafina stood with her arms folded, one leg extended, foot tapping, cheeks burning.

Rosa wagged her finger back and forth. “Tart I may be. Proud of it. But old? Never! What’s more, the king doesn’t come here.”

When the madam opened the door to leave, Serafina saw a straight line of silent women waiting to be interviewed.

Lola

Lola glided into the room. Sapphires sparkled on her fingers. And pearls, she dripped pearls. They wound around her neck in long ropes, dangled from her ears, reflected opalescent light from tiered bracelets. Her gown of watered silk was cut low in the front with a lace surround, pleated in the French manner. Over her bodice she wore a fitted mauve jacket of boiled wool, a feathered boa draped around her shoulders. Her golden hair was trussed with tortoise combs, around which curls were carefully coiled. Wedged into her cleavage was an ivory cigarette holder.

Was this the same woman she met last week?

She sat. “Rosa told me you wanted to see me.” Her voice was expensive. She reached for her cigarettes, stuck one into the holder, and swung a leg over the arm of the chair, revealing a taffeta underskirt, lace petticoats, and black crocheted stockings. On her feet were satin shoes.

“My first customer is in the parlor now. Impatient.” Lola blew smoke from rouged lips. “A dignitary.” Inhaled. Exhaled. “Can’t spare much time, but I want to help.” The propped-up leg arced back and forth.

“I don’t care if he’s the king of Savoy. He’ll have to wait.”

She slid her leg off the arm and crossed it at the knee. As she rearranged herself, Lola’s eyes roamed over Serafina’s shape.

Serafina had a set of questions she asked each prostitute: did you know Gemma? Nelli? Bella? If yes, for how long? Who were her friends? Did she confide in you? When was the last time you saw her? Did you notice anything strange or new, a change shortly before she died? A new customer?

While the prostitute answered, she made notes of her facial expression, choice of words, accent, gestures, what she said, what she didn’t say, how she walked, the cut of her gown, the color and style of her hair, her scent, her jewels.

Lola was no exception. She answered with a shrug of one shoulder or a slight shake of her head. Amused by the spectacle, Serafina kept up her battery of questions long enough to study this new side of Lola. When she’d taken her measure, Serafina asked, “What do you know that you’re not telling me?”

Lola’s mask dropped. “Forgive me. I’m about to work, you see. It’s a pose I use. If you’d ever done what we do, you’d understand. I want to help you find this killer. I doubt you’ll catch him. He’s clever. But I owe it to them, to my friends, to the women who died, especially to Bella. She taught me, and I am indebted to her, and to La Signura.”

“Taught you what? Rosa told me you were the teacher here.”

“Bella taught me costume and artifice-the skills necessary in my line of… “ She stopped.

Serafina waited for her to continue.

“The skills each prostitute must have in order to be…captivating.”

Serafina nodded.

“But I’m here to answer all of your questions, and I think I may have information of interest.”

“That would be?” Serafina arched one brow, her pencil poised.

The prostitute considered her cigarette. Then she leaned over the desk and crushed it with a ferocity that surprised Serafina. Small bits of paper and tobacco lay in and out of the ashtray.

“The evening before she died, Nelli said she was going to meet a man outside of town who would change her life.”

“Did she name this mysterious man or say where she would meet him?”

Lola shook her head. She nestled the cigarette holder back into its place, crossed her legs again, and said, “I assumed that if she’d go with this mysterious stranger, we’d never see her again.”

“Did you see him?”

“No.”

“Any idea who he is?”

“No. We used to be friends, Nelli and I, until she stopped confiding in me. She’d grown secretive before she died. I guess I wasn’t good enough for her.” She looked down.

“When did you first notice the change?”

“I think some of it was good,” she said, waving her boa and licking her lips.

“Answer the question.”

“Can’t remember.”

“Some of what was good?” Serafina asked.

Lola shrugged. “You know, the…”

“The what? Don’t waste my time.”

She faced Serafina. “The separation was good, especially for her. She used to follow me everywhere, except of course when I was with a client. It became too much for me. Rosa asked me to look after her when she came to the house, and truth to tell, at first she needed me. I taught her everything. She became adept at our profession.”

“Adept?”

Lola stopped talking. She reached into her fringed bag, pulled out a pot of rouge and applied color to her lips, pressing them together before she continued. It seemed to Serafina that this version of Lola, the working Lola, did not expend more energy than was necessary. Ever. Serafina guessed that trains ran or not, according to Lola’s schedule; customers were satisfied or not, according to Lola’s mood. But no matter what, they paid for the privilege of being with her for what, fifteen minutes? And considered themselves lucky.

The prostitute continued, “You may not believe it, but our profession demands great skill: how to please a taxing customer, how to control a difficult one, how to move in interesting ways, even with the final customer of the evening, even with the lethargic, the fat, the toothless.” She played with a lock of hair, winding and unwinding it around a finger.

“You taught all this to Nelli?”

“She was a child, inexperienced when she first arrived. Rosa asked me to look after her, so I did. I can never refuse La Signura. I show the new ones how to dress, how to make up the face. I even take them to Palermo, show them where to buy rouge, how to make undergarments more interesting, how to curl locks, set hair, brush it to make it shine. I sense when the mood in the house is heavy or there has been a fight between two or three, and I become a clown to make us all happy again. If you’d had my childhood, you’d understand. I learned, growing up in a cruel world, that you make your own happiness by making others happy. La Signura confides in me, asks me for special favors. She values my talents. So, yes, I try to teach the new ones all the tricks, the shortcuts.” Lola primped the back of her cascading locks. “Most of the girls here are from the country. Peasants. They don’t understand.”

“And you? You told me you’re from the north?”

“Yes.”

“You must miss it.”

She looked long at Serafina before answering. When she spoke, she almost spat the words. “Like I told you, they took my child. They took my life. I left.”

Serafina was silent. For an instant she could see the other Lola, the sweet woman she met the other day. That Lola flickered again in the prostitute’s eyes. But on command, she had disappeared, replaced by the mask of Lola. And truth to tell, wouldn’t she, Serafina, be the same as Lola, had she been forced into or chosen to work in this profession? What would she be like had she, as a child, been forced to give a grown man his pleasure? If her child had been taken from her arms? Had these interviews produced anything, other than confusion and doubt? Did she know the truth about any of the prostitutes she’d interviewed? Could she trust that any of them-Gioconda, Lola, Rosalia-were telling her the truth, showing her their real selves, how they felt, what they thought, what they knew? And what about the madam? Was she living a fantasy? She, Serafina, was no closer to solving these murders than she’d been when she looked into the face of the dead Bella over two weeks ago. Was she wasting her time? Doing a disservice to her children?

Serafina cleared her throat. “So why this sudden change in Nelli’s attitude, her coldness toward you?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. Jealousy? But suddenly, Nelli turned. When she’d see me coming toward her, she’d walk the other way. And she began keeping to herself, going out alone. Saturday afternoons mostly. I think she went out the day before she died.”

“She must have done. Did you see her leave?”

The prostitute hesitated before shaking her head. “No. I feel useless, as though I haven’t given you much help so far, but I can only tell you what I know.”

Serafina came back to her earlier question. “Rosa found Nelli’s body in September. Can you tell me when you first noticed a change in her?”

“Like I said before, I can’t remember, really.” Lola rubbed an eyelash. “But, well, I think it might have been, yes, it was late in March, close to Easter. Yes. I asked if she’d like to go with me to Palermo the Saturday before the procession of palms. ‘Other plans,’ she said and didn’t explain. Explain? She barely looked at me. Yes, that was the first I noticed her coolness.”

A tap at the door.

“Ah, time to go.”

“I may have more questions. Tomorrow or the next day, I might have to call you back.”

“Of course. Whatever you wish.” She ambled toward the door, her boa trailing behind, and with a backward glance, sent Serafina a dazzling smile.

Formusa

She hadn’t seen the cook in what, twenty-five years, so after the kisses, after the tears for poor dead Donna Maddalena, the two sat facing each other at the long chestnut table.

Formusa poured the coffee.

“My husband, too, we lost him. His death, hard on the children.”

The cook rose, cupped Serafina’s cheeks in the palm of her hands. Serafina felt flour on her face, smelled sweet cocoa, almonds, the zest of Formusa’s sauce-a benediction. She sipped the coffee. “I’ve missed this room.”

“Caffè? Biscotti?” The cook stared at her with octopus eyes.

Serafina rolled her hand from side to side. “Your pastry, always so tempting, but no, thank you. Do you have some time for me tonight?”

“La Signura, she says you have questions. Bad, the times, for the house.”

“That’s why I’ve come to you, Formusa. Tell me what you know, what you’ve seen, anything that comes to mind about Gemma, Nelli, Bella, or any of the other women in Rosa’s house. Anything at all, even if you think it’s not important.”

The cook rubbed her hands on her apron. Her eyes slid from side to side.

Cook knows something. See how still she keeps her body?

A burnt piece of log dropped from the grate. It sent a puff of ashes into the flames. Serafina waited.

Presently, Formusa said, “Nelli told me not to tell.”

Serafina said, “A secret?”

The cook nodded.

“Nelli’s secret?”

Nodded again.

“Formusa, do you think it would help us to know it?”

The cook lifted her hands. “Maybe.”

Serafina ran a finger back and forth on the smooth tabletop. “If it-the secret, that is-if it happened shortly before she died, and if we knew this secret, our knowledge might save all of us.”

The cook drew in her lower lip. She looked down at the table.

“Nelli’s dead now. You know what Donna Maddalena used to say about the dead?”

Formusa smiled. “The dead, they have a lot to tell us.”

“And so do you. What you know may help us survive.”

Silence.

Serafina waited while Formusa’s cheeks worked up and down. Nothing came out of the mouth, not for a while. More than a while.

“So, I begin,” cook said.

This was followed by more silence.

“Rosa told me you taught Nelli how to make your sauce.”

“Nelli, good with the soup. No good with the pastry.”

Serafina waited for more words.

“Always wanting to cook, that one.”

“It’s all right. Nelli’s gone now. You can tell.”

“Nelli, she had coins, a lot of them. One day she told me, ‘You hide the coins for me. Not safe in my room.’ I don’t ask why. She brought them here. I’ll show you.” Formusa got up, rolled from side to side over to some bins on a shelf by the large black stove. She opened one, lumbered back to the table and showed it to Serafina. Empty.

Formusa sat back down and continued. “Every night she comes in here, Nelli, and I sit by the fire. She opens the tin, puts in the coins. Ca-chink, ca-chink, I hear them drop.” Cook stopped, smiled at Serafina.

“When did she start keeping her coins with you?”

“Two, three years ago.”

“Just put them in the tin?”

Formusa nodded.

“Where are they now?”

“One day, maybe two weeks before she died, she says to me, I cannot cook for you today, Formusa.” The cook made fat floury gestures. “Don’t care if she doesn’t cook. I showed her how to cook because she wants to learn, that’s all. And Nelli takes the tin, dumps it here.” Formusa pressed the red pad of her forefinger on the table. “She lines up the coins, lot of coins. Counts them.” Formusa whispered, “Into her pocket they go. Ca-chink. She leaves.”

For a while Formusa sat still. Then she bobbed her head up and down. “Yes, it’s true. Believe it?”

“Of course.”

“Again, the night before La Signura found Nelli’s body, Nelli came here. In a hurry, face red. No counting this time. She empties the tin, dumps her coins into her pocket, kisses me goodbye, and runs out the back.” She brushed her palms together. “The end. No more coins. No more Nelli.”

“Did you tell Rosa?”

She shook her head. “A secret, Nelli said.”

“You said Nelli ran out the back. Where?” Serafina asked.

Formusa pointed to darkness.

“Show me.”

She took a candle, gave one to Serafina, and waddled to the other end of the kitchen.

Serafina followed. “Oh, yes, I’d forgotten about the back stairs.”

The candle in Serafina’s hand shuddered from the wind seeping through the door. She heard the howling, held her candle higher. Even in the dark she could see steps leading to a landing and, branching off from this platform, two separate sets of stairs. She turned to Formusa. “This way goes to the back and the sea.”

Formusa nodded.

Serafina pointed to a closed door on the other side of the landing. “Beyond that door, the back stairs to the bedrooms?”

“Just so.”

Another blast of wind almost extinguished Serafina’s flame. They walked back to the kitchen.

Stooping, Serafina kissed Formusa on both cheeks. She held her close. Her first piece of news relating directly to the murders. More tears, more ‘poor Donna Maddalena, poor husband.’

Gusti

“My name is Gusti, short for Julia Augusta. Named myself after an ancient Roman queen, or goddess-one of those.”

Underneath that stained robe of hers, she had breasts like mountain peaks. Must be wearing all the jewelry she owned, ropes of pearl and gold, jingly bracelets, a silver rosary, rings on all her fingers.

Serafina began by asking the usual questions.

The remnants of sweetened figs whiskered her lips. Gusti swept them off with the back of her hand, settled in the chair. “I didn’t know any of the dead women, poor dears, not well, at least. I don’t know what I can tell you. Don’t know who’d want to kill them. Of course, I was busy on the days they died, I’m always busy.”

“When was the last time you saw Bella?”

“Oh my, they’ve all been dead for such a long time. But when was it that I last saw Bella?” She looked up at the ceiling, drummed her fingers on one knee. “I remember now-it was in the station here in Oltramari. Yes, that was it.” She slapped her knee. “I was going to Palermo, she was returning, it must have been, oh, two or three months ago, in the spring. She was getting off the train and I was waiting on the next platform. All of a sudden Bella came out of the car, packages and all in her hand. No suitcase. I yelled and waved, ‘Bella!’ We waved addiu and she disappeared into the crowd. That’s the last time I saw her alive. I love to ride the train, don’t you? The clack of the wheels, the rhythm of the car, it lulls me to sleep. The conductors, so nice to me they are, and the passengers you meet, oh, la, some of the men, gorgeous. I love the ride, I tell you.”

Serafina laughed. “And that was the last time?”

“Alive? Oh, you mean, you mean, oh yes, I went to Bella’s wake and all. Sad. She was the one I felt closest to. I mean, of the ones who died. Not like a sister, mind you, like Carmela and I, we were almost like sisters, but close enough, Bella and I. Even though we both kept to ourselves and all.”

The air was heavy with cheap perfume. Serafina felt queasy. “And what about Gemma and Nelli? Do you remember the last time you saw either of them?”

Gusti shook her head. “We lead our own lives. We come and go here at Rosa’s. Rosa wants us to be more like a family, ‘my girls’ and all, you know how she talks.” The prostitute adjusted herself in the chair. “You and Rosa are friends, yes?”

Serafina nodded.

“But we are none of us friends here, not like you and Rosa. Oh wait, maybe a few girls were friends with the dead ones, but not me, I wasn’t one of them. I avoid most of the girls. Hard to trust. Well, except for Carmela.”

“They told me you were friends with…her.”

“And you’re her mother. They told me. Hair the same. Skin, maybe the same. Eyes, definitely. Younger than me. Little bit of a thing, Carmela. Short. Bouncy. Fun to be with, Carmela. Loved flowers and the sea and walking. Could walk the legs off a sailor, that one.”

Serafina rubbed her forehead. “When did she leave?”

The prostitute considered. “Left with a soldier, I don’t know, about two, three years ago. Said she knew him. From before and all.”

“Do you know where she is now?”

Gusti held her lower lip. “My friend, Carmela. Told me she didn’t want anyone to…no family to know where she was. Not Rosa. Said Rosa knew her mother. Sad and all, but she’s my friend. Not in danger. Happy.”

Serafina felt tears prickle. “We haven’t heard anything from her. At least now I know she’s alive. When you write to her again, would you tell her that we need to talk to her? We have some family news for her. Not good. She must know.”

Gusti nodded.

Serafina blew her nose. She was silent for a moment, blinking. She thought of what her children would say when they heard that Carmela was alive and happy. First bit of good news since their father died. They’d be thrilled, of course, all of them except Totò who didn’t remember Carmela, and Maria: who could guess what her response would be to anything? She must write to Carlo.

The prostitute continued. “And then there was that big girl, came here about the same time as Carmela. Thought I could trust her, but I was wrong. She didn’t last long, I tell you. La Signura got rid of her, presto.” Gusti reached into her pocket for a handkerchief and wiped her forehead. “And what was that big one’s name? It’ll come to me. Her arms, can see them now, arms like a gunner’s. Wait. Yes, Eugenia, that’s her name. Had a laugh like a mule. Anyway, the three of us were friends, I mean, not all together, not like the three musketeers and all, but I was friendly with Carmela and I was friendly with Eugenia. Until, you know, the bad things happened with her. But now they’re both gone. Like the wind, one hour it blows over Oltramari, and by that very afternoon, would you believe, it’s in Enna. Well, after what’s been happening in this house, I keep myself to myself, I do.”

Serafina thought that Gusti’s words flew like bullets but in different directions at once. She asked, “This Eugenia, you say she didn’t last long. Do you know why?”

Gusti shrugged, then thought better of it, pulled her chair closer to Serafina and whispered, “My customers, generous, always giving me pearls, stones, gold bracelets. Rosa lets us keep those. Couple of us had things stolen. I got scared. We talked about it one day in town. When we got back, someone went to Rosa, and boom, Eugenia was gone. After that, well, you can’t be too careful.” She fingered her pearls and waited for Serafina to stop writing.

“Did you ever see Gemma, Nelli, Bella together? Were they friends?”

Gusti paused to consider before she responded. “Well, Bella and Gemma, I used to see them talking together. Not a lot. Maybe Lola with them, too. Lola with Nelli of course. The four of them together? I might have done; I think they used to sit together. Well, no, because Lola was with Rosalia a lot. Poor little thing. Not robust in the head, Rosalia. Hard to figure out, that one. Like that wind I told you about, only, blowing this way one day, that way the next. As I said, I keep to myself.” Gusti shivered. “Once or twice we’d all go to town, a bunch of us, not often, you know, order a caffè at Boffo’s, sit and watch everyone in the piazza and make jokes. And they maybe would sit together, but no, come to think on it, they weren’t together a lot. More like Lola with Nelli until they had a to-do, then Rosalia with Lola.”

“Bella went with you to town?”

“No, Bella was different, more like me and Carmela, only quieter. Not so bouncy. Getting on, Bella. Lots of talent, too. She kept to herself unless she was sewing for someone. Well, of course, you know, Bella made our clothes, the ones for special occasions. Bella was usually sewing for someone. Except for when she wasn’t.”

“Rosalia?”

“Hard to figure, but as I said, dim. Given over a little too much to tales and all. Miracles and the like. But one time when we were in town, all of us, like I said, one of the times Turi drove us, we piled in the carriage, a few of us on the rumble, we went to the sea near the cove. Carmela was still here. She and I, we took a walk on the shore and as we were coming back we saw Rosalia. Beating her fists on the pebbles, she was. In a state, the little minx, like a bleating lamb, her dress a shambles, her blonde hair all messed. Saw Eugenia bending over her, Lola looking out to sea, Prudenza off a ways, waving at us to hurry, the others with their arms crossed or letting the wind blow their skirts, ribbons flying, all of them laughing. Well, Carmela and I, we got there and I took one look at Rosalia and stooped close, don’t you know, and told her to pick herself up and stop the bawling.”

“What did she do?”

“Obeyed. Learned that if you talk to her serious and all, she’d stop her little girl acting.”

Serafina held up her hand. “Wait.” She flicked pages back and forth and her fingers flew as she wrote down the jumble of Gusti’s words.

“Does any of that make sense? Oh, I don’t know, how do you expect me to remember everything? Really, too busy I am, truly busy. Hard work, this. Pays well if you keep up a steady stream. In and out, that’s how I like them. But it’s hard work. Unending. No lolling about. I’ll write to Carmela tonight or tomorrow, if there’s time. And I have the most vigorous customers. Hard to take notice of the other girls when you work as steady as me.” She tightened the belt of her robe.

“Have you seen any strangers hanging about lately, I mean, from the time of their deaths?”

“Strangers? How would I know?” She heaved her chest, looked around the room.

“What about visitors? Any of the women have visitors? Gemma? Nelli? Bella?”

“Visitors? You mean, not customers?”

Serafina nodded.

She shook her head and picked at a fingernail. “Wait, now. Bella, she had a visitor. Not a customer, I can tell you.” Gusti turned around, and for a second or two stared at the blackness outside the window, as if she saw someone. A customer? Another prostitute? “Brrr, too cold tonight to talk.”

“Should I send for some caffè?”

Gusti hugged herself. “Not enough time. We’ll be done soon, won’t we?”

“You were saying, about Bella’s visitor?”

“An old woman called on Bella. Used to come once or twice a week. Funny creature, that’s how I remember her-not her mother.”

“How do you know?”

“Didn’t look at all like Bella. And from a different class. Carried herself like a snooty duchess or something. All bends and bumps and angles, that one. Hair tied up in an old rag, but her clothes were gorgeous and oh, la, the jewelry. Really. Usually had bundles of clothes with her, perhaps for Bella to mend? And one time I saw her all fitted out, almost didn’t recognize her. Dressed herself up she did. Had a gorgeous frock on, all fringes and beads and feathers. Flowing. And, oh, the furs. Quite the figure she had, too, for an old cow. All made up with rouge and white powder and all.”

“Strange company Bella kept,” Serafina said.

Gusti hunched forward. “Maybe Bella was her seamstress. Helped all of us with our sewing and, as I say, made a gown for Gemma. Made lots of frocks for Rosa, for Tessa, too. Rosa paid her well, but Rosa, you know, can afford it. Don’t mistake me, I love Rosa. Knows how to treat us. Leaves us alone. Knows how to put some of the bossy ones in place, I can tell you. But she favored some of the girls, too. I’m not one of them. Rosa wants us all to be close, like a family, and we’re not like that, no.” The prostitute looked down, whisked a bit of dust off her shoulder. “And I’ve got an honest mouth. If I don’t trust someone, I say so, and to her face. But talk like that, well, Rosa doesn’t want to hear.”

Gioconda

“I have a few more questions if you don’t mind. In particular there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. At Bella’s wake I saw you with a gentleman.”

Gioconda laughed. She was dressed in indigo damask, full skirts, gold stars embroidered on the bodice. A matching scarf draped her shoulders. “Which one?”

“Tall, light brown hair. Curly. Wore black of course, frock coat, cravat, armband.”

The redhead drew a blank.

“Struts a bit,” Serafina said.

“Falco?”

Serafina nodded. “How do you know him?”

“Same way everyone does.” Gioconda winked. “Bella’s uncle, at least that’s what Bella called him. Met him through her.”

“How?”

“In the parlor of course. I think he was with her father.”

“And you’ve known him for how long?”

“Oh, la, couple of years, I’d guess.”

“Your customer?”

“I’m not the only one. Helps himself.”

“Does he know all the women?”

“Just a few of us. The select, you might say. On his last visit, he was with a couple of the girls in the parlor, chatting and such, having a gay old time. Likes to be surrounded by what he calls ‘the choicest meats.’”

Serafina’s brows furrowed. Rosa didn’t bother to tell her about Eugenia. Now Falco. Rosa keeps secrets from herself.

Not Much Time

After Gioconda left, Serafina sat alone in Rosa’s office. Laughter drifted in from the parlor, faint squeals from the floors above. No doubt Rosa would shoo her away, but until she did, Serafina had time to ponder what she’d learned. She pictured Carmela, wondered what she looked like. She must have changed in four years. But she forced Carmela out of her mind.

She’d gotten more information about the most important suspect-the monk, she called him-first, from Scarpo, strengthened by Arcangelo who saw someone with Gemma on the day she disappeared, similar to Scarpo’s description of the monk-like creature. Could he be the same monk she’d seen begging in the piazza? She reminded herself that Sicily was full of monks.

Another suspect had emerged: Eugenia, who, Gusti told her, took personal belongings from the other women. Nelli’s fear of being robbed made sense in light of the buxom prostitute’s revelation. Just like the madam not to tell her about trouble in her house.

Three strands wove in and out of her mind. The first was a sense of foreboding. Everyone in the house carried the burden of fear, Rosa, Scarpo and his men, the prostitutes, Formusa, even that actress, Lola, poor woman. The whole lot of them squirmed in their seats, cast a backward glance, as if death lurked around the next corner, ready to surprise. The second thread: a sense of upheaval and change. What was once a house of laughter and friendship had become a hospice of silence and mistrust. And third, Serafina’s certainty that some or all of the prostitutes, and of course Rosa, that grande dame of secrecy, hid information from her, whether wittingly or not.

She needed to find this killer before he struck again. There were moments this evening when she felt sure she glimpsed his presence-in the glint of Scarpo’s eyes, in the wisps of Rosalia’s hair, in the shadows on Lola’s face. But now she saw these as illusory. She felt the distance she must travel.

Too many parts of the tapestry needed mending before the real picture could emerge. For he was a wily killer, this one, eluding detection by donning masks, taking on shapes that flipped faster than a tuna’s tail. And yet there must be something, some truth that held the key, a clue that, for now, lay beyond her ken. Who or what caused the change in Rosa’s house? How could she peel away the layers of secrets? She forgot her surroundings, cocked her head to one side and swirled the liquid in her glass.

• • •

The wick in her oil lamp began to sputter. Serafina went in search of the madam.

“What’s this I hear about Falco and the women? And this time, don’t deny it.”

Rosa bit her lip. “Harmless he is.”

“Harmless? He’s a viper and he’s been here in your house. A customer who helps himself according to Gioconda.” As she talked, Serafina wrote so quickly in her book that she nearly tore the page. “We will never find this killer if you keep the truth inside your head.”

Rosa hung her head. “Circle him on the list if you must. Inside the house, Falco, but a charmer. You will see how innocent he is.”

Serafina rubbed her forehead. “Judging from what Scarpo and the women told me, things changed here a few months before the murders began.”

“What things?” Rosa twisted her handkerchief.

“The comings, the goings. The friendships stopped. Confidences dried up. Gemma and Nelli became secretive. There is a pattern that emerges before each death, a pattern so subtle, so, so-”

Rosa slammed the desk. “There you go again with all that talk, like a government official you sound!”

“Faint, that’s the word, so faint that only a person with the gift of divination may discern it. Oh Madonna, help me to see. Now, right now. We must peer into the darkness, unravel the threads. Let’s put our heads together. But before we do-”

“Out with it!”

“Tell me about Eugenia.”

Eyes wide, a backward glance, a bitten lip, and the madam managed one word. “Who?”

“You heard me.”

Rosa swiped her cheeks. “Eugenia. Not important.”

“A woman, a large one, comes to this house and, like a fox in a chicken coop, steals from the others, causes pain and a mistrust that, like the sound of the sea, never goes away. She could be your killer, or a link to him, and all you can say is, ‘Not important?’ If you want to get yourself another wizard, just keep up with your secrecy, your grand fantasy that everything is sweet and loving around here. Because it’s not. There’s an evil stench within these walls, La Signura Rosa, and I need your help.”

For once, Rosa had no words. She patted the blotter on her desk and looked at Serafina as if she, Rosa, were a virginal saint, innocence lit by a thousand votive candles.

After a thick silence, Rosa began. “She knocked on the door, all sparkles, and with muscles like a sinewy mule. Looking at her, at her high cheekbones, her long limbs, those powerful eyes, that head of hair with locks longer than the mane on Garibaldi’s horse, and shimmering, too, in the sun, I could see her at work: one effortless, glorious toss after another, barely coming up for air, five, six, seven times an hour. I could hear the ca-chink of my coffers. So I, unknowing and innocent, beguiled but with the best of intentions, opened the door to her. Came from Palermo she said, and named a fancy house. Time passed. We prospered. One day Gusti came to me, complained of pearls missing, the ones the cardinal gave her. Your Carmela, too, missing a bag, she said, and some slippers. I didn’t want to hear their words. I admit it-I made a mistake.” Rosa wiped her eyes. “But when Lola told me about some missing clothes, a flashy petticoat she used to wear on special occasions, I became suspicious. I sent for Eugenia, and told her to get out. Out! I said. And my word shook the house. The thieving stopped.”

“And you didn’t tell Colonna?”

Rosa rubbed her palms back and forth. “We take care of these things ourselves. I went to see La Signura Livia Secunda. You don’t know her. Runs a house in Palermo. Respectable, a little too frilly. And what a snake’s mouth she has, and with a vicious bite too. But she has friends all over.” Rosa winked and made twirls in the air to indicate ‘all over.’ “Secunda made sure La Colossa Eugenia never worked again.” As if to wipe yesterday’s stain off her hands, Rosa ran them up and down her boned bodice, picked up her glass and downed her Marsala.

• • •

The beech log crackled. High notes, low notes, all were eaten alive by a clean flame. Serafina felt its heat on her face. Her bones relaxed. She felt how good it was to sit across from Rosa, her oldest, dearest friend on a cold evening by a warm fire. She asked, “Where is she now?”

“Scarpo knows. Remind me to ask him.”

She told Rosa about Arcangelo’s ride to the stables with Gemma on the evening she disappeared, his description of the hooded figure.

“Circle him in that precious book of yours, cross the limping one out. Add Eugenia below Falco if you must, but Arcangelo saw the killer, and the spider crawls up my spine again.” She crossed herself.

“One of the last prostitutes I interviewed, Gusti, the one with the swollen chest? She knows where Carmela is. Wouldn’t tell me.”

“The strega!” Rosa started for the door.

“Sit. I don’t blame her. Carmela made her promise not to tell her family. And Gusti is her friend. She cannot break that promise. But it gave me hope. Carmela must be close. Gusti said she was happy.”

“I’ll get it out of her. Have my ways, don’t I?”

“Don’t. Not yet. We’ll give the guards another week,” Serafina said. “Gusti also mentioned seeing Bella at the train station. Said she had a female visitor.”

“A what? Oh, a real visitor, you mean. The contessa. Francesca Grinaldi. We see her in Palermo tomorrow. I’ll dispatch one of the guards with a note.”

“Gusti described her as ‘all bends and bumps and angles.’ Called her ‘an old woman.’”

Rosa smiled. “To my girls, anyone over thirty is old.”

“Don’t forget, the early train. Leaves at seven, more or less. I’ll meet you at the station, fifteen before the hour.”

“Barbaric, but as you wish.”

A knock and the door opened. A maid said, “The baron.”

“Time to go.” Turning to the domestic, Rosa said, “Get Turi and Scarpo.” And to Serafina, “They can take you home in the carriage.”

“I came with Beppe in the trap. The fresh air will clear my head.”

“Then fetch Arcangelo,” Rosa said to the maid.

The domestic nodded, closed the door.

“After dark, you need two. Arcangelo can ride behind, keep his eyes on you, return at first light.”

They kissed each other on both cheeks.

“Oh, and I almost forgot.” Serafina turned back.

“You are impossible, standing there, tapping your chin like a potentate! Always late, always three times as much time as I take, you take. Always make three times as many words as you need. They cling to you, your words, like maggots on the dead.”

“Ask Scarpo to go to the blacksmith’s tomorrow. Tell him Donna Fina wants to know if anyone rented a stall between mid-July and August 6th. I want names and dates. All the names, all the dates. And swear the smith to secrecy: he is to tell no one.”

Rosa nodded.

Serafina told her what Formusa said about Nelli’s coins.

“The most important detail of all, and you almost forget to tell me.”

“Because if I told you about coins in the beginning, you wouldn’t hear anything else.”

Rosa said, “Mark my words, think on it well: money is at the root of these crimes. I know it, I know it.” She twisted her fingers. “The killer promises them something for a big fee. He takes their coins and kills them. At the heart is lucre.”

“That may be a part of it. Falco, for instance, gains by Bella’s death.”

“Will you leave him alone? Like a cur chewing on a bone, you are.”

“But that’s not all, not the most important part. There’s a systematic ghoulishness about these murders, a wildness about the killer that lust for money will never explain. He has the cunning of the wild, intent on one thing only-eliminating you and all your prostitutes and the business you think I know so little about.”

“My head, it spins.”

“Why the mark branded on their foreheads? Why did each death occur between the sixth and the seventh of the month? We must discover how the victims’ lives touched his. Why did these women need him? Agree to meet him? What did the three women have in common, other than their profession and their address? Is the killer someone who helped himself to all three?”

“Never!”

“Rosa, listen to yourself. Falco is a customer. On the list.”

The madam stood at the door staring at something inside. “All right. But I can’t quite believe it of him. A charmer, Falco.”

“Then tell me this: who is the one woman most likely to be the next victim?”

The Ride Home

On their way home, mist obscured the moon, but Serafina saw thousands of stars, maybe millions. Brilliant tonight, the world. Letting her body follow the sway and swing of the trap, she peered into the ether, high up into that mighty interstellar darkness, not opaque but not quite transparent; where space went beyond itself to somewhere lighter, bluer, farther up than she or it or any star had ever traveled; where past and future were finished, and truth existed, pure, whole, untouched. What would Rosa say if she could hear these thoughts? Serafina saw the face her friend would make. She smiled, and giving herself over to the ride, bumped on, bending with the curve in the road.

She felt an excitement somewhere, a tingling in her toes, in the vigorous beating of her heart. Life had changed. She was brand new. Or perhaps it was her quest to find the killer of Rosa’s women, a calling she was always meant to follow. No matter the reason, she began viewing her surroundings for the first time. “Look at the glittering heavens, Beppe. The big star, see it?”

His brows furrowed. His cheeks moved in and out as he poked a dirty finger at the sky. “That one?”

“La Puddara, a good friend. It never moves. Walk toward the star, you’ll pass through the rough neighborhoods and come upon the sea. Walk away from it, you’ll come back to the Centru. Keep going, you bump into the Madonie or a wheat field, one of those, it depends. Shepherds and fishermen know how to work La Puddara better than I. Talk to them, they’ll teach you all the ins and outs. Or maybe Giulia has a book about the polar star. Ask her.” As she spoke, the wind took her breath, the night air stung her nose. She thought of her children’s laughter, the way her sweet Giorgio used to warm their bed.

“Tomorrow night, too?”

“Yes, and the night after that, and after that, in a string of nights as far and wide as the mind can imagine. The power of La Puddara is forever. When it chooses to appear, that is. Learn how to use this star and it’ll keep you on the right path. Admit it, you’re lost half the time in this part of town.”

He lifted one corner of his mouth.

Beppe, what would she do without him? Two years ago, she received a letter from the head of the orphanage. ‘Finished with schooling, Beppe, too old to stay here,’ the nun had written, ‘but no one wants him.’ So he came to live with the Florio family. They fed and clothed him, gave him a room of his own and a stipend. In exchange, he ran errands for the house, accompanied Serafina to and from her midwife’s work. To most, he seemed a simpleton, but she knew better. Oh, his brain was a little sluggish, but his fists were not, a fact which endeared him to her children. That, and his size-he towered over most men, including her own boys, and, more to the point, over the town’s troublemakers, of which there seemed to be more and more. The lot of them, cowards all, looked away when Beppe passed. “An estimated 25,000 deserters,” her son, Carlo, told her. Many of them gathered in the piazza each day, and by night, lurked in the shadows of unlit streets.

Beppe quickened Largo’s pace. Serafina shivered despite wearing her thick winter cape. They passed the market stalls shuddering in the wind, the stables, the blacksmith, the houses of the artisans, dark and small, standing like battered sentinels on the edge of town. Serafina heard bawdy laughter coming from somewhere, the angry voices of a man and woman arguing, the howling of a mad dog. She turned her head around and saw Arcangelo on his mule riding a few paces behind. A black cat skirted in front of Largo’s hooves and shone her yellow eyes at Serafina, the feline’s belly close to the ground, a rodent’s tail and claws wriggling between clamped teeth. Serafina smelled wet laundry, cheap wine, human waste.

Closer to town, they passed the former abbey flying the tricolor. Ever since the government muscled it away from the monks, soldiers marched back and forth in front, lean and tall, handsome in their uniforms, tight in all the right places, and she’d looked. Her cheeks warmed at the thought. She could live with that change and, she admitted, was grateful for the show of strength, glad when the Bourbon rulers slinked off her land. Good riddance: ugly, self-righteous pigs, every last one.

Except for the queen. Stately, beautiful, stubborn, Maria Sofie held out in Gaeta surrounded by all of Savoy’s troops, soldiers and cannon stacked against her as high as the peaks of Monte Pellegrino. Yet she refused to surrender, stood her ground while the king, her husband, cowered in the closet. Defeated, the queen, still my queen, she’d said one day to Giorgio who replied, “While she ruled, Maria Sophie cared not a jot for Sicilians.” But Serafina had no plans to remove her picture from its place of honor in the parlor.

Beppe snapped the reins. Again and again he touched his back, twirled his head left and right, looked up at the heavens searching for the star. His Phrygian cap crimped the tops of his ears. He turned onto a side street, their usual shortcut.

Not far from home, then, but Serafina couldn’t see a light anywhere, except for their lantern, and a small beacon behind them, Arcangelo’s torch. It was dark ahead, and Beppe paid too much attention to that star. And she, wishing she hadn’t mentioned La Puddara, not at all, thought that Largo was going too fast, probably sensing the end of the journey, when one of their wheels rolled over a large stone.

The trap canted to one side, as if suspended, creaking on two wheels for ever so long, it seemed. Beppe slid into her. Serafina hung onto the iron railing, biting her lip and trying with all her might to push Beppe back, but it was seconds before the trap righted itself.

The Stranger

Largo halted. Serafina heard a mandolin, the melody faint. In the dark, something moved. The shimmering of an ancient shade?

A form appeared in the glow of the trap’s lantern, a shadow running toward them, growing more distinct. Weathered hat. Matted hair. Beard. Long legs. Tattered shirt and pantaloons. Bare feet. Knife in belt. Lips formed words, indistinct. An accent? Funny, he held the pistol with both hands. Unsteady. Too much wine, perhaps. He fired, hitting the lamp. Blackness.

Serafina heard another shot, more shouting, metal clattering on stone.

Afterward, she recalled the set of the stranger’s mouth, a taut red band, remembered flaming shards exploding around them like fireworks at the end of a festa.

“Stop or I shoot!” Arcangelo yelled, framed in the light from his torch. He dismounted. His revolver pointed at the attacker who sunk to his knees and begged for his life.

Beppe jumped down to join Arcangelo. As they stared at the man, probably a deserter living rough, he wrested the gun from Arcangelo’s hands, swiped it across Beppe’s jaw, and ran.

“Quick,” she heard Beppe shout, “let’s get him!”

“Let him go!” Serafina said. She handed Beppe a cloth to dab the blood from his lip.

“But my revolver,” Arcangelo said.

“Do as I say. You were both going to run after him and leave me alone in the dark with no gun, a scared mule, and God knows how many of the bandit’s comrades lurking in the shadows.”

Arcangelo and Beppe looked at the ground.

“And as for revolvers, you can choose one of ours. We have too many as it is. But bravo to both of you for your bravery. A sure shot, Arcangelo. That unfortunate would have taken our coins had you not been here to help.”

A Quick, Sure Stab

“Why do you weep?” asked the monk, gesturing freely. “Look around. The air, sweet for November. This spot is a pleasant respite from the strife of daily toil. Birds sing in their ancient abode. Flowers bloom. Dry your eyes and take joy in the simple beauty of nature.” He stretched his arm to indicate the public gardens surrounding them.

Through a stuffy nose, she said, “Better leave. I’ve no money for the likes of you.”

“I’m not begging for coins, my child.” The monk made the sign of the cross over the young woman. “May your heart flood with the peace of the brazen serpent.” He sat back and began reading his holy book.

They were silent.

Then she asked, “What kind of a monk are you?”

He smiled. “From the north. We practice an ancient rite, one that bequeaths peace beyond understanding.”

“Not for the likes of me.” Her smile was lopsided.

“I know what you do. Forgiveness is yours if you ask. And perpetual absolution if you so desire. It is for a select few.”

She shook her head. “You don’t understand. I must continue with my work or my family starves. Yesterday my brother took the money I gave him, but said it wasn’t enough. It’ll be my fault, he said, if my family can’t stay together. I need to earn more, but La Signura won’t raise my fee.”

The monk was silent. “Tell me about your brother.”

She shrugged. “What is there to say?” She told the monk that she sent money home with one of her siblings who came to call each month. She cannot earn more.

“And your family, where are they?”

“Enna.” She began to relax.

“My work needs many hands,” the monk said. “I could use yours, and they would fill with gold.”

“Not interested,” she said, rising.

“Easy work. Information, that’s all I need,” the monk said. “For you, enough prayers to last a lifetime. I need recruits for my life’s work, the work of the brazen serpent.”

• • •

When the voices told me to begin, I left, like you. Careful, now, so careful I am. The last one, smooth, the blade like the serpent’s razor, the flesh like jelly. I sharpened it beforehand, you see. A quick, sure stab. She stilled. The carving, perfect. This time there were no screams. The voices do not drown them out. They howl when the moon is black. I cannot abide their ringing. You’d be proud of me, I follow the will of the serpent, my work has begun. Early days yet, but I will triumph. I will go back soon to rescue my helpless one. He has sticks instead of arms. In the grave they told me he is, but they are wrong. He is alive. He comes to me in dreams. I know he lives. Perhaps he is with you. In dreams, too, lurks the wizard. So near to me she was, I saw the fear in her face. I could have triumphed: one quick pull of the trigger, but the time was inauspicious. Righteous and sacred, they say, the voices, when I wait for a day of totality, in the fullness of the earth and of the heavens, when I wait for the perfect number. Next time, there will be a next time, now that I have help. So precious to herself she is, the wizard, but she will be no more. Soon, it will be soon, and the harlot’s house will collapse. The work of the serpent will kiss the land. The voices demand it. Blood washes blood, they sing in my ears, a honeyed melody, a cloak for dreaming. And they heal me, they tell me I cannot fail.

Part Two

October 23 — November 4, 1866

The Train Station

Tuesday, October 23, 1866

Serafina thought there would be a few passengers at the station, but when she and Renata arrived, a long line of carts waited at the front door to discharge passengers. Inside, wiry men stood together smoking cigarettes and talking fast. They wore collarless shirts and carried knapsacks. They’d take the train to the harbor, board a steamer bound for one of the Americas and work, return in six months or a year.

But Serafina also saw whole families, large clumps of them. It looked like they had all their belongings with them. Each person carried a cloth bundle. Peasants, Serafina knew from their dress and inflection, or as Loffredo would say, “people of the soil,” thin, with leathery faces and bright eyes.

A voice cut through the crowd. “Feeeeena! Where aaaarrre you?”

“Here, Rosa!” Serafina watched the swarm of peasants part for her. Her face purpled and she scurried toward Serafina, rearranging her load of packages from one hand to the other, and clutching her hat. Tessa clung to Rosa’s skirts, skipping to keep up.

“Finally!” Serafina pecked Rosa on both cheeks, bent to kiss Tessa whose hair was in ringlets. She wore a silk dress of red and green plaid reaching to mid-calf, the bodice cut deep to reveal a linen blouse with ruffled collar and tiny pearl buttons. Her petticoat had rows of lace near the tops of cordovan boots.

“What a pretty dress!” Serafina said.

“Bella made it before she died,” Rosa said.

“Let me take some of these packages. Oh, this one smells delicious. What did you bring?”

“Gifts for Bella’s father and for that Grinaldi woman. And cook fixed a box of food for the train. It’s heavy, can you manage?” She looked down at Tessa. “Sorry I said those words to you, my girl. Pity, we couldn’t find your bracelet. Searched all over, didn’t we?” The madam fanned herself, whispered something into Tessa’s ear. Tessa gazed at the crowded station while she listened. She gave her a swift peck on the cheek.

In front of them, two boys began a tug of war over a toy wooden cart. The older boy yanked it from the younger one’s grip. He fell, cracking his knee on the stone floor, and bawled. Motes of dust erupted into the light streaming down from high windows. Seeing blood, the mother wailed. People closed around the scene, waved arms.

Serafina said, “Who knew there’d be so many people at this early hour? Let’s find Renata. She’s buying the tickets. See her over there?”

Rosa shook her head. “How can you find anyone in this crowd?”

“You’re blind,” Serafina said, gesturing to the front of the line where her daughter was handing money through the bars of the window. Holding hands, the three of them walked over and greeted Renata who managed to collect the tickets, peck Rosa’s cheeks, and introduce herself to Tessa.

Tessa and the three women made their way to an empty space next to a large window. They saw hundreds on the platform, talking, bustling, calling to one another. Most of the women wore homespun skirts and Garibaldi blouses, shawls wrapped around their shoulders.

“We’ll never get on the train. We’d better go home, have Carlo or Vicenzu drive us to La Vucciria,” she said.

“Better yet, we’ll drive ourselves,” Renata said.

“Not on your life,” Rosa said. “I’m brave, but not foolhardy, and I’ve given my driver the day off because we planned to take the train.” She shot Serafina a look. “We’ll take a later one.”

“Maybe there’s a conductor outside who knows when the crowd will thin. Hold hands. We’ll have to force our way to the door,” Serafina said.

The three women arranged themselves around Tessa. They pushed their way forward, making progress toward the platform until a man with an infant in his arms blocked their way.

Serafina smelled dirty diaper. The baby began to cry. The man tried to calm him, but the infant’s yowls became more strident.

Rosa held a linen to her nose. “My eyes, they water so!”

The man looked up at Serafina and Renata. “Please, dearest ladies, can you help?”

“Let me have a look.” Rosa elbowed her, but Serafina continued to reach out for the infant.

The man, dressed in clean but threadbare clothes, handed him to Serafina.

“There, there.” Serafina rocked him. Renata bent close to see the child’s face, then pulled away.

“Fina, what are you doing? Why did you get me out of my bed at such an ungodly hour-to watch you hold this crying baby? Give the child back to his father.”

“About a month old, I’d say. Didn’t deliver, or I’d recognize him.” She smoothed the infant’s brows with two fingers, stroked his ears, felt his silky hair. The baby made sucking noises and slept. “Hungry for his mother’s milk. Where is she?”

The man’s brow furrowed. “My wife, she comes soon. Now she makes a final look over our house, because today we take the boat. Leave for good.” He strained upward, trying to see beyond the crowd. “One moment. I think I see her. Maybe getting off the cart now?” Smiling, he said, “Yes, I see her.” He waved and turned back to them. “Be right back.”

“You see, Rosa. No harm done. The mother’s here.”

“And all of Palermo will walk on the other side of the street when they smell you coming. It’s after seven thirty. Where’s the train? We need to be on the platform. Oh, Fina,” she said, stomping her foot, “you’ll be the death of me! How do you stand this mother of yours?”

Renata shrugged. “Whatever she wants, we do.”

“Not all of you,” Rosa said. “Some of you leave.”

Renata’s eyes widened and she put a finger to her lips.

By this time the waiting room was dangerously overcrowded. The man, barely visible, continued yelling for his wife. They watched him slip out the door. Serafina, Rosa and Renata stood motionless, hemmed in by the press of people. The baby slept in Serafina’s arms. The man disappeared.

Renata stood on tiptoes. “There he is! Let’s follow him.”

They made their way to the door. Warm for a November morning, the sun lemony, the air weighted with the smell of lavender, as if it were early spring. The man was nowhere in sight. The crowd outside the waiting room swelled.

“The mother must be frantic by now. Any moment she’ll appear, flailing her arms and shrieking. Let’s see if we can get through these people,” Renata said.

Rosa muttered, “Oldest trick in the book and the great wizard falls for it.”

“Excuse us,” Serafina said as they wedged through a small opening. She tripped on a bag. As the contents spilled out, the owner blocked their way, yelled in dialect.

“Someone’s life strewn before you, and what do you do? — step on it!” Rosa said.

“You fat cow, you pushed me.” Serafina felt her jaw tighten. Her movements were sharp, she knew.

“Enough, both of you.” Tears pooled in Renata’s eyes. She and Tessa bent down to help the woman. Renata murmured something to her. She looked up at Renata and smiled. “Si!” She closed up the bag and scurried off.

Renata stood. “You two: act your age!”

Serafina and Rosa looked at each other. Rosa made a face at the infant. Serafina laughed. Rosa waved the air away. Tessa laughed.

“This way, everyone.” Renata led them around the side to the platform.

Serafina told them to look around for a short man wearing a cap. Rosa said something about all men being short and wearing caps. Serafina was about to correct the madam when a high-pitched whistle pierced her ears. Steam and smoke engulfed them as the train pulled into the station and stopped.

People jostled their way to the front. Tessa and the three women were no match for the peasants.

“Help me find the father of this baby,” Serafina said to a porter. “I held the baby while he went to looked for-”

“-his wife and sister who returned home for one last look?” the porter asked.

“Oh, thank the Madonna, he told you to look out for us!”

His smile was lopsided. “You won’t find him here.”

Serafina said, “No, you don’t understand-”

“Oh, I understand. He’s not here.”

Conductors helped the last of the passengers squeeze onto the train. One signed to the engineer, and the doors closed.

People hung out of open windows, waved handkerchiefs, cried, blessed the air. A porter near the engine yanked two young boys off the cowcatcher, handed one to a conductor, and lifted the other up by the seat of his pants. They ran back to a third-class car and shoved the boys through an open window. Serafina saw passengers standing in aisles, wedging themselves between cars, sitting on the roofs.

Confusion on the platform. A fight started. A whistle, a blast of steam, the world stilled for an instant. Slowly the wheels began to turn. People cheered, cried, blew kisses, waved handkerchiefs.

Serafina stood until the stack of steam disappeared behind San Calogero, anger crowding disbelief. Her face paled. The baby slept. She turned to Rosa. “I’m so sorry, my true friend. Of all people, I should have known.”

“No matter.” Rosa waved the air with circling gestures, hugged Serafina, Tessa and the baby.

“Follow us.” Renata and Tessa navigated the way to a conductor selling tickets. Tugging his sleeve, Renata said, “Can you tell me the time of the next train to Palermo? We couldn’t board this one-too crowded. May I exchange these?”

The conductor peered at the three women, consulted the filigree dials of a large watch. “In an hour fifteen.”

“And after that?” Renata asked.

He bent to scratch an ankle. “Well, there’s one at eleven, one at-”

“Four round trips on the eleven o’clock, please.”

“Make them first class and give the tickets to me,” Rosa said. She held out coins.

His mouth worked as he studied Rosa.

Taking Tessa’s hand, Rosa said over her shoulder, “We’ll meet you here at ten fifty. Don’t be late.”

The Orphanage

Seated in the parlor of Guardian Angel, Renata and Serafina waited for Mother Concetta.

The baby began to cry.

“There, there, little one,” Serafina said. She got up and began walking back and forth with him. Each time she patted the infant, the infant cried.

The door opened. Mother Concetta entered, stooped, shorter, and more wrinkled than Serafina remembered, but the eyes were the same.

Serafina explained the baby in her arms. Without a word the old nun rang the bell, and in a few moments, a child of about six appeared, wearing a resized dress. Pushing strands of hair away from her face, she stood, still and solemn, before the nun.

“You are in charge of our newest orphan. One, get him fresh clothes and another diaper. Two, give him a bath. Three, give him to Grandma Colletti, he needs milk. Four, find him a place to sleep. After he wakes up, Dr. Loffredo will need to see him. Get him.”

“No more cribs.”

“Improvise, child. Put two infants in one crib until the carpenter can make another.”

The child nodded.

“And Ave-?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Before you do your improvising, sit down and put your boots on the correct feet.”

She sat.

“One more thing.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“When you remove his diaper, be careful of the burr. Put some salve on the wound.”

Throwing a smile over her shoulder, the child disappeared with the howling infant.

“That’s the second baby we’ve gotten from the train station in three months.”

“I thought they left them on your doorstep,” Serafina said.

“The unmarried do. But a mother who is leaving for a strange land with the rest of her family, afraid for the life of her newborn during the voyage, or too poor to care for another hungry mouth? She doesn’t make her decision to leave her baby until the last minute. I can’t imagine the depth of her pain. The husband, or someone else in the family, convinces her it would be better for the child if the mother left him behind. So a family member, usually the father, takes the infant to the train station, finds an unsuspecting passenger.” She pointed a gnarled finger at Serafina. “Someone like you. Your clothes give you away. The story they tell is the same-the mother is coming any minute, but wants to check the house one more time. The man asks for help calming the baby, then disappears. An old trick played on the naive.”

Serafina’s cheeks burned.

“The orphanage is full. We need money to pay the wet nurse, to feed them when they are older, to clothe, to teach. Thank the Madonna, God provides.”

“And if not?” Renata asked.

“And if not, I go to Palermo and visit the archbishop. The coffers open.”

Serafina pursed her lips. “How can a mother abandon her infant like that?”

The nun’s battle-ready eyes narrowed in her direction. “Terrible to abandon a child at any age, no matter what the child’s done, don’t you think?”

• • •

Serafina breathed in and out. She heard, as if for the first time, the sound of Carmela’s feet running down the stairs, saw Carlo speeding after his twin, returning hours later, admitting that he couldn’t persuade her to come back, “Too stubborn, too much like you,” he’d said, spitting on the ground before her feet. At Carlo’s remark, Giorgio had lifted him by the collar and slapped his face.

Serafina put a hand to her cheek. She must say something to this nun, but what? From somewhere outside she heard running feet, shouting youngsters.

“No running, children!” a voice said.

Serafina’s hand flew to her heart. Renata pointed to the door, forms an ‘O’ with her mouth.

“Were you going to say something?” Serafina asked.

Renata mumbled a reply.

“Your child, for instance,” the nun said.

Serafina gripped the side of her chair.

“She’s here, you know. Came to us in the spring.”

“I…we didn’t know.”

“Of course not. She didn’t want me to tell you.”

“But we’ve been looking for her,” Serafina said. She paused before continuing. “To be fair at first only her father, Carlo, and Renata were searching.” She heard the heavy beat of her heart, felt the blood in her ears.

Mother Concetta said nothing.

“Does she know about the death of her grandmother? Her father?”

The nun looked at her hands. “She came here after Maddalena’s death. I knew they were close. I could not bring myself to tell your daughter about the death of her grandmother. Each time I began talking about her family, she wanted nothing to do with the conversation.”

“Her father?”

“She doesn’t know of his death, either, but a voice tells me now I was wrong.”

Serafina stared at the bowed, veiled head. Perhaps the nun was not such an iron heart. “Does the voice have a wrinkled nose?”

Concetta smiled.

“When can we see her?” Renata asked.

Serafina said, “Can you call her?”

Concetta shook her head. “I’d like to prepare her for your visit. The meeting and your news might be too much of a shock in her condition.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“No cause for alarm, but sit down, please.”

The Train to Bagheria

The air smelled like burnt oil as they rocked back and forth on plush seats while the world outside their window blurred. Serafina and Renata sat on one side facing Rosa and Tessa. Rosa swayed this way and that. She hung onto her hat for most of the ride.

When Renata told her about the orphanage and their conversation with Mother Concetta, Rosa was full of questions. She wanted to hear all about Carmela.

“We haven’t seen her yet,” Renata said. “Tomorrow the whole family goes. We’ve received permission to take Giulia and Maria out of school for the day.”

Serafina said nothing. Thinking of tomorrow made stomach queasy.

Rosa and Renata exchanged a look.

Tessa played with her doll.

Serafina looked out the window. She vowed not to be distracted from her work, not today. Towns dotted the hills next to orange groves and olive trees. In the distance, she spotted a peasant leading a pair of oxen. On the other side of the car, there was an abrupt drop to the sea.

No one spoke until Renata opened Rosa’s basket of bread and figs, not a meal but a snack before dinner. If they had enough time after meeting with the Baldassare brothers, they’d eat a little something in La Vucciria-paneddi and babbaluci washed down with a house wine. Later they’d buy cannoli from the convent of St. Dominic.

Serafina told Rosa about her brush with the deserter.

Rosa clenched her chest. “Anything to do with the murders?”

Serafina shook her head. “I don’t think so. A deserter living rough, my guess.”

Renata said, “If it weren’t for Arcangelo, who knows what would have happened. We have you to thank for him.”

“Told her, I did, not safe at night with only Beppe.”

While Rosa beamed, Serafina thought the time was ripe to strike with some uncomfortable questions. “Who do you think is the killer of your women?” she asked.

“In front of Tessa?” Renata asked.

Rosa batted the air and said with her mouth full of cookies, “My Tessa knows everything, don’t you, Tessa?”

She nodded.

“Would you like a cookie?” Renata asked.

Tessa shook her head.

Rosa swallowed. “Why would I be sitting here with you on a rocking train, filling my belly with figs and your daughter’s ossa da mordere if I knew the answer to your question?”

“But you have an idea?”

“Ideas, they come into my head, convince me for a day, and, like the larks of summer, fly away with the first icy wind.”

“After Gemma died, who did you think might be the killer?”

Rosa’s face reddened. “At first I thought it must be a relative or someone from the past. Or Gemma’s mourner.”

“Say again?” Serafina asked.

“To Gemma’s wake there came a mourner.”

Serafina consulted her notes. “You didn’t tell me about him, but the embalmer did.”

“I’m telling you now. As we were about to leave, the room, full, the priest finished with his prayers, a man, not old, not young, he came up to the casket, raised his fist, cursed the corpse.” Rosa wiped her forehead. “Escorted out, he was.”

“A customer?”

“There you go again. Never!”

“The embalmer said he had ‘seeping eyes.’”

“What?”

“’They watered, but not from grief. The eyes, disconnected from the mouth,’ he told me.”

“I searched for him, didn’t I? Had the guards scour the land for an angry father, a jealous suitor. Nothing. After Nelli’s murder, I became confused. The two, Gemma and Nelli, were from different towns, had no relatives in common, no friends together, so I gave up, didn’t bother telling you about the man at Gemma’s wake, the tricky one.”

“And any ideas after that?”

“Why do you ask me these questions?”

“You trust Scarpo?”

Rosa looked like she was caught in a spell. “Scarpo, the killer? Utter nonsense. What are you saying?”

“All I’m saying is that we need to look at everyone around us with new eyes.”

“Wild words spit from your mouth. It’s little wonder you can’t keep your daughter at home.”

“Where was he, Scarpo, around the time of the murders?” Serafina continued. “The afternoon, the evening, the night before you found the bodies?”

“My house, of course. Scarpo doesn’t leave unless he has an errand in town. Devoted to me, he is. At night he’s always there. The house would fall without him. Who’d see to the guards, call the time, collect the money, throw out the scruffy ones, scare off the bandits?”

“What was the first thing you did after you saw Gemma’s body?”

“Screamed and…and what did I do? I pulled the cord? I don’t remember, I must have done. People poured in from all around, upstairs, the front parlors. All the girls were around me, I think, and Scarpo. Arcangelo went for Colonna.”

“Any of the women missing? Away? On a day off?”

The madam considered. “Bella was the only one. She had the weekend off. All the others were at the house, but if one of them were gone, what would that mean? Nothing. These killings are the work of a wild devil with a thirst for my coins.”

“But he could have had help from inside,” Renata said.

“For instance, Eugenia, the thief,” Serafina said. “And several of the women said the house has changed.”

Rosa nodded. Tears formed in her lower lids. “Different now and strange. Silent, the girls, or they whisper in the halls. We used to be so lovely-so gay, so droll-before the killing started. Just like a family.”

“You mean before Eugenia came,” Serafina said.

“You mean like a family during good times,” Renata said, “because families can be silent and untrusting, too, when something bad happens.”

Serafina shot her a look. “Enough Renata. Let’s stay fixed on these killings, nothing else. I know what you’re up to, you and Carlo, but not here, not now.”

Renata and Rosa looked at each other.

“If you die, does Scarpo gain?”

“You always have a way to make me squirm. Why ask such questions?”

Serafina watched the purple spread over her friend’s cheek and waited.

“Who’d gain from my death? — Tessa, not Scarpo. I fooled them, those greasy officials. They said I couldn’t adopt her, being a woman without a husband, but I have a smart avvucatu who knows all the ins and outs.” Rosa twirled her hands in the air. “Struts around the courts like a silky black rooster. Expensive he might be, but knows the laws of inheritance and how to make them work for me. Not enough to have a will. He made it work.” Rosa moved plaintive hands up and down. “Tessa inherits my estate, all of it. How does that answer fit into your theories, oh fancyIspetturi?”

Serafina chewed the inside of her cheek. “Didn’t she need a husband?”

“Two: one for me, one for her. Cost extra. He took care of it, my handsome avvucatu.”

“You’re married?”

“Deceased, the spouse. Tessa’s, too.” Rosa made a placatory gesture with her hands. “Suggested him to Nittù, I did, after his sons perished.”

“Nittù?”

“How many times must I tell you. Nittù Baldassare, Bella’s father. The man we visit today. What’s wrong with you? Mind stuck?”

Renata passed the basket of food again. Rosa reached for several cookies, a slice of cheese, and a fig. They all ate something, even Serafina.

A conductor with a purple nose opened the door to their compartment. He offered drinks from his beverage trolley. The three women asked for caffè which the conductor poured from a dented tin pot. Thick as molasses, the drink, steeped for days, it seemed to Serafina, but it was wet and washed down their food. With a flourish, the conductor handed Tessa an orange drink.

After he left, they were silent for a while. Serafina picked at her food and stared at the passing scenery, swaying back and forth, lulled by the movement.

Presently she said, “Sometimes, you know, I think I need a crowbar to pry information out of you. But I will say this: you have an amazing group of women who work for you, amazing. And all to your credit.”

Rosa’s eyes sparked. “But? Out with it.”

“I’ll bet Don Tigro would love to get his hands on your business.”

“Never.” Rosa sat on her velvet seat like a Sicilian Buddha.

“I want to talk about this figure in brown that Scarpo describes lurking about your house.” She told them about her encounter with the begging monk in the piazza shortly after Bella died. “Wearing gloves and boots. Called himself Don Roberto. He smelled like a thousand foreign sheep. I’m convinced he’s the same man Scarpo saw at the blacksmith’s, the same one Arcangelo saw when he drove Gemma to meet her uncle on the evening before you found her body-the last time she was seen alive, except by her killer.”

Rosa’s eyes took on a haunted look. She reached across and stroked Tessa’s cheek.

Serafina read her notes. “’A man, tall, in wintry clothes,’ that’s the way Arcangelo described Gemma’s uncle, or his driver, at least the one who picked up Gemma.”

Rosa smiled. “Arcangelo, bad with his colors.”

“And here’s what Scarpo said about him, ‘There’s one, a stranger…he wears brown and smells funny, not from around here.’ And something else about their descriptions, something odd, the detail that convinces me it’s the same man they’re talking about, this man wearing brown: both Scarpo and Arcangelo say the man was wearing gloves and the weather was warm.”

“Gloves in August?” Rosa asked. “That’s it: he’s got something to hide, like a hand with six fingers or a missing thumb. The man in mocha, he’s our killer. Forget the others.”

“Speaking of forgetting, did you remember to ask Scarpo to talk to the smith? Did you ask him to get Eugenia’s address?”

Rosa shook her head. The four munched their food while the train slowly rounded a corner.

Breaking the silence, Serafina said, “Whoever it was, he plans on killing again. And soon.”

“Not while we’re eating. What’s wrong with you?” Rosa asked.

Serafina looked out the window. “Just thinking what it is you know that you’re not telling me.”

“Like a peasant with a gold coin, your mother.” Rosa pursed her lips.

Renata shrugged.

Tessa tapped her finger on Rosa’s sleeve. “Is brown the color that bad men wear?”

“Not always.”

“Once I saw a man in brown talking to Gemma and Nelli in the piazza. Bella, too. They called him ‘the monk.’”

Serafina looked at Rosa. “Have you seen this monk since then?”

Tessa nodded. “Sometimes in the morning when I buy bread.”

The feathers on Rosa’s hat quivered. Serafina wrote down Tessa’s information in her book and stared out the window.

The train blasted steam and headed for Bagheria, the end of the line, where they would hire a cab to Palermo.

“Who do you think will be the next to die?” Serafina asked. “Any of your women seem different? Need to visit relatives? Go out more often now, when before they stayed in? Change their pattern?”

“Changed? We’re all changed. Next time? No next time!” The madam’s eyes narrowed. “We’ll stop this madman before he strikes again.”

“We’re almost there,” Renata said, looking out the window.

Serafina reached for Rosa’s heavy package. “Hurry, we must queue up to get off the train. Tessa, take Renata’s hand. We’ll meet beneath the statue of St. Dominic between two and half past. That should give us enough time to meet with Bella’s father and the contessa.”

“The contessa?” Renata asked.

“Bella’s friend. They were going into business together. Keeps a dress shop not far from the Baldassare shop.”

“You should have taken Giulia with you. She’d love to see a dressmaker’s studio, especially one in Palermo. Already she dreams of making gowns in Paris.”

Serafina put her hand on her heart and glanced out the window at a line of peasants bound for the wharves. “Giulia’s a child, only sixteen. Let her grow up first.”

“You’re afraid of losing her, like you’ve lost Carmela. I know you. If Giulia leaves, you’re wondering who will sew our clothes.”

“Not more talk of leaving. You’re still children, all of you. Even you-eighteen is nothing. Living with your family, all of us together in this uncertain hour-savor it.”

“All of us together? Not all of us,” Renata muttered.

Nittù Baldassare

“I don’t know what I can tell you of Bella, but I’ll try.” He wiped his forehead and led them to his study by way of the kitchen where a cook was preparing food. Serafina watched as the woman slid a long-handled spatula into the deep interior of an oven and fished out bread, oiled and steaming, crackling at the edges.

Rosa breathed audibly. “Heavenly, the smells-oregano, tomato, pesto, basil.”

They walked down a long hallway into another room washed in tawny gold. Serafina smelled tobacco, leather, the mustiness of old books. Not a mote of dust. In the middle of the room was a carved mahogany desk piled with papers, and on the wall behind it, shelves stuffed with books. Several large volumes lay open on the desk, some containing plates of women’s gowns, others with drawings of men in uniform. Underneath the window was a long table heaped with fabric. Swatches of brocades, silks and wools spilled onto the carpet. In front of Baldassare’s desk were two chairs covered in damask. He invited Serafina and Rosa to sit.

Serafina took out her notebook and pencil. “Tell me about yourself,” she said.

He passed a hand over his eyes. “Born into a trade that has served me well. Inherited my father’s shop. Across the piazza. You noticed it?”

They nodded.

“Built up that business with these,” Baldassare said, holding up his hands. “Decided to specialize in uniforms-Bourbon, Redshirt, monk, didn’t matter. My wife and I made a good life. All my sons attended university. They were about to take over the business when Garibaldi landed at Marsala.”

Serafina waited for Nittù Baldassare to continue, knowing he must repeat the tragedy many times.

As he spoke, his voice grew soft. A line of color moved up his cheeks. “My sons followed him. The oldest wrote telling me it would be over soon. He was right. When the messenger came with the news, I’ll never forget it.” He pushed himself away from the desk.

He continued, talking more to himself than to his guests. “Killed in one battle, all five of them. Our world vanished. You see what the news did to my poor Addolorata.”

Rosa began to speak, but Serafina sent her a daggered look.

“And, so, to Bella. When she was born, she was betrothed to Pirandello’s youngest son. You know the family? They own a shop on Piazza San Domenico, tailors who make fortunes with every stitch.”

Rosa nodded.

Baldassare pointed to his books and swatches. “But when she came of age, Bella told us she didn’t want marriage, not to Pirandello, not to anyone. She broke our hearts. Instead, she left.” He looked at Rosa. “Her mother would have been devastated had she known about Bella’s life with you. And when I heard what she was doing, I couldn’t believe it. Now, when I think of it…” He stopped.

The room was still.

“You must have been wild with anger,” Serafina said.

“I disowned her.” He cradled his head. “She wrote to me. At first I threw her letters into the fire, but she persisted. When she stopped writing, I became worried.”

Serafina looked at Rosa.

“In time, we reconciled. Such plans she had-to earn enough to open a business of her own, ‘twice as grand as Pirandello’s,’ she told me, ‘at first, serving only royalty; in time, the wives of wealthy merchants. I’ll make the name of Baldassare as famous for high fashion as the House of Worth. Women from all over the world will flock to our door.’ She took my dreams, blew them up higher than Monte Pellegrino.” He gestured toward the ceiling. “For that kind of enterprise she needed money, far more than she’d inherit from me-and she’d have gotten everything with my death.”

He frowned. “Began to see my daughter as if she were a son. Finally, after all these years, I understood her. Earned good money working for you-far more than she could make being a seamstress, even in Paris. Oh, they asked for her, those fancy designers. La Contessa would have arranged it. Would have given Bella experience, prestige, but not the capital she needed for the control she wanted. Oh, La Grinaldi, she would have hired her as a designer. But not as an equal.”

Rosa said, “And never spent, my Bella, so frugal. ‘You want a dress? We’ll find the right fabric,’ she’d tell me. And charged me for the thread, the needles. Oh, she was a saver, our girl.”

Nittù Baldassare grinned. “And smart. She thought of everything, that one, everything. She even had a scheme for salvation. So clever, my daughter.”

Serafina stopped writing.

“Do I know about this, Nittù?” Rosa asked.

He shook his head. “Nor did I. But the last time she visited-July, it was-she told me it wouldn’t be long. She’d given her money to La Grinaldi. She was ready to move back into town. ‘Just some unfinished business,’ she said.” He shook his head before continuing. “She told me that she’d met a monk who offered salvation. Permanent absolution, even for one such as herself.”

Silence except for Serafina’s scratching pencil. When she finished, she looked at Rosa.

“Don’t give me the evil eye. I didn’t know about this scheme of salvation, or the monk. The first I’ve heard.”

“I never saw her again.” He looked at the floor.

Serafina heard the faint noise of traffic and a dove cooing to its mate. Minutes passed. Through clenched teeth, Nittù Baldassare turned to Serafina and said, “Bring her killer to me. I’ll take care of him.” He stood up and brandished a fist. “Flailing, too good for him, but I will find something worthy of this beast.” He sat, hung his head. His desolation hung in the room like acrid smoke.

“What can you tell me of this monk?” Serafina asked. “Where did Bella meet him? Was it here in Palermo or Oltramari?”

He shrugged.

“Is there anyone who’d know? Bella’s contessa friend?”

“She might. In Paris at the moment, I think.”

A maid announced the afternoon meal.

• • •

Standing before the vestibule’s mirror, Rosa patted her curls, straightened her hat while Serafina fastened her cape.

Rosa put a hand to her mouth, “Something for you, almost forgot.” She dug into her front. “Bella’s record of account at Banco di Sicilia.” She kissed him on both cheeks.

Serafina asked, “Who inherits your business, now that Bella’s gone?”

“What a question!” Rosa said.

“My brother. Last month after Bella died-” His voice cracked.

Rosa clasped his hand. “Take your time, Nittù. For your sorrow, we have all day.”

He continued. “After Bella died, I changed the will. The avvucatu, he took care of it: my brother inherits the business.”

Rosa raised her brows.

“I’d like to talk to your brother,” Serafina said.

Falco

“Falco, it’s Nittù!” Baldassare called out, opening the door.

As they entered, Serafina smelled wool and something else-perhaps sizing used on fabric. Her eyes smarted. She waited until the room focused, a place of fantastic-looking bodies, weird presences, like something out of a dream.

As the objects took on familiar shapes, headless bodies became models wearing uniforms or clerical garb. On one wall, shelves held spools of thread, braids, buttons, bric-a-brac. On the opposite wall, rolls of fabric leaned against a tall chest. Serafina walked over to it. She reached out to examine one of the small carvings sitting on top of the chest. Smiling to herself she put it back: Falco’s clay figures.

Baldassare pointed to a dress uniform worn by Joachim Murat, an ostrich-feathered hat sitting on its shoulders. Another mannequin sported a red Garibaldi shirt beneath a leather jerkin. Others were draped in grey or blue homespun-for soldiers in America, Nittù told them. Several figures wore monastic scapulae and hoods. Neat and well-ordered, the room, almost a museum.

Serafina wiped her eyes. Presently she heard footsteps. A door opened and Falco entered, stroking his mustache with a table napkin.

“This woman with eyes like the sea-she investigates the killing of Bella and wants to meet you,” Nittù said.

“We’ve met,” Falco said, not taking his eyes from her face.

“Good. While you two get caught up, I’ll take Rosa over to the shelves. There’s some silk I’d like to show her.”

Serafina stood still. Such an actor, Falco. In school he imitated teachers, mimicked the priests, her father, her mother, Giorgio, his fiancée. He betrayed her ardor with casual abandon.

“We’ve just finished our dinner,” he said, gesturing with the hand still clutching his napkin, “and the domestic cleans the kitchen, but perhaps she can make us some tea. If you will wait-”

Serafina shook her head. “This won’t take long. What I need to know is, where you were the evening of October 6, almost a month ago.”

He smirked. “You are serious? The evening of October 6, around the time of Bella’s murder? This is me you’re talking to, your old Falco.”

“Yes, I’m serious.” She felt her face burn. Oh Madonna, how she hated this. But she persisted, a small atonement for her betrayal of Giorgio so many years ago.

“Think I had something to do with my cousin’s death? Shame forever on my soul.” He crossed his arms. “I don’t know where I was on October 6.”

“A Saturday evening.”

“Probably at home here with my family.” He pointed to the stairs. “Yes. With my family. Of course, where else would I be?”

“The shop would be open until when, seven or eight on a Saturday evening? As the proprietor you’d keep a record of sales and appointments with customers for fittings. Documents written in your hand on that date, any fittings you may have had-especially for late in the day-they’d confirm your whereabouts, at least until the shop closed Saturday evening. And if you’d also supply evidence of your location Sunday morning, it would let me eliminate you as a suspect in Bella’s death.”

“Preposterous. It is I, Falco. We made love in the blossoming days of our life, and you question me like this?”

Serafina pressed her lips together before she spoke. “Death is ugly. It demands an accounting of us all. I need to know where you were at the time of the murders. I need to place everyone who was close to Bella, including Rosa herself.”

He continued hugging himself with his hands, rocking back and forth, an actor, playing to the cheap seats.

After a few moments of maintaining the pose, he spoke. “I keep the current month’s calendar and bills of sale in a drawer in my desk. Would you like to see them?”

She shook her head.

“At the end of the month, I transfer this information to a ledger, and keep the ledgers of past months locked in cabinets in the attic. Now, if you’ve finished, I’ve no more time left for you.”

“No, I’m not finished. I’m sure you’ll be ready with October’s books and any bills of sale you may have for the sixth of that month by, shall we say, sixteen hundred hours tomorrow? I’ll send someone who can attest to having seen them.”

He called out, “Nittù, your guests are ready to leave.” Keeping his eyes on Serafina’s face, Falco spat into his napkin.

Eager for Home

Serafina heard blasts of steam each time the train slowed. She moved with the grind of wheels. They lurched her forward. They crashed her into the back of her seat.

She wished she could have spoken with the contessa, one of the last people who saw Bella alive. But the black swan was still in Paris, according to her secretary, not expected to return until after Li Morti. Serafina made an appointment to see her on November 4, the earliest possible date she could. She needed to find out more about Bella’s monk. Did the prostitute discover him in Palermo or Oltramari? Forget asking Rosa who either missed knowing the most important facts about the running of her house, or deliberately masked the truth. Absent the contessa, she must ask some of Rosa’s prostitutes. They might know about Bella’s monk-Gioconda or Gusti, for instance, whose information she trusted. Serafina chewed her cheek. It was an important missing piece.

Tessa slept, rocking sideways when the train gathered speed and banked inward, her head pillowed by Rosa’s shawl. To Serafina’s right, hills cast long shadows over fields and citrus groves. A pair of oxen plowed the earth. On her left fishermen mended their nets, the spars of their boats bobbing in the setting sun.

She tried to sleep, but saw scarlet through closed eyelids. Rearranging herself, she glanced into the aisle and caught Rosa and Renata standing near the door of their compartment in animated conversation. She closed her eyes again.

“Is your mind stuck?” Rosa asked, shaking her. “Halfway home. We need to talk.”

Serafina stared out the window until Rosa, now seated next to her, kicked her foot.

“I’m awake, just thinking.”

They discussed what they’d learned about Bella’s desire for salvation.

“Significant new information,” Serafina said.

Rosa agreed.

Serafina yawned, paged through her notebook. “A few of the women mentioned salvation when I talked to them yesterday. According to Rosalia, Gemma told her, ‘I can no longer be your friend because you are not saved.’”

“That explains the fight they had shortly before I found Gemma’s body. Slamming doors, crying, the two of them not speaking.”

“Quite hurt, Rosalia,” Serafina said.

Rosa’s eyes were like transparent marbles as she considered.

The two women were silent while they swayed with the train.

Serafina said, “I wonder if it was this ‘permanent salvation’ that Bella’s father talked about. Did Gemma find the same monk? Is he the killer?” She turned a few pages, then quoted Baldassare talking about his daughter, ‘She thought of everything, that one, everything. She even had a scheme for salvation. So clever, my daughter.’

“And don’t forget the rosary in her reticule,” Serafina said. “That reminds me, now that we’ve found Carmela, I’d like to borrow two of your guards. I want them to search the shore with me. There might be other clues.”

“Colonna said they searched. Found nothing.”

Serafina sent Rosa a withering look. “They found nothing, but not because they searched.” She glanced out the window, not at anything in particular. Anyway, the scenery was a blur by this time. “Doubtless it’s this monk who convinced them they must pay for a unique type of salvation. And Nelli paid for something, too.”

“Nelli?” Rosa asked.

“Don’t tell me you don’t remember Formusa’s account of Nelli’s secret-how she kept her coins with the cook until she needed them? Scooped them up the night she disappeared?”

“Of course I remember. You’re the one who almost forgot to tell me Formusa’s tale. I told you, these murders are all about lucre.”

“We don’t know about Gemma’s wish for salvation, only that she was going someplace with someone whom she called her uncle,” Serafina said.

“Arcangelo’s wintry-clothed man.”

“Yes. The monk,” they said in unison.

“That monster. Duping the weak out of their hard-earned coins,” Serafina said.

“What about me? My coins?” Rosa asked.

“We all long for salvation, but it’s given to us at birth or baptism or…confession, one of those,” Serafina said.

Tessa stirred in her sleep, her head now in Renata’s lap.

Serafina said, “I think Scarpo, Arcangelo, Tessa, all saw the killer. Similar to the begging monk I saw, but perhaps he was a real one. Hard to tell.”

“Stop the blabbering. Too many words.”

They stopped talking. Serafina might have closed her eyes. She rolled with the motion of the clacking wheels. Then she said, “And I think that the three women were lured by a man disguised as a monk, duped into following him by his promise of salvation.”

“Wonder how much they paid him?” Rosa asked.

They let the train rock them back and forth.

“What about Falco?” the madam asked.

Serafina looked down at her hands. She felt her face redden. “Falco, I don’t trust. Asked him where he was on the night Bella was killed. Claims he doesn’t remember.”

“Sorry I am that I did not see,” the madam said, in a rare moment of insight.

“See what?” Serafina asked.

“Falco. He had special privilege, you know. Came and went as he pleased. A charmer. No more charmers in my house,” the madam said.

Serafina patted her knee. “We all see what we want to see. But I’ll need to send Arcangelo and Beppe tomorrow for evidence of where Falco was, if he can produce it.”

“Should give him enough time to concoct something,” Rosa said.

Serafina shifted in her seat. “We must keep half an eye on him. He gains the most by Bella’s death.”

Rosa sat up. “Don’t forget he gained from Gemma’s and Nelli’s, too. I tell you, at the root is lucre.”

“How so?”

“Perhaps he schemes to take the house from me.”

Serafina stared out the window.

Rosa got up and stretched. Tessa and Renata slept.

The train plowed through the late dusk. Serafina examined her watch pin. “We arrive in Oltramari soon.”

Renata rubbed her eyes and sat up. “Caru Signura,” she began.

Rosa’s eyes narrowed.

Renata persisted. “Please let Tessa stay with us tonight. We’ll drive her back tomorrow afternoon-”

“Out of the question. Never!” the madam interrupted. “Tessa stays with me.”

Hearing her name, Tessa sat up.

“But I want to show her how I make calamaru, one of my specialties. A cook must take great care in its preparation, and I’ll show Tessa all of my tricks. After supper, she can play with Maria and Totò.”

Rosa shook her head. But Serafina, knowing the madam, sensed a slower shake of her black curls.

“Please!” Tessa, Serafina, and Renata said in unison.

Rosa wagged her finger. “You’ve rehearsed this play, the three of you, behind my back.”

“No,” Tessa said.

It was the first time Serafina heard Tessa say ‘no’ to Rosa. “But this is your busy evening. Tessa will be left alone.”

“If you think you can wiggle Tessa out from under my nose-”

“Of course not. Your daughter needs you. But she also needs to be with children.”

“Clever of you to know what Tessa needs, when you don’t know how to keep your own daughter at-”

“Enough!” Serafina said, and looked away. Like a dog and bone, the madam.

They were silent, until Tessa saw her home town approaching. “Our piazza!” she shouted. Jumping up and down, she looked from one woman to the other.

Rosa bent to whisper in her ear. Tessa smiled. “This once Tessa stays with you. Bring her home tomorrow afternoon.”

• • •

In the west, the sky was lapis lazuli, the clouds, rimmed in gold. The women and Tessa walked through the gardens in front of the station and made their way to a stand, hoping to find a cab to take them home. Here and there gas lamps glowed in the gathering dusk. Their smell mingled with the richness of cooling soil.

Traffic was brisk this evening on the roads circling the station. Carts, carriages and traps moved in all directions, the din of their wheels on the cobblestones like the rumble of thunder. Carabinieri stood on platforms blowing ineffective whistles at the snarl. Peasants rode bareback. Large baskets hung on either side of their beasts. One mule sat in the middle of the road and refused to budge. Hat in hand, the driver pleaded with the animal.

Serafina had to walk fast to keep up with Rosa. Renata and Tessa followed behind.

“Oh, the air, how sweet, almost like spring. I can smell the pungent scent of loam,” Serafina said, her eyes sweeping the traffic to find an empty cab.

“Not loam. Sand and rocks, our soil,” Rosa said.

“Our house has rich earth. My ancestors brought it with them from the fields to make fertile gardens. The city did the same when they built the station. Giorgio told me.”

“Such fantasy! All I smell is the foulness of the train on me, like a thousand mules passing wind. I feel the grit of the day.” Rosa buried her nose in one of her sleeves and made a face.

Tessa skipped to keep up, holding Renata’s hand.

“Impossible. You can’t agree with me, can you? You haven’t changed. You were the same as a child. Always seeing the bleak, never the poetic. And I don’t make that up-I was there. I remember helping my mother deliver difficult babies, and, afterward, you, you stubborn child, you refused to listen to my joyful words of life and birth. When will you grow up?”

Rosa laughed. “Built up my business, didn’t I, but not by thinking deep thoughts. And I must bathe before our guests arrive. How do the wives of the conductors stand them? The one in our car smelled like stale cod. But the fine weather and the end of the festa, good for the trade. I feel a full house coming on tonight.”

Rosa rubbed her hands together. There was a bounce in her step, caprice in her soul. Was this the same woman who could barely move when they got off the train in Palermo?

“Hurry, too slow, you’re like an old woman.” Rosa churned the air with her gestures.

Never stopped to wonder or ask why, that Rosa of hers, with her flinty mind and scorn for fantasy. Her haunches strained the seams of her dress as they flexed forward.

Yes, she had to admire Rosa. When the war came and the apothecary shop was closed along with all the others around the piazza, Rosa’s brains kept Serafina’s family from starving. Did her house close? Not for a blink. Clever Rosa, she prospered with the ebb and flow of history, except for now. She could be ruined by the murders of her women. It was Serafina’s turn to help. She’d crush this killer. She must. Her fingernails bit into her palms.

“Look who’s coming. It’s Beppe and Arcangelo!” Serafina hallooed, waving her arms in the air. “Our luck, Rosa, let it last.” She crossed herself.

Beppe rolled to a stop, jumped down and bowed, almost touching his leggings. “Vicenzu was worried. He asked me to come and wait for you. And Arcangelo rides with me.” Arcangelo tipped his hat, a rifle slung underneath one arm.

The four of them piled into the cab, Rosa grunting as she reached for the step with one short leg, Beppe boosting her up by pushing with one shoulder placed under the madam’s rear. Serafina heard the click of the door, the crack of the whip, and the carriage lurched forward.

“Beppe!” Rosa hung her head out the window, holding onto her hat, now skewed to the side of her head, curls and feathers blowing in the whistling air. “Take me home first. They need me. The week before a holiday, you know.”

Weeping Madonna

Wednesday, October 24, 1866

The whole family sat together on the sofa, younger children piled on top of older laps. Horsehair tufted from a hole in one of the cushions.

“You touched me,” Maria said.

“Did not!” Totò held his finger out, almost, but not quite touching Maria’s arm.

“Did so! Get away!”

“Did not!”

“Enough!”

“But he’s rolling his train on my leg!”

“Totò!” Serafina looked up at the crucifix. She heard children’s voices. They grew louder.

“Can I go outside and play?” Totò asked.

“It’s raining,” Giulia said.

“But they’re outside. See?” He pointed to the window. A line of children marched up the walk. “Can I?”

“No.”

“Anyway, they’re orphans.” Maria pushed up her spectacles.

“So?”

“Orphans can do anything they want. They live here,” Maria said. “And tell him not to roll his toy on me ever again.”

“On the rug, Totò,” Renata said.

“And be quiet.” Vicenzu brushed lint from his lapels. “She should be here soon. We’re early, as usual.” He shot a glance at Serafina.

They waited.

Totò made the sound of a steam engine. Water dribbled from his mouth. The steam engine grew louder.

“I could be practicing,” Maria said.

“You’d be in school if you weren’t here,” Vicenzu said. “Count to a thousand.”

“Don’t waste my time.”

“Maria, no more,” Renata said.

The door opened and Carmela entered. She was older, shorter than Serafina remembered, hair the same, skin, iridescent, eyes like the sea, stomach distended. She smelled like neroli oil and powder.

Renata, Vicenzu, Giulia rushed to her. They hugged. They kissed. They laughed, hugged again.

“Where’s Carlo? Papa?”

Serafina’s eyes gazed at her daughter’s waist. “Carlo’s at school. He’ll be home next week for Li Morti.”

Her children stood aside while Serafina hugged Carmela. Her daughter felt stiff.

“Sit down, my precious,” Serafina said, wiping her eyes. I have harsh news. Someone hand your sister a towel.”

“A towel?”

They laughed.

“Handkerchief. You know what I mean.”

They laughed again.

Renata and Giulia sat on the sofa with Carmela. Vicenzu pulled up the chair for Serafina.

“Something bad?”

She held her daughter’s hands. They were callused. “About six months ago, your papa was in the shop. He collapsed.” Serafina tried to control herself, but couldn’t. “Vicenzu…tell her.”

“I was in the back of the store,” he said. “I heard a crash. Saw Papa on the floor. Held him. He tried, but couldn’t talk. Closed his eyes. A customer ran to Dr. Loffredo. Mama was delivering. Still breathing. They rushed him to hospital, but he…” Vicenzu stopped. “Died.”

Renata and Giulia held Carmela. No one spoke.

After she dried her eyes, Carmela stared at Serafina. Her daughter looked like a weeping Madonna.

“There’s more,” Serafina said, stroking Carmela’s cheek. She told her about Maddalena’s death.

Carmela’s voice was thick. “Achille went away, but left me this.” She pointed to her middle. “I feel nothing for him. Nothing. The baby is all I need.” Tears gave the lie to her words. “I’m happy here. The children need me.”

Serafina offered Carmela a clean handkerchief, touched a lock of her daughter’s hair. “Come home, Carmela.”

“Please,” Renata and Giulia said.

Carmela shook her head.

“We’ve kept your room the same, all your clothes,” Serafina said.

“Please. We need…” Again Vicenzu lost his words.

Maria bit her lip.

“Can’t you say anything, Maria?” Renata asked.

Maria held Serafina’s skirt, said nothing.

“She was only four when Carmela…” Serafina’s voice faded. “Perhaps she doesn’t remember-”

“I do.” Maria waved an arm at Totò. “He doesn’t.”

“See my steam engine?”

Carmela grabbed Maria and Totò and held them.

“I’ll fix your dresses. The waists, I mean,” Giulia said.

Carmela smiled.

“Do you live here?” Totò asked. “Can you play outside whenever you want?”

“Come home with us,” Serafina said again. “We’ve borrowed Rosa’s big carriage. We all fit, but you’ll need to hold Totò on your lap.”

Totò stuck his tongue out at Maria. “She can play with my train. You can’t.”

Carmela looked at her lap. “I need some time.”

The door opened and Ave Maria entered. She stared at Totò while she clomped over to Carmela.

“Innocenza. She screams, won’t stop. Come,” Ave said.

Carmela rose, kissed her siblings.

Serafina held her arms out, but Carmela looked at the ground and hurried away.

Falco’s Alibi

“You made it.” Serafina pulled them inside. “We were going to wait for you but the children were too hungry.” She wiped her mouth with her napkin. “Eat with us, we haven’t finished.”

Assunta shuffled back and forth from the kitchen to the table, setting two additional places and heaping their plates with food. The others looked up from their meal and smiled. Vicenzu slapped Beppe on the back, shook hands with Arcangelo. He poured the wine.

“Finish eating while Assunta and I put the children to bed. Then tell us your story of Falco,” Serafina said, gathering Totò and Tessa. Assunta followed her. “You are excused, too, Maria. Study your score if you want, but in your room.”

• • •

“At eighteen-hundred hours on October 6, Falco Baldassare was fitting a bishop for a new set of clothes, a cassock, a cape, several shirts,” Arcangelo said.

“Which bishop?” Serafina asked. “Palermo is loaded with them.”

Beppe said, “Bishop Antonio Ricci. He lives off Piazza Sant’Andrea on the Via Roma. That’s why we’re here so late. Arcangelo said we must confirm the appointment Falco showed us in his ledger.”

Arcangelo said, “Took us a while to find the bishop’s apartment, even longer for his secretary to answer the bell, but he confirmed the appointment, all right, even opened the bishop’s calendar and showed it to us.”

“We asked how long he was there. No record, the secretary told us,” Beppe said. “But he said the fitting would have taken no more than an hour to an hour and a half, unless, of course, there were problems or other circumstances, say, if the bishop was late for the appointment, or the cape had to be reworked.”

Arcangelo said, “So Falco Baldassare’s whereabouts are accounted for.”

“The best we can hope for, from that slippery eel,” Serafina said. “We rode here from Palermo, Rosa and I, in less than two hours? He could have left in a carriage after the fitting, arrived in Oltramari by what, eight o’clock? Dined with his niece then did her in. Just like him. Not ruled out, Falco Baldassare, not by a long shot. He’d still have plenty of time to do the deed and return to Palermo.”

“And the others, did he kill them, too?” Vicenzu asked. “Doesn’t make sense.”

“Agreed, unless… Her eyes glazed. Her voice trailed off.

“Unless what?” Renata asked.

She shook herself. “Unless he and the monk are in some sort of league.”

“More wine?” Vicenzu asked.

Arcangelo declined. “Time for me to go home. School tomorrow.” He tugged a sleeve.

An Altercation

Thursday, October 25, 1866

Serafina opened her bedroom window. She shielded her eyes against a tepid sun. Streets surrounding the piazza were filled with people on foot or with carts pulled by mules, heading home for the noon meal. The smell of roasting pork wafted from a plume of smoke. Her stomach growled.

Mingled in with children’s laughter were shouts coming from somewhere down the street. Leaning out, she saw the rope seller yelling into a stranger’s face, a peddler with a worn mule harnessed to a weathered cart. Had Serafina seen him before? She thought not. A few men stopped and pointed.

The argument became physical when the peddler shoved the rope seller. More men gathered. The rope seller delivered blows to the neck and face of the stranger, who, poor man, mustn’t have been taught to defend himself. He bled from the nose. The crowd thickened. Two men stepped in and tried to stop the fight. The rope seller swung at one of them. He missed. The peddler struck the rope seller, but it was the punch of a weakling, the effect, comic to some in the crowd who laughed.

Serafina blinked. The fighting spread like fire in a summer wind. Soon she couldn’t tell who did what, but saw a fist hit a face, a spray of blood, a kicking shoe, a cloud of roiling dust.

Bells clanged. Swords flashed. Pistols fired in the air. Carabinieri charged into view. As fast as it formed, the crowd vanished. No more dust. No more peddler. No more cart or mule.

Peace restored, the rope seller limped back to his customary corner and, grunting, sat.

Serafina stared a moment longer before turning her attention inside.

The Rope Seller

From his seat on a pile of hemp, the roper worked a piece of twine like swift fingers braiding hair. He was wiry, the rope seller, with a patch over his eye. He had the odor of straw, hemp, and old newspaper. She wondered how old he was. Probably over sixty, ancient, but young enough to protect himself from the fists of the stranger with the weathered cart.

“Donna Fina, some twine? Got rope, all kinds, all sizes, thick as your arm for mooring ships, or scented, for tying up delicates.”

“Out my window today I saw a fight.” She watched the crowd of emotions march across his face-fear, resentment, disbelief, male pride, humor.

“Stole my hemp, he did.”

“Today?”

He nodded. “Another time, too. See, when my cat talks to me, I know there’s trouble. Today, for what reason I don’t know, the creature gets up from his morning nap, stretches, looks me in the face and talks. Like Beelzebub, he sounds.”

As if on cue, a thick, gray shorthair appeared and began a stream of plaintive meows like the speech of a rackety geezer.

“See? Say hello to Donna Fina,” he said to the cat.

The mouser sat, folded his front paws underneath his massive chest and blinked his moon eyes.

“Aren’t you going to say something?” he asked.

The cat was silent.

“So I go outside. And what do I spy? I find a man dressed in rags, he was, peering at some anchor line, feeling the netting, holding a roll of three-strand twisted in his hands. He thinks I’m not wise to him, see, so he asks me questions, how much for this reel, for that twine, the cost for a small piece of hawser, of solid braid. I growl the prices, and all the time Bumma, he meows. When he drives away, I glimpse a piece of rope snaking down the back of his cart. My rope. I know my rope. Today, see, my Bumma again he stretches, talks. So I go out, sit in the corner, cap over my eye, wary, feigning sleep. I see the same one leaving with the rope in his hands, and I teach him a lesson.”

“The color of his hair?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Dunno.”

“You didn’t notice or he had no hair or he wore a cap?” she asked.

“You saw him fighting,” he said.

Chagrined, she admitted she didn’t notice his hair. “Wore a cap, he must have. A stranger, haven’t seen him before,” she said. She must be more focused. She may have seen a significant bit of information, but, instead, part of her mind was elsewhere.

“Me neither. Except for the other day when Bumma announced him. Not from around here, I think not. His mule, broken down, like his cart. A bandit, or a deserter. Up to no good, see.”

The Shoemaker

“Shoes fit for walking on clouds? Leather from Florence?”

She smiled. “No shoes today.”

“Caffè?”

She shook her head.

The shoemaker, who spoke more with his hands than with his mouth, was dressed in a shirt and tie, striped pants, green apron. His shoes shone like the glass on his storefront. As her eyes swept the shop, Serafina saw rows of men’s boots arranged along one wall. Closer to the front stood women’s and children’s shoes in various colors and styles, all finely crafted. Rodolfo must have contacts throughout Italy. His family dealt in leather for centuries.

“I’m looking for information.”

He guided her to a chair.

Serafina told him that she was investigating the deaths of Rosa’s prostitutes and that the other night she’d spent some time in the room of one of the deceased. “I saw many shoes in her cabinet, of such high quality, saw your stamp on them. Her name was Bella.”

He nodded, thought a moment before speaking. “Good customer. Had to have the very best. Particular. Came in with a piece of fabric, pointed to a color, said ‘Match this.’ When I told her I’d have to buy the leather, have it tanned, possibly make a trip to Palermo, even to Naples, she said she didn’t mind the time or the cost.”

“How often did she shop here?”

“Not sure-every month? Could look through my receipts if it’s important. Coming here for years, Bella.”

“Alone?”

“At first. Dressed like a puttana, but expensive, you know.” He drew large curves in the air. “Said shoes mirrored the soul. Paid cash. Lots. I’ll miss her. And brought me a new customer, too, from Palermo. Last year or two, they came in together. Another one with means. Sorry Bella died. A woman, I do not ask questions where she gets her money, where anyone gets the money. Better not to know.” He cupped his chin and was silent for a moment. “Hard to feed a family these days, I don’t need to tell you.”

“The other customer. Can you give me his name and address?”

“Her name. Sour, that one. Nose in the air. Thinks she’s a queen. When I first measured her feet, she told me I was wrong, but I insisted. In the end I had to show her: I squeezed her into the size she wanted. That convinced her. Wanted everything made, delivered to a Palermo address.”

“May I have it?”

He walked over to the counter, opened a green ledger, and riffled through the pages, scratching one bushy eyebrow.

While she waited, Serafina looked out the window and saw clotted traffic in the piazza. Two carts had collided, their back wheels interlocked. Feathers spun in the air and a jumble of garments-capes, wigs, bits of clothes-had fallen onto the cobbles. The driver shoved them back into his wagon, all the while yelling and gesturing. A crowd watched, growing until two tight-pantalooned soldiers appeared. Presto, everyone scattered. As she looked at the cart commotion, a black carriage drawn by a matched pair whisked directly in front of the window, its red wheels purring.

“Ah, yes, I have it here. A moment while I write it for you.”

An Old Friend

Serafina stuffed the address into her handbag, stepped outside. Hugging her cape, she visored her eyes, peered toward the piazza, and saw the same carriage return. It circled the statue, its wheels spinning, the horses straining. Pedestrians scurried out of its way.

When it halted in front of her, bits of straw, clods of earth flew into her face. She glimpsed a blur of silk sitting inside. Brushing dust from the folds of her dress, Serafina muttered something about the vulgarity of the nobility.

The driver opened the door, and Serafina watched a foot emerge sheathed in calfskin, saw a slice of white silk stocking and a few layers of petticoat peek out from under a skirt of watered silk. The woman was clothed in the latest fashion at this early hour. Must be bone-breaking work for the maid.

A familiar voice called her name. Serafina squinted into the light as the woman approached, reeking of Roget amp; Gallet, wearing a day dress with an indefinite waist. And that hairdo-she must have a French maid.

“Serafina? What luck,” the woman said. “First, my deep sorrow for your loss.”

“Elisabetta! I didn’t recognize you. Sun in my eyes, you know.” They embraced. “I never saw it coming, Giorgio’s death. How could I be so blind?” Serafina asked. Her eyes swam.

The two women discussed Giorgio, his illness, her family’s sudden loss.

Changing the subject, Serafina asked, “How are your boys, they must be, what, nineteen?”

“Almost grown, both in university. Franco studies business, Vito, the law. So fortunate I found you. Went to your home just now looking for you. The magnificence coming from your kitchen! I thought it must be your cuisine.”

“My daughter, Renata. Born cooking, that one,” Serafina said.

“Oh, my, if she’s available for Christmas parties, I’ll tell my friends.”

Serafina felt her cheeks burn. “Her schedule’s heavy through the holidays, a pity.”

“Such a sweet girl. She resembles you, your eyes and height, your smile, yes she does. She gave me a plate of ossa da mordere. I’ve eaten two already. Delicious! She thought you’d be back for the noon meal.”

“Baking early for Li Morti,” Serafina said. Her mind ranged over the years. They’d known each other, she and Elisabetta, since childhood. Her mother, Maddalena, had-what to call it-a special relationship with the orphanage where Elisabetta and Tigro grew up. Inseparable, those two. Even as a child, Elisabetta watched over Tigro until he left suddenly. Broke her heart.

After Serafina went away to school, she lost touch until much later when it was time to deliver Elisabetta’s twins. But she’d heard the stories, how Tigro returned one day, stole Elisabetta during the night. She remembered how the couple showed up in Oltramari a year later, stood in front of the priest to pledge their vows with the Duomo’s bells pealing and the incense smoking, the candles blazing, the choir singing; Tigro, his teeth sparkling, his pockets bulging with coins; Elisabetta, her face radiant, her belly distended. The poor woman, she adores him.

Aloud she said, “Tell me, are you feeling well?”

“I’m with child. That’s why I called on you, and I wondered if-”

“But of course. Certainly, my dear. You don’t have a midwife that lives closer?” She could hear delivery coins rattle in her purse.

“No one I trust,” Elisabetta said.

“Perhaps I can call on you in a few days? Tomorrow I have a chore and I expect to be busy with deliveries next week. Unfortunate, but-”

“A week from Saturday I’ll be home all day. If you arrive, say, early afternoon, after dinner. Bring your girls. Stay for tea-love to see them. But now you need to be home and I’m to meet Tigro and the boys, so I won’t keep you. Gianni, help me into the coach.”

“Saturday, November 3?” Serafina asked.

“Perfect.”

The women kissed on both cheeks.

A clubfooted man with serpentine eyes jumped down from his perch, scratched himself, limped over to where the women stood. He held Elisabetta’s elbow while she stepped into the carriage. After he closed the door, he stood with crossed arms, spat tobacco, and stared at Serafina.

Her eyes met his without flinching. Then she let her eyes graze from his face down to his feet, pausing to take in the uneven height of his shoes, roaming slowly, ever so slowly up his leg, to his thigh, to his not much of anything, up to the curved knife in his belt, to the ragged scar on his left cheek, ending with the wildness in his eyes.

After the women waved addiu, Serafina wondered if that limping cobra could be murdering Rosa’s women for pleasure or for knife practice, with or without orders from the don.

No More Carmela

Friday, October 26, 1866

They sat, the three of them on the sofa and waited. Bright sunlight filtered through a slit in the drapery. It revealed the shabbiness of the furniture, the cleanliness of the wooden floors.

In a low voice Serafina said to Giulia, “How your sister can live here and not long to return home is outside my ken.”

Giulia looked at her hands. Vicenzu straightened his cravat.

They waited.

• • •

“I thought you might like to wear some of your dresses for a change,” Serafina said.

Carmela did not look at Serafina. “I was a child when I left,” she said. She looked at Giulia and Vicenzu and smiled.

“But I’ve redesigned them,” Giulia said. “I’ve let out the waists, removed the lace. The fabric, still very good.”

“Vicenzu, open the trunk so your sister can see.”

“A bribe?” Carmela winked at Vicenzu. She gave him a peck on the cheek.

“See?” Giulia asked and held up a rose watered silk. Giulia’s work was so fine that it took a practiced eye lurking around the seams to see a change in the fabrics.

“Try it on. See what you think,” Serafina said.

Carmela felt the fabric. Her eyes began to water. She shook her head. “Not right for the orphanage.”

“We want you to come home,” Serafina said.

“Carlo still in school?” Carmela asked.

“He comes home at the end of the week for Li Morti.”

“You’ll have to take the trunk back. The dresses are too fine to wear here.”

Silence.

Serafina said, “Vicenzu, Giulia, take the trunk outside and wait for me in the carriage.”

After the door closed, Carmela said, “Why do you surround yourself with your other children? Are you trying to hide from what I might say to you?”

Serafina felt her pulse quicken. She had returned too soon. Should have waited until Carlo was home. The wardrobe was an excuse, she knew. She begged Giulia to redesign the dresses and her daughter worked furiously these past two days, even skipping school yesterday. All with Serafina’s blessing, of course. And the scheme hadn’t worked. Her throat swelled.

She was silent for a while, then said, “In the past, we haven’t worked well together.”

Carmela said nothing but stared at the wall, immobile.

Serafina could hear children playing outside.

“Never did anything well together,” Carmela said. “From the moment I was born there was another one to occupy your thoughts. You were only interested in Carlo. All I heard was, ‘Carlo this and Carlo that.’ Never talked to me like you talked to him. When you were tender with him, you were cross with me. You never considered me as his equal. I hated you for it, hated you.” Her voice rose. “You are haughty, heartless, and you use your children. Just use us! Look at Renata. She does all your cooking. Giulia sews all your clothes. I’ll bet she worked day and night fixing those dresses for me!” Carmela’s lips trembled.

Serafina heard laughter. It seemed so far away. Like a hideous dawn, her failure as a mother loomed before her. Her eyes ached. Her ears rang. She needed Giorgio by her side. He knew how to make everything right. Where was he now? He’d jilted her by his death, same as running away: what difference did it make? What would he say to Carmela?

“So flighty you were, enamored of boys and men, and, yes, in love with yourself, but not interested at all in finding your own specialness. Hard to handle. Not at all like Carlo, no, worse than a stubborn mule. Even though you were more mature, had more brains, more fire than he, yet you were a terrible student. You didn’t care a jot about anyone but yourself!”

“Too much like you,” Carmela said.

Serafina’s face burned. She sat next to her daughter, touched her hand, but Carmela jerked it away and would not look at her. Had she, Serafina, been an unknown, a wretched one living rough on the streets, Carmela would have shown her more regard.

No good-byes were said.

Enough. I’ve had enough. No more, Carmela.

Carlo’s Return

Wednesday, October 31, 1866

Serafina entered the kitchen, scooped a few olives from the barrel, and popped them into her mouth. “What’s for dinner, Renata, my good sweetness?”

“Chopped eggplant with melted goat cheese on garlic bread, swordfish and broccoli with charred pig over a hot green salad,” Renata said.

Carlo rattled his paper. “Asking about dinner when we haven’t eaten breakfast yet?”

“You’re home early my disheveled doctor. Skipped out on your exams?”

He rose to greet Serafina. “Renata wrote to me about Carmela so I came a few days early. Stubborn, my sister. Perhaps I can help her to see.”

“I’ve tried, believe me. She has no time for me. Visit as much as you like, but I’m finished. No more talk of Carmela.” She felt the prickle of tears. Swiped them from her eyes.

“But you can’t just-” He stopped when Renata put a finger to her lips.

Carlo buried his face again in Giornale di Sicilia. “Where’ve you been so early in the morning?” he asked.

“None of your business. You think just because you’re a big shot, the world owes you an explanation.” She swatted his newspaper. Then kissed him, hugged him a little longer than usual.

“You smell like the sea, Mama.”

“And you, like the cadaver room. Your hair needs a trimming. Poor Gloria.”

“Assunta does his laundry now. At least a month’s worth he brought with him.” Renata rolled her eyes. “And since you ask, Mama takes long walks in the morning.”

“Alone?” Carlo asked.

“Perfectly safe. The ne’er-do-wells are sleeping and I walk no farther than the cove. Well, not too much farther than the edge of town.”

Silence.

“Vicenzu?”

Renata scraped crumbs from the table. “Left early for the shop. Expecting the arrival of some supplies. After breakfast, I’m going to Sabatini’s for honey. Might buy some figs if they look good.”

Giulia and Maria sat on the other side of the kitchen, both of them busy. Serafina smiled. She followed Giulia’s finger moving underneath a string of English words as she read her Godey’s. Maria studied a sheet of music. They ran to kiss her when Serafina called to them.

Chewing a piece of bread she stole from Carlo’s plate, Serafina said, “Giulia, I have an assignment for you, but later. Maria, my lamb, a new piece of music?”

“Brahms. All the rage in Europe, Donna Minerva says.”

“I know, but you’re too young for that darkness. Stick to Scarlatti.”

“But… “

“I’m teasing. But a little lightness would be good for us today. Merriment, please.” She looked at her watch pin.

“I fixed the hem of your wool dress,” Giulia said. “Hung it back in your closet.”

“That was the assignment. Done before I even asked.” She kissed Giulia’s head.

“Graziella had her baby last night, I heard,” Renata said.

“A boy with excellent lungs.” Serafina reached into her reticule, handed over the money. “From the proud father.”

She wiped the corners of her mouth with forefinger and thumb, and sighed, “I thought Maria would be the midwife, but she was born for music, Giulia for costuming, you for cuisine. No matter, we must each follow our own specialness. So that’s settled. Too bad your papa died before we could have made one more girl.”

Renata set her mother’s breakfast on the table and Serafina sat. She took a bite of biancumanciari and closed her eyes. “The orange sauce, delicious. Makes me crazy, such bitterness smashing into sweetness, the smell of almonds and oranges mixed in with the aroma of your caffè-divine. I feel the springtime invade November.” She twirled her spoon.

Carlo reached for part of Serafina’s bread but she slapped his hand.

“Not yet November,” he corrected.

“Make sure we have enough cream and eggs for tomorrow’s breakfast. Sabatini’s honey, you say? Get a big jar. I need to eat well. Rosa’s guards and I have business.”

Carlo folded his paper. “What sort of business? Better yet; don’t tell us, it’s too early to hear about your treacheries.”

“We search the lower part of town and shore for clues to the killing of Rosa’s women.”

Her children stared at her as if she had spoken in a different tongue. She looked from one to the other. Then the dawn: the loss of their father was raw, her efforts at comedy, another one of her failures. “Not to worry,” she said, softly. “The wild one hasn’t been invented who can rid the world of me.”

Giulia’s finger began moving again on the page of her magazine. Maria buried her head in her music. She hummed a strange melody.

The domestic entered, carrying Totò. When he saw Serafina, he reached out to her.

“See how he adores me?” she asked.

“Wait a few years,” Carlo said.

She got up and walked over to her youngest son, arms outstretched. “Renata, some biancumanciari for our little prince, and warm milk with bits of chocolate. He needs to eat, grow tall like his brother, don’t you, my honey bee, but without his fat mouth.” She planted his face with kisses. “And your specialness, my little man, what is it? Never mind, you’ll know it soon enough.”

Li Morti

Friday, November 2, 1866

After the noon meal, Serafina snipped flowers from the old geranium. She’d visit the cemetery before joining up with her children. Blowing them a kiss, she left.

In contrast to the vermilion blossoms she clutched, the November light flattened the world on this, the festa of Li Morti. Events would begin with a procession of actors from the cemetery gates, winding through town and down the Via Serpentina to the arena near the sea. There they’d stage a play, usually a farce of recent events and public figures.

But as Serafina passed through the public gardens and the piazza, her attention was far from the festivities. She seemed not to notice the old soldiers, the roughs with vacant stares and missing limbs, a newcomer in need of a bath lurking near the rope seller’s store. Like the spokes of a carriage wheel spinning around its hub, her brain whirled round and round a half-formed picture of the murderer.

Who could he be, this killer? He was mad, of course, but clever at hiding his wild torment, someone whom all three victims knew and trusted. Eugenia? At this stage, she couldn’t rule her out, but believed, along with Loffredo, that the killer was male, his soul caught in a spell. Like the mourner at Gemma’s wake, or Falco, a customer who had helped himself to all three women. Was Rosa keeping information from her, more than what she, Serafina, hadn’t already wrenched from the madam’s mouth? Probably. Her customers tended to be wealthy with impeccable stature. Stature? Reputation? But she knew a public persona was often a chimera.

She shivered. That mysterious monk-like figure who picked up Gemma was their best lead. He’d be the most likely to have knowledge of the brazen serpent. Was he the same monk she saw? Scarpo saw? Arcangelo? Falco dressed as a monk? Someone else she knew? And what if the killer had an inside accomplice, one of Rosa’s precious girls. Scarpo? Was there enough time to catch him before he struck again? Three or four more days, that’s all she had, and if he discovered she knew about him, what then? Murder them all in their sleep? Her family too?

She’d heard about Allan Pinkerton and his agency, heard, too, about London’s Scotland Yard, their brilliant successes, their failures, quick-witted men who uncovered master villains in a flash. They lived for detection, foiled assassination attempts, spotted a pickpocket by the way he walks. She was so new at this. Did she have the skills necessary to solve these murders? What would happen if she failed? She stumbled on a stone. Even the cobbles seemed to be testing her. It was as if the air itself held the answers she could not fathom.

And there was that other voice, the one telling her she should be at home, taking care of her children. Was she being fair to them? And what if she was killed? How would her children fend without her?

‘Very well,’ her mother’s voice interrupted, ‘Do nothing. Be a coward. Add to the chaos around you. Or open the window, let justice fill the room, and make mocking thoughts fly away.’

Serafina heard the creak of metal as she opened the cemetery gates, the crunch of her steps on the gritty path. Stately larch trees lined her way. Iridescent marble figures glared at her in the half-light. Angels knelt. Madonnas wept. A bird sang to its mate.

There it was again, the press of her soul against her stomach. That stone angel over there, did she breathe? It was Li Morti after all. There were bound to be other mourners paying respects to their loved ones, yet she saw no one else. She stroked the flowers in her hand, remembering the wryness of her mother’s smile.

Stopping first at Giorgio’s grave, she prayed, wept, and left some of the geraniums by his headstone.

At Maddalena’s grave, Serafina saw them at once. They lay next to the marker, another spray of geraniums identical to hers. Without thinking she knelt, mixed her flowers in with the others, and retied the twine.

In vain she tried to conjure up Maddalena’s face, whispered a hasty prayer, and left, certain that a pair of eyes watched her as she hurried away. She ran splayed fingers through tangled curls. Shed the shell of fear, a voice inside told her, like the snake does its skin. “Enough,” she said aloud. She squared her shoulders and waved to her children who waited in the distance.

• • •

“Look!” Totò pointed to skeletons peeking from behind a praying angel. Other costumed players emerged from mausoleums, assembled near the cemetery’s gates. As usual, the king and queen of the dead began the parade. The queen, in snaky wig and blackened teeth, smiled at them. Scores of players wore military costumes, some dressed as Napoleon, Murat or King Bumma. A faded Redshirt stumbled toward them, stopped directly in front of Serafina, and stared. Hands on hips, she fixed him with her eyes until, with a boozy whimper, he vanished.

Decorated carts carried ghosts, skeletons, and lidless coffins with monks lying in repose. Onlookers roared when, green-faced, one sat up. A bloodshot eye sprang from his forehead.

Spectators threw flowers as the procession marched through the piazza, snaked into the older section of town, scrambled down to the arena. Last night when she and Beppe drove through this neighborhood, the road was choked with rubbish. They must have cleared it early this morning. Nonetheless, Serafina stepped with care, mindful of the lingering turmoil from last month’s uprising.

Someone dropped a bottle from the roof. She heard glass breaking, shouting, shrill whistles. The procession stopped. Uniformed men shoved past her. Serafina held her breath, but the disturbance ended quickly, and they moved on.

Vendors selling sausage, rice balls, sweetened figs, mulberry, blueberry, and orange ices lined the road near the entrance to the arena. Even though Renata packed food for them, Totò wanted some of everything he saw. Serafina obliged. “An ice, my little precious? Would you like another? One of these figs maybe?”

“Watch the coins,” Vicenzu said.

“Quiet, Mr. Money. It’s Li Morti, after all, and this is your brother’s first.”

“Tomorrow we starve, is that it?”

She didn’t answer at first, balancing Totò on one hip. “You’re right. From now on I’ll take care, but I have a plan. We’ll talk about it after I find the killer of Rosa’s women.”

“You jest. Look no further than the royal box.” He gestured toward plush seats in the center of the arena. “There’s your killer.”

She followed his gaze, saw men in top hats, women in billowing skirts, sable capes, feathered hats. Perched in the center of the box sat a shock of red hair. While Tigro cultivated puffed-up nobles, his wife sat between their two sons, lost. Serafina waved to her. Elisabetta fluttered back an anxious linen. Giulia, too, waved to someone.

“That baroness with the important nose, she wears your dress? What a gorgeous frock. Surpasses all the rest. Such haunches she has, yet she barely fills the top.”

“Not my design, that gown,” Giulia said. “I let out the waist, that’s all.”

“Maria, hold my hand, my precious lovely. We don’t want to lose you-who would play Brahms for us?”

Maria pushed up her spectacles. A clown in whiteface with gamy breath smiled close to her nose. Maria cringed.

The throng mashed them. They stood for hours, it seemed, squashed, immobile, then lurched forward, only to wait some more. Someone stepped on Serafina’s foot. Again they advanced.

Carlo was missing, she realized. She asked Vicenzu who said, “He went off with friends after you left for the cemetery. Told me he’d try to find us here, but if not, he’d be back in time for supper.”

• • •

The wind off the sea muffled the laughter and calls of the crowd. Black clouds massed. Serafina could feel her curls pull in the dampness. Vicenzu limped ahead to scout for seats. When he found them, he waved his crutch back and forth in the blowing air.

Serafina navigated the first step. “Come on, girls, let’s all stay together.” She tripped, caught herself just in time. There it was again, a sharpness to her movements. She missed Giorgio.

As soon as they settled, Renata passed the basket of food, Vicenzu, the wine, Giulia the fruit juice for Totò. He drank it as if he hadn’t drunk all day.

Maria puckered her lips. “I’m too old for this. I should be home.”

“You’re eight. Now watch the stage and be quiet,” Giulia said.

Vicenzu told Maria she sounded like a prima donna.

The audience shouted for the show to begin.

Clowns rolled out of entryways onto the stage. Actors dressed as straw men hit one another with sticks. Priests cavorted with female clowns. Led by the ringmaster whose coattails swelled like red sails, Barco’s circus performers entered. There were fire eaters and fat ladies, painted elephants, brown bears. Acrobats tumbled, jumping high through hoops of fire.

Totò whispered to Serafina who picked him up and, lifting her skirts, made her way down the steps. Renata elbowed Vicenzu, who swooped Totò from Serafina’s arms. When they got to the water closets, he took Totò inside.

“Long time it’s been.” Don Tigro tilted his head to her. “About Giorgio, my condolences.”

Startled, she turned around, took a moment to compose herself, and thanked him.

“You visit Betta tomorrow.”

She nodded.

“Bringing your children?”

His teeth, she noticed, were perfect. Not inherited from her side of the family. Her mother must have been delirious in the last moments of her life. Aburden you’ve given me, Mama. “Perhaps my daughter, Giulia. She’d like to see Elisabetta’s gowns. From Paris, no?”

“I don’t pay attention to those things. Maria comes with you?”

Maria, Serafina wondered, why would he ask about her?

As if reading her thoughts, he said, “One afternoon last year, the most exquisite Brahms came from the maestro’s workshop as I passed. I stopped. ‘Maria Florio, a prodigy,’ Lorenzo said. If you bring her, she can play Betta’s concert grand.” He touched his hat and melted into the crowd.

Totò nearly knocked her down. Running into her, he hid in her skirts. She gave him a hasty peck on the cheek.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Vicenzu asked.

“What? Oh, of course, dear.”

They ascended.

Carlo reached for Totò.

“You’re back with us!” Serafina said.

Vicenzu smacked his forehead. “I just told you he was here. Watch your mind or we’ll be orphans.”

Carlo slid over and gave his mother a kiss.

“You.” She pinched his ear. “I haven’t seen you this whole visit, probably pestering poor Gloria.”

“In Prizzi with her family.”

“Then why so scarce? No, I don’t want to know-my ears, too delicate. But now I’m happy, I have my whole family with me.”

“Not your whole family,” Carlo said.

“Not here, wrong time,” she said.

Carlo shot her a jagged look. “When’s the right time? If you won’t talk about Carmela-”

“Oh, Totò, look at the clowns!” She pointed to the stage.

Red-faced, Carlo rose and straightened his coat. “I can’t stand this-” He stormed into the crowd, head down.

Serafina blinked at a watery stage. Totò started to cry. Vicenzu took him. Looking down, Serafina rubbed her forehead. Maria, Giulia, and Renata looked at one another. Minutes passed.

Renata said, “I think I see blue sky.”

“You always say that,” Maria said.

“No, Renata’s right. It seems sunnier. Well, at least the clouds lift, what do you say, my best player of Brahms?”

“No more Brahms. I’ll play Scarlatti so you’ll be happy and not worry about Carmela.”

Again, silence.

The family, those that remained, watched the rest of the performance with unwavering attention. At the finale, they clapped with the others when clowns dressed as Redshirts rolled onto the stage and, with a flourish, handcuffed players dressed as King Bumma and his ratty son. Whistles blew, crackers popped.

The crowd streamed out of the arena under a sky streaked with crimson.

The Message

Saturday, November 3, 1866

“Yes?” Vicenzu stood in the doorway.

“My name is Arcangelo,” the young man said, taking off his cap and holding it with both hands. “I work for Rosa. You know her?”

“Of course. And you saved my mother’s life the other night. A thousand thanks. Come in, please.” He smiled.

“Oh, you are-”

“Her son. One of them. Grateful to you.” Looking over at Carlo, Vicenzu said, “Come here and meet the fellow who saved Mama.”

Arcangelo rocked a little from side to side. “Rosa asked me to bring Donna Fina. She begs her, please, to come right away. Is she here?”

“So. Arcangelo, is it?” Carlo said.

They shook hands.

Arcangelo nodded. Rocked. Pulled down the cuffs of his sleeves.

“Make yourself at home,” Vicenzu said. “We’ll get her in a minute, but you’ll have to wait. She stepped out to do some walking quite early, so she’s not finished with her formal dressing, if you know what I mean. And I believe she’ll need to eat something before she leaves, knowing as I do my mother,” he said. “Unless, of course, a baby comes into the world. Not the reason you’re here, is it?”

Arcangelo shook his head.

Carlo straightened his vest, brought out a key from his pocket. He opened the door to the grandfather clock. “Go on, we’re listening.” Carlo said. He began winding the clock.

Arcangelo swallowed. “I’m to tell only Donna Fina. La Signura said to hurry. Please, dear sirs.”

Vicenzu put a hand on Arcangelo’s shoulder. “Sit for a moment.” He pointed to the kitchen, sitting room and hearth where logs crackled.

“Yes,” Carlo said. “Join the family. Have something to eat, something to drink. Best to take the day on a full stomach.”

Arcangelo sat on the edge of a chair in the far corner of the room, holding his hat. He could see flames dancing in the hearth.

Vicenzu whispered something to a young woman wearing an apron. She left the room. He and Carlo sat back down at the table and continued eating their breakfast. Across from them a girl sewed. Both men crammed in large bites of omelet, biancumanciari, and bread smeared with orange marmalade while they read the paper and drank caffè. In between bites, they talked to one another in low tones.

The woman in the apron returned, stood at the stove, spooning food onto plates while an old lady in carpet slippers shuffled from the table to the stove and back again, serving and clearing with a steady rhythm. Arcangelo smelled toast, citrus, and eggs.

The young woman approached. “My name is Renata,” she said. She smiled. “My mother will be down shortly. In the meantime, won’t you have some caffè and something to eat? We are all grateful to you for saving her the other night.” She introduced him to the others in the room.

“Caffè only, and you are too kind.”

“Assunta, caffè, please, for our visitor.”

Three children entered.

“Tessa, what are you doing here?” Arcangelo asked.

“She’s our guest,” Maria said. “Who are you?” She straightened her spectacles.

Tessa said, “That’s Arcangelo. He lives with Scarpo. They help us. Arcangelo fixed Uno’s leg yesterday.”

“Who is Uno?” Totò asked.

“One of our mules-who else?” Tessa said.

“Oh.” He reached for a strand of her hair and pulled it.

“Ow!” Tessa twisted around to grab him, but Totò ran away, laughing. Tessa chased him around the table while Giulia sewed on, ate, and talked to Vicenzu and Carlo.

Assunta shuffled over with caffè for Arcangelo. In one motion, he gulped the hot liquid and handed back the cup.

Tessa stopped in front of Arcangelo. “Why are you here-to take me home?”

Arcangelo shook his head. He was about to explain when, pinning a brooch to the front of her dress, Serafina entered. Her hair was undone and she hadn’t yet painted her face. Her children stopped talking and stood up.

Totò ran to her and pulled on her skirts.

She bent and kissed him. “My beautiful boy, good morning. Did you eat something?”

He nodded. “They did, too,” he said, pointing a finger at Maria and Tessa, “but Tessa didn’t finish it all.”

Maria and Tessa looked up at her. Serafina gave a kiss to both. “Maria, show Tessa your pianoforte. Play something soft.” The three children ran into the parlor.

She turned to face Arcangelo. “Lovely to see you again.”

He bowed. “La Signura asks that you come, please, at once. I don’t like to say more.” He flapped an arm at the room.

Serafina said, “Another-”

“Yes.”

Arcangelo kept nodding like a broken jack-in-the-box. The clock struck the hour. “But it’s not time yet. Only Sunday. It cannot be, not yet. We have until Tuesday.”

No one spoke.

Serafina closed her eyes. “Renata and Vicenzu, stay with the children while I go to Rosa’s. Carlo, come with me.”

He walked to her side. “And forgive my rudeness to you yesterday. It’s just that-”

“Enough!” Renata said.

The room stopped.

Serafina put her arm around his waist and pecked his cheek. “You’ll be a great help.” Turning to Arcangelo she said, “Did Rosa call the police?”

He shrugged.

“Vicenzu, get Beppe. Tell him to go to Colonna and ask the inspector to come to Rosa’s right away.” She blew him a kiss.

Vicenzu smiled, hobbled to the back door yelling Beppe’s name.

She took a step, combing fingers through her hair. She could hear a sonata coming from the parlor, the music flowing, timeless. “Tessa stays with us today. And Giulia, were you able to finish-”

“All done, Mama.” After she cut a thread and stuck the needle back into her pin cushion, Giulia stood and held the cape out for her mother to see.

“Oh, Giulia, my quiet precious, look at those braids.”

“The way you wanted them, ‘gold braids, just like the queen’s.’” Giulia grinned.

“Thank you.” She turned to the domestic. “Assunta, help me with my hair.”

Arrival at Villa Rosa

“I know my way, thank you,” Serafina said to the maid. She led her son past several small parlors, their doors open to reveal wine-stained glasses, ash trays spilling over onto tables, plates with crumbs and dried bits of food. A gentleman’s top hat, cane, and silk scarf lay on one chair. Chiaroscuro paintings hung from the walls. She smelled cigar butts and stale sex. “Saturday morning,” she whiffed. “Time to open the shutters and clean.”

“Typical smells for a brothel,” Carlo said.

“I won’t ask how you know,” she said, buttoning her lips with thumb and forefinger.

Carlo knocked on Rosa’s door. No answer.

After a slight hesitation, Serafina opened it. “This way,” she told Carlo, pointing to a back door on the far wall.

“Rosa keeps her own books, I see,” Carlo said, glancing at shelves of ledgers. A fire burned in the hearth. “Beech. I can tell by the color of the flames.”

“How do you know?”

“Papa taught me. Look at the flame, a white light. Listen to how softly it crackles. Gives good heat, too. Beech logs burn cleanest, he told me. We used to burn beech, but now, too expensive, Vicenzu told me.”

“Bah, Vicenzu, tighter than bark.”

“Rosa must be doing well, despite all the murders.”

“Born with a vigorous business sense. Not a dreamer like me.”

“She’ll need to close her house or find a way to placate the don if these murders don’t stop.”

“What makes you think the don is behind these murders? Rosa pays him each month. Without fail, she tells me.”

“But-”

“Not the work of the don. You’ll see in a minute when you examine the body with me.”

“I’m a student, not a medical examiner, I can’t-”

“Haven’t talked about these murders with you. You’re away at school most of the time, but they don’t seem like the work of bandits, more like the work of a wild man.” She told him the characteristics, the timing, the autopsy results for the three victims. “When bandits kill, it’s different, and they’re not so precise about the date. How could they be? They don’t even read. No, these murders are not the work of bandits or a lustful killer.”

“Trying to convince me or yourself?

Silence.

Carlo said, “He’s called ‘mafia,’ Don Tigro.”

“Says who?”

“Worse than the bandits. A fair wind blows for them since Unification. Last year the prefect gave a speech talking about the mafia-a new kind of threat, he said, clandestine, with complex rules of initiation and belonging. They talk a lot about ‘honor,’ call their organizations ‘families,’ each family run by a boss and his deputies. Run it just like a business, they do, collecting their protection money from-”

“From us. I know all about them, Carlo. You don’t have to lecture me like I’m a-”

“And do you know who Don Tigro is? Do you?”

At the sound of Tigro’s name, she stopped, looked at her son who regarded her with that goading persistence of his, standing there, waiting for her reply. If he only knew Maddalena’s secret, he wouldn’t be so smug. But how can she reveal her mother’s dying words uttered in a state of delirium, and…of course, that’s it: Maddalena’s last story was the fantasy of a dying woman.

Carlo continued. “Known in Palermo as the capo of Oltramari. Peasants adore him. The large landholders support him, or else.”

“I know all about Don Tigro and his kind.” Her temples throbbed.

He raised an eyebrow. “I doubt it. You’re a woman. And how can you fight them?”

Serafina said, “These murders are not the work of the mafia or the bandits. And another point I need to make.” She wagged her finger at him. “If the land is strewn with dead bodies, as our land has been for centuries, does that excuse another dead body? Do we bury our dead and forget them and try to stay out of harm’s way? Do we hide in the house and not hunger for truth? Cave into the bandits and the mafia and an inept government? No, we find the murderer and bring him to justice, for the sake of our children and grandchildren, for the sake of our nation. We find the truth. We stop the killing.”

He rolled his eyes.

“And don’t let me talk of Inspector Colonna and his men. No, I’ll say nothing. My lips are shut tight, lips that would never blame an overworked police force for starting the rumor that Don Tigro and his thugs killed Rosa’s women. Now, no more talk of the who, not yet. Let’s look at the what and the how.”

“Why did I start with her?”

“And God doesn’t agree with you, either,” she added, rubbing her eyebrows and walking over to the window. Looking out, she saw Gusti’s body lying on the stones, Scarpo guarding it.

• • •

Alone before the sea Rosa stood, clothed in a dress of black bombazine, the wind whipping her skirt. Hearing the crunch of gravel behind her, she turned. She held a handkerchief to her unpainted face.

Serafina walked up to her, arms outstretched. They hugged. They cried. Serafina gave her a double kiss. “Remember Carlo?”

“Look at him now,” Rosa said. “Madonna, what a fine young man. This high,” she said, chopping the air close to her stomach, “last time I saw you. Carmela’s coloring he has, but with dark curls, and the eyes of a god born in the sea.”

“Studies medicine at the University of Palermo now. Home this weekend for Li Morti. Comes with me today to take a look at poor, dead Gusti.”

Rosa dried her eyes. “Visit us when you’re home again, after your mother solves these horrid murders, when things are better. A visit on the house, a glorious toss, I promise-”

“Rosa! I, the mother, stand next to you. On your other side is Gusti’s corpse, not yet cold, and you invite my son to visit your house?”

Carlo’s eyes brightened. “Accepted with pleasure.”

“Don’t be silly. She jokes.”

Rosa opened her mouth, but snapped it shut when Serafina pointed to the body. “That’s where you found her?”

Rosa nodded.

Serafina put an arm around her shoulders. Not the same sorrow for Rosa as Bella’s death. “Beppe should be arriving any moment with Colonna.”

“Thank you, both of you. Colonna, a useless goose, but we need him now.” The rims of her eyes were red, and Serafina noticed dark circles beneath them. Rosa began to cry again. “My fault, I should have listened to her last night.”

“Gusti?”

Rosa nodded.

“Tell me.”

“Through with my bath-powdered, perfumed, trussed-when I heard a knock on my door. Gusti. And what did she say to me? Oh Madonna, I thought she was only talking.”

“A rambler, Gusti. In the end she gave me some interesting information when I interviewed her the other evening, but I interrupt,” Serafina said.

“’I know who did it,’ she said. ‘Are you sure?’ I asked. Thought a moment, she did. ‘Well, almost sure.’ She wanted to talk to you. Said you told her to come to you if she had any information. Told her it could wait. Friday night, and all I could think of was-” Rosa began crying. “Told her to think it over while she worked, that her Friday clients were important. She agreed. Now she’s dead. My poor girl, my poor dear girl. My fault.”

Serafina reached into her pocket and handed Rosa a fresh handkerchief. “You got up early?”

“Middle of the night it was. I heard a sound, like a creature from the netherworld had me in chains, dragging me away. At first I thought I was having a bad dream. But, no, I wasn’t sleeping. I got up, lit the lamp. The noise continued. Then I thought it must be a rowdy customer. The sound grew louder. Coming from inside? Outside? Couldn’t tell. Awake by this time, I got that feeling again. Terrible.” She blew her nose.

Serafina asked, “What feeling?”

“The spider crawling up my neck. Knew something bad had happened, I did. I thought, if I dress, the dream and the spider will go away. First light, fuzzy and still, the world. Opened the door, held up my lamp. Looked to the right, saw the creep of dawn. I reassured myself it was only a nightmare or a swallow of bad wine. Looked to the left, and, oh, Madonna, I saw her. I screamed. Arcangelo and Scarpo came running-”

“They were here?” Carlo asked.

“They heard me yell. I asked Arcangelo to get you.” Rosa blew her nose. “Let’s go to my office. I need food. My head throbs. Nothing I can do for her now, I could have last night, I could have saved her.” She sobbed.

“Rosa, you didn’t kill Gusti.”

The madam closed her eyes, held up her palm. “Nothing more you can say.”

“You go inside. Carlo and I want to look at the body.”

The Fourth Victim

The body lay in back of Rosa’s house, a few meters from her office, in full view of the lawn and the rocks and the sea.

“Looks like asphyxiation,” Carlo said. He and Serafina knelt by the victim. “Been dead for a while, six or seven hours at least.”

Serafina rubbed one knee, then the other. “This killing, not the same as the others.” The wind lifted her skirt, revealing a lace petticoat. “They died of a single stab wound to the heart. And there’s no image carved into Gusti’s forehead, either. Not the same killer.”

Carlo said, “Don’t know that for sure. Just like we don’t know the cause of death, not for sure. Remember, I’m not the-”

“I know, you’re not the doctor.” She didn’t want to argue with him. She didn’t want to argue with anyone ever again. Four of Rosa’s prostitutes murdered, one by one, in less than four months, and, gazing into the dead face of poor Gusti, Serafina’s mind was numb. Despite her speech to Carlo a few minutes ago, she had no inkling of this killer’s identity. Could it be the don? Bandits? If that were the case, what would she do? She’d prove it, but she’d need the help of Colonna’s men. And more. She shivered.

Of all the women she’d interviewed, she had liked Gusti the most, and there she lay-well, not Gusti, exactly, but a grotesquery, as if some vengeful god created her effigy, then set about destroying it. What could any human have done to deserve a death like this?

The body lay on its side, head twisted and slightly upturned as if to view its startled audience. The face was swollen, mottled in caput mortuum. The eyes were bloodshot, wild with the knowledge of imminent death. Knotted around the neck, a scarf-probably the instrument used to strangle.

Gusti was clothed in a fringed evening gown with a matching bag. The straps on the dress were thinner than the legs of a spider. Stuffed into her mouth was a purple slipper; on her left foot, its mate.

No jewelry. Strange. Hadn’t Gusti been wearing a cartload of gems the other night? — pearls, strands of gold, earrings, rings, bracelets.

Serafina opened the bag: one handkerchief and a twenty lire gold piece stamped with the king’s likeness. “Vittorio Emanuele Due,” she said, holding them in her fingers for Carlo to see. “Look at her hands. Anything?”

“The right one’s clenched. Don’t want to touch the body. Let Loffredo see it first. Might give him a better idea of the time of death. Won’t he be the one to examine her?”

She nodded.

Carlo continued. “The left hand, let’s see, looks like a clump of hair or material of some sort caught on one of her fingernails. Without touching the corpse, he tugged at the strands of caught hair. “Oops, broke the nail.”

“Take it, take them both, the fingernail and the hair. Give them to me.”

“I don’t think-”

“Do it.” She gave him half a smile.

He passed them over, not looking at her.

She examined the hair. Fair, she’d call it. Curled. Falco’s? She laid the strand and the piece of fingernail on a blank page of her notebook. Serafina was about to close her bag when a glint of metal near Gusti’s head caught her eye. She grabbed it.

“What?”

“An earring. Into my reticule it goes.”

Carlo took another look at the body. “No other wounds that I can see. No other marks, except for facial bruising caused by the slipper being forced into the mouth.” Carlo stood up and brushed dust from his pants and frock coat. A few black curls slipped over his forehead and he pushed them back with splayed fingers.

“Anything strike you as odd?” she asked as she rose.

“You’re joking.”

“No, well, I mean where’s her coat or shawl or cape? If she met her killer outside, she’d be wearing one, no?” She faced him, held out her palms. “Let’s take a peek in Gusti’s room. We’d better hurry before the police come and traipse through Rosa’s house, messing up the evidence.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And far be it from you to leave anything behind for them to find.”

“Except, of course, for the body.”

“Oh, please.”

“Four bodies in less than four months. No leads, no theories-”

“Not true. There’s a theory, and you know what it is. Besides, the police have their hands full. Protests, bandits, prisoners being set free, wave after wave of cholera, the September uprising, the curfew. They’re up to their eyeballs in work. And I must say, you’re not very trusting.”

“Not very trusting? Cautious, that’s all. But as for trust, I trust my family and Rosa.”

“Carmela too?”

She swiveled from him, looked beyond the rocks to a ragged sky, and spoke into the wind, “I’ll catch this killer. I swear I will.” She held a hand over her mouth and blinked her eyes dry before turning back to him. “I think Gusti was killed inside this house, right under everyone’s noses and her body dumped here. And what’s more, I think whoever killed Gusti knows who killed the other three. Tessa stays with us until we catch him.”

• • •

Rosa had a large tray on her desk with cups, plates, napkins, utensils, two pots of fresh tea and steaming milk. She motioned for them to sit and pulled the cord.

“In Gusti’s bag,” Serafina said, handing her the two gold coins.

The domestic entered holding another tray with a large cassata. “Cook made your favorite torta,” she said.

“Formusa knows how to cheer me up.” Looking at her guests, she said, “Eat. You’ll feel better.” Rosa cut pieces of cake for Serafina and Carlo. He began eating his portion, forking down large mouthfuls and asking for seconds while Rosa beamed. Serafina declined the cake but drank her tea and asked for more. “This time with more milk.”

“Appetites your Carlo has, and we can fill them, am I right, Mr. Carlo? Salute to you.”

Carlo reddened and wiped the corners of his mouth.

Serafina rolled her eyes. “First, we need to look in Gusti’s room. It won’t take long.”

• • •

Rosa said, “Follow me, but, shhh, the others still sleep. They know nothing yet.”

Serafina looked at her watch pin. “Shouldn’t some of them be up?”

“Saturday morning, and they worked hard last night. Noon or one before they’ll rise,” she said.

“We’ll need to wake them before that,” Serafina said. “I want to interview all the women who were here last night.”

Rosa shrugged and led them to Gusti’s room. She climbed the three flights without breathing, it seemed to Serafina.

Rosa turned the key, and the three of them entered.

“Gusti not make the bed? Not like her. Neat as a pin, that one,” Rosa said. Twisted bedclothes lay in a heap on the floor, the mattress at angles to the posts. Dresser drawers were open, as were the two cabinet doors, their contents jumbled together and strewn over the floor.

“Signs of a fight,” Serafina said.

“Shhh!” Rosa put a finger to her lips.

“Let’s get on with this. We’re wasting time.”

Carlo said, “No bickering, you two. And show some respect for the dead.”

“Respect the living first. The dead are dead. They need nothing,” Rosa said, making the sign of the cross.

They looked through Gusti’s clothes, on the floor of the cabinet, behind it, underneath the bed, in all the dresser drawers. They found nothing except clothes: no jewelry, no money, no letters, no clues.

They were about to leave when Serafina noticed an etching of the Duomo askew on the wall. She looked behind it and saw a hole covered by an ill-fitting piece of plaster.

“We need light,” Carlo whispered. He found some matchsticks next to the lamp on the nightstand, lit the wick, and held the lamp up to the hole.

Serafina peered inside. “I see something over there.” She reached in and retrieved a leather case. Locked. She shook the case. “Sounds like jewels to me.”

Rosa nodded.

They untangled the bed clothes and looked through them.

Serafina ran her hand over the surface of the mattress. “Turn it over.”

Carlo frowned, but heaved the mattress up and over, Rosa and Serafina catching it before it hit the springs.

Serafina found a small square of rough stitching. Carlo cut around them with his pocket knife, reached into the opening. He pulled out a key and some paper-documents or letters.

Serafina held her hand out for the key. “Necklaces and bracelets, gobs of them.” She bit into one. “Gold.”

“I wonder what she did for this strand?” Rosa’s eyes sparked in the dim light.

• • •

“Give the jewels and key to Rosa. Put the papers in your pocket. No time to read them now,” Serafina said. “Let’s clean up this mess and get out.”

While Serafina and Rosa folded the sheets, Carlo refitted the piece of plaster and picture. He looked at the documents and thrust them into his pocket. When he thought Serafina wasn’t looking, he whispered something in Rosa’s ear.

“Inside job, Rosa,” Serafina said.

Rosa’s eyes were like spoiled fruit. “None of my girls did this. None. Properly screened, or they don’t get in. Gusti’s killer must be a customer. My fault, all my fault.” She shook her head. “Business not so good, especially around Li Morti. Too soft I was. Let some salty characters into the house.”

“Falco?” Serafina asked.

Rosa’s eyes moistened.

Serafina hugged her. “No more blame.”

“Besides, we don’t have the time,” Carlo added.

Serafina turned to him. “She was strangled in here. The killer was looking for something.”

“But left the jewels?” Carlo held up both hands.

“Not any of my girls-”

“Not looking for money or jewels,” Serafina said. “Admit it, Rosa. The killer had to have knowledge that only an insider could give him. We’ll find out when we talk to the women.”

“If she was strangled here, how would the killer get rid of the body?” Carlo asked.

Rosa said, “Couldn’t carry Gusti down the main staircase, not past the guards.”

“Even after midnight?” Serafina asked.

“Since Gemma’s murder, there’s a guard at the door, always. Another makes the rounds. Guards, easy to find after the war-all the leftovers.”

“Leftovers?” Serafina asked.

“Redshirts. Scarpo hired them to work the off-hour shifts. Turi used them to ride behind the carriage. Don’t you remember seeing them on our trip to Palermo?”

Serafina nodded.

The madam continued. “Scarpo himself watched during our peak hours. Or Arcangelo.” She brushed the air with both hands and shook her head. “An inside job? — impossible! Murdered outside, Gusti.”

“Then why wasn’t she wearing a cape?”

Rosa chewed on her thumbnail. “Dragged her body down the back stairs, then. But there’s a bolt on the outside. Always fastened.”

“Must’ve had the key, or something wrong with the lock. Let’s find out.”

“This way.” Rosa turned to Carlo. “Take that lamp.” She looked at Serafina and put a forefinger to her lips. “And you, shhh, like an aging strega, the pitch of your voice.”

Rosa led them down the hall to a door and opened it.

Carlo held his lamp high. They saw freshly-made footprints in the layer of dust on the top landing, too many to count, and a dust-free path down the middle of the stairs.

“Dragged the body,” Carlo said. “Dead weight too heavy for the killer.”

As he led the way, the lantern cast globes of dim light on walls and ceiling. Dark, winding, cavernous, the staircase, with air that smelled like the exhalation of old ghosts.

Halfway down, Rosa pointed to something glinting.

Carlo picked it up.

“The other earring,” Serafina said.

“Other?” Rosa asked.

“Found one outside, near the body.”

“Let’s see what Colonna does with it,” Rosa said, turning up one corner of her mouth.

“He won’t find it. I took it.”

At the bottom, Carlo opened the door with ease, a few meters from where Scarpo stood next to Gusti’s body.

Scarpo said, “You took the key, Signura?”

“Unlocked,” Carlo said.

Serafina looked at the bolt. “No lock. Gone. No sign of force.”

“The spider crawls up my neck again.”

Serafina swiveled to Rosa. “Gusti’s killer had inside help, face it.”

“Or Don Tigro. His men work magic, guards or no guards,” Carlo added.

Serafina said, “His men would have taken Gusti’s jewels. If not her jewels, then for sure her twenty lire gold piece.”

• • •

They were back in Rosa’s office by nine.

“Killed in her own room, Gusti. Murderer dragged her body down the back stairs. Who’d know about that staircase, or have the key to the outside lock?” Serafina asked.

The madam sat at her desk, about to say something when they heard the crunch of wooden wheels on stone, the low tones of male whispers. One voice had an unmistakable pitch, like the fingernails of a strega sliding down a wall: Colonna.

Serafina said, “We’d better go out there.”

Carlo looked at Rosa. “My trusting Mama.”

Rosa rocked her head back and forth, eyes closed. Both forefingers ticked in the air like a pendulum. “Watch Colonna operate: you’ll get a big lesson on how to do nothing.”

• • •

Colonna wore a long overcoat and fedora hat. He moved from side to side.

“Hello, Inspector,” Serafina said.

He looked at Serafina with narrowed eyes. “You again?”

“I sent for her, Inspector,” Rosa said. She managed a smile.

Taking his arm, Rosa said, “Forgive me, distraught I was, but now I feel better, now that you’re here.” She pressed her front into his forearm. “But you see, you and your men, you’ve been so busy, so much violence, so many crimes. Oh Madonna, I say to myself, that Inspector, how does he do it? So I asked my friend, Fina, here, to help me.” She patted his hand.

Smiling, he tipped his hat. “Hard for you, Signura, I know, and you keep such a, such a clean and distinguished establishment.” He couldn’t help himself. His eyes roamed over Rosa’s bosomy immenseness.

The madam smiled and looked into his eyes. “Too kind, Pirricù.”

“And your friend-Fina, you say?” He looked at Serafina. “Found out what, so far?”

Serafina interrupted. “And we sent for you, as soon as we heard. We didn’t know if you’d be here or in Catania. We’re told there’s been another uprising. The peasants are-”

“Well, I’m here but leaving shortly. Troops sent to Catania, most of my men with them. Only Colonna here!” He thumped his chest “Two others to help me keep the peace.” He gestured to the two uniformed men who followed him.

They nodded.

Colonna continued. “But we’ll manage. Loffredo should arrive any minute.” He turned to his men. “Get the artist.”

“Already sketching the body,” someone said.

“When he finishes, and Loffredo finishes,” Colonna said, gesturing to indicate the meaning of ‘finishes,’ “take the body away.” Another flourish. “In the meantime, La Signura and I will be in her office.”

Serafina saw the artist kneeling by the body. Several meters away, two hospital workers in black cassocks bearing a stretcher stood in silence, their eyes cast to the ground, hoods donned, waiting alongside a draped cart and mule in mourning headgear. They reminded her of that Sunday in October and a death so different. How Rosa had grieved, still does, for Bella. She must find this killer.

• • •

Serafina smelled Loffredo’s pomade and heard his distinctive step but continued talking to her son, feeling her cheeks burn despite the sea wind.

Dr. Loffredo removed his gloves and kissed Serafina’s hand. “Upsetting for you. And poor Rosa, a fourth victim.”

“Otto, you remember my son, Carlo. He goes to University. Home for Li Morti.”

“Doubt I would have recognized you. A man now, and the last time we met, you were a child. Hear good things about you from Professor Libertate. ‘Excellent doctor he’ll make,’ he tells me. Said you’re an exacting dissector.” He paused, looking closer at Carlo’s face. “You have your mother’s looks, her gift of persistence, your father’s scholarly bent, and your parents’ intelligence. If you’re not busy Monday morning, would you be so kind as to assist in the examination at the morgue? What I do here is preliminary.”

“I’ll be there, but I’d like to take a train Monday afternoon. Exam Tuesday morning.”

“Understood. Meet you at, say, nine o’clock?”

Breaking Free

“Pirricù, is it?” Serafina lifted an eyebrow. She sat across the desk from Rosa.

“Good riddance to that insolent goose of an inspector. One small look at the body, two big glasses of grappa, and in three minutes he’s gone.”

“Loffredo is here now, doing the preliminary examination with Carlo. They’ll continue in the morgue Monday morning. Strangled with her own scarf.”

Rosa shuddered. “Marsala?”

“Too early for me, but I could use another cup of tea or a caffè.”

Rosa pulled the cord. In a few minutes, the domestic came in with a tray and two cups of espresso.

“Too old for this business.”

Serafina said nothing. She took a cup and drank. In the past when she’d suggested that Rosa close the house, the idea was met with a sudden storm.

“I miss Tessa. Arcangelo picks her up this evening,” Rosa said, downing her espresso.

“Don’t you think Tessa should stay with us, in light of Gusti’s murder, just until we find the killer?”

Rosa opened her mouth to protest.

Serafina held up her hand. “Think about it. And after Loffredo leaves, you must wake the women. Need to talk to them.”

Rosa opened her mouth again.

“We interview the women, you and I together, in this room. Today. The killer has an accomplice, someone who knows the house well, the ins and outs, the front, the back, the comings, the goings. Is there a customer who knows the layout of this house so well? Consider the question before you answer,” Serafina said.

Rosa shook her head. “Then it has to be someone in the house, one of the girls. Unless it’s Falco or a maid.”

“Any record of his being here? Would Scarpo or the guards know? Any of his usual women?”

Rosa bowed her head and ran a finger back and forth on the desk. “Run of the house, Falco.”

“All the more reason to speak to the women. Gioconda will tell me. Proud of being one of Falco’s favorites. But what about the guards. Could it be one of them?”

Rosa threw her hands up. “Don’t be silly. Guards don’t know the inside of the house. Never inside, the guards.”

“So it’s one of your women, Falco, Scarpo or Turi.”

“Turi, no. Scarpo, never!”

“And I’m sure Gusti knew the accomplice, perhaps even the identity of the killer. Anyway, she knew too much. She had to be killed.”

“Should have given her more time last night. Oh, if I could only take it back!”

“And Gusti fought her killer,” Serafina said. “One of her nails broke. And I found, clutched in Gusti’s hand, a strand or two of hair, probably from the scalp of her killer. While we talk to the women, we’ll look for a scar somewhere on the face or neck. Maybe behind the ear.”

“I’ll wake them one by one. Who first?”

Serafina reached for her notebook and put it on the desk. “Her friends. They’ll be able to give us the most information about her.”

Rosa’s eyes were wet. “An outsider, Gusti. And the only friend she had-” She stared at Serafina and shifted in her seat.

“I’m listening, Rosa. And the only friend she had was?”

Rosa’s slowness must be the result of shock. Either her shock or her disbelief. Why is it so hard to pull information from her? Serafina tried to be gentle, but her patience was wearing thin.

“Not here.”

“What do you mean, ‘not here?’”

Rosa’s cheeks looked like jammed mule packs. “Carmela.”

Serafina slid her cup onto the tray. It teetered with a metallic sound, like the distant clang of swords.

“Did you hear what I said?” Rosa asked.

Serafina lost her patience. She spit out words like bullets in a gunfight. In an effort to summarize, she couldn’t help running her thoughts together. “We went to Palermo, interviewed the father. He’s innocent. We know that, still need to interview Bella’s business partner, she might have information about this monk of Bella’s. That haughty countess, in Paris when we need her. Why? Then there’s Falco. Now he’s a real possibility and, come to remember, I saw a monk’s habit hanging in his workshop. But, even more damning, he stands the most to gain from Bella’s death, and he has yet to account for his whereabouts on the evening she disappeared. Oh, a little excuse of a fitting, but not to cover the whole evening, especially since I hear he has the run of the house.” Serafina glared at Rosa.

“Changing the subject, slippery like the wet skin of a snake you are. Now you listen to me. You are Carmela’s mother. Her mother. Hear me? — issued from your womb. When she hears the word ‘Mama,’ a face flashes in her mind. Your face. She can’t help it, poor girl, she’s got no choice. She may think she hates you, but she cannot. She loves you with a love deeper than all the oceans piled one on top of the other. She must.”

A silence lay between them, minatory, voracious. All of the madam’s making.

“Look at me. I said Carmela was Gusti’s only friend. Now you need to do something with that if you want to find this killer. You cannot forget, you are the mother of Carmela, no matter what she’s said to you, no matter what she’s done. You must hold her ever in your heart. Carmela, I said. Carmela. Say the name. Say it!” She slammed the top of her desk. “Say it!”

Serafina hesitated. An image overwhelmed her. She was in the nursery with her mother and the twins, Carlo, black-curled, Carmela, with her ginger hair, her skin iridescent. Maddalena, wrinkling her nose, was teaching her granddaughter how to walk while Carlo made running circles round the pair.

“Carmela,” Serafina whispered.

“Again, louder.”

“Carmela! There, I said it.”

Rosa’s face was florid. The two women’s heads moved closer together, their bodies arcing across the desk. Serafina’s memory spanned the years. Again and again she said Carmela’s name, her voice growing louder as her face drew closer to Rosa’s, choking, hoarse, feeling the engorged arteries in her neck, forgetting to swallow, saliva mixing with the tears running down her cheeks. “Carmela, Carmela, CAR-MELLL-AHHH!” She collapsed back into the chair, curling into herself, sobbing, the pent-up dam broken.

Carlo opened the door, but Rosa shooed him away.

Suspects and Jugglers

The two women learned nothing more from interviewing the prostitutes.

“A special customer last night. Occupied all my time, he did. Voracious, the appetites of some men,” Gioconda said.

“And you didn’t see Falco in the parlor?”

She shook her head.

Lola’s story was different. Shivering, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief and clutching her robe around her, she claimed at first not to have seen Falco, then changed her mind. “Now that you mention his name, well, earlier in the evening I might have done. Yes, as a matter of fact, I did, but you understand, mine was a fleeting glance. Busy last night so I whisked through the parlors. We’re supposed to show up, you know, if just to parade through. But Falco, he was not here to see me. These days I’m booked in advance. Last night among others I entertained-”

She stopped when she saw the madam’s glower.

No one else heard anything unusual, no shouting, no strange noises.

Neither Serafina nor Rosa noticed any sores or bruising on the women’s faces, no neck scratches, nothing behind the ears or at the base of the scalp, except for Lola, nursing her hand because of a spider bite, Rosa having tended the wound herself the other day. And Rosalia, too, had a scratch on her neck, from an unruly customer, she claimed. But she shook during the interview like a frightened goat. Serafina ruled her out. She offered nothing, except an observation that, if anything, Gusti had been more secretive of late.

• • •

The three of them-Carlo, Serafina and Scarpo-were seated in front of Rosa in her office. Carlo, his long legs crossed, glanced at his watch. Serafina ran a hand through her hair, searching for something in her notebook.

“Another log for the fire before we begin,” Rosa said, pulling the cord.

When the domestic entered, she said, “Caffè and some hot milk, Gesuzza. We are four. And tell the laundress to fetch the sheets in Gusti’s room.”

Scarpo returned with the log. When he bent to throw it on the fire, shards of light from the flames bounced from his knife handle straight into Serafina’s eyes. He sat back down on the edge of his chair.

“So,” Serafina began, squinting, “Not much time, and we must go over what we know about Gusti’s death, discuss any evidence that may shed light on the other murders. And we must review our list of suspects, and-”

Rosa said, “Not so fast. Forgetting your request for information from Scarpo about Eugenia and the smith, remember?”

“Just getting to that. Scarpo?”

“What’s this about?” Carlo asked.

“I asked Scarpo to find out two things: the whereabouts of Eugenia and, from the blacksmith, whether anyone had rented mules or carts from him beginning in early August through early October.”

“Eugenia?” Carlo asked.

“A woman who worked here for a time. Others in the house accused her of stealing. She left.”

“Kicked her out, I did,” Rosa said.

Scarpo snapped his braces. “Hard to find, Eugenia, but yesterday, success. La Secunda told me, or at least-”

“She knows everything, La Secunda. Good man, Scarpo,” Rosa said.

“La Secunda?” Carlo asked.

“My name for her. Runs a house in Palermo. Second in glory to mine.”

Serafina said, “Let him finish without interruption, please.”

“Sorry, Empress, for speaking out of turn.”

Serafina nodded. “Continue, Scarpo.” Remembering the introspective turn Rosa’s grieving took after Bella’s body was found, she was glad for the madam’s spikes today. Best to ignore them or it would take all day.

“La Secunda told me the story of Eugenia, and there was another in the room, a woman, beautiful, tall, with large-”

“The daughter,” Rosa said.

“Let him finish!”

Rosa pursed her lips.

“The daughter and La Secunda both said Eugenia was working in an unsavory house.”

“Unsavory?”

“Secunda’s word-a house in a rough area, outskirts of Palermo. You know the kind?” Scarpo asked.

Carlo nodded.

Rosa said, “Continue, Scarpo.”

“Eugenia shared a bed with a puttana who worked days, and she, Eugenia, worked nights until some weeks ago, they said, when…” He paused.

“When what?”

Scarpo looked at the floor. “When they found Eugenia’s body.”

“Where?” Serafina asked.

“Hanging from the rafters.”

Rosa reached for her handkerchief.

Serafina asked, “Was there a letter or note? A piece of paper written in Eugenia’s hand?”

Scarpo shook his head. “No note, and all her belongings, it was as if they were stirred with a stick-blouses, undergarments, skirts, mixed into the bed clothes and thrown into a heap on top of the mattress. A mess. Closed that house of filth, Secunda told me.”

“Good. Houses like that give us a bad name.”

“And something else-a carving on Eugenia’s face, Secunda said. Officials told her it looked like the sign of Charybdis.”

Serafina and Rosa exchanged glances. Carlo regarded the cupids dancing in the ceiling’s dome. No one spoke.

Serafina broke the silence. “So, possibly Eugenia’s killer was the same one who kills our women.”

“My women, you mean.”

“Sorry, of course. I should have said: Rosa’s women.” Serafina rubbed her forehead. “So we know that Eugenia, who may or may not have been involved in the murders of Rosa’s women, is dead. We also know she could not have killed Gusti or had a part in her death, because she herself was dead. But we don’t know, really, if she was the one who stole items from your women,” Serafina said, looking at Rosa. “So our killer is alive and may very well kill again soon.”

Rosa looked like she’d seen a ghost.

Serafina finished writing. “And what did the smith say about space or carts for hire?”

Scarpo summarized his conversation with the blacksmith: he had no free stall for hire, because they were all taken by regular customers. Hadn’t had an empty pen for years.

Carlo wound his watch.

“But one thing,” Scarpo said, “I saw an old cart sitting in the corner. I asked the blacksmith whether it might be for rent. He said, no, belongs to a man, a poor one. The man collects from the rich, sells in the rough areas. That’s his cart, he told me. And that’s his stall.”

“A ragpicker,” Serafina said.

“That’s what the smith, he called him,” Scarpo said. “And I said, that’s not a stall. And the smith said, big enough for the ragpicker. Couldn’t rent it otherwise.”

“What does he collect?” Serafina asked.

“Old clothes, broken furniture, rope, nets, such like that. His cart, always full, the blacksmith said. He sells goods in the rough neighborhoods. And he sharpens knives there.”

“I’ve seen him. I know I have,” Serafina said. She told them about the commotion she’d seen when driving with Minerva. “Her hearing makes up for lack of sight. She heard the altercation long before I did.”

“Well, she would,” Carlo said. “Minerva’s a sightless musician. Of course. I’d love to have her gift of hearing. But I thought the smith did that, sharpen knives, I mean.”

While they were talking about the blacksmith’s knives, Serafina was half-listening. Her mind was wrapped around the swaybacked mule and the weather-beaten cart, remembering the number of times she’d seen the forlorn pair.

Scarpo was saying, “Yes, I asked, too. The smith told me the ragpicker, he only sharpens knives in the rough neighborhoods, where the smith doesn’t care to go.”

“Doctor Loffredo confirmed what I thought caused Gusti’s death. Asphyxiation. Strangled by the scarf she wore. He’s sure she was killed elsewhere, found some bruising on her back indicating her body was dragged to the spot where Rosa found it. Wants to perform an autopsy, but he’s busy at the moment. Other autopsies come before Gusti’s, and he has his practice. He wants to do it Monday morning and he asked me to assist.”

Serafina filled Scarpo in on what they’d discovered this morning in Gusti’s room, the scuffle and marks on the back stairs, the earrings, the box of jewels, the documents. “We believe Gusti was killed inside, probably in her room. Saw evidence of a struggle, bedclothes all knotted, coming off the mattress. Then her body was dragged down the back stairs where we found an earring. It matched what we found outside near her body. And we also know that Gusti struggled with her killer. We found a strand of hair in one of her fingernails.”

Rosa said, “The girls are frightened. No help to us when we interviewed them. Huddled about the kitchen table now, Formusa feeds them biancumanciari and toasted bread. And where’s our caffè?” She pulled the cord several times.

“Gusti’s and Eugenia’s deaths are related to the other three, but different,” Serafina said. “The killer is cleaning up after himself, removing obstacles.”

“Cleaning up? Obstacles? There you go again, not making sense,” Rosa said.

“The killer gets rid of threats to himself. Gusti knew too much, perhaps Eugenia, too.”

Scarpo shrugged. Carlo squirmed in his seat, looked at the door.

Serafina said, “The more we know, the more I realize we are in danger.”

There was a moment of hushed silence.

Rosa told Scarpo about her last conversation with Gusti who thought she knew something about the killer and wanted to speak with Serafina.

“We don’t know much about Gusti, nothing about her family or where she was born.”

“The smart customers all went for her,” Rosa said.

“So she may have discovered the killer’s accomplice,” Serafina said. “We know that she kept to herself, except of course for her customers and her friends. We know one of her friends was Carmela.”

Carlo’s eyes widened at the sound of his twin’s name in his mother’s mouth. He reached inside his coat pocket, and told Scarpo, “We found two letters from Carmela hidden in Gusti’s mattress.” He handed both to Rosa.

After putting on her spectacles, Rosa began to read, using a finger to follow the words, mouthing them in a whisper, then summarized the contents aloud. “Dated a year ago October, before any of this sorry business. She told Gusti about Achille, her lover. Life was good, she said. She missed their talks, told her to guard her valuables.”

She passed the letter to Serafina who looked at the writing. “Yes, that’s Carmela’s hand, the letters so rounded, just like a child’s.” Her eyes filled, and she handed the letter to Carlo.

“And the second one?”

“Dated March 15, this year.”

Dearest Gusti,

My apologies for not writing sooner, but for the last few months, my life has been in sorry disarray.

Achille left to join Garibaldi and his men, promising him extra coins, but since he never was paid for his service in 1862, I am doubtful that this will be the case. In any event, I doubt I’ll ever see him again. No matter. Good riddance. Yes, we were happy, but he’s chosen his life. I care no more for him.

And now for the special news: I carry his child.

No coins jingle my pockets so after Achille departed, I walked until I came to the orphanage. As you know Mother Concetta is a good friend of

Nanna

.

Concetta has made a place for me. I care for the young children. My days are full, and I am happy. One of the little ones reminds me so much of Maria. How I do miss my family:

Nanna

, my father, my brothers and sisters, even, if you can believe it, my mother, although I never could live in my home again, not with her in residence. And of course I long for our talks and laughs.

In answer to your question, take great care. Do not become friends with her. We know her to be like the weather, fair one moment, foul the next.

Ever your friend,

Carmela

Serafina grabbed the letter. When she finished reading, she stared into the distance, lost in thought.

“We know who to be like the weather?” Rosa asked.

Serafina shrugged. “Her letter raises questions, answers nothing.”

“Oh, Gusti, you and your closed mouth,” Rosa said.

A knock on the door. Gesuzza returned, bringing a cart of food. Serafina smelled dark mocha, coffee, ricotta, orange sauce and heavy cream. She tasted bile.

“From cook,” the domestic said. The bottom shelf held trays of pastry-sfinci, cannulicchi, cassateddi, minni della Vergine, pagnuttella; and on the top shelf, large cups with caffè latté, the milk frothy, the drink steaming and topped with bits of chocolate and powdered sugar.

“Couldn’t eat,” Serafina said. “My stomach and head are like rocks.

“Nor I,” Carlo said.

“Scarpo?” Rosa asked.

He held up his hand.

Rosa said, “Tell cook, she’s such a comfort in our hour of need. Perhaps later. We’ll take the latté. Close the door on your way out.”

Serafina accepted a cup. “I want to bring up what’s on everyone’s minds. You may have heard it in the street, too, Scarpo. We need to face it.”

“Stop talking like an avvucatu.” Rosa sipped her caffè.

“The rumor in town is that Don Tigro is behind these murders.” Serafina took a few sips of her caffè. “They say he wants Rosa’s business. The deaths of Gemma, Nelli, Bella do not bear the mark of the don. But we know from Scarpo that you pay faithfully.”

“Each month,” Rosa said, wiping foam from the top of her lips.

“But these last killings smack of his style-the slipper stuffed into Gusti’s mouth, a body hanging from the rafters of a cheap bordello.” As she spoke, she saw Gusti’s face, distorted, Eugenia’s bare feet hanging overhead, dirty and with toenails chipped.

Scarpo and Rosa shook their heads. “We’d know,” Scarpo insisted. “La Signura pays. Every month I give him the money. His thugs, they come around for it. And, before the don strikes, there’s a warning. He likes the world to know. That’s his way.” He took off his bandanna, swiped his forehead, and finished his caffè. “The rumor? — created to comfort the crowd because no one explains these deaths. They are the work of someone sick in the head because of a woman or the work of the devil, such like that, but not the work of the don.”

Carlo downed his coffee, looked at Serafina. “Ask him yourself. You’re going there this afternoon to see Elisabetta. Put it to him then.”

She nodded. “Before we continue, there’s the matter of the lock. It’s missing from the back door. Where are the keys?”

Rosa said, “I have a set. Scarpo has a set. Only two made by the smith.”

“Show me your keys.”

Scarpo pulled his from a chain attached to his breeches, found the key to the lock.

“Rosa?”

Rosa had been searching in her desk. Her arm was into the drawer up to the elbow. Her face was red. “Missing,” she said. “My keys, they’re gone! An accomplice within these walls.” Her face drained of color.

Serafina turned to Scarpo. “This afternoon, go to the smith. Change all locks, all doors. One set of keys.”

He nodded.

She turned her notebook to the first page. “Our best lead is the monk.” She read from the list they had made what, a week, ten days ago, quoting Scarpo, “There is one who keeps coming back, Signura, a stranger, he has a funny smell, not from around here. Pigheaded, too. Returns many times. Wears a brown cloak and hat.”

Scarpo nodded and set his cup on the desk.

“And we found strands of hair in Gusti’s hand,” Carlo said. “Show them, Mama.”

Serafina opened her book to the page where the strand was coiled and the fingernail dug into the paper. She turned up the wick on Rosa’s lamp. The four gawped at them.

Scarpo got up for a better look, put his head very close and nodded, still staring at the hair now gleaming in the light from the oil lamp. He picked it up, smelled it. “Has your smell, Donna Fina, now that it’s wedged into your book.” He sniffed again. “Could be the monk’s. Hard to tell.”

“Have you seen him recently?” Serafina asked.

Scarpo sat down, adjusted himself. “Last time I see him, he was begging near the fountain.”

“That’s where I saw him,” Serafina said. “Tessa’s seen him, too-”

“-talking to Gemma and Bella near the fountain,” Rosa said.

“Right. Carlo and Vicenzu go with us to visit Elisabetta this afternoon. They drive the carriage and can snoop in the don’s stables.”

“Could be Falco’s, too,” Serafina said.

“Will you stop it with Falco! Like a dog and a bone you are with that man.”

“Who is this Falco, anyway?” Carlo asked.

Rosa and Serafina glared at each other.

Laughing, Rosa looked at Carlo and winked. “Falco is an old friend of your mother.”

Serafina cut in. “An acquaintance from school. Now one of Rosa’s frequent visitors.”

“What do you know about this business. Harmless he is. Adds sparkle to the evening.”

“He’s the brother of Bella’s father. He handed over the business to Falco after Bella died.”

“Not to his sons?” Carlo asked.

“All killed in the war on the same day, I understand,” Rosa said.

“All on the same day? Impossible,” Carlo said.

“Battle of Milazzo,” Scarpo said. “Hundreds killed.”

“Falco gains the most because of Bella’s death.”

Serafina said, “And that puts him on our list of suspects.”

“But what about the other deaths? Two others killed before Bella. Why would Falco murder Gemma and Nelli?” Scarpo asked.

Carlo said, “He could have done. Could have started out with them in order to practice before he attempted the important kill, like dissecting frogs before tackling a cadaver.”

Scarpo flicked a piece of dirt from his suspenders.

“Inherited the gift of fantasy from your mother, you have,” Rosa said. She rubbed her fingers together. “But behind the story of Falco lurks the truth: in the end, murder is about money.”

“If the murders continue, and Falco is behind them, you’ll be ruined, and he’ll have control of the house.”

Rosa’s eyes widened. “The wizard for once is right.”

“For now, let’s say Falco is a strong suspect,” Serafina said. “We must be like jugglers. First, the monk, second, Falco. We don’t drop-” Serafina stopped. She stared at the sea.

“What?” Rosa asked, rolling her eyes.

Serafina said, “Falco could be the monk. An actor, Falco. And handy with a knife.”

“A story you make up as you go along.”

“No, I saw the carved figures in his shop last week. You see, don’t you, anyone can dress up as a monk. There are so many of them.”

“In Palermo we see them all the time,” Carlo said.

“And while I think these murders are the work of one man, Gusti’s murder could not have been committed without an accomplice, either living right here under Rosa’s roof, or someone who knows the house well-well enough to steal Rosa’s keys. And that points to one of the women.”

“Or to me or Formusa or the laundress or Gesuzza,” Scarpo said.

“And Fina’s right, anyone can dress up as a monk.” Rosa shook her head.

“It means we must catch the killer in the act.”

Silence.

Carlo said, “Forget the ragpicker, a false turn.”

“No, I cannot. I must find out more about him,” Serafina said.

Carlo gave her an elaborate shrug.

“We have guards, Signura, old Redshirts I trust,” Scarpo said. “Thick and plodding in the head, but good with the feet. For show, mostly, to scare away bandits on the road, but maybe they can help.”

“Ask them to follow this ragpicker. Ferret out what they can,” Serafina said.

Scarpo nodded.

“If you plan to catch him just before he kills his next victim, why follow anyone?” Carlo asked.

Serafina said, “You’re forgetting about forewarned and forearmed. We need to find out as much as we can about these suspects. What if the monk is two or three in a league? Or a gang of killers?”

Rosa clutched her chest.

Carlo threw up his hands. “Something else: I have an important test Tuesday morning and haven’t studied. I was hoping to take the train Monday afternoon after the autopsy.”

“You must. Don’t forget your father’s hopes for you. The three of us, Rosa, me, Scarpo, in Rosa’s office tomorrow afternoon. We haven’t much time. Today’s the third. Gusti’s and Eugenia’s deaths don’t change my mind about the monk’s schedule: he kills on the sixth or seventh.”

“A horror in my bones,” Rosa said. “Sneaks into my soul, it does, and Formusa’s latté doesn’t take it away. Fina is right. The killer will strike again with reckless purpose, uncanny focus, madness eating his mind. He is the one we call the monk, but the monk could be anyone-Falco, say, who has, he does, a history of acting. But whoever he is, the wild one must have help from someone inside, the strega who wore those earrings when Gusti was killed. Where are they?”

Serafina dug into her purse, put them on the desk beside the book.

They gleamed in the light of the lamp.

• • •

Serafina was silent on the short ride home. Beppe swung the gates open.

“This Falco?” Carlo winked.

“None of your business,” she said and stepped from the carriage, surprising herself with the venom of her anger. She’d done it again, smashed another platter of porcelain.

No speaking until they reached the path to the front door. Serafina forced herself to look at her son and her eyes moistened. “Carlo, forgive me, I know you were teasing. Usually I love it, but something’s wrong with me today.”

“No apologies. Hard morning.” He looked at the ground, brushed lint from his coat.

“You pay a visit to Carmela again?”

He nodded.

“Ask her about these.” She handed him the earrings, kissed him on the cheek. “Tell her.”

“Tell her what?” Carlo asked.

“Tell her how much we-”

“Need her?” he asked. His smile was crooked.

“Tell her how much I miss her,” Serafina said.

Tessa and the Monk

Serafina looked up at the sky, grey and curdled. The bougainvillea stood by the side of the house, one or two withered leaves hanging from its branches. A few pansies bloomed. In another month they’d be gone. She heard a Scarlatti sonata coming from the parlor and glanced at the stone angel. “You’re the only one smiling today,” she said.

Serafina kissed Renata who stood by the oven stirring the sauce. She blew a kiss to Giulia who sat by the fire working in her book on a pattern of some sort. Were he alive, Giorgio would be there to kiss her and hang up her cape. She felt his presence by her side, usually reassuring, but today, inscrutable.

Totò ran to greet her. “Assunta took us to the gardens. I saw the white birds.”

“Your favorites, my precious little man.” Serafina kissed him. She reached over to kiss Tessa, who stood solemn-faced. “And Tessa, did you like the gardens?”

Tessa hung her head, arms hugging her waist.

“I’m ready to go home now,” she said, looking up at Serafina.

“You miss your mother.”

She nodded.

“Of course you do. You miss your bed and your doll. You can go home just as soon as we, just as soon as everything is settled and-”

“You mean as soon as you catch the killer.”

“Well, yes, that’s it, precisely. And it’s going to happen very soon.” Serafina brushed a wayward strand off the child’s face with her hands. “But today you want to be home. I know how you feel. Do you know how she feels, Totò?” Serafina’s forehead raged.

He shook his head.

“No, he wouldn’t, would he? He’s not as wise as you.”

“But he didn’t see him.”

“Him?”

“The monk. The one who talked to Gemma and Bella, the one I told you about. I don’t like him.”

“Let’s sit down over there.” Her heart raced as she walked with the children, taking each one by the hand over to the sofa on the far side of the room. Its cushions were deep, and a brisk fire crackled in the hearth. “Now, tell me, about this monk. Where did you see him?”

“In the piazza. He wore a brown coat and he smelled.” She held her nose with thumb and forefinger and made a face.

Totò laughed.

“Gusti hates the monk. Carmela, too. Once I heard them arguing with Nelli and Gemma. He talked to Bella, too, I saw them together near the Duomo.”

“Yes, you told me that on the train. I remember.”

“Bella told me he was a special monk, but I didn’t believe her. He smells like a shepherd. One night I heard Bella tell Gusti that the monk, he has marvels. I heard them shouting about him. Bella wanted Gusti to go with her to get the marvels, but Gusti wouldn’t go. She just laughed. She said he was a snake and not a monk and no one can do marvels anymore. Not since the olden days. Now they’re all tricksters. But Bella said she was going to meet him anyway. I saw her going out.”

“What did Bella say about him when she returned?”

“Bella died.”

“I’m thirsty, can I have something to drink?” Totò asked.

“That’s a marvelous idea. Tessa, what about you, would you like something?” Serafina straightened the ribbon on the top of Tessa’s head.

Tessa folded her hands, wiggling one row of fingers, then switching movement to the fingers on the other side. She looked at Totò. He watched her fingers, looked into her eyes, laughed. The ghost of a smile crossed the girl’s lips.

“It’s a snake,” Totò said.

“It’s not a snake. It’s a spider.”

“No. It’s a snake, like in your story about the smelly monk,” Totò said.

Serafina’s head spun. “How about some hot cocoa?”

“Good!”

“And you, Tessa?”

She shrugged, nodded.

“Renata,” she called, “make us some nice hot milk, the kind that makes mustaches. And a few cookies, too.”

“But dinner will be ready in a few-”

Serafina put a finger to her lips.

“Cookies, too,” Totò said. “Lots. I’m hungry.”

“Me too,” Tessa said and followed.

Renata rolled her eyes. She said something about spoiling.

• • •

Swinging her legs below the chair, Tessa hunched over the table and blew on the hot liquid. Serafina stood over her, ready to sprinkle more sugar and chocolate flecks into the froth. Totò blew on his foam. It spilled onto the table cloth. Giggles from both children.

“You are five now, or six?” Serafina asked.

Without looking up, Tessa took another sip of milk and spread the fingers and thumb of one hand in the air. Renata brought a plate of cookies, set it on the table in front of Totò.

Totò took a handful, shoved them into his face and gulped his drink. He looked over at Tessa. They laughed. Crumbs flew out of his mouth. Tessa reached out tentatively and took a cookie.

“Soon you’ll go to school.” Serafina smoothed the child’s collar.

Tessa shrugged. She set the cup down, wiped her mouth with the back of one hand.

Renata sprinkled more chocolate flakes and powdered sugar into each cup.

“More story,” Totò said, cookie crumbs now sticking to the drying foam around his mouth.

Tessa skated her eyes around the room and took another sip. “I saw him today near the birds.”

Serafina bit her lip.

Pointing to Assunta, she said, “She brought bread for us and gave it to Totò, and, when Totò went up to the water and bent down to feed the birds, I was alone. The birds flew away when Totò tried to feed them.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Not. When I tried to feed them, they stayed, but when you ran over to me, you scared the birds and they flew away. I whispered, shhh, stay there, but you ran to me, anyway.”

“Because of the monk, that’s why. He came too close. His hand, it reached for me.” She hung her head.

“Big wings, Mama. Big wings those birds have.” Totò made flapping wings with his arms.

Tessa laughed at him and licked her milk mustache.

Serafina’s breath was shallow. She knew she must calm down.

Totò said, “Tessa has to play with me now. I want to show her how to feed Octavia.”

“Who’s she?”

“Our goat, silly.”

Tessa laughed.

“Be careful,” Serafina said to their disappearing backs. “I don’t want Octavia to get sick like the last time, Totò.”

Cinque Minuti

A soft knock. The door opened a crack, and Carlo’s foot wedged itself into the space between floor and jamb. “Should we go away?” he asked.

“Of course not. Come in. Sit down on the chaise, both of you.” Serafina wore her good watered silk, the dress Giulia made for her last month. She kissed them, went back to her dressing table where she sat and struggled with her hair. “Can never get it right, but Assunta is needed downstairs.”

“Let Assunta help with the hair.” Renata pulled the cord. “We’ve got to leave soon. Vicenzu and Giulia can watch the children while you finish. And Arcangelo stays here with Beppe, too. All fine.”

Serafina told them about Tessa and the monk in the public gardens this morning. “We must keep a close watch.” Adjusting the lace around her collar, she said, “Tell me about Carmela, now-I’m anxious to hear.” She pinned on Maddalena’s brooch.

“This is a week for crying,” Carlo said. “First Carmela for her father and grandmother, next, Rosa for Gusti, and then Carmela for Gusti and for…many things.” He sat on the edge of the chaise, looking at Renata.

“Carmela cries for many things?” She turned to them. “So much emotion in one so young. Of course, it is because she is with child. And because she does not know her own mind. Oh, Carmela, my poor lost Carmela.” Serafina rose, plowed around the room, whirling. She sat back down at her dressing table. She willed the tears to disappear.

Carlo said, “She asked about you.”

“The plain truth, no sugar. Last week she would not speak or look at me.”

“Too complex for my understanding. When I told her I had harsh news, she said ‘Oh, no, not Mama!’ The first words out of her mouth. I swear to you. I was amazed.”

Serafina twisted her hands. “And how is she, Carlo? Inside, I mean. Her heart?”

He shrugged. “Don’t know what to say.”

“Would you say Carmela’s confused, angry, hurt, frightened?” Renata asked.

Carlo said, “All of that. Plus, she’s, well, slow, wobbly.”

“Wobbly?” Renata and Serafina asked in unison.

“You mean weepy?” Renata asked.

He nodded. “Must be miserable in that dump.”

“We begged her to come home. Twice. Does that mean she wants to come home now?”

Carlo shrugged. “Like Renata said, she’s confused. Doesn’t know what she wants. After all, her man left her to fight with Garibaldi.”

“Left her with child, you mean. You call that a man?” Serafina began taking the pins out of her hair and throwing them on the table, brushing her curls. Tears rolled down the cheeks. The faster she brushed, the harder she cried. She ripped out some of her scalp along with springy bits of frizz. Finally she threw the brush on the floor, buried her head, and sobbed.

She felt her children’s confusion as brother and sister stood by. From somewhere in her mind, she remembered Giorgio on a similar occasion, twisting his fingers in the air and taking out his watch. ‘We must give La Donna Cinque Minuti.’ Giorgio, always the jester.

But the memory did not lessen her emotion. She pounded her fist on the top of the dressing table. “Why, why, why, Carmela? And you, why did you have to die? Why?”

Renata restrained Carlo from going to Serafina. She whispered something to him. The two, brother and sister, stood there unheeding Serafina’s words.

Nothing for it but to lift her head. Her crying subsided. Carlo looked up from his watch and nodded to his sister. Renata tiptoed over to the dressing table and handed Serafina a linen.

She looked at her daughter and smiled.

A knock.

Carlo sprang to open the door.

“Just in time, my sweet Assunta,” Serafina said, her voice thick. “Do something please with this tangled mane of mine.”

Ride to Villa Subiaco

Serafina wished she had not arranged to visit Elisabetta today, but when she discussed the possibility of canceling the trip with her older children, they told her that the drive would do them all good, even in this afternoon’s wet weather. Carlo seemed almost glad to be going, saying, “Good for us to get out, see the country, even in this foul weather. Help our heads.” Strange, even Vicenzu looked forward to the ride. “We’ll stay, Carlo and I, in the stables. I want to see their system of tending to the beasts.”

And Serafina? Except for the day of Giorgio’s sudden death, she couldn’t remember a time when life has been so full of misery. A devastation it was, seeing Gusti’s body, the violated form so unlike the woman bursting with life just a few days ago. So far she, Serafina, had failed Rosa, her oldest, dearest friend, now faced with losing her business, one prostitute at a time.

As the coach made its way to Don Tigro’s estate, a rolling fog crept over the land, shrouding the hills as if they were ghosts. Serafina and Maria sat on one side, facing Renata and Giulia. Vicenzu and Carlo rode outside-Carlo holding the reins, Vicenzu, a shotgun. Enough protection; after all they were on the road to visit the don’s wife. What could happen to them?

Serafina tapped on her bag containing herbs and special drinks for Elisabetta. Her toes were frozen. She felt each rut in the road as the mules strained upward pulling their load. She compared their carriage-old and patched in places-with Rosa’s, and the brisk, cushiony ride they’d had to Palermo last month.

She smeared fog off the window, stared at the dripping almond branches, and tried to imagine how they would look in spring, heavy with blossoms against a backdrop of lush fields. But today, most of the crimson and gold leaves that gave the landscape such mighty color a few weeks ago lay in soaking heaps upon the rocky ground, or hung in ones and twos from twigs, dripping and desolate. Did the soul of Gusti hover over them as she made her solitary way to eternity?

Renata clutched the basket of dolci she’d packed for Elisabetta. “Horrible, the weather,” she said, her face as bleak as the day.

Serafina patted her knee. “You miss your routine, I know you, my sweetest girl. You like to stay at home, cooking our meals. Your kitchen keeps us healthy and together.”

“Not all of us,” Renata said.

“Carmela may be home soon. I feel it. Carlo saw her today. And I begin my plan, but it’s too early to talk about it. Shhh, not a word to-” She pointed upward.

Renata and Giulia shared wide-eyed looks.

Maria pushed up her glasses and, rolling with the movement of the coach, studied a score. “Carmela? She wouldn’t even look at you the other day, Mama. What makes you think she’ll come home?”

“Study your score, precious. Complicated, the ways of the heart.”

They stopped for sheep blocking the way. As they started up again, Serafina said, “Giulia, the day dress Elisabetta wore on Friday when I saw her-the fabric was stunning, but the stitching, not so well finished as ours. Two more years to wear this black.”

Maria said, “Some women wear it all their lives. Others, for six months.”

“How would you know? You’re only eight,” Giulia said. “Some of the widows in Rome don’t wear black at all, not even the first year. The baroness told me.”

“First time we’re wearing colors in public. Doesn’t feel right with Papa not even six months in his grave,” Renata said.

“Nothing feels right to you today, sweetness. But your father would want you to wear colors. You look splendid.”

Serafina took Giulia to Palermo last month to buy the silk for the outfits they wore today. She created dresses for each of them with skirts not too full, trimmed in lace and thin satin ribbon; Renata’s in French blue, Giulia’s in muted green, both gathered slightly at the waist and pulled to the back, giving them a touch of padding. In addition to a loose-fitting dress with long sleeves in midnight blue for Maria, she made a smock for her to wear over it. And when they were buying shoes for the season, the cobbler found a piece of cordovan that Maria fancied, the leather fine and light, large enough to make a pair of boots in her size, but at a cost well over Serafina’s budget.

Giulia noticed the costumes of aristocratic women, especially the wardrobe of Baroness Lanza, a friend ever since Serafina delivered her children. The baroness told Giulia about Worth amp; Bobergh in Paris. ‘Last time I was there, I saw the Empress Eugénie disappear into a fitting room, and now everyone-I mean just everyone-goes to Worth’s.’

Baroness Lanza talked too much, Serafina had told Rosa, filling Giulia’s head with ideas of Paris, telling her about Sarah Bernhardt, ‘that expensive tart who calls herself an actress. The French idolize her. Well, they would.’ All this bother of Bernhardt and Paris and poor Giulia would be doomed. But it wouldn’t hurt for her to see Elisabetta’s French gowns today. She could copy them, perhaps make a dress for Carmela, something remarkable with an indefinite waist.

“Glad I wore my cape today,” Giulia said.

“Me too,” said Renata.

Serafina held out the front of her cape, looking at her gold braids. Just like Maria Sophie’s. Her gloved hand brushed off a piece of lint.

Maria said nothing.

Renata elbowed Giulia. They giggled.

Maria looked at them, frowned, reached up, and knocked on the ceiling. “Carlo, stop this carriage,” she yelled.

Of all her children, Maria surprised Serafina the most. She played Aunt Giuseppina’s piano at two, the marvel of it vivid in Serafina’s memory. The child asked unpredictable questions, had adult responses, and all her life, all she wanted was her piano. So serious, not at all like the rest of the family. For instance, Maria asked Giulia to embroider the bodice of her new dress. “Make gold and silver stars in the night sky: it will help my audience remember me,” she had said. Serafina pictured her youngest daughter at the keyboard, alone, without her or the rest of the family, in a strange part of the world, wearing her midnight blue dress, reaching for the pedals with feet clad in soft cordovan.

The carriage stopped and Carlo opened the door.

“Why aren’t we there yet?” Maria asked.

“You stopped the carriage for that?” he asked. “Who made you the reigning queen?”

They laughed.

“But since you want to know, little sister, the road is not very good today. It’s damp and soft. The wheels dig into the earth more than on a dry day and the mules have a heavy load. In addition, Villa Subiaco is in the mountains and we’re going up a steep hill to reach it. The journey home will be faster.” He made a sled with his hand and drove it downward, whistling to show how fast they’d travel on the return trip.

Maria listened, holding her lower lip with her teeth. She nodded her head while Renata and Giulia snickered.

“What’s so funny? I’m sitting here trying to catch the killer of Rosa’s women,” Serafina pointed at Maria, “and you ask your brother to stop the carriage while you two prickly pears laugh. As if we were watching the clowns at Li Morti.” Her remarks made Renata and Giulia laugh even harder. They slapped their skirts, held their stomachs.

Carlo shook his head, kissed Maria, pushed her hat down so that it covered her face. “Time to get going. It won’t be long now.”

The mules strained and the wheels slowly started to roll.

Giulia said to Maria, “If you play in New York, I’d come to the concert. And I might stay and open a dressmaker’s shop, or a fine house of fashion, like Worth’s in Paris.”

“Such dreams we have! Giulia, how old are you now, my honey lamb, sixteen?”

She nodded. “Almost a woman, and-”

Serafina stopped listening. She didn’t understand her children. Their humor today, their dreams for tomorrow: wild. Most of all, she didn’t understand the strength of her own feelings. Had she lost her focus? Had her wizardry vanished?

She felt like weeping for Rosa and her dead women and their dead dreams, for the poor dead Gusti, and for Eugenia whom she never met, but who, in Serafina’s mind, hung unknown from the rafters of a cheap bordello with the mark of the brazen serpent on her forehead. She felt like crying for spending too much on Maria’s boots while their savings dwindled and their prospects dimmed. Her ears were plugged. Her curls, frizzed with moisture, made her scalp so tight it burned. She wished Giorgio were here because she needed to understand what was happening. He’d tell her in words that would make the world clear and well-ordered once again.

“Look!” Maria said. She pointed to movement in the fields. “An orange animal with a bushy tail.”

They all moved to one side. The coach tipped slightly. Silently they watched the animal’s sleek movements, the stretch, the dazzle of him against the sodden earth.

“It’s a red fox, my sweetest girls. Without effort he glides, how supple, how fleeting!”

They watched, silent for a moment.

“The sweeping arc he makes against the grey sky, like the finger of God stroking the earth. How rare! Where did he go?”

“There!” Maria pointed to a tawny flash skimming over the wheat.

The field trembled in its wake. Then Serafina stared at emptiness.

“Blue patches in the heavens,” Maria said, her finger marking a hole in the clouds.

The four of them sat back in their seats, not speaking, calm in the changing light, jostled by ungiving wheels on a dirt road.

• • •

At the entrance they stopped at an iron gate with a guardhouse. Vicenzu jumped down and, dragging his damaged leg behind, lumbered over and gave his name to the armed guard who told them to pass.

When they turned onto the long gravel drive leading to the villa, Renata, Giulia, Maria, even Serafina, were without words. Men were everywhere, some in the palm trees lining the drive, removing fruit and withered seed pods, pruning dead fronds or raking the road several meters ahead. Others cleaned statues and fountains, pushed wheelbarrows, swept debris with pointed brooms.

With his veneer of culture, his love of theater, learning, and especially his knowledge of music, Don Tigro was an anomaly, not at all like the other mafia leaders in and around Palermo. This didn’t lessen his violence-Serafina knew it could be quick and devastating-it only helped him prosper. It spread his sphere of influence among the cultured. He was a friend to the powerful, including, it was rumored, titled landholders, the subprefect, the leading clerics. Most, of course, held him in disdain. Others were puzzled by him, but he was worshipped by the men who served him. And in the countryside around Oltramari, this included all of the peasants who cultivated his soil, planted and harvested his wheat, tended his olive and almond groves. He hired the desperate who would do anything for him.

In her mind, Serafina was visiting the orphanage as a child with her mother, seeing Betta and Tigro, two of the orphans standing side by side. Inseparable the two, her mother told her.

Tigro was dressed in hand-me downs like the rest. But in bearing he was straight and proud, muscular for a boy; hands at his side, and so still, except for his thumb and forefinger, rubbing them together slowly, deliberately, back and forth. Then he was gone, banished by Mother Concetta, Betta told her, but didn’t elaborate. She was on the edge of it once, much later, as she, Serafina, midwifed the birth of her twins, but Betta never finished the story.

Early in Serafina’s marriage, before the children started coming, she and Giorgio met Elisabetta and Tigro in town one evening, the four of them sitting together in the public gardens under the eucalyptus in early spring, with the doves cooing and the breeze soft and Elisabetta’s stomach swollen. They sat, two young couples, talking of this and that. “Hasn’t the weather been fine, oh, fine, quite…the oranges bigger than the moon this year…the peasants happy for once…but now the papers talk of revolution, another uprising in Palermo…” and out of nowhere, Tigro interrupted. “Betta carries my child, needs a midwife, will you-?” Giorgio’s elbow found Serafina’s side, but not before she had said, “Oh, yes, of course.”

So long ago now, it seemed another life. Giorgio was dead, and poor Elisabetta, surrounded by ill-gotten goods, was a prisoner. How she had loved Tigro as a child in the orphanage, loved him even now, Serafina was sure.

And if Maddalena’s story was true? Serafina shivered.

Maria’s Piano

The sun shone in earnest as the carriage pulled in front of the villa. Two liveried footmen appeared. Vicenzu jumped from the seat, probably ticking off in his head the cost of all this opulence. He limped over to one of the men who showed him and Carlo the way to the stables. The other footman helped the women out of the coach. They lifted their skirts and followed him up the marble steps to the entrance, where a somber man in formal attire opened the doors leading into the foyer.

Elisabetta, wearing a loose-fitting day dress in rose watered silk greeted them. She was flanked by two servants. “This is Madama Mercurio, the housekeeper. She’s married to our butler, Nello.”

A familiar-looking face.

As if reading her thoughts, Elisabetta added, “When not attending to his duties here, Nello helps Tigro with his work.”

“Enchanted,” Serafina said to Madama Mercurio who, attired in black silk with a white lace collar, inclined her head and smiled.

Inside, Serafina’s eyes were drawn to a vaulted ceiling with frescoed angels banded by egg-and-dart molding. Two young women dressed as maids stood to one side, curtsying when she passed.

Elisabetta gave them a tour of the house and led them to one of the parlors. “My favorite room,” she told them.

It surprised Serafina, this space-an oasis in the midst of overstatement, shaped in an airy hexagon and decorated in cool colors. The furniture was light, oriental looking, most of it upholstered in floral prints, except for a small gilded writing desk and red plush chair in the corner. The windows were draped with flowing batiste. Oriental carpets in patterns of blues, greens, and reds muffled the parquet floors. On the outside wall, floor to ceiling windows faced a sea of grass interrupted by a small garden. In the middle distance were groves of cypress and almond trees. Beyond these sat the Madonie mountains.

But the center of the room held its magic, a grand piano. Slightly to one side and suspended from the ceiling so that when lit, its light rimmed the head and shoulders of the pianist, was a four-tiered crystal chandelier.

“Perhaps your young women would like to stay here while the three of us go somewhere and talk.” Elisabetta turned to Renata. “We won’t be long.”

Serafina looked at the piano, then at Maria.

“Yes, and thank you, Signura Maltese, we’d like that very much,” Renata said.

Serafina watched as Maria’s eyes riveted on the piano. She whispered in her ear. “Count the candles in that chandelier, and tell me how many there are when I return.”

“A concert grand, a Steinway. If I had this room, I’d never leave.” Maria began walking toward the keyboard. She reached out, but Giulia grabbed the back of her smock.

Just then a sharp movement piqued Serafina’s curiosity. Looking out at the park and the hills beyond, she saw a man gallop into view. He dismounted, limped over to the head gardener. They exchanged a few words and the gardener walked toward the house, wiping his hands on his apron. While the man in black led his horse to the stable, Serafina stood at the window, wondering where she’d seen him. Of course, in town with Betta the other day, helping her into the carriage. He had the same hobbled gait, the same cobra eyes.

Serafina quit the room with a backward glance and saw Maria perched on the edge of her chair. With a forefinger pointed toward the chandelier, she was counting candles.

• • •

Elisabetta directed Serafina to a parlor on the other side of the house.

“Let’s sit here. The light from that window will let me have a good look at you,” Serafina said. “I don’t like the color of your skin, Elisabetta, and I see dark circles underneath the eyes. Are you resting, eating abundant meat, cheese, pasta, drinking goat’s milk, or are you watching your figure and trying to do too much work?” From the corner of her eye Serafina saw Madama Mercurio nodding her head. “Ah, too much work, I thought so. This is true, Madama, no?” she asked.

“Between lady’s maids right now, so Agata has taken on that duty as well as remaining my housekeeper, so she has her hands full. But in my condition, I feel lucky to have such a dear by my side.”

A competent, self-effacing servant, Serafina could tell, not the least bit arrogant. She liked the woman.

“Lately I’ve had certain obligations-more entertaining, more engagements, Tigro and I. I have, perhaps, overdone? Yes, you’re right; I need to slow down.”

“Make an appearance, excuse yourself, retire by ten. For the sake of the unborn, tell him. He’ll understand. I’ll say something to him myself before I leave. Agata will make certain that you do as I suggest.” Serafina glanced at Madama Mercurio who smiled.

She continued. “May we talk with your cook? There may be some essential foods that you’re forgetting to eat. Rest at least once a day, twice, if you’ll be entertaining that evening. And I brought you this.” Serafina reached down and opened her bag, pulling out several bottles. “The juice of medicinal herbs in a special mix, Mama’s secret recipes. Two spoonfuls a day from each bottle. Simple. Perhaps have a talk with your physician. Who knows? He might have a good idea, men sometimes do. But don’t worry, all will be well if you follow my advice and Agata watches over you. I want to see you again the week before Christmas. Should we arrange it now? Say, Tuesday the 18th?”

Elisabetta teared up. “Serafina, I knew you’d make everything right. I thought, maybe I’m too old-”

“Too old? Nonsense! If Giorgio were alive, we’d be working at it morning, noon and night. Plenty of time for you to have another child. Not to worry. I see color returning to your cheeks already. Crying and laughing? Like the clouds and sun today.” She took Elisabetta’s pulse, patted her hand. “Heart strong like an ox.”

Elisabetta kissed her on both cheeks. Arm in arm, the three women walked down to the kitchen to speak with cook, who was preparing afternoon tea and laying out Renata’s pastries.

If Serafina had this kitchen, she might even take a turn planning menus. But no, she must remain focused on solving these murders. She must ignore this great domed room with kitchen hearth and spit, the double-oven newly blackened; covet not the cook’s staff of six, the tiled walls and floor, the gleaming copper hanging from a central rack, the porcelain, the stemware, the silver.

A crash of chords. The crystal vibrated in response. Music filled the house. The kitchen staff looked up. Serafina cringed. “Brahms,” she said, and turned to Elisabetta. “Maria’s agog over him. Perhaps because he’s young? I’ll go up and stop her.”

Elisabetta touched her shoulder. “Please don’t. Let’s go upstairs and enjoy it.”

Maria was beginning the second movement when Serafina and Elisabetta walked in, followed by Madama Mercurio and two maids carrying in the tea service. The servants set down the trays and stood at the edge of the room.

Serafina motioned to Giulia who walked over to Maria, said something in her ear. Maria stopped. The audience groaned.

“What talent, Maria, my dear. Your mother told me, but I had no idea,” Elisabetta said. Maria pushed up her spectacles and looked solemn.

The door opened and a voice boomed. “What happened to the piano? Such playing.”

Maria faced Don Tigro.

“Continue, please,” he said.

She looked at Serafina who nodded.

As Maria played, Elisabetta whispered something to Madama Mercurio who tiptoed out of the room. In a few minutes the housekeeper returned, followed by the other servants. They lined the walls-downstairs maids, kitchen staff, footmen, gardeners in their blue aprons clutching straw hats. The group was silent for the rest of the performance.

Don Tigro showed his teeth and clapped. The rest followed. When they stopped, he spoke. “How old are you?”

“Eight.”

“Well. Thank you for the gift of Brahms. He fills my house today in a way I thought impossible. Third piano sonata, I believe?”

“In F-minor.”

He nodded. “Written one year before this Steinway was made. I want to hear more from you very soon. One day you’ll play your piano all over the world. And to think we have a prodigy in Oltramari.” He lifted his head, closed his eyes. “Tea, my Betta?”

Elisabetta poured and two maids passed out cups of tea, offering platters of sweets, orange, and almond sauces.

“Delicious pastries. My compliments to cook.”

“Renata made them,” Elisabetta said. “She was Monzù Alonzo’s pastry chef last summer at Prince Zazzo’s.”

“Hit of the party. The marzipan centerpiece, memorable. I salute you, Signurina.” He turned to Serafina. “Your children are healthy and talented. You’re lucky. After you’ve finished, I’ll see you in my office. Agata will show the way.” He walked over to his wife, said something in her ear, straightened his vest, and walked out.

Serafina took a bite of pastry, sipped her tea, considered. Her melancholy had vanished. In its place, fire.

Serafina and the Don

Two men dressed in ill-fitting suits stood outside Don Tigro’s office. They carried rifles pointed at the ceiling. Agata knocked and Nello opened the door. They entered.

Heavy with furniture, his office, not at all like Elisabetta’s favorite room. Three of the walls held books bound in tooled leather. Serafina ran a finger along one shelf. Felt for dust and found none. A footman began lighting gas lamps in wall sconces, oil lamps on desk and tables.

In a far corner, two young men slouched in velvet chairs around a table. They were expensively suited, reading the newspaper, drinking caffè from china cups.

She walked over to them. “You must be Elisabetta’s children.”

They stood.

“Nineteen years ago, I delivered you, my first set of twins.”

They smiled, shifted from side to side, looked bored.

Nello, who caught up with her, introduced them. “Yes, these are the sons of Don Tigro. Franco, with black hair, Vito, red like his father.”

The two young men bowed. Vito stared at her hair. Franco gave her a lopsided smile.

“Your mother has told me about your studies. Bravi.” She turned and walked toward the desk, not waiting for their reply.

Windows lined the outside wall. Through them Serafina glimpsed laborers packing up their tools for the day, wheeling carts out of sight. Afternoon light splashed orange onto violet hills, a winter sunset. In the sky, hawks circled high above the land. Serafina thought of the fox arcing through the fields, swift and sure, breathtaking, deadly. One day he might be carrion.

Not short, not tall, Don Tigro sat at his desk in frock coat, grey vest, and a silk cravat held in place by a diamond stud. He breathed in, doubtless just enough air, his chest almost immobile, the rest of his body still. With a slight movement of his eyes, he beckoned to Nello who placed a wing chair in front of the desk and helped Serafina to sit. He and Agata quit the room, along with Don Tigro’s sons.

The don raised his head and regarded her through half-closed lids, waved a hand back and forth, ever so slightly, to shadowy figures standing in dark corners. “Leave us now, Bruto, Iago.”

The door closed after them.

He was still, not looking at her or at anything, it seemed. “Congratulations on the hard-won reputation you’ve earned as midwife. The people revere you. And now you embark on yet another adventure.” His desk was empty, save for a single paper, an oil lamp, and a bowl of cut flowers: red geraniums.

“For the sake of my friend, Rosa, I sleuth,” she said.

“Ah, yes. Friends since childhood, I believe. Like the three of us-you, me and Betta.”

“I wouldn’t call ours a friendship.”

He ignored her remark. “Your mother, a wonderful woman. Knew her quite well, quite well.” He stared at his desk. “But you know that.” His eyes met hers.

“Everyone who knew her loved her,” Serafina said, unflinching.

He nodded slowly.

“Why did you want to see me?” she asked.

He brought the corners of his mouth up a fraction. “Haven’t changed, have you, Serafina? Born with a quick retort, the sting of a viper.” He paused, waiting, perhaps, for her to speak, but she wouldn’t dream of it. Not now: bad timing.

“The killing of young women, that’s what I want to talk about. You know these murders have nothing to do with our cause. Unthinkable. An indelible stain upon our honor to kill a woman, even a fallen one. Some are too quick to point the finger at us, the ones who look but do not see.”

“Personally, I don’t think you are responsible. The killings don’t bear your gruesome mark. But people are saying that, whether responsible or not, you profit by their deaths. They say the murders weaken Rosa, force her to ask for your aid. Such a request would hand over control and profit to you. And Rosa’s is a profitable business, make no mistake-but I tell you nothing you don’t know.”

“My business to know everything, often before it happens.” He cocked his head and she could see in that movement, the family resemblance, saw her mother in the angle of his head, in the way shadows crossed his face.

He added, “Would I soil my hands for such little gain? Please. Rosa’s business doesn’t interest me.”

“But you have-”

“Other houses. True. But they don’t pay, not well. Their acquisition? — the misadventure of a fledgling businessman.” He rubbed his thumb and forefinger back and forth. “When I was a young man, two or three asked for my help. Gave it to them in return for a larger cut. But the take? — a pinch of profit, not worth my effort. And I have simpler methods of watching men in high places.”

He forced air through tight lips. “What interests me? The new world. Not this silly centesimo here, fifty lire there. Winning in my business is attainable only through expansion to other lands-the Americas, South Africa, where this gem comes from.” He touched the diamond stick in his cravat. “Export, import. Doing business in a primitive land, raw with need, where desolate immigrants yearn for someone with power who speaks their language. My people.”

Gazing at some inner vision, he said, “The times, bad for the peasants. They’ll get worse for all of us. Europe’s banks are about to fail. Whole villages will disappear overnight. Rosa’s house? Not worth my trouble. In ten years, what is now the envy of every madam in Italy will be a deserted hulk. Lend me your support, declare your friendship-”

“Not interested.”

“A pity. Then I cannot help you overcome the financial ruin which awaits you and your family. Soon you won’t be able to support your children. You’ll lose them. What about Maria? It takes money to build the career of a prodigy. And, no, I cannot help you find the killer. Three murders-too much for Rosa’s reputation to absorb in three months, unless of course you want me-”

“Never.” She leaned forward. “I’d be a fool to tackle your organization. Factions in the government, despite what they say, support you and your so-called honor. But perhaps you could clarify for me what your interests are. And don’t tell me ‘diamonds in South Africa’ or ‘immigrants to the Americas.’ You think me a fool? Your interests are here and now. Just to make sure we understand each other.”

His eyes were shadowed. “You know what my organization does.”

She rose from her chair and stood in front of his desk, her voice strong. “Oh yes, I know what you say it does: it protects. Protects whom from what? Rosa pays you each month, and what protection has she received? We come to an understanding for now. I don’t believe you’re involved in the killings at Rosa’s house, but if I discover otherwise…” She stopped, not for emphasis, but because she realized he didn’t know yet about Gusti’s murder. She swallowed to hide her surprise. She continued. “… I won’t hesitate to lend my voice to those who whisper your guilt. But my voice won’t have the meekness of a lamb, the decorum of a woman of my class. No, my voice will proclaim your guilt for the deaths of these violated women in the accents of a strega-shrill and unafraid. Do we understand each other?”

He looked up at her and flashed his extraordinary teeth.

She sat on the edge of her chair and leaned toward him. “Betta needs your help. Her skin coloring’s not good. She’s got circles under her eyes. Her heart seems strong, so I’m not alarmed, but she’s doing too much. If she needs to make social appearances, she’ll have to leave early. Your guests will understand.”

He nodded and something in his face shifted. “You have my word.”

“I return to see her in three weeks. If her health hasn’t improved, I’ll recommend that she move closer to town.”

He frowned. “We have an important dinner to attend in Prizzi on the…” He hesitated, looked at his desk calendar. “This coming Saturday, on the 10th. After dinner, she and Agata will be excused.”

“You stay overnight?”

“Of course.”

“In that case, I don’t see a problem.”

“How are you preparing for Maria’s career?” he asked.

She was surprised by the question. “Only eight. She needs her family, her school, her music, and that’s all. Far too young to play in public now. My aunt-”

“-is first harpist of the Palermo Symphony,” he said.

“On her advice, Maria has two teachers in Oltramari, both respected by the musicians in Palermo, Giuseppina tells me.”

“She’s right,” he said.

“One teaches Maria theory and composition, the other listens to her piano. When she’s older, I’ll reassess my plans for her musical instruction, but for now I want her to have a normal childhood. Too many prodigies don’t. Too many children don’t. That’s all I wish to say about Maria.”

Don Tigro was still. “Such plans you mothers have. My mother? — she never talked to me about what I should or shouldn’t do. She understood my work, but she loved me. Never judged, never planned. Of course, I met her late in life.”

Hard to breathe, as if the powerful forces whirling around Scylla and Charybdis engulfed her, and she must navigate treacherous straits. She looked at the bowl of geraniums and knew for certain that she and Tigro shared the same mother. Had he told Betta? No, of course not, Tigro held the secret close to his chest, waiting for the right time to strike. Her children must never know.

She rubbed her forehead. “Being a mother is impossible at times. We act, knowing even as we do so that we’re wrong.”

“You speak in riddles. In the realm of motherhood, I would think there is no right or wrong-only love.”

Serafina rose. “And now we’ve finished.”

A Near Miss

The hills burned with light. Hoping for another glimpse of the red fox, Serafina held up a gloved hand, shielding her eyes from the strength of the setting sun.

“I think they liked my performance,” Maria said.

“Who wouldn’t love it, my precious? Keep up your Brahms.”

“What?”

“Brahms, good for the fingers, Papa would say.”

Renata and Giulia exchanged smirks.

“How does Don Tigro know Brahms?” Maria asked.

“Betta told me he spent some time at the Naples Conservatory and got to know many musicians. And musicians talk.”

“What instrument does he play?”

Serafina laughed. “He doesn’t play, my precious. I don’t think he studied at the conservatory at all. Who knows what he did in Naples?”

“Papa told me that Don Tigro is a bad man.”

“Your papa was right.” She crossed herself. “Don Tigro does bad things to good people in order to make money, and he takes money from everyone, even from our store. If you don’t pay him monthly, bad things happen to you or to your family or your store.”

“Pay him monthly? You mean, he’s like a bank?” Maria asked.

“Even worse,” she said.

“Then why do you talk to him? Why did we go to his home today?”

Serafina opened her eyes. “First of all, Elisabetta is my friend. I’ve known her since I was your age. She asked me to deliver her baby and wanted to see me today to make sure she was on the right regimen. I gave her Nanna’s recipe for a healthy pregnancy. Second, Don Tigro, who happens to be her husband, asked to see me after the Brahms. And the way to deal with bad people is to meet them head on, not to pretend they don’t exist.”

“Like you do with Carmela?”

Silence except for the mules blowing air through their nostrils and Renata’s elbow hitting Giulia’s side.

“Honey lamb, that is a deep question, very deep.” Her eyes moistened. She thought a moment. “We all need to find our specialness. That’s my difference with Carmela.”

“Because she never found it?”

“No. Because she never looked for it,” Serafina said.

“Don’t cry, not again. Where’s your linen, Mama? When we get home, I’ll play Scarlatti. You’ll feel better.”

“Play whatever you want. All beautiful from your fingers.”

Another rustle of silk from Giulia or Renata, one of them.

“But today, as your brother Carlo said earlier, is a day for tears.” She kissed Maria. “Now, Giulia, tell me about the dresses. Any ideas?”

They hit a bump. Maria laughed. “I like it better when we go downhill.” She tapped the ceiling. “Faster!” she yelled.

An answering tap from above, and the scenery blurred. Swaying, Serafina hung onto her seat.

Renata said, “Elisabetta took us to see her wardrobe while you were talking to Don Tigro, and-”

“You should see it-a huge room on the top floor, windows on one side, mirrors on the other. Two closets in the room,” Giulia said.

“And the closets are rooms, too,” Maria said. “Full of gowns and day dresses, suits, capes, furs.”

“The colors and the fabrics, her style, all so different,” said Renata.

“From Paris, the House of Worth amp; Bobergh,” said Giulia. “All that gathering in the back. Too much, I don’t like it. How do they sit?”

“Elisabetta does for most of the day, my darlings. You saw her servants running.”

Giulia said, “The stitching, the finishing, even the lining is magnificent. But my designs are more interesting.”

“Good for you, my darling seamstress. Finally you see your own talent.”

“Only the fabric is so fine, so beautiful, the colors so alive, the wools, plaids, silks, such texture. We don’t have that selection in Oltramari.”

“Then we must go to Palermo. To the finest of shops. You pick out the fabric and improve on the design of Worth and Whatever by making your own. For once in her life, Aunt Giuseppina made a good choice, sending you the subscription to Godey’s.”

Renata rolled her eyes.

Serafina heard a ping. The carriage swayed. They rocked back and forth.

“What was that?” Renata asked.

“Nothing, my genius. A stone hitting the side of the coach.”

“I counted her gowns-one hundred and forty-seven. Why does she need so many?” Giulia asked.

A shot rang out. Serafina’s eyes popped. Her daughters seem unconcerned. “They entertain, my cherub. And they are invited. That’s all they do, give dinners and go to dinners.” Serafina grabbed the blanket behind her seat bench. Turning to Renata, she said, “Why the frown?”

“I was just thinking. All that splendor, and look at the peasants. See them?” She nodded to a group walking by the side of the road. “Shoeless,” Renata said.

Except the one who rides in the weather-beaten cart, Serafina realized, but kept it to herself, hoping her hunch about the ragpicker was wrong, hoping he would be intimidated by the rifle Vicenzu held. Why didn’t I ask to borrow the guards? “Yes, our shame. For thousands of years, they’ve been used.” Her eyes followed the cart, twisting her neck to watch through the rear window as it shrank, partially hidden by dust.

More shots. The coach sped, swayed.

“Quick. On the floor. Now!”

Serafina covered her daughters with the blanket. “Not a peep.”

Then she saw someone on a black steed speeding toward them. She thought it might be…yes, it was the man she saw in Betta’s park today. Her throat swelled. Blood pounded in her ears. Maria popped her head up. “Down, Maria,” Serafina said.

“But I’m suffocating under this horsehair,” Maria said.

Gunshots, too many to count.

A silvery ping, a scream from Vicenzu.

Largo in the lead gave a hee-haw bray. The carriage halted.

Sound of hooves growing louder.

She looked back to see the rider very close now. Coming to kill us all. Must divert him. Opening the door, she said to the moving blanket, “Stay here, all of you. Don’t move a muscle until I say it’s safe to come out. That means you, Maria!” The blanket stilled.

Shaking her skirt and holding a linen to her nose, she peered up, saw Carlo bending over Vicenzu. Untying his bandana, the limping man slowed alongside their coach, his horse kicking clods of dirt into Serafina’s face. He grabbed the rail, pulled himself up to the driver’s seat, and bent over Vicenzu.

“You! Off now!” she said.

Cobra eyes looked at her, continued holding Vicenzu.

“Off!” she yelled. She grabbed the rail, started to climb.

“It’s Carmine from the don’s stable. He’s helping!” Carlo shouted.

Vicenzu lifted a pale face to her and managed a smile. “Lucky for us he rides to Oltramari to visit his parents this evening.”

“Bullet ricocheted, nicked his upper arm. Bad aim, the bandit,” Carmine said. He gestured to a moving cloud of dust in a distant field. The cart, she was sure. The peasants had gone. They must have scattered with the first shot.

On the rest of the ride they were quiet. Dusk mantled the fields, and Serafina felt the chill of early evening. Fingering gold braids, Serafina was glad for the warmth of her cape. She dozed. Saw her husband’s face in the casket. It changed to Vicenzu’s lifeless form. Nearly killed, thanks to her, her innocent, beautiful son. Leg maimed by a galloping horse, left for dead in the streets. A genius with numbers and she’d disregarded him. She hit the side of her thigh.

They should be home before curfew. If not and they’re stopped, Serafina would talk to the roadside guards. For her family and to find the killer of Rosa’s house, she’d do anything. Anything. She gazed out the window, not at the passing scenery, but at the plan she was forming. It was spread out before her, shining, a rough sketch right now. Today she had eliminated two suspects-Don Tigro and the limping cobra. Time to catch the monk.

A Lair in the rocks

Sunday, November 4, 1866

Serafina tossed. The Duomo’s bells chimed midnight, half-past. She turned, tangled up in sheets. Slept. Woke. Worried about Vicenzu, the safety of all her children. Worried about coins. The bells gonged: two o’clock.

Throwing off the covers, she pounded out of bed, opened the shutters, nodded to the moon. She breathed in the night air.

Since she couldn’t sleep, she might as well go over her notes. Sitting at Giorgio’s desk in far corner of the bedroom, she scrabbled about in her notebook, sure that she’d forgotten something.

With care she read again her impressions of everyone she’d interviewed. She reviewed the list of suspects she and Rosa made, now whittled down to two, Falco and the monk. Then she made another list. She labeled it ‘Sitings of the Cart’: 1) Outside the shoemaker’s, spewing feathers and old clothes; 2) On Via Saturnalia with Minerva; 3) Near the rope seller’s shop; 4) On the highway (the wounding of Vicenzu). The last one, she circled. Serafina rubbed her eyes. Something, a ragged bit of information she failed to understand tossed about her mind. Important, she was sure.

Scrambling to her feet, she gave one last look outside. Leaning against the sash, she pictured Giorgio, his body lean, his curls dripping neroli oil. The image vanished. Beyond the chestnut tree in the front garden, she could pick out shapes in the piazza next to the statue. A cart near the fountain? Her breath caught in her throat. Was it the ragpicker? The begging monk?

She shut the window, sat on the edge of the bed and thought. In a while, when her eyelids felt like splintered shells in sand, she snuggled into the covers and fell into a sound sleep.

• • •

Serafina watched the sun melt the mist. Deserted the shore, as usual, at this hour. She stared out at the Tyrrhenian Sea, telling herself to be watchful. From now on her movements must be deliberate: she had two more days to catch the killer.

For the past several mornings, she had combed the beach close to where she found Bella’s reticule. So far the tall grass yielded nothing more than bits of old newspaper and cloth, the shells of sea urchins, the sticky remnants of a spider’s web. Had Bella been killed elsewhere; her purse washed here by chance?

Yesterday she noticed a boulder and some smaller rocks partially covering what looked like an opening in a massive outcrop that stood below the orphanage. She was able to squeeze through the fissure into a small space, but the darkness prevented further exploration.

Before she set out this morning, she shoved her notebook, a lantern, some candles and match sticks inside Giorgio’s old knapsack. She slung the bag over her back and started off on her usual trek down to the lower part of town, determined to uncover as much as she could before leaving for her appointment with the contessa.

Serafina consulted her watch. Seven o’clock, still plenty of time before there’d be others on the shore. She squeezed past the boulder, its sides slick with dew, and stood for a moment. After mopping her brow with a linen, she lit the lantern and peered inside at a long narrow hall of stone leading into blackness. She was interrupted by a voice behind her.

“What are you doing here?”

Part Three

November 4-12, 1866

Biancumanciari

Surprised, Serafina swiveled, slipped on wet stone, catching herself for a moment on the boulder before tumbling to the ground. The lantern, by some miracle, landed upright.

The figure rushed to her. “Hurt?”

“Fine, I think.” Serafina brushed sand from her skirt. Her hand flew to her chest. “I might ask the same of you. I mean, why are you here?” Mind your tongue, let her lead the way.

“I’ve been watching you snoop around these rocks for a couple of days. Orphanage above us. See? Why are you up so early?”

“Investigating the murders of Rosa’s women. Police do nothing. I found Bella’s reticule here, looking for more evidence. Why aren’t you with the orphans?” She bit her lip. No more questions. She smiled at her daughter.

“My day off. You’d better rest.”

They leaned on the rocks and looked at the sea.

“Carlo told me about Gusti.” Carmela looked down. “And Mother Concetta gave me a mighty lecture.”

“Don’t pay attention to that old nun.”

“No, she was right. Always is. Hate to admit it, but-” Carmela’s eyes were wet. “I should have said, I shouldn’t have said-”

My poor girl. “Enough words. No need for more.” Serafina held her daughter, not for the first time and, she vowed, not for the last. No more separation. Never again, never.

They sat. Then Serafina told Carmela what she’d learned so far about the murdered women, the suspects, Rosa’s other prostitutes, the guards, the maids, Formusa, Scarpo, Falco. She summarized the meaning of the marks on the victims’ foreheads, the significance of the six and seven. She retrieved her notebook from the knapsack, went through the pages, making sure she’d left nothing out. “The killer strikes on the sixth day of the month, kills on the seventh. We have two days to create a foolproof plan.”

“Turn up the wick and let’s go,” Carmela said.

“Not in your condition.”

“What would Nanna say?”

Serafina chewed her cheek. “She’d say, ‘Baby the baby, not the mother.’”

Eight o’clock. She still had a few hours.

They walked through a long winding hall, the ceiling at least five meters above them, heard the sound of dripping water, of slithering creatures. Serafina smelled must and human waste. Her curls tightened. She held up the lantern, lit a candle for Carmela.

Their wicks guttered as they entered a cavernous space. Water dripped from the ceiling, beaded on the walls, pooled on the floor. In the middle was a long table with a few chairs scattered about. One was overturned. In the corner were piles of rags and papers, a matted brown cape, gloves, a skein of rope.

“Look at this.” Carmela pointed to a red spot on the table.

“The mark of the serpent,” Serafina said.

“Freakish, this lair.”

“The den of a madman, I’m afraid.” Serafina lowered her voice to a whisper. “Doubtless the place where he executed Rosa’s women.”

Their flames were nearly extinguished when they clambered out of the cave.

“Go back and rest, my sweet girl.”

“Not a chance. Let me help. I’ve got to. Gusti was my friend. Bella, too. I owe it to them. I know so much about the women and the life at Rosa’s.”

Serafina held her breath.

“And right now I have a hunger for Renata’s biancumanciari.”

“Rosa picks me up soon to visit the contessa. When I return, we plan.” Serafina cuffed her tears and followed her daughter home.

• • •

Tears. Kisses. Hugs.

“Carmela’s home!” Vicenzu yelled up the stairs.

“At least for today. My day off. I haven’t told Mother Concetta-”

“We’ll tell her,” Vicenzu said.

“Renata, some food for Carmela. And get your poor sister something to drink. Assunta, change the linen on her bed. Giulia, Carmela’s clothes need pressing. What can we get you, my sweet girl? Oh, where’s the food for this poor child, Assunta? And do we have-”

Carlo came into the room with the children. Rubbing her eyes, Tessa wanted to know if it was Christmas. Totò, hiding in Maria’s robe, pointed to Carmela. Maria was silent.

“You see?” Serafina held out her arms like Cicero addressing the senate after one of his fat orations. “My daughter, she knows. She knows how much I’ve missed her. She knows how much this family needs her. Suffered too much. No more loss. No more words.”

“You? No more words? Not a chance!” Carlo said.

“Now we are whole. When I return, we plan.”

“Return from where? No, don’t tell me, it’s too early.”

“Where’s my biancumanciari?” Carmela asked.

The Contessa

On the way, Serafina told Rosa that Carmela was home. “The news of Gusti, I think, brought her to her senses. Insists on helping us.”

After the tears, the hugs, the madam said, “Glad for you I am.”

Serafina summarized her meeting with Don Tigro yesterday afternoon. “Can you imagine? He didn’t know about Gusti’s death, or even about Eugenia’s body swinging from the rafters.”

Rosa laughed. “Don Tigro’s got his spies everywhere. Like urchins on the bottom of the sea, they scuttle back and forth to him with their stories. Worthless crabs-should have told him all about Eugenia. A prostitute who steals? Dangerous business. He should have known about the likes of her. But far worse, he hadn’t heard about Gusti’s death? How stale the air he breathes.”

Serafina said, “Proves he’s not the one killing your women-got his ear to another ground.”

“Good. Then I’ll forget to pay his-”

“No!” Serafina said.

“And we can forget about the limping cobra, too.” Serafina told her about the shooting incident on the road late Saturday. “If it weren’t for Carmine’s help, I shudder to think-”

“Too many chances you take.” Rosa crossed herself.

“Can’t sit at home, afraid of my own shadow.” The carriage swayed. The wheels hummed. “I’ve a family to feed. But I should have asked for two guards. Vicenzu was shot. A graze, thank the Madonna.”

“Fina,” said the madam, clutching her chest, no more rides on the road without the guards.”

• • •

Rosa sat next to a plate of sweets while Serafina feasted on the bold design of the room. Each corner was decorated with contrasting furniture: a red lacquered Chinese cabinet next to a zebra-striped chaise lounge, carved walnut tables paired with plush chairs. Near the hearth a sofa upholstered in green velvet faced a pair of wing chairs, one in red and green plaid, the other in deep rose damask, the footstool in chrome yellow sailcloth. A chestnut desk stood in front of shelves holding books in no apparent order. Paintings hung on ochred walls. Oriental carpets lay on black and white-tiled floors. Drawing the eye upward, angels twisted into a vaulted ceiling. None of the usual shabbiness of the nobility here.

Serafina roamed around, stopped at a gilded table. She lifted up a terra cotta cherub sitting on its top and discovered the inlaid profile of Dante, his gaze ‘unblinking into the future,’ Giorgio would have said.

Wishing she had Dante’s vision, she stepped over to the desk. Her eyes caught the miniature of a man in formal attire, a medal pinned to his sash. According to the gold inscription in the lower left-hand corner, it was taken several years ago by a well-known Palermitan photographer. Next to the picture she noticed a piece of paper lying on the desk, folded and held in place by a brass weight. She opened it, a draft for five hundred lire dated Friday, August 3, 1866. Drawn on account from the Banco di Sicilia, it was made out to Francesca Grinaldi and signed by Bella Maria Baldassare. It confirmed Nittù Baldassare’s story and the truth of what Bella told her father, that the prostitute’s departure from Rosa’s had begun two months before she was killed. Bella was shedding her old life for a new one, like a snake does its skin. Serafina returned the note.

She walked to the outside wall and gazed at the palms and domes and parapets of Palermo. In the distance, Monte Pellegrino brooded over the city.

While Rosa sat on the sofa coveting dolci, Serafina turned this way and that, picking up a book, fluffing a pillow, until she heard footsteps in the hall. When she heard footsteps approaching, she busied herself by studying a group of drawings on a nearby wall.

“Rosa, darling, you look wonderful!”

“Francesca-beautiful, even in grief,” Rosa said.

The two women kissed.

Handkerchiefs sallied forth.

“Since the last time I saw you, how the world has changed, like this: presto!” The contessa snapped her fingers.

Rosa cried.

The two women hugged each other again.

“How will I go on, Rosa, dearest? But I forget myself. Here is your old friend, Serafina. Saw her at the wake, didn’t I, but we haven’t met.” Francesca stirred the air with an encompassing gesture. “Doubtless she’s not comfortable in this unfamiliar setting.” Arm in arm they walked over to the wall of prints.

“How to introduce my Fina? She’s my oldest, my dearest friend. And, ‘Cesca, you know the police do nothing, so I’ve asked her to investigate the deaths in my house. She thought that you, being Bella’s closest friend, could answer one or two questions.”

Francesca pecked the air above powdered cheeks. As Rosa talked, they looked each other up and down, Francesca and Serafina.

Francesca nodded. At the mention of Bella’s name, both she and Rosa teared up again. Beneath the contessa’s heavy makeup, Serafina saw the pale transparency of skin below her eyes, the drawn look on her face, and, yes, the wrinkles.

Indicating the drawings, Francesca said, “By Serpotta, studies for La Carita. Fun, aren’t they?” She pointed a finger at the bare backside of the Christ child, the drawing in foreshortened perspective. “No doubt you’ve seen his work in the Oratory of San Lorenzo?”

“But of course,” Serafina lied.

Standing before her was a woman in her late forties or early fifties, considerably older than Serafina, a fading blonde, her hair held in place with a snood. Arresting eyes, dark green with flecks of orange. Tall, even taller than Giuseppina, and with those same long bony fingers. Unfortunate breasts, though, a pity.

Like the décor, her dress was a surprise. Her dress showed no signs of mourning. She wore a full skirt of honeyed maroon in watered silk that, when she crossed her legs, revealed the antique lace of her petticoat. A short wool jacket with ruckled sleeves in brown and yellow plaid with alizarin crimson stripes covered a low-cut linen blouse. Her black slippers had gold clasps, her stockings of heavy rose silk. A strand of pearls and a long chiffon scarf gave her a flowing look. Except for the tape measure draped around her neck, she could have emerged from a plate in Godey’s. On the spot Serafina decided she liked this woman, despite her melodrama.

“Chilly in here, even with the sun. Warmer near the fire.” Francesca motioned for them to be seated.

The contessa settled herself in the rose wing chair facing her guests. “Please call me Francesca,” she said to Serafina. “My late husband, Count Federico d’Alco, gave me a title but no children. He followed Garibaldi and what was his reward? An early grave. Now that Bella’s dead, I am so alone.” Chiffon floated in the air. “Oh, I feel too much for my own good,” she said, flapping her arms like damaged wings, “when all around me is chaos, the peasants starve, the bandits kill, madmen rule the world, and I, not content with my crust of bread, pursue impossible dreams, impossible now that Bella Maria…why did she have to die?”

“I need to know more about her life, especially in her last few days. That’s why we’ve come to you. We’re hoping you can shed some light,” Serafina said.

The domestic entered carrying a silver coffee service. Surrounded by silver and china pieces, a cassata caught Rosa’s eye.

“It’s early and you have a long journey back to your little village, Oltramari, but do have some refreshment while we talk.”

“You are too kind,” Serafina said.

“I’ve heard so much about you. Bella told me that you saved Tessa’s life.”

Accepting a large slice of cake from the domestic, Rosa thanked her and said, “Enjoys full life my girl, Tessa.” She took a large bite, swallowed her caffè, and, chewing, said, “A wizard, Fina is. If anyone finds the killer of my girls, she will.”

“Please, if there is anything at all I can tell you, anything.” The contessa’s eyes filled with water. She dabbed at her eyes, drank her caffè, and leaned over to take a cookie.

“What I’d like to know,” Serafina said, sipping her caffè and reaching for her notebook, “is there any reason why someone would want to kill Bella? My best guess is that she and two other prostitutes were murdered by the same person, a madman, a killer acting alone.”

The contessa nodded. “I read an article in Giornale di Sicilia about the first two killings. Bella Maria was alive then, and showed it to me, and I remember telling Bella it was time to leave.” The contessa blotted her lips with the napkin. “Afraid, Bella was, but for the others, not for herself, no, never for herself. ‘I am old. He’d never choose me,’ she told me. Oh bitter words.” Francesca sniffed. “We never had a disagreement and, let me see, we’ve been working together, had been working together-” Francesca looked out, lost now, like a bird felled in mid-air.

“My deepest sympathies, Francesca. How did you and Bella meet?”

“Childhood friends, like you and Rosa. Our families are both costumers, have been for centuries. We’d get together for feast days.” Francesca, with an empty look, gazed into the room. Minutes passed.

Serafina felt the rawness of Francesca’s grief.

Still peering into middle distance, the contessa said, “Brave, even as a girl, Bella Maria. I often wonder what her last thoughts were and if she…if she cried out in the end.”

Silence except for the ticking of a clock somewhere, and the muffled sounds of the city.

“Told me she was leaving in November, this month,” Rosa said.

Still writing, Serafina asked, “Did Bella have enemies?”

Francesca shook her head. “Sweet-tongued, Bella. Not like me. Mine is like a serpent’s sometimes.” She gave a lopsided smile.

“And you planned to go into business together?”

“We were in business together. She gave notice to Rosa, I think, after the Princess Rosso asked us to design her wardrobe for next season-day dresses, gowns for at least six balls, outerwear, even a coat for her dog. Oh, I rushed to Bella Maria to tell her, had my driver take me, didn’t bother with my hair, brought material for Bella Maria to see, samples the princess picked out from our scraps.”

“And this was?…”

“In July. I’ll remember it on my deathbed. Third Wednesday, July 19. My domestic rushed in. ‘Contessa,’ she called, ‘it’s the Princess Rosso and her French dog.’ Bella Maria and I were so happy.”

Serafina wrote down the date. Rosa helped herself to a few cookies.

“The first large order. Our dream appeared before our eyes.” The contessa blew her nose. “I don’t know how much you understand of high fashion.” Her smile was withering. “A man from London established one of the first houses. Worth is his name. Met through friends of my husband when he first came to Paris. He designed a wardrobe for the Queen. Sissi wore one of his gowns for her royal portrait. The court talked of nothing else. That gave him his start. But, you see, wars have changed us, especially women. Now not exclusively for the court, fashion design spreads to anyone with a title and money. Or if only money, no matter-the title will follow. Bella and I wanted to be a part of this. She was the creative force; I have the contacts.”

“Designed our gowns, didn’t she, gave our house a look.” Rosa patted her curls. Turning to Serafina, she said, “Must you make so much noise when you write?”

“Scratch away, I’m used to being around all sorts of people.” The contessa lifted her beak and smiled. “As a child, Bella designed our dresses. Always sewing, unhappy at school until the nuns gave her the job of making the vestments and whatnots. Loved to sew for the priests. Had that awe of the church and its clergy. I never had it, never, but Bella did. You might say, she had a craving for such things.” Francesca brushed crumbs off her skirt. “I’m the one who knows people and, being from a family of tailors, I know how to sew a little, but more important, I know the language of the trade.”

Patting her lips with the napkin, Francesca examined her watch pin, rang the bell, and stood. “Bella and I knew it would be hard to plant our feet in this business, so we had this room decorated. Bella’s design, no expenses spared.” Flinging her arm upward, she said, “Hired a painter for the ceiling. Needed to have a room suitable for greeting our clients.” Her voice faded. Serafina could see the woman clutching at the back of her dream.

The domestic entered. “Finished, La Grinaldi?”

“Kindly take away the tray.” She turned to Rosa. “Two o’clock. You have only thirty minutes before you must leave, and I want to show you Bella’s work.” She teared up again.

“Get up the stairs, La Grinaldi. Move now. Make Bella proud,” the domestic said, and left, casting a glance over her shoulder.

With a toss of her head and a remark about the insolence of servants, Francesca led them up a winding staircase, her scarf trailing behind.

The workroom was high-ceilinged, surrounded by windows, the view of Palermo and the sea, breathtaking. There were at least six sewing machines, five or six cutting tables, scissors, tape measures, mannequins. Shelves on one wall held bolts of material, large spools of thread. In the middle of the room, an iron figure stood, draped in a satin gown of emerald green with gossamer sleeves and high collar.

“Princess Rosso’s favorite color is green. How she loves all the shades-green of the sea, tender leafy greens, greens of the forest deep. Expects a fitting in a month. Now, I don’t know what to do.”

“When was the last time you saw Bella?”

“Saturday, October 6. She came on Thursday to spend the weekend. How busy we were, discussing our client, her wardrobe. The princess wanted two new gowns right away, wanted them ready for the Christmas season, wanted to see sketches for a complete wardrobe for the new season-dresses, skirts, coats, evening wear, leisure-everything. Bella designed two frocks, dashing the drawings off like a crazed woman. We pinned fabric together,” she said, indicating the mannequin robed in green, “both of us leaning over the drawing table, laughing, poring over the sketches, the domestic bringing us caffè and caponata. Ate standing up while we worked. On Friday, Bella told me that she must leave the next day for Oltramari, that she was to meet her confessor in the Duomo, in front of the Madonna’s Chapel at dusk. ‘Permanent absolution he’d grant her; she’d earned it, no matter what,’ she told me.”

• • •

“Still must do the ledgers,” Rosa said. “Stayed in the parlor too late last night.”

“Good. Drop me off. Tessa stays with us tonight. I’ll bring her home tomorrow after Carmela and I have done planning. Then we can discuss and finalize.”

The Plan

Monday morning, November 5, 1866

Vicenzu had already gone to the shop, Maria and Giulia to school, Carlo to the morgue.

Serafina kissed Renata good morning. “Carmela’s door is closed. I don’t want to disturb her. She and Carlo stayed up late last night talking. Probably take her a while to get her strength back, fall into our routine,” Serafina said. “Always a late sleeper, Carmela. Takes after me.”

“Carmela? She’s been up for hours. Helped me with the breakfast. Walked Maria and Giulia to school. Paid a visit to Mother Concetta. Helped Assunta and me feed Tessa and Totò. They’re outside now with her-she’s showing them how to milk the goat. And she’s been giving the gardener directions about creating something interesting around the chestnut tree.”

Serafina looked out the window and saw Carmela holding Octavia’s leash.

“Totò, don’t!” Tessa yelled.

“Big squirt, Tessa, big, big squirt,” Totò said.

“Carlo left the paper for you. It’s on the table,” Renata said. “Sit down. Eat.”

Serafina leafed through the pages. “A lot to do.” Assunta brought her biancumanciari and coffee. Serafina sensed a certain quiet about the house. Peace, she might call it. Yes, that was it. She took a bite of breakfast.

• • •

“More food?”

“Full.”

Serafina gave Carmela more background on Falco. “He gained from Bella’s death. He was a regular at Rosa’s, apparently had his choice. You knew him? Tall, light brown curls. Slippery. An actor.”

Carmela shook her head. “Don’t think so.”

“I think, especially after yesterday, that someone acts the part of a monk, someone familiar with Rosa’s. Who, better than Falco?”

But Serafina stressed her conviction that the killer must have an accomplice within Rosa’s walls, someone on whom he relied for his information, someone without whom the killings could not have happened. One of the prostitutes.

“Not the guards, the driver, the gardeners,” Carmela said.

Serafina shook her head. “They don’t have trusted relationships with the other prostitutes or freedom of access inside the house.”

Carmela agreed. “One of the prostitutes. Absolutely.”

“I believe the quickest way to find this killer is to work through this accomplice.” Serafina swipes the corners of her mouth. “From what you know about Rosa’s women, who could be assisting the killer?”

“Could be a few. Eugenia for instance. She was at Rosa’s when I was, kicked out before the killings, but she could have supplied the killer with information.”

Serafina looked at the moisture forming on the front windows.

“But Gusti told me about Eugenia’s death. This killer could have had a few helpers,” Carmela said.

“Good point. Well, then, let me re-phrase: who do you think is his current accomplice?”

“What about Scarpo?” Carmela asked.

She shrugged. “At first he topped my list of suspects, but after I talked to him, my intuition tells me, no. Too devoted to Rosa. And his son is a work of art. Has a sophistication unusual in one his age. Saved my life through wit and courage. No, it has to be another prostitute.”

Carmela told Serafina what she knew from Gusti’s letters and from Carlo’s visit yesterday afternoon. Serafina wrote as Carmela described at length the personalities-Rosa’s favorites, the different cliques, the names of all the women who frequented the Madonna’s Chapel. “Understand, I missed all of the murders. Long gone before they happened, but there was one in particular who, at times, became crazed with her desire for salvation. ‘The serpent save me,’ she’d implore. Oh, and one time she said, ‘But for the serpent we are damned, damned I tell you,’ screaming this like a jumped-up strega. She could be the murderer’s thrall.”

“Bella, I know was interested in-”

“Not Bella,” Carmela said and ran fingers through her curls.

“No, of course, not Bella. She was interested in the embroidery of vestments, costume, design.”

Carmela nodded.

“And speaking of the longing for salvation, Bella’s was a gift, a grace from on high, not a frenzied desire. Hers was purposeful, an understandable wish to be saved.” Serafina saw raindrops sliding down the panes. “But there was one who struck me as too young to be in Rosa’s house.”

Carmela nodded.

“And yet,” Serafina said, looking at something beyond the wall, “she seemed so innocent, so young when I met her, not at all interested in salvation and told me so.”

“Looks can be deceiving, as can words. And mark me, she was a good actress.” Carmela straightened on the chair. “In a way, I don’t blame her-no father, unstable mother who pushed her out the door, the whole family hungry. Struck me as unbalanced, easily led.”

Serafina said, “Her need for a true friend, one she could trust, who would never desert her, never be finished with her-it had no bottom.”

Carmela said, “You’ve just described all of us.”

Serafina could hear the spatter of rain on the window.

“Must be handsomely rewarded by the killer.”

“Or perhaps she believes in the monk and the brazen serpent, and passes him information or obtains recruits and isn’t compensated: a blind follower. Like you say, a thrall. We just don’t know. He may use her until he no longer needs her, which, maybe is what happened to Eugenia,” Serafina said, “or she learned too much, like Gusti.”

“Poor Gusti. Can’t believe she’s dead,” Carmela said.

“Which reminds me: we found two of your letters in Gusti’s room, last one dated March 1866.What did you mean by, ‘We know her to be like the weather, fair one moment, foul the next’? Was she referring to the accomplice?”

Carmela nodded.

Serafina stared at the wall, tangled in her thoughts. “Beginning to get a clear picture of this killer.” She pulled at a loose thread on her robe. “But I need to be sure. It’s time to think.”

“What if there are two accomplices?” Carmela asked.

Serafina shook her head. “Don’t think so. This killer works with one confidante at a time. But I need to step back. So do you. In our recent past, we’ve not agreed on much, but now we must.”

“And if we disagree on the accomplice?” Carmela asked.

Serafina said, “We’ve got to convince each other.”

“Until we are of one mind?”

Serafina nodded. “Rest. You were up early. Then we’ll talk.”

• • •

As Serafina ascended the stairs to her mother’s room, she smelled the scent of orange peel and lavender. When she opened the door, she saw Maddalena sitting in her favorite chair, her skin luminous, gowned in her velvet dress, but no longer carrying her midwife’s satchel. Instead, she peered into Serafina’s eyes. “Took you long enough.”

“Long enough? But Carmela wasn’t speaking to me.”

“Typical, you misunderstand my meaning. It took you far too long to let her into your heart. If it weren’t for Concetta, Carmela would still be foundering.”

“Gave her a roof over her head and a job.”

“Much more. Showed her the way to remorse and love. But now that she’s here, you dally again. Get a move on. Time lopes away.”

“If you’re immortal, just tell me what you know.”

“Why should I tell you what you can discern for yourself?” Maddalena asked.

“But I need all the facts. There are unknowns-”

“Trust your instincts: you know the killer.”

“I know his accomplice.”

Maddalena laughed. “The time is ripe to strike, but demands your highest concentration. What you do in the next two days determines the fate of your oldest friend, Rosa, her house, and your family. A misstep will cause tragedy that will tumble down the generations, so tread with care but step decisively.”

“Too dramatic as usual.”

Maddalena screwed up her face. “Above all, don’t ruin it by thinking you know everything, because you don’t. Life is a mystery, even for immortals like me. Savor it. Agonize over it. But know you are in the thickest part of the puzzle, a web woven by the mad-wild with evil, sick from the sickness of others, crazed with the lust for coins and revenge. Arcangelo is quick and cunning, a good choice to guard Carmela, but he is still a child. This time don’t let her out of your sight. And ask Mother Concetta for help.”

“You talk in riddles. How can that old nun-”

“Throw away your attitudes, girl. They make your mind so muzzy!”

“I don’t understand you at times, Mama. Why would I ask for Mother Concetta’s help? And Carmela’s home, back at last. We’re mother and daughter once more.”

Maddalena wrinkled her nose and disappeared in a burst of light.

Serafina lingered in the chair her mother vacated, deep into her thoughts.

• • •

Carmela sat at the table, scrunched down in the chair, fanning herself with the newspaper.

Serafina said, “Rosalia.”

Carmela nodded. “The accomplice.”

“But somehow-”

“Nonsense. Changeable. An actress.”

They were silent. Serafina frowned. Her feet were cold. “We know that Bella had an appointment to meet a monk in front of the Madonna’s Chapel the evening before she died.”

“How?”

“Her contessa friend.”

“In business, together.”

“I believe this was the assignation with her killer. I have a plan to catch him, using Rosalia to arrange a meeting for me with the monk. It’s rough. You and I must refine it. But, basically, we say that I long for salvation, I need the monk. Meet him at the Madonna’s Chapel. You, Rosa, her guards, Scarpo lurk about-behind the chapel, in the piazza, somewhere close by. We may be able to get help from Colonna. The monk will probably take me to his cave. You follow and we capture him.”

“A meeting with Rosalia for you? Never. Won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“Because they know who you are. Falco does. And Rosa’s women do, too. They don’t trust you.”

“Even Gusti?”

“Even Gusti.”

Carlo opened the door, stomped into the room. “Still here?”

“Leave your sister alone, Mr. Smarts. Better yet, tell me about the autopsy. Loffredo found?”

“Nothing more of interest. Gusti was not abused. Not with child. Asphyxiated,” Carlo said, batting the newspaper Carmela held in front of her. He sat. “More breakfast, Assunta.”

“The glorious son returns and all the world runs to do his bidding,” Carmela said, shaking her paper.

A plate appeared: biancumanciari, pork, eggs just the way he liked them, bread, caffè. He began to eat, shoving biancumanciari into his mouth. He gulped caffè.

Carmela peered around the side of her paper and grabbed a piece of bread from his plate.

“So we know as much today as we did yesterday. But enough, you don’t want to miss the train. Good luck with your exam tomorrow, my handsome boy. A thousand thanks for your help.”

“Should stay until this business with Rosa is over, but-” He grabbed the paper from Carmela as she bit into the bread. The twins shouted at each other and laughed. The chase around the table began.

Assunta entered with Totò and Tessa.

Commotion, howls, laughter.

The children shed their outer garments, joined in the chase, both of them running after what, laughing for what, they did not know. The domestic shambled away, untouched by the riot, her pace inexorable, like the slow drip of time.

“Watch the oven for me, Assunta,” Renata said, untying her apron and running after her siblings. Soon the laughter grew louder.

Serafina heard their shrieks, their galloping overhead, their footfalls down the stairs. The line sped through the kitchen. “No, Carlo, don’t worry about me,” Serafina said to his blurred form as he stretched for the paper in her hand. “Watch it, you two, Carmela’s delicate-”

“Nothing delicate about her,” he said. “She stole my paper. I had it first, give it over, need something to read on the train.”

“His paper, Carmela, big train!” Totò yelled, running. Tessa, laughing, ran after him.

The line snaked out of the room, up the stairs, Carmela in the lead, flapping the newsprint, Carlo in pursuit.

“I have all the help I need. Just pass your test, or no more Gloria,” Serafina said to the empty kitchen. About time laughter returned to this house.

• • •

“Back to our plan, my precious. Dangerous it is. Depends on secrecy and timing.” She blew her nose.

“Should be me, not you,” Carmela said.

“Cannot be. Rosa’s women know you, too.”

“But they trust me, know I’ve been absent, fallen on bad times.”

“If something were to happen to you, I’d walk into the sea. Your brothers and sisters would be orphans.”

“It won’t work. They call you ‘the snoop.’ Gusti told me. Her letters kept me informed.”

Serafina shook her head. “If I were to dress as someone else-”

“A terrible idea. Even Nanna said you weren’t an actress. Told me she knew each time when you lied to her. No, it’s got to be me. I’ll take Papa’s stiletto if it will make you feel better.”

Serafina rolled her eyes. “You’ve never used one.”

“Achille taught me.”

She swallowed. Considered. Made sense, Carmela.

Serafina paced around the room, popped a few olives into her mouth. “All right. But you must keep me informed. I’ll go mad.”

Serafina and her daughter filled in the details of their plan. “Arcangelo must shadow you at all times. You’ll need to return to the orphanage for a few days, Arcangelo too. He must be armed, remain within calling distance, but shadow you all the time. Tell Mother Concetta that you’ll need rooms.”

“She’ll be two steps ahead of us,” Carmela said.

Serafina shrugged. “I’m sure she’ll find plenty of work for both of you to do while you’re there.”

Carmela rubbed her palms together. “Can hardly wait. I’ll rip him apart.”

“Too much like me,” Serafina said.

Carmela smiled.

Serafina continued. “I fear the killer has his spies in the Centru as well as within Rosa’s walls.” She told Carmela about the shooting on the way home Saturday, the incident with Tessa and the monk in the park. “If he discovers that we work together, he’ll be forewarned. We’ll be in mortal danger.”

“Mortal danger? Please, Mama, don’t exaggerate. This is a child’s game.”

“Listen to me. Dr. Loffredo told me that the killer is an expert with a knife. Each woman was killed by one fling of the blade to the heart. He doesn’t miss. And after he killed his victims, he carved the sign of the brazen serpent into their flesh. Appeared on each forehead.”

Carmela blew curls from her forehead and listened as Serafina spelled out the rest-how Carmela would go to Rosa’s and ask for a meeting with the monk who promises salvation.

“The timing depends on you. Send me word as soon as you’ve made contact with her.”

“Mother C. can help me look tattered,” Carmela said. “And, believe me, I know how to act the part. I’ll have her send costumes for all of you, too. She’s a wonder with them. You’ll need to be disguised.”

“Except for Arcangelo. I want him in his own clothes. Nothing must hamper his movements. But Concetta? — she’s a nun.”

“So sharp, so theatrical. She and Nanna worked together at a theater in Palermo. That’s how they met, didn’t you know?”

“My mother? Acting? She’d never stoop so low,” Serafina said. “Would she?”

“Believe it. And when Concetta needs money from the archbishop, she dresses some of the orphans in torn clothes saved for such occasions, puts a little makeup on their faces to make them look forlorn, and takes them with her.”

“I’ll write to her this morning-”

“No need. I’ll ask when I see her today.” Carmela rose from her chair. “Better get ready. Haven’t much time.”

“Sit. There’s more,” Serafina said. “I’ve no idea if our plan to draw out the monk will be successful and, if so, where you’ll meet him. If what we know is accurate and if his pattern holds, it will be the Madonna’s Chapel, but wherever the meeting is, we’ll be as close to you as possible. Arcangelo will get word to us of any changes. It bothers me that you will be-”

“That I will be the star?”

“You know what I mean.”

Silence.

“Still willing?” Serafina asked.

Carmela’s eyes sparkled. “This gets better and better!”

Serafina shook her head. “Tessa and I will bring Rosa back here to stay with us. Not easy to pry the madam away from her precious house, but it’s no longer safe for her there, even with all her guards, not until we catch the monk and do something with his accomplice.”

“Rosa visits an aunt in Trabia,” Carmela said.

“Good, that’s where we’ll say she’s going. We must also request help from Colonna, if only to see him squirm.”

“Can’t I help with your plan?” Renata asked, walking into the kitchen.

“Where are the children?” Carmela asked.

“Outside with the goat.”

“Of course I need your help. With Papa gone, absolutely you must stay here. You are the one with the cool head, my precious. I need you to watch the children, and I’ll see if Rosa can spare a guard. He can sleep in the stable. My greatest fear is that the monk, sensing danger, will use Totò and Tessa as his pawns. No telling what he’ll do, so they must be ever in your sight. And we’ll have extra mouths to feed until this business is over. You’ll need to make sure everyone eats well, but you always do. Carmela returns to the orphanage, just for one day. Vicenzu will help you when he’s not at the store. Rosa, Scarpo, and I will keep Beppe and Arcangelo very busy.”

A Gift of Torrone

Monday afternoon, November 5, 1866

Serafina and Tessa approached the piazza. Bells clanged the end of Mass. The Duomo’s copper doors opened, discharging the stillness of white-haired women, bent, in black, squinting into the light. Outside they found voice, cackling with one another or calling to their men who wait for them underneath the ancient eucalyptus. Gesticulating hands punctured the air.

Serafina looked around. The usual knot of Don Tigro’s thugs blighted the far side of the piazza. Near the fountain in the middle, a flower seller parked her cart crammed with ivy and wild scrub. On the other side of the kneeling statue, a peasant leaned on his dilapidated cart, legs crossed, a straw dangling from his mouth, his cap pulled over his eyes. Familiar, his shape. Serafina’s stomach was in knots.

“Let’s walk another way. We’ll buy that present for your mother,” she said to Tessa. They turned away from the piazza and walked down a side street, stopping at the sweet shop.

“Take a deep breath. Smell the cocoa, the almonds, the orange. Delicious, don’t you think?”

Tessa slipped her eyes around the counter, walking back and forth to survey the display, at home in a world she understood, of marzipans in all shapes and sizes, saints and ghosts, fruits and vegetables and red-shirted soldiers, trapeze artists and circus bears, bars of torrone, dark brown, creamy, white, sugar-coated chocolate bites and large bars of deep chocolate. Serafina watched her finger pointing to each one until she decided. “That one.” She pressed her hand to the glass, indicating a bar of torrone.

“Your favorite?” the clerk asked.

She shook her head. “My mother’s.”

Serafina bought several, asking the clerk to cut two small pieces and wrap the rest.

On the way Tessa sucked the samples, one in each cheek. She ran up the steps and into the office.

Although she was at her sacred ledger, Rosa picked up her daughter, hugging her. “What a loud voice, Tessa, my girl, like an army.” The madam reached into her front and pulled out a linen.

Serafina handed her the package. “Tessa picked it out.”

“For you, Mama.”

“A delicious treat, my darling girl.” She put her nose close to one of the bars, inhaled, closed her eyes, and with steeple-fingered hands, gestured toward Tessa. “She knows her mama’s favorite. Let’s have cook cut one of the bars into pieces, shall we? Take the torrone to her. We’ll have it after dinner. Now, off you go, my beauty, while Fina and I talk.”

After Tessa left, Rosa said, “She loves your family.”

“Wonderful place for her to be, with children her age, thinking of school-”

“Enough of your scheming.” Rosa went back to counting her money. “Not right,” she said, more to herself than to Serafina. Her spectacles slipped down her nose. “This whole week we’ve been busy, except for that festa. The take should be bigger.” She pointed a finger at the pile of notes, the stacks of coins separated into gold and silver. She muttered to herself.

“Can I help?” Serafina asked.

“Numbers and you don’t mix. Besides, it’s nothing. An oversight. Happened before,” she said, pulling the cord. “Someone forgot to give Scarpo her tips, that’s all…maybe.”

After Scarpo joined them, Serafina told him that Carmela was home and was helping her plan.

Scarpo turned to Serafina. “You asked me to find out more about the ragpicker. Had one of my guards follow him. Spent most of his time in the rough neighborhoods sharpening knives, just like the smith said.”

“Did he get a good look at the fellow?” Serafina asked.

Scarpo said, “Disappeared like a snake down a hole.”

“You mean the guard lost him?”

Scarpo nodded.

Rosa shrugged. “Running out of time. Carlo was right-a false turn, the picker.”

Serafina scratched her nose. She told them about finding the killer’s lair, filled them in on what Carmela learned from Gusti’s letters-that all of the murdered women had appointments to meet the monk at the Madonna’s Chapel.”

“The spider crawls up my neck. Why didn’t we hear about this sooner?” Rosa asked.

Serafina said, “Some of us keep our secrets buried deep.”

“Speak for yourself,” Rosa said.

She let the barb drop. Instead, she detailed everyone’s role in the plan she and Carmela devised to unmask the killer. “And I want two guards posted near the monk’s cave.”

Scarpo nodded. “Where is it?”

She gave him the directions to the cave. “But they should conceal themselves behind the tall grass. Ask them not to wear their red shirts.”

“Very close to catching the mad monk, we are.” Rosa squirmed in her chair. “Feel it, I do.”

Serafina said, “I’m not finished. Beginning tonight, you and Tessa stay with us until this business is over.” Before the madam could reply, Serafina added, “It wasn’t a bandit who attacked us yesterday.”

“You mean the killer of my girls?” the madam asked.

“He feels our breath close upon him.” She watched Rosa’s eyes narrow. “You’re not safe here. Scarpo knows it.”

He nodded.

“Come home with me. Bring Gesuzza. You and Tessa can stay on the third floor in Mama’s old room, Gesuzza in Papa’s study. You’ll have plenty of privacy.”

“But who will be hostess in my house tonight?”

“What about Gioconda? Has a certain flair.”

“Bah, wouldn’t do.”

“All right, stay here. I’ll cry over your corpse in the morning.”

Rosa rubbed a spot off her sleeve. “Business is slow on a Monday. Gioconda acts as hostess tonight.”

“The excuse for your leaving? — you visit an aunt in Trabia. Let it be known that I go with you.”

“Long dead, my aunt, but it will do.”

Serafina turned to Scarpo. “Expect a visit from Carmela tomorrow. She’ll be costumed as a desolate one. Not to worry, she’s an actress.”

“Knew that, we did,” Scarpo said.

Serafina continued. “She’ll ask to see the accomplice.”

Rosa asked, “Who is…?”

“Rosalia.”

A Meeting

Monday evening, November 5, 1866

Rosalia sat in the parlor, her arm around Carmela. “I felt the same as you before I was saved by the monk. Soon I’ll return to my family and begin a life devoted to prayer and to helping others.”

Hair matted, face smudged with dirt, Carmela hunched into herself, scrubbed at her eyes with fingerless gloves. “When will you know? I must see him as soon as possible, before my child is born. This morning I felt a powerful cramping.”

The thief picked at a spot on her chin. “Difficult to say. There’s one, a ragpicker, the monk’s friend, who tells me his whereabouts. Haven’t seen him in recent weeks. I need to find him, so he can summon the monk.”

Carmela began. “Please. My mother has abandoned me. The old nun beats me. I can barely stand to dress myself before waking the children in the cold, in the dark.” Carmela shivered. “So hungry, not enough food. My back aches from bathing and feeding the orphans. I’m sick, tired, and I have a thirst that comes from I know not where. Help me.”

Rosalia shrugged.

Carmela swiped a hand through matted hair, hugged her stomach. “The fetus kicks! Don’t you see? I can’t return to this life of sin. My child must be born from a pure vessel.”

Carmela opened her purse.

Rosalia’s eyes sparked.

“And if I die in childbirth, I won’t be-”

The accomplice held up a palm. “Because we’re friends, I’ll see what I can do. But you must tell no one you’ve come here. Permanent absolution is reserved for a select few. If word spreads, there will be a stampede looking for the monk.”

“No one will know.” Carmela crossed herself.

Rosalia said, “And the cost, five hundred lire.”

“Not to worry,” Carmela said.

“In that case, give me a few coins to cover expenses. Two hundred lire will do for now.”

Carmela handed her the coins.

“At first light by the old eucalyptus you will see a man with an unpainted cart. Don’t look into his face. Do not speak to him. Take the note he gives you. Leave.”

The Reward

Monday night, November 5, 1866

“Desperate she is for the brazen serpent,” Rosalia said, handing him the money. “She has abundant coins. I impressed on her the need for secrecy. She must have your absolution tomorrow, she told me.”

“The time is perfect,” the monk said.

“La Signura visits her aunt in Trabia. The snoop has gone with her.”

“Even better. You quoted her a price?”

“Five hundred lire.”

“For you, a great reward in heaven, my child.”

“I’ve done your bidding, but I can help you no longer.”

“Understood.”

“My family goes hungry. I don’t ask for much, but one hundred lire will feed them and keep them together.”

The monk hesitated. “Come here tomorrow after the angelus has rung. Your small wish will be granted.”

As Rosalia turned to leave, the knife hit its mark.

Strength

Tuesday morning, November 6, 1866

Morning mist had not yet disappeared as Carmela, clad in black, hunched on a stone bench underneath the old eucalyptus. She appeared not to notice the approaching cart and driver, but quickly snatched the note he dropped at her feet and read, “Tonight. Madonna’s Chapel. Eighteen hundred hours, you meet the monk. Permanent absolution will be yours.” When she lifted her eyes, the cart and driver had vanished.

Carmela ranged through narrow passageways, casting about with anxious eyes. No one. She glanced over her shoulder at intervals, stopping only when she saw a figure on one knee, tying his boot. In the half-light she hugged the wall of a dilapidated building. When she saw a niche big enough for both of them, she motioned him forward. “Take this to Donna Fina. Wait for her reply.”

• • •

Serafina folded Carmela’s message, turned to Arcangelo. “Rosa needs to read this and open her coffers, but she’s not yet awake. Some breakfast while you wait?”

He shook his head.

“Nonsense. You’ll need your strength today. Tonight, too. Renata-some biancumanciari, omelet, pork, brioche, ricotta, caffè. Pile his plate: a full meal for this young man. Assunta, ask Rosa to come down here right now. Tell her we have news from Carmela. And, Arcangelo, take your time. You know how slow the madam can be in the morning. It’s long before her usual waking hour.” She winked.

“Long before yours, too,” Renata said, setting a large breakfast in front of Arcangelo.

While he ate, Serafina said, “Better when the whole family is here and the house shakes.”

“Totò and Tessa are outside with Octavia and the guard. Vicenzu’s at the shop, Maria and Giulia at school, Carlo studying, we hope. And Carmela-”

“I know, my precious,” Serafina said and gave Renata a hug.

A thousand thoughts raced through her brain, all jumbled. For something to do, she fetched pen and paper, but half a minute later, too excited to sit, she glided to the window and looked out at Totò and Tessa feeding the goat.

When she heard the first tremor on the stairs, she rushed into the hall and saw Rosa descending, scarlet slippered, purple robed.

Serafina handed her Carmela’s note.

The madam donned her spectacles. Her lips pushed out as she read. “That strega, she’ll not get more coins from me!”

“Carmela’s life is at stake,” Serafina said.

“Where is Arcangelo? Don’t just stand there, hand me that quill and vellum.” Rosa scratched out some words and signed with a flourish.

Arcangelo appeared, cheeks stuffed.

“Run to your father. Give him this.” Rosa handed him her note. “Tell him to take five hundred lire from the safe. Then bring the coins to Carmela. She waits for you where?”

He swallowed. “The orphanage.”

Serafina said, “And tell Scarpo to meet us here at five o’clock this afternoon.”

“Why?” Rosa asked.

“Because at six o’clock Carmela meets the monk in front of the Madonna’s Chapel.”

“Out of what hole did you dredge that number?”

“Didn’t you read her message?”

“Just now I did, reading it with severe faintness from lack of sleeping in my own bed, reading it without a chair to sit upon, without a sip of caffè or a morsel of bread to break my fast, reading it with the shock of having to sign away five hundred lire-ten years worth of wages for a cook, a devastation.”

“But you didn’t read everything, did you? You missed something.” Serafina handed her Carmela’s message.

Rosa read it again, a red line of color ascending her neck. “Under my nose, and I didn’t see it.”

Not the first time, not the last. We bury what we’d rather not know.

• • •

When it arrived mid-morning, the package from Mother Concetta contained four habits in homespun, a large latchkey, and a note.

Dear Serafina,

The enclosed opens the screened grille to the chancel behind the Madonna’s Chapel.

Viewed from outside, the room’s objects appear as dim shadows, nothing more. But its occupants are able to see through the screen to the chapel. They hear every word uttered on the altar.

Lock the door upon leaving. Return the key to me when finished.

Burn the garments.

Mother Concetta Maria, OP

Serafina handed it to Rosa. This time the madam read sitting down and with her finger moving underneath the words.

“Let’s try on a habit,” Serafina said.

“Don’t need a disguise, not to walk the few meters from here to the Duomo.”

Serafina had already donned the homespun over her dress. She marveled at the size of the pockets in nuns’ habits, making a mental note to tell Giulia.

Straightening the scapula, she said, “And when the monk leads Carmela to his lair, what if he turns around and sees us following him? What if he’s a customer who recognizes you or Scarpo? What then? We are unmasked, our plan in tatters, and Carmela’s life in danger if not lost.”

“A point you have,” the madam said. She tried on a habit.

“We’ll wear them to request Colonna’s help as well.”

The madam shook her head. “Enough dramatics. Tonight, yes, but not today.”

“The monk may have his spies in the piazza, and don’t forget, we are supposed to be in Trabia.”

Rosa gave her a blank look before the penny dropped.

“Time for sweets,” Serafina said, removing the homespun. “Renata, call the children.”

Totò opened the door, tugging on a long rope. “C’mon, move! Push, Tessa!”

“Don’t you dare bring that goat in here!” Renata yelled. “Oh, where is Carmela when we need her?”

• • •

Later, when Rosa was resting, Serafina asked Renata, “Who delivered the parcel from Mother Concetta?”

“The little girl we met at the orphanage last month. You remember her, the one missing a few front teeth.”

“But she’s a child, about six or seven, I should think. How can one so slight carry something so heavy?”

Renata threw her a look as if she, Serafina, had gone round the twist. “She wheeled it here in a small wagon.”

Serafina didn’t speak for a while. Then she said, “It all falls into place now. Why did it take me so long?”

Renata rolled her eyes. “I’ve sent word to Carmela.”

“Word?”

“That you’ll be in the chancel when she talks to the monk, just like she and Mother Concetta hoped you’d be.”

“You see? I couldn’t manage without you,” Serafina said.

Renata went back to stirring the sauce.

Useless

Tuesday afternoon, November 6, 1866

Clothed in nuns’ habits, Serafina and Rosa set out to talk with the inspector. A sharp wind whipped their skirts. Puddles from the morning’s rain glittered. The Centru began filling with people pushed about, men holding onto their caps, shawled women leaning into the blowing force like dark ships pitching in a gale.

They asked to speak with Colonna and were ushered into his office.

Colonna’s jaw dropped.

Serafina explained the need for their disguises. She summarized the deaths to date, including the victims’ longing for redemption. Rosa told him their primary suspect was a begging monk who appeared in the piazza offering eternal salvation. Serafina described the accomplice, someone within Rosa’s walls who fed the killer information and procured his victims. Emphasizing the significance of timing, given the importance of the numbers six and seven in the crazed mind of the killer, Serafina reminded him that all three women were murdered sometime between the sixth and seventh day of the month. She ended by detailing their plan for catching the killer.

“But there was a fourth death, different from the other three, wasn’t it?” the inspector asked.

“Pirricù, my handsome inspector,” Rosa said, adjusting her habit, “we talked about that on Sunday, remember? Gusti knew too much, was in the way. That’s why she was murdered.” The madam looked at Serafina and, without words, the two decided not to tell him about Eugenia.

Serafina continued. “The timing of Gusti’s death falls outside the pattern he established with his first three murders, a scheme he is sure to follow with the timing of his next killing.”

“Today is the sixth day of the month. We must act now. Give us several of your men to help carry out our plan. You won’t regret it.” Serafina stopped speaking and stared at the baffled inspector whose brain, she was sure, was back on his question, as if it had gone unanswered.

He smiled at both women, raised his eyebrows, pulled the cord.

A functionary appeared.

“Look in the record book and tell me if we issued any permits to mendicants during the last month. And bring me names and dates,” Colonna ordered. He said, “And, now, we shall see what we shall see.”

Serafina furrowed her brows. “Could you please explain that last remark? I am unclear as to the meaning of the first ‘see’ in your previous sentence. Is it the same as the second ‘see’?”

Colonna was lost. “My dear, best you leave police business to the professionals.”

In a few moments the functionary returned. “None in the last six months, Inspector.”

Colonna turned to the women, and with an elaborate shrug said, “So, dear ladies, you see? There is no proof that the monk exists. But that doesn’t mean I don’t believe you.” He cleared his throat. “The monk may well have been begging and you may well have seen him, or thought you had seen him. But, new rules, desperate times, and I must justify my every move. Does the monk exist? If I have no permit, I have no proof, so there. How can I send a man or two to chase after a fantasy?”

Rosa’s face reddened.

“And, dear inspector, do I exist? I have no begging permit, so you have no proof.”

Colonna’s face reddened. “Your plan is ingenious.” He stroked his mustache.

She held up Carmela’s note. “But, Inspector, the monk meets my daughter this evening in front of the Madonna’s Chapel. The last victim had a similar rendezvous with him. Surely you can spare a-”

“Save your time. Call off your plan. Ah, yes, you have concocted a nice plot, for a…woman. Might even work with some modification and with luck. But it is based on intuition and on information from a-how can I put it-your daughter is what, a fallen woman, no? Doubtless this monk exists, but is he the one who killed?” He closed his eyes, shook his head. “The rioting continues in Catania and I still have most of my men tied up in that chaos. A thousand apologies, but with the increase in crime, I have no one to spare.” He lifted his palms in a placatory gesture. “Your plan: can it wait five or ten days, perhaps a month or two? Then of course we will take over.” He beamed.

Rosa looked like Etna erupting.

“Time we do not have, Inspector,” Serafina said. “In less than twenty-four hours, another woman will be dead if we don’t intervene. In another month, another of Rosa’s women will follow. Rosa, her women, perhaps even the child, Tessa, are in jeopardy. We must act now.”

He straightened the pile of papers on his desk while he spoke. “All right, you convince me. Come back tomorrow, or soon after tomorrow, say, in a week or two, and I might be able to spare you a man.”

Outside Rosa sputtered. “He cannot wait until siesta when he will sink his teeth into food and, afterward, take a nice long nap. He sees nothing. He knows nothing. He does nothing. Useless, our visit.”

Serafina fought to control herself. “No matter, Rosa. No time for anger. If we are to catch the killer ourselves, we must remain calm. I know our plan will work. And I’m sure the monk acts alone-except, of course, for his accomplice-so we outnumber him. There will be five of us-four in the chancel, and Arcangelo somewhere in the shadows near Carmela.”

“And don’t forget the guards.” Rosa said.

They were crossing the piazza on their way home, hands folded into copious sleeves. Passing the fountain and the statue, Serafina saw the ragpicker leaning against a weather-beaten cart crammed with old cloth, his cap pulled down low against the wind, his one-eyed mule swishing its tail. In his line of sight were the Duomo’s copper doors. She welcomed his presence, a fearful confirmation, like the glimpse of death at the edge of vision.

All her deliberation must be focused on their plan for this evening. Nothing must be left to chance. After it’s over, Arcangelo could rescue the mule. She hung onto this thought, a single strand of mercy in a skein of madness and death.

Capture

Tuesday late afternoon, November 6, 1866

The wind was a knife at their backs as the wimpled group blew across the street to the Duomo’s side entrance. Nodding to the guards sitting on a nearby stone bench, they climbed a flight of stairs and filed through the sacristy to the main altar.

Serafina led the way. With eyes cast downward, she snaked through the sanctuary toward the Madonna’s Chapel, genuflected, kissed her beads, and cast an outward glance. No shadows moved in the darkness beyond the communion rail. Turning around, she saw the madam scowling to herself, red-faced in her tight-fitting headpiece. She spied Beppe frowning and Scarpo sucking at his shaven lip. They followed her to the rear of the chapel. Serafina fit the key into the chancel’s lock, wincing as the tumblers fell and echoed throughout the cathedral. Slowly she opened the heavy, grilled doors. The four slipped inside.

Cold, damp, dark, the room contained nothing of comfort. Simple wooden furnishings were scattered throughout, a few straight-backed chairs with seats of straw, several unforgiving prie-dieus scattered around. A small altar jutted out from one wall. After her eyes adjusted to the dimness, Serafina glanced at Rosa. Kneeling, and with head bowed, the madam grasped the crucifix of her beads as if it were a pistol. Sensing Serafina’s gaze, Rosa turned to her and smiled. Beppe and Scarpo stood against the stone wall, Scarpo with one hand on the knife wedged into his belt.

Serafina looked out. She could see nothing at first, no shadows, no movement. Soon, however, Carmela’s form emerged. Facing Serafina, several meters beyond reach, she sat in the first pew waiting for the monk’s arrival. Serafina’s heart raced as she whispered the words to a half-remembered prayer.

Where is he, this monk? Had he gotten wind of their plan? Perhaps, after conferring with his accomplice, he saw through Carmela’s ruse, devised a surprise of his own. For all Serafina knew, the cunning monster had them in his sights and would appear in fury, whipping steel blades into their hearts. No chance, then, to save her child. She started from her seat, but sat back down and wiped her forehead.

Minutes seemed like hours. Finally she heard footsteps, felt the vibrations of a heavy object on stone. Tap-step-step-tap. Tap-step-step-tap. An iron rod rammed the floor. It shook her skull. Tap-step-step-tap. The sound grew louder.

From out of the shrouded gloom a silhouette appeared, faint at first, becoming more distinct as it approached. She blinked, calmed herself, reached over, and clasped Rosa’s arm. Perhaps their plan would work.

Wearing a cowl and what looked like dark sackcloth covering his head, face, and neck, the monk appeared. Cold eyes peered out from behind two slits. In one gloved hand he held a staff. At its top, a piece of metal coiled around a cross. Serafina recognized the same spiraling snake she’d seen over and over again in Bella’s magazine-the symbol of the brazen serpent. The monk neared Carmela’s form. Bending to her, he said, “You wait for me?”

The old nun was right. Despite the headdress Serafina wore, its starched cotton muffling sound, she heard everything, even the tremor in Carmela’s voice as she began to speak.

“Do you know where I can find the monk?” she asked, her voice growing stronger. “The one who gives absolution to a few of the chosen? I have sinned, and no ordinary priest has the power to forgive me. What’s worse, I probably will sin again.”

My girl. Serafina smiled.

There was a long pause before the monk replied. “I am the one you seek. You must follow me and kiss the brazen serpent.” He pointed to the coiling snake. “It is the serpent, not I, who offers absolution.”

“Give me this absolution, monk,” Carmela said. “I can pay.” She opened her reticule and held out gold coins. They gleamed in the light from nearby candles.

Serafina turned and saw a veiled Beppe, his brow furrowed, his cheeks working in and out. Looking beyond Carmela and the monk, down the main aisle to the vestibule, she could pick out, in a sliver of light from the rose window, a figure walking softly toward them, twitching in his sleeves.

“No gold can buy you absolution, lady,” the monk said, grabbing the coins in his gloved hands. “A few are chosen. You are one of the lucky ones, but you must feel the viper’s sting. I will sign you with his mark, and you will be absolved in his blood. For this you must go with me to my chapel. Are you willing?”

Carmela nodded. “Where is it, this chapel of yours?”

“Follow me.”

Serafina’s heart pounded. Again she rose in her chair, but was stopped by Scarpo’s hands on her shoulders, forcing her to sit down.

The monk was leading Carmela up the steps to the back of the chapel, pointing beyond the main altar to a hall leading to the sacristy.

They were nearing the chancel. Serafina crouched down as far as possible into her chair. The others did the same. She felt the air move as Carmela and the monk passed by. She hoped Mother Concetta was right, that no one could see into the room.

“My chapel is not far from here, in the rocks by the sea. I must hear your confession before the bell tolls midnight. We haven’t much time. Walk faster.”

“Why, monk? Why before midnight? And why not here?”

He turned to her, rapped the marble floor with his staff. “Quiet!” he hissed.

Careful, Carmela. Serafina wanted to pull her daughter inside to safety and rip apart this mad monk. But with one who had shown such quick deadly power, and her daughter’s life at stake, she was too afraid to try and overtake him now. Oh, Madonna, help us, she whispered.

“Keep your head down. Speak to no one. And hurry!” the monk said.

Arcangelo bounded up the aisle, past the chancel and the altar. Serafina opened the grille and the four exited. She led them through the hallway to the sacristy and down the stairs in time to see the door at the bottom closing. They ran down the stairs.

At the bottom Rosa caught Arcangelo’s elbow. “Stalk this monk, but as we rehearsed, as quietly as possible, staying a few meters behind us, keeping close to the walls. Careful: his knife never misses the heart.”

“Everyone, stay close to the walls!” Serafina said.

Arcangelo nodded, grabbed his revolver and, like a cat, slipped out the door.

Outside Serafina looked around. She saw the glint from Arcangelo’s revolver several blocks behind them, followed by two lolloping figures: the guards. Two others should be posted by the monk’s lair. Otherwise the piazza and surrounding streets were empty. The wind swirled around them, blowing their veils, knocking stones against their shoes, burning Serafina’s eyes. Ahead she saw two moving silhouettes.

“Where are they?” Scarpo asked.

Rosa pointed to the monk’s cross glimmering with light from early evening stars.

“Can’t we remove these habits?” Rosa asked.

Serafina shook her head.

They walked toward the lower city, hugging the walls. Buildings closed in on them. Serafina felt light-headed, squinting into the wind, watching the outlines of the monk’s swaying robe. As they passed a tavern, she heard drunken shouts from within, the sudden roar of laughter, pounding fists on wooden tables. The stench of urine gagged her. Rosa held a handkerchief to her nose. They followed the monk and Carmela as they descended through twisting alleys and garbage-strewn passageways.

Soon Serafina smelled seaweed, heard pounding waves in the distance. Her curls tightened. Her wimple bit into her face. She saw Rosa’s veiled form thrashing in the blowing force and was glad for the presence of five men.

Suddenly Arcangelo yelled, “Stop!”

A large wooden crate fell from an upper-story window, crashing to the cobbles, missing Serafina by a hair’s-breadth, and sending debris flying. She stumbled. Rosa gasped. Scarpo and Beppe steadied her before she fell.

“Get back!” she said to Rosa, Scarpo, and Beppe. “Keep to the walls.”

Serafina stood in full view, ready to meet the monk as he approached.

“Give her up, monk!” she yelled.

Ahead, the gleaming cross stopped. The dark specter turned. With a jerk of his free hand, the monk pointed to Serafina. He yanked Carmela in front of him, holding her neck in the crook of his arm, and pushed her forward.

Struggling back up the sharp incline, dragging the brazen serpent behind him, he made his way toward Serafina.

Knee-deep in offal from the fallen crate, Serafina stood, rooted to ground, staring at the approaching monk. Arcangelo and the guards hugged the walls behind them.

“Back here!” Arcangelo yelled.

Serafina turned, saw him pointing to an opening in a building a few meters behind them. “Back!” She motioned to Rosa, Scarpo, Beppe.

“In here, quick!” Arcangelo shouted.

They scurried into an alcove and flattened themselves against the wall. Taking in every detail, Serafina saw Beppe fumbling with something underneath his scapula. Arcangelo whispered to the guards who drew their pistols and retreated several paces.

Serafina brushed garbage off her sleeves. She looked at the dull shine of Scarpo’s shepherd’s knife, the beads of sweat on Rosa’s face. Serafina squeezed her friend’s hand. “Almost over now. A slight change in plans, but if this works, we won’t have to fight him in cave,” she said.

The alcove was cramped for five people and Serafina heard the dull thud of the monk’s staff growing louder, Scarpo’s habit scraping on the stucco wall. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she pointed to a door at the end of a small corridor. Scarpo pounded his fist on the wood.

Serafina listened for movement inside, but all she heard was the beating of her heart.

“I count to three, we push,” Scarpo said.

They nodded.

Counted.

Pushed.

Door creaked.

“Harder,” Serafina whispered.

They compressed against one another, a determined wedge.

Serafina ground her heels into the earth. Her stomach lurched, her blood thundered. Oh God and all you angels, where are you when my poor Carmela needs you?

She heard footfalls and brass clanging on stone, felt him coming closer.

Tap-step-step-tap.

Louder.

Tap-step-step-tap.

“Won’t budge,” Arcangelo whispered.

“Must,” Rosa said. She stepped back, and with a mighty heave from her massive haunches, slammed her elbow into the back of Beppe who retched in surprise.

The force of her blow opened the door, sent them all careening, falling over one another into the room like rocks cascading into the abyss.

Scarpo straightened the hinges.

Serafina heard the click, felt the whoosh of air as the door shut.

Inside, an old woman with surprised eyes sat in the far corner, her candle guttering, one hand covering her mouth.

Scarpo tore off his headdress and turned to the woman, mouthing the word, “Bandits!” and she, nodding at a truth she understood, crossed herself.

He drew his revolver with one hand, clutched his knife in the other, and waited by the door.

Beppe crouched down in front of the keyhole.

Serafina stood next to Scarpo, ready to seize her daughter.

She turned and saw the madam tiptoe to the stove, grab the iron pan sitting on its top. Listing from side to side, Rosa headed over to where the granny sat and whispered something in her ear. The woman hunched her shoulders, nodded. Rosa picked up a ladder-back chair and returned to the entryway, placing the chair near the door, opposite Scarpo.

Arcangelo joined Beppe and they took turns peering through the keyhole. “They’re coming,” Arcangelo said, and the two young men stepped aside.

No one moved.

“Let go of me!” Serafina heard Carmela say from outside as the monk and her daughter approached the alcove.

A beat of silence. Then a wail, unearthly.

They waited for what seemed like hours for the monk to enter. Serafina reached for the door. Scarpo restrained her. Sweat streamed from his scalp as he motioned for the young men to stand alongside Serafina.

In one graceful arc, Rosa jumped up and stood on top of the chair’s seat, skillet held aloft, while Scarpo waited by her side. Serafina saw motes of dust churn in the madam’s wake.

Loud kicks. Door rattled.

Scarpo yanked it open, causing the monk to teeter off balance and stumble inside. His staff clattered to the ground.

Carmela broke free and lost her balance.

After the monk regained his footing, he pointed to Serafina, reached inside his sleeve, and pulled out a knife.

“Now you die!”

“Out of the way!” Beppe shoved Serafina aside as the monk flung his knife.

Even now she can hear it hum through the air, can see the blade meant for her body find a home in Beppe’s chest.

She stared at Beppe’s frozen face as he fell freely through the air. His body landed with a thud, the knife sticking in his chest.

“Carmela!” Serafina grabbed her daughter and held her. Both women watched as Arcangelo dragged Beppe’s body away from the struggle.

Scarpo lifted the monk up by his cape and held him out to Rosa.

She slammed the top of the cleric’s head with her skillet.

Sandaled feet kicked the air.

Squeezing the monk’s cape, Scarpo shook him hard, shook him until his teeth rattled and his sandals fell off.

The monk continued to squirm.

Rosa struck him again with the skillet.

This time his masked head drooped.

Scarpo released his hold, and the figure dropped, deflated, folding in on itself like a rag doll.

Unmasked

“What have I done?” Serafina knelt, cradling Beppe’s body as the others looked on, silent.

Arcangelo reached for the knife sticking into the fallen man’s chest.

“Leave it,” Scarpo said.

“Stupid, I am so stupid. Look what I’ve done! Oh, Madonna, plead for me!” But it couldn’t be. Turn back the clock. How stupid she had been. How brazen. Fickle. Beppe never had a chance, gave his life for her. Blood pounded in her ears as she held him.

Rosa knelt beside her. “No blood?” she asked. “Eyelids closed? Cheeks red? Nostrils going in and out, chest working up and down?”

She shook Serafina’s shoulder. “What’s wrong with you-lost your wizardry?”

Beppe opened his eyes, peered down his nose at the knife sticking out of his chest. Smiling, he yanked it out.

“Losing his touch, the monk,” Rosa said.

“Misjudged the thickness of the cloth,” Scarpo said.

“And this,” Beppe said. He fumbled under his scapula and pulled out a thick pouch. “I heard Donna Fina say he never misses, the monk. So I tied this around my chest.”

Serafina undid the pouch and retrieved a book. “Natural History, Volume Two, Pliny the Elder. But Beppe, you can’t possibly read this. Where did you get it?”

“Giulia,” he said, sitting up. “You said, ‘Ask Giulia about the polar star.’ So I did. She gave me this book to read. Her father’s book, she said, about the heavens.”

The monk began to stir. With a yank, Arcangelo and Scarpo grabbed his arms, stood him up. Beppe removed his hood.

Serafina heard silk rubbing against hair, a soft sucking sound, as golden locks lifted up, broke free, and tumbled about the monk’s shoulders.

For a moment no one moved. They were without words, a tableau.

“Lola!” Rosa said.

Serafina unwound the rope she had tied around her waist earlier.

“You think of everything!” Scarpo said, flashing a smile and taking the rope from her. He tied Lola’s hands and feet. Lola stood in stillness, gazing at something beyond.

Another Body

While Scarpo, Beppe, and the guards took Lola to the Municipal Building, Arcangelo walked back to town with Rosa and Serafina.

Before they separated, Serafina told Scarpo, “Renata prepared a late supper. Come to our home afterward.”

“Famished I am. No food for days.”

“At least not since the noon meal.” Serafina looked at Carmela. “We’ll grab a bite, before tending to Rosalia.”

As they crossed the piazza, she spotted the ragpicker’s mule and cart tied to a post near the fountain.

“Poor mule,” Arcangelo said. “Who would leave an animal tied up like that?”

“After we eat, you and Beppe see to him.”

“If he’s still here,” Arcangelo said.

“He’ll be here. Take him to our barn. We’ll need to search the cart.”

“The wizard speaks in riddles,” Rosa said, slow in her gait. The weight of the evening was taking its toll.

“Lola’s the ragpicker.”

“I still can’t believe it. Lola, the killer? Why?” Carmela asked.

“You can’t believe it. What about me?” Rosa asked. “Took her in, I did. The best of my girls. Trusted her.”

“So full of life, Lola. Bossy, conniving, two-faced, but not a killer,” Carmela said.

Serafina said, “Lola should be locked up. Mad. Suffered as a child, poor lost soul.”

“Poor lost soul? Killed my girls, she did,” Rosa said. “Took my coins. Would have taken my house, if it weren’t for you. That’s how poor and lost she is.”

“That’s her mule and cart, her means of transporting bodies and costumes from the monk’s lair to your house to the Duomo,” Serafina said. “And the reason rigor mortis was broken? — Lola killed her victims, went back to work, entertaining her customers, then returned to retrieve the body, using the cart to transport it to your stoop,” Serafina said, opening her front gate. “What’s more, Lola was the ruffled mourner at Gemma’s wake.”

Rosa stopped. “How do you know that?”

Serafina gestured to her temple with a forefinger. “Couldn’t sleep one night. Conjured the truth from the facts, the many times I’d run into the ragpicker and his cart when he tried to shoot me or had an altercation in town or wounded my son on the road.”

Rosa and Carmela looked at each other and shook their heads.

Serafina said, “Lola, the actress. She costumed herself as a monk, as a mourner, as a ragpicker, shifting her shape to suit her situation.”

Serafina saw Arcangelo untying the mule. “All right, Arcangelo, we can’t stand to see the beast suffer any longer, either. Take him now to our stable.”

• • •

By the time Serafina and the madam reached Villa Rosa, it was after midnight. Mist rose from the sea.

“Not in her room, Rosalia,” Rosa said. They checked with the laundress and the cook, the upstairs maids, the downstairs maids.

They spoke with the other prostitutes, those who were free.

“Haven’t seen her all evening,” one of the women said.

In Scarpo’s absence, Rosa and Serafina went outside to speak with one of the guards. No sound, except for the waves and the wind.

“And you say she just disappeared?” Serafina asked.

A torch lit his face. He nodded. “Late morning it was. Out the front door she goes, the girl, all dressed up. Takes a side path, doubles back along the grass and down to the rocks. We follow, Orazio and I, sneaking so she doesn’t see. Scrambles down the rocks, she does. Walks on the shore a ways and, presto, disappears into a hole between two big rocks. So we wait for her to come out.”

“And you didn’t follow her inside?”

“Never. We don’t go inside nowheres. Work only the outside. Orders. So we wait. Hasn’t come out, the girl. Take turns, we do, keeping a safe watch. Orazio, he’s there now.”

“Did you see anyone else?”

The guard shook his head. “Only a beggar with his mule tripping on the rocks near the old house sitting high overhead. Late this afternoon it was.”

“A beggar?” Serafina asked.

The guard said, “Cart worn, mule, too.”

Serafina turned to the madam. “We can’t navigate those rocks tonight. Tomorrow morning’s soon enough, after I search the rooms of the two prostitutes. In the meantime, the guards should continue watching the cove.”

• • •

Wednesday, November 7, 1866

So peaceful here, as if nothing had happened, Serafina thought, riding up the next day through the length of Rosa’s park. The sun streamed through palm fronds. Men cut and raked and readied the earth for the winter. Beppe took Largo’s reins, helped Serafina down.

• • •

“I’d like to see Lola’s room,” Serafina said.

Serafina followed the madam to the second level. Rosa unlocked the first door to the right of the staircase.

“Stuffy in here,” Rosa said, lifting the sash and opening the shutters. Sunlight and a sea breeze flooded the room.

Serafina prowled around the room, large and rococo, similar to Bella’s, but without the sewing machine. Decorated in blues and greens, somehow soft but at the same time opulent, not what she expected to see. “So neat.”

“Surprised?” Rosa asked.

“Everything about Lola surprises me.”

Serafina lifted the spread. No bedding. She felt the cold grip her stomach.

Serafina walked around, opening desk drawers. Empty. One was stuck.

She opened the closets. They were filled with dresses, neatly arranged, matching shoes and bags underneath. In the bureau drawers her personal linen was folded and well-ordered.

Lifting the chair cushion, Serafina felt with her hands for anything, a scrap of paper, a note or letter. Nothing.

Returning to the desk, she pried the stuck drawer. Wedged in the back between the desk and the wall, was a leather-bound book. Serafina riffled the blank pages until she came to one with writing-scribbles, really. The hand was small and cramped, the pages scrawled with words that made no sense. Like Lola.

While the madam sat fanning herself with a linen and staring into space, Serafina lifted the bedspread, peered underneath the bed, and saw a box. She tried to pull it toward her, but it wouldn’t move. “Help me with this will you?”

They pulled together, she and the madam. At first it wouldn’t move. The box seemed to be packed with iron.

But slowly the box began to move. They slid it out from under the bed.

Rosa opened the box. “Gold!” She began to count, but shrugged.

“We’ll carry it to your desk,” Serafina said.

“Leave it. A job for Scarpo.”

Serafina held her lower lip. “This room tells me nothing. Difficult to understand how a person can inhabit a space and not leave it impressed with her presence.”

“Which presence? Many people, our Lola. Sometimes a strega, sometimes a lost soul, a snake, a clown, a friend, a killer. My enemy.”

• • •

Serafina sat in the office, watching Rosa count her coins when there was a knock.

“We’ve found Rosalia,” Scarpo said. “You’d better come. Easiest way is by mule.”

The sea wind blew up sand in swirls. It stung her face as Serafina, her skirt tucked beneath her, swayed on the back of a mule, led by a guard. The group moved slowly, picking their way down the face of steep rocks.

Ahead Scarpo led the madam, astride another beast. Three guards followed them carrying torches, pulling a mule and cart.

Outside, waves crashed the shore, their cadenced sound unceasing. The wind continued its howl.

By the light of the torch Serafina saw Rosa, a linen to her nose, shaking her head.

Rosalia lay on the ground near a heap of clothes. The dead prostitute was fully clothed for the evening, a knife stuck in her heart, her face cold to the touch, the mark of the serpent on her forehead.

In Prison

Thursday, November 8, 1866

Serafina wound down the stairwell leading to the dungeon’s lower level, her toes like yellow pods stuck into cold earth. The flame on her torch fouled the air. Moisture tightened her curls, seeped into her armpits. A dark form scurried past, perhaps the shade of some dead innocent, here to exact its revenge.

As she entered the visitors’ room, Lola, shackled, stared ahead. Her lips were cracked, her nails bleeding, her clothes rent. Serafina smelled a strong, ferrous stench. She handed her torch to a guard and sat.

“There,” one of the keepers barked to the inmate, indicating the stool opposite Serafina. Lola seemed not to comprehend, but stood motionless, until he pawed the prisoner’s shoulders, forcing her to sit. Then, as if waking from a dream, Lola’s eyes began to focus. “Good of you to visit,” she said.

“Brought cigarettes.” Serafina set them on the table in front of Lola.

“Here, none of that,” a guard said, reaching for the box.

“It’s all right. The inspector gave permission.”

The guard opened the box and examined the cigarettes. He looked at his companion who shrugged and flipped them back on the table.

Without removing her gaze from Serafina, Lola grabbed a cigarette, struck a match, and breathed in the weed. When she exhaled, yellow smoke encircled her, catching the light from the wall torches.

Serafina waited for Lola to finish the cigarette. She looks like a violated Madonna, chipped, spent.

Lola greedily sucked in and puffed out. Crushing the ember, she reached for another. Several more minutes passed in silence while the room filled with smoke. One guard shuffled his feet.

“How did you come to know of the brazen serpent?” Serafina asked.

“I told you about the child. I left. Taken in by a family. I went to school with the daughter. The nuns taught us, but it didn’t work out.”

“How so?”

She bit a nail, concentrated on chewing, as a dog would a bone. “I left. You would have, too.”

Serafina nodded, remembering Rosa telling her about the whip marks on Lola’s back.

Lola wiped her wet nails on her skirt. “Ran away. Came to a church. The nuns took me in. Hard life, cold.”

“In the north, you told me.”

Lola stared at the wall. Her speech became clipped, her voice, almost a whisper. “Lombardy. People hard to understand. Work. Prayers. Mass every morning. But good food, a soft bed. I met the man I told you about.”

“And he told you about the brazen serpent?”

She nodded. “Yes, it was there that the voices had pity on me. They came to me after they took my child away. They said the brazen serpent had chosen me.”

“The inspector said you confessed to the murders of five women.”

Lola’s eyes had an inward look. “I was given the work of the brazen serpent at the appointed time to rid the world of sinners. The harlots chose to leave this life for a better one. I sent them to that life. I’m proud of it.”

“But it’s six, isn’t it?”

Lola said nothing. She chewed on her lip.

“You had help.”

Lola shook her head again and again. “No help. No help! None. Only these.” With sudden fury, her hands, like claws, clutched for Serafina, but she was restrained by her manacles before the guards could pull her back.

“You, I could not rid the earth of you. I tried, oh, the brazen serpent gave me the strength and the grace, gave me the means-a perfect night, a perfect number, a perfect feast. Yes, the voices helped me, save me even now. And I could have succeeded, if it hadn’t been for Scarpo’s child. In Satan’s grip.”

Serafina felt cold.

No longer smiling, Lola rubbed her hands together and, for the first time, her eyes searched the room. She began pulling her hair, hanging now in thick, knotted strands. “No help, no help,” she said. “Except for the voices. They wait for the turning. When I take over the reins, the world will suffer no more.” She flung the empty cigarette box on the floor.

A guard called time.

Lola lifted her head and stared.

“May I visit again?” Serafina asked.

“I promise them a soft sleep, the voices. Their work is almost over.”

A Fitting Reward

Monday, November 12, 1866

The sea was a wrinkled blanket underneath a sodden sky.

Like a mystic mumbling prayers, the madam whispered numbers and entered them into a book. Serafina sat in the chair facing her. Flexing her frozen toes, she heard the whir of the abacus, the hiss of the fire, the ping of rain hitting the window.

Rubbing her hands together, Rosa said, “I tell you, counting coins is endless work. Wouldn’t be so bad if I could go to my bed at a decent hour, but I was up until three this morning.”

“Cut down on your hours.”

“You have no mind for business. Not the same without me in the parlor, joking, offering drinks, praising the customers for their handsome manliness. And business is brisk, I tell you. In the morning I count the money, make sure the house is clean, the sheets laundered, direct the cooking. Now Colonna tells me my girls must pass a health test once a month.” She shook her head. “More papers to fill out, more money under the table.”

“I brought you these.” Serafina handed her a tray covered with linen. “They are a bribe. I have a favor to ask.”

“It is I who owe you. Ask away.” She scooped up the coins, the notes and the ledger, shoved them all into the middle drawer, and looked at the tray.

“Hear me out before you say no. I need to borrow Tessa if she-”

“Never. Tessa stays with me.”

“Why are you afraid?” Serafina didn’t wait for an answer. “Totò has been moping ever since our neighbors left. One day they’re here and the next moment, the whole family vanishes-parents, both grandmothers, the children. Here for generations, gone in a heartbeat. They left after sunset. No goodbyes. We learned last week that they took the night train, boarded a steamer in Palermo for South America. Now my Totò stares out the window looking at the emptiness next door. I can’t stand it. Assunta takes him out for sweets and ices, but it doesn’t lift his spirits. We read to him, talk to him, and the other children try to comfort him. But he has lost his playmates and he misses Tessa. I can’t bear to see him suffer. He’s my youngest, you know.”

Rosa threw her an inscrutable look. She snuggled her nose up to the sweets and breathed in. “Oh Madonna, exquisite!” She lifted her head toward the ceiling and steepled her hands in prayer. Uncovering the tray, she offered one to Serafina who shook her head.

Rosa helped herself. “Mmmm, Renata made these? Divine.” Helped herself to another. “Best cannoli I’ve ever eaten. The shell is paper thin, crackles like Christmas candy, melts in the mouth. The taste of the filling: heaven.”

She ate another, closed her eyes, rolled her hands back and forth. “Even the nuns in Palermo do no better.” She bit into a fourth. “You know,” she said, with a full mouth, “we need to celebrate. I could borrow Renata just to show Formusa the recipe and-”

“No one borrows Renata. Better to be married to that dunce of an inspector than to lend out Renata.”

Rosa wiped her face with her handkerchief. At the edge of vision Serafina saw an oblong with a mustache standing in the doorway, fedora in hand. He carried a large envelope.

Colonna nodded to Serafina. “Your domestic said I’d find you here. Good day to you both, dear ladies.”

“Cannolo, Inspector?” Rosa asked.

He shook his head. “Thanks, but my wife, you know, she watches my stomach.”

“Something to drink then? Please, sit down.” Rosa pulled the cord.

When Gesuzza arrived, Rosa said, “Caffè.”

Colonna began, “Some distressing news first. They found Lola’s body this morning hanging from the rafters of her cell. How she obtained the rope she used, who knows?” He played with one end of his mustache. His eyes were without glimmer.

Rosa bowed her head, drummed her fist on her chest.

Serafina’s eyes swam. “How did she tie the rope to the rafters?” she asked. “The ceiling in her cell is what, almost five meters from the floor! Couldn’t have reached the rafters.”

It was Colonna’s turn to be surprised. Surprised, because a woman had knowledge enough to ask such a question. Surprised because a woman had the nerve to ask such a question. And surprised because Serafina knew the structure of their keep. In reply, he held up both palms to the ceiling and shrugged.

Rosa’s eyes darted between Serafina and Colonna.

Serafina asked, “Did she leave a note?”

Colonna shook his head. “We told her family.”

“What family?” Rosa asked.

Silence while Gesuzza entered, carrying a tray with glasses of espresso.

Colonna drank his espresso in one gulp and eyed Rosa’s bottle of grappa. “From her identity card and the ministry’s records, we located an uncle or some such living in the province of Enna. They said one day Lola vanished. Never contacted them again. Didn’t know what had happened to her until my men showed up. We sent her remains to Sperlinga this morning.”

Serafina wondered how Colonna had unlimited help from police all of a sudden. “The other day I visited her. What a horrible dungeon you have. Even the visitor’s room is dank-lizards crawling up the walls, spiders creeping on the ground-you must be ashamed of it, no? My clothes were soaked. I had to change them when I came home.”

She continued. “Quite mad, Lola. A lost soul. Wearing the same dress she wore underneath her monk’s costume. Hadn’t been washed or given a comb for her hair. Not even prisoner’s garb.”

Rosa wiped her eyes.

The inspector shrugged and handed Serafina an envelope. “This came by messenger from the prefect’s office yesterday. Addressed to you.”

Serafina put down her espresso, looked at the envelope penned in formal script, and broke the wax seal. As she read the contents, she jerked a hand to her heart.

“Typical,” Rosa said. “She keeps us in suspense until we stand it no longer. Tell us!”

Serafina summarized its contents. “For my invaluable help in apprehending the Ambrosi murderer, I am awarded one hundred lire.” Serafina brushed back curls. She pushed the vellum to Rosa.

“And he doubles your stipend? Bah. Nothing times two is still nothing. Had you been a man, he would have awarded you the Civilian Medal of Risorgimento.”

Colonna played with his mustache.

“A pittance. She deserves much more.” Following the line of words with painted nails, Rosa moved her lips while she read. When finished, she looked at Colonna. “I’ll go at once to Palermo and tell the prefect myself. Perhaps you’ll go with me, Pirricù?” She poured him a grappa. “But why does he refer to the ‘Ambrosi murderer,’ not that I’d want him to mention my house.”

Serafina said, “No doubt an editor at Giornale di Sicilia crafted the epithet.”

Colonna drank. He said, “Me, I don’t understand its meaning, but the phrase has been taken up by the people.”

Serafina told them what she knew about the Ambrosian rite practiced in Milan and their use of serpent-like imagery. “In her disturbed way, Lola was fascinated with everything that the brazen serpent represents-the concepts of grace and power, of death and new life, of expiation and redemption. She took them and the trappings of the rite and bent them to suit her mad ends, dwelling too much on the sting of the serpent and not enough on forgiveness and redemption.”

Rosa said, “Dwelling too much on my coins, you mean. But tell me one thing, oh wizard. You weren’t surprised when her disguise slipped away and Lola stood unmasked before us?”

Serafina shook her head. “Either Falco or Lola. Since yesterday, I was convinced the monk was someone in your house. Had to be Lola.”

“How did you know?” Rosa asked.

Serafina said, “She had the means. She had the motive. She had the opportunity.”

Colonna was having trouble following the conversation and Rosa looked bored.

“Stop sounding like a tax collector,” Rosa said. “Just tell us, but don’t use too many words.”

Serafina said, “First the means. You told me last month she carved your sign.”

Rosa nodded.

“So Lola knew how to handle a knife and we knew that the ragpicker sharpened knives in the rough neighborhood. Scarpo told us, remember?”

Rosa nodded. “But how did your mind jump from Lola to the ragpicker?”

Serafina said, “This ragpicker, he gnawed at my head. Ran into him everywhere. Kept seeing him in the piazza. I saw him in an altercation with the rope seller and again in a collision with the mattress maker. Other times I saw him in and around the piazza, staring at the Duomo; even on the road between Oltramari and the Madonie when we returned Sunday afternoon from Elisabetta’s home. He was the one who shot Vicenzu.”

“An altercation with the rope seller, you say?” Rosa asked.

“He has a shop on the piazza across from the shoemaker. You know the one I mean.”

“Why would I?”

Serafina continued. “No matter. The rope seller dealt the picker a handy blow or two, drew blood from his nose, and that was the end. Hadn’t a clue how to fight, the ragpicker. What man doesn’t know how to fight, I asked myself.”

Rosa chuckled. “They learn how in the womb.” She poured Colonna another grappa. “But how did you know that the ragpicker was Lola?”

“I didn’t at first. But my mind leapt.”

“We know, like a gazelle,” Rosa said.

Serafina rubbed her forehead. “Well, Lola was fascinated by artifice.”

“Wily, that one.”

“And a shapeshifter, inventing, reinventing,” Serafina said. “Poor, lost Lola.”

“Better get to the motive part before we put Colonna to sleep.” Rosa poured the inspector another grappa.

He quaffed. He smiled.

“Motive. That’s a bit tricky. Mad, Lola.”

“Tricky? Stole my coins, the strega. What’s so tricky about that?”

The two women were silent. Colonna’s eyelids were heavy.

“Never went to church as far as I knew. Well, except disguised as a monk. She’ll always be a mystery to me. Too happy, too sad, our Lola, and all at once.”

“She should have been put away, not imprisoned,” Serafina said.

Rosa asked, “This ‘opportunity.’ What do you mean?”

“We’ve touched on it.”

“Well, touch on it again.” Rosa said.

Serafina drank the last of her caffè. “Ave Maria’s wagon made it all fall into place. The ragpicker’s cart gave her opportunity to be here, to be there, to fetch, to carry, to costume.”

The madam shook her head. “Too much. We’ll be here all morning.”

Colonna appeared dumbfounded. He shifted in his chair. “The people are proud of you, Donna Fina,” he said. “And you too, Rosa. A writer from Giornale Di Sicilia called on the mayor the other day asking for your addresses. Doubtless he’ll want to interview you both.”

Serafina asked, “So I take it the case is closed, the killings solved as far as you are concerned, even though there are still unknowns, especially surrounding Lola’s death? No note and you still say it’s a suicide?”

Again the inspector shrugged. Beads of sweat were forming on his forehead. “No need for you ladies to be present at the hearing. Before she took her life, Lola signed a confession. She admitted killing five women.”

“It was six, that I know of,” Serafina said. “Gemma, Nelli, Bella, Eugenia, Gusti, Rosalia.”

He shrugged again.

“Gross incompetent,” Rosa muttered.

After he left, the madam said, “Why couldn’t I see it? She had moods you know, my Lola, terrible and deep. And yet she was an angel sometimes, so loving, so droll. But she wanted to take over my house. A devil disguised as a monk.”

“What about me? I’m the wizard, remember? You handed me the truth about her in the beginning.” Serafina reached into her reticule, brought out the notebook, flipped to the right page and read, “’My Lola, she can do anything when she wants.’ I should have asked you what you meant by ‘when she wants.’ I should have taken more time questioning the women. I knew they were hiding something from me, probably from themselves. It took me too long to discover.”

“Took me long enough to see. Took you long enough to decide, slow and pokey as usual. But you found the killer in less than three weeks. Your plan was brilliant. Shimmering fantasy. And you have your daughter back. Time to move on.”

“No thanks to you!”

“That threadbare argument again?” Rosa said. “Give it up, Fina.”

Serafina made baroque circles in the air. “This house, the whole thing. Too much for you. We are women of a certain age now.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“And I have a plan,” Serafina said. “You sell the business to Scarpo. Buy the villa next to ours.”

Rosa opened her mouth, but Serafina continued. “Picture it. A sunny day. You sleep till noon, waking to Maria’s Brahms wafting through the window. Renata runs over with a tray of pastries for your breakfast. Vicenzu’s medicinal recipes settle your stomach. In the afternoon, you have a fitting for a new wardrobe created to your specifications by the House of Giulia while your gardens are primped by Carmela. Totò helps Tessa milk your goat. Dr. Carlo fixes your every pain. And the best of all, I promise to invent intrigue upon intrigue for us to solve. See what happens when you give Tessa a proper life?”

Rosa gestured to the door. “Out! Now! But what’s wrong with your eyes? You haven’t seen the carts passing in and out of the gate next to your door? The carpenters? The stone masons? The gardeners?”

Serafina shook her head.

“And you, a wizard? Tessa and I move in tomorrow.”

Content

Susan Russo Anderson
Death of a Serpent

Part One

Bella’s Body

A Fair Foreigner

The Ride to Rosa’s

Bella’s Room

Dates

The Apparition

Numbers

The Autopsy

The Embalmer

The Wake

Bella’s Letters

The Brazen Serpent

In the Conservatory

The Fight

The Discovery

Reconciliation

Decisions, Suspects, Plans

Scarpo

Arcangelo

Rosalia

Old Tarts and Absent Kings

Lola

Formusa

Gusti

Gioconda

Not Much Time

The Ride Home

The Stranger

A Quick, Sure Stab

Part Two

The Train Station

The Orphanage

The Train to Bagheria

Nittù Baldassare

Falco

Eager for Home

Weeping Madonna

Falco’s Alibi

An Altercation

The Rope Seller

The Shoemaker

An Old Friend

No More Carmela

Carlo’s Return

Li Morti

The Message

Arrival at Villa Rosa

The Fourth Victim

Breaking Free

Suspects and Jugglers

Tessa and the Monk

Cinque Minuti

Ride to Villa Subiaco

Maria’s Piano

Serafina and the Don

A Near Miss

A Lair in the rocks

Part Three

Biancumanciari

The Contessa

The Plan

A Gift of Torrone

A Meeting

The Reward

Strength

Useless

Capture

Unmasked

Another Body

In Prison

A Fitting Reward